Rambling Josh

I was doing laundry the other day, and I began to wonder what it is exactly that people who have a full-time staff of maids, chefs, butlers, nanny’s, personal assistants, spiritual advisors, chauffeurs, and the like, actually do all day every day? If anyone reading this has such a staff, please have one the previously mentioned folks give me a call. When your work is done of course.

I don’t care to talk to you personally, I’m sure you’re busy making business for your staff. Sweating in your socks, using more forks than are necessary, not changing the toilet paper roll…making work for others is a lot of work. Come to think of it, that way of life isn’t far removed from the way of life most children lead. Those little tyrants just have a smaller staff to command. Mom and/or Dad.

Maybe that comparison is telling as to just what people with a full personal staff do all day? Spill juice on the couch, eat crayons, yell a lot, and lose their mind when there aren’t any hotdogs cut-up in the macaroni and cheese. They don’t concern themselves with toilet paper either, we’ve got that end covered as well.

I have no sense of smell, for those that do crossword puzzles or play Scrabble, the medical term for it is anosmia, might get you a win someday. Anyway, when our children were diaper age, and said diaper was at or beyond its intended capacity of digested macaroni and cheese (no hotdogs), my wife would sometimes say, “Oooh…this is bad one. You can have it, you can’t smell.”

I didn’t argue (much), it was the least I could do after witnessing the “miracle” of childbirth. The real miracle is that women hang around the likes of us men folk after enduring something like that. I’d have ran off and joined the circus, cleaning monkey cages and laundering their little outfits. On second thought, that’s pretty much what happened. Except the monkey cages probably would have been nicer than our first apartment. So it goes.

Back to my harrowing story of macaroni and cheese, diapers, and crippling anosmia. Having never experienced sniffing around something that seems should be left unsniffed, I have no reference for proper comparison, but my vision is fine. I assume that eventually you can “unsmell” something you wished you hadn’t had to smell, but it’s been about 20 years, and I still can’t “unsee” what I wished I hadn’t had to see. As my dad always says, “Wish in one hand…..”

All these things we “get” to do for our little miracles, are not things I’d pay someone else to do for me. For one, I’d feel so ashamed of myself for them having to do some of those things while I perused my ascot collection, that I’d have to fire them. The kid would have a fresh diaper to work with, but the nanny would be out of job. Maybe that’s what these people do with their time? Hire and fire diaper changers, and buy ascots.

I miss most everything that came with being a dad to little one’s…most everything.

On September 24th my wife and I celebrated our 24th year of “being an item”. It was homecoming week 1994 at Northern State University, Gypsy Days as it’s called, when we shared our first dance at The Zoo Bar. That night may have been our first dance, but we had known each other for a few years, as we were both biology majors and had several classes together.

One class, I believe it was invertebrate zoology, we ended up assigned to the same lab table, which improved my attendance for that course significantly. There wasn’t much of a correlation between my perfect attendance and my grade, which was more than a few letters below perfect. I was there in body, but I found her much more captivating than anything Dr. Wright was attempting to get into my head.

Dawn, on the other hand, was a serious student who worked hard to achieve the best grades she could in every class she took. A very foreign concept to me, but one I admired her for. I figured I’d just enjoy the time with her while I could, keep providing a bit of comedy relief at our lab table, simply because I liked to see her laugh. That would have to suffice, because it was obvious she was in a league far removed from the one I was bumbling around in.

A year or so later, I was in danger of failing college algebra, actually I was failing college algebra, and Dawn agreed to put her patients and sanity to the test, and attempt to tutor the untutorable. If there’s a place in your brain responsible for comprehending math, that place doesn’t exist in my head, or it was shoved aside to make room for song lyrics, movie quotes, and useless trivia. So it goes.

We would meet in the library a few nights a week, apparently that’s where serious students go to do serious studying, and she would point out the errors in my mathematical ways. She did a lot of pointing, but the lyrics, quotes, and trivia refused to concede any ground. As Merle Haggard once sang, “mamma tried”. She’s stubborn, and like Sisyphus, she pushed and pushed and pushed, but my brain kept rolling back down, leaving a wake of mangled, unrecognizable, algebraic equations in its path.

I got a solid “D” in that class. I’m not sure if the professor, a kindly old man, was too tired to fail me and face the futility of the matter for another semester, or if my tutor came through? I’d like to think Dawn came through for me, just as she has every day since.

You never know where life is going to take you, or what it has in store for you once you get there. It took me, in my 58' Chevy Biscayne, south out my little town to Aberdeen, South Dakota. It took me to Northern State University, where 24-years ago I put on a toga to celebrate homecoming (as any self-respecting college student should do). It took me to The Zoo Bar. It took me to where our dance began.

I propose that at the conclusion of any workplace meeting a vote should be taken to determine if those subjected to the meeting found it useful in any way. In any way, large or small, did the meeting contribute to your life?

If the predominate response is “I found the meeting to be quite informative and useful” fair enough…doubtful, but fair enough. But, if the response is “as a result of this meeting I am no wiser, merely an hour older” then whomever was responsible for that meeting must face consequences. Consequences that will dissuade them from subjecting others to such soul sucking drudgery again.

Although moderately justifiable, I’m not proposing that they be subjected to any form of physical punishment or public ridicule. This may offer short-term satisfaction, but as we’ve seen time and time again, in the long-term, only serves to fuel villainous motivation for revenge. Basically, the premise for the majority of movies, television shows, and dictatorships.

The consequences I am suggesting to dissuade people from stealing time from others, and failing to replace that stolen time with anything of worth, purpose, or value, would require the thief or thieves to give an hour of their pay, and an hour of their vacation time, to each person subjected to the uselessness.

I work at a college, and we are only a month into the school year, but if my proposal were instituted, I would already have accrued enough time and money to take the rest of the year off. I keep hoping that one day I will stroll out of a meeting with a spring in my step, my brain dripping with fresh insight, motivated and invigorated by the pearls of wisdom bestowed upon me. I keep hoping…for over 20 years…I keep hoping.

In the meantime, hope can find me at the back of the room, back where the lighting is bad, making it difficult for the den of thieves to see my eyes roll in contempt, or to even discern if my eyes are open at all. Back where I can laugh when I shouldn’t, and remain unresponsive, and unimpressed, when they think I should.

The problem is, the seats fill up quick back there, creating a bit of quandary that necessitates one arrive early to a meeting they don’t want to come to in the first place. So it goes. If the seats are all taken, you can always stand in the back of the room…counting bald spots to keep your mind from stalling out. Everyone will assume you’re one of those anti-sitting zealots, or you have hemorrhoids, either way, they’ll leave you alone.

Time is precious, and those that take it indiscriminately should pay for their crime. Join the fight against time thievery in the workplace. See your local representative at the next useless meeting. They can be found at the back of the room. If you are in charge of scheduling meetings, don’t, the revolution begins with you.

Dawn and I have been empty nesters for a whole two weeks now, but it feels closer to forever since all of us were occupying the same space in life. I’ve been told “it’ll get better” by parents that have been there, but like the well-meaning people that tell you “you’re going to miss it” when you’re young family has you tattered around the edges, it’s of little comfort.

Maybe I don’t want it to get better. Maybe I hope that I will always miss it. Maybe I hope that tears will always well up a bit when reminders of that stretch of time present themselves. There are reminders everywhere, and they present themselves often, but that doesn’t mean my cheeks are doomed to perpetual tracks of mascara.

The emotional response to the reminders littered about is varied. Pride, joy, delight, a smirk, a smile, and yes, a tear on occasion. I don’t know if this will always be the case. If I’ve learned anything raising two kids, is that there is a lot I didn’t, and still don’t know. I suppose life would be a bit boring if we did know it all. We’d all want to be politicians.

If we knew exactly what would bring us meaning, would it be as meaningful? I think we can mindfully pursue it, but it’ll grab ahold of us on its own accord. I often think I know what I need, but more and more, I realize that I am often mistaken. So it goes.

That’s sort of the overarching theme of parenthood…often mistaken. Often mistaken, but generally, always well meaning. We’re only human (most of us).

Speaking of humans, it seems that each of the changes brought about over the years, from the day they were born to the day they ditched us in pursuit of adulthood (or at least freedom from the oppression of the adults in their “hood”), have made me a better human.

Not better than anyone else, but better than I was. Even if that “better” is not all that great, it’s still better, and better is good…or at least better.

I ask the college students in my classroom to have a bit of compassion for the oppressive tyrants they’ve left behind. To go easy on those rudderless helicopters that are spinning around a warehouse full of plastic trophies, photographs, dusty Lincoln Logs, and mounds of Disney VHS tapes. I assume their not listening, the wounds from their hard fought fight for freedom are still too fresh. They’re not listening now, but perhaps they’ll hear me later.

Yes, we miss the kids. We miss them, and mope around a bit from time to time, but we knew this was part of the deal. Well, we knew of it, now we know about it. The nest isn’t completely empty. We’re still here, and we look forward to the kids stopping by from time to time to fill us in on all the goings-on in their lives.

Just be sure to knock first. Feathers are optional in an empty nest.

It seems that when we read headlines, and sometimes even the corresponding article lingering hopefully below the headline, we are drawn to those that support what we believe or want to believe. Confirmation bias is difficult to overcome, and oft times it is operating quietly under the surface unbeknownst to the conscious portion of our monkey brain.

The other day I spied the headline “The Psychological Importance of Wasting Time” and felt a twinge of delight. I felt another delightful twinge when the article went on to dispel the “inbox zero” campaign that reared its ugly head a few years ago. The crux of “inbox zero” is just as the name implies…be sure your email inbox is at zero at the end of each day.

I tried this for a few days. It appealed to my anal retentive side, but apparently my procrastinator side is a bully and shut down the whole experiment. So, now I’m back to having mounds of emails in my inbox, and I don’t care, and finding an article that supported my not caring confirmed that I shouldn’t care.

Did I look for articles that supported the “inbox zero” movement? No, I had my answer, and I liked it. I also had time to waste, as my psychological wellbeing is important. Often questionable, but important just the same. If you intentionally waste time are you really wasting time? On the flipside, if you spontaneously waste time, who is to say what would have occurred in that timeframe would have been productive?

When I was a kid I had a whoopee-cushion, oh how I delighted in slipping it under couch cushions. Hours of fun. Well my brother, Jarvis, decided that simply sitting on my whoopee-cushion wasn’t enough. He never thought enough-was-enough. He jumped high in the air to get optimal whoopee out of my cushion.

The cushion made a noise, but not the noise that is music to the male species ears, it made a “popping” noise. A popping noise followed by my brother rolling off the deflated whoopee cushion clutching the backside of his Tough Skin jeans in pain. At least the whoopee-cushions last gasp was a good one.

That whoopee-cushion and I had had some good times together, and I wasn’t about to walk away from it now in its time of need. Once so full of life, it lay crumpled and lifeless, with a gaping hole in its hull. We had to move fast if there was to be any hope.

We hopped on our CoastKing bicycles and headed north to the Wheatland Oil Company. I knew the owner, LeOtis Olney, had patched a tire for my dad, I knew inner tubes are rubber, I knew whoopee-cushions are rubber, I knew LeOtis was my only hope.

I brought in the lifeless whoopee-cushion, and asked LeOtis if he could patch it. He smiled and said, “Let’s see what we can do.” We stood and intently watched as LeOtis took time out of his day to patch a whoopee-cushion. I guess that’s the beauty of growing up in a small town. Everyone goes above and beyond to help one another out…even if it may appear to be a waste of time.

LeOtis may have wasted some of his time that day, but he saved a whoopee-cushion, and he made an impression on a young boy that has lasted over 30 years. Thanks LeOtis, and thanks Lignite. They say it takes a village to raise an idiot…you did a fine job.

Time is odd. People are odd. The blink of time each of us get to breathe in and breathe out in the company of others attempting to do the same is life. Like the previously mentioned time and people, life is odd as well, but you all new that.

Hopefully you also know that if the breathe-in-and-breathe-out thing ceases to occur you should think (or even exclaim loudly into a telephone with a 911 operator at the other end), “That’s an odd way to try and keep living. I think this person needs help.”

We all need a little help from time-to-time. I once read that being helped makes us feel happy, and helping, although it doesn’t always make us happy in the immediate, lends meaning to our lives in the long run. Makes sense from a parent’s point of view.

Raising kids is no picnic, but when they grow up and leave you alone you feel like something meaningful might have occurred. There are plenty of picnics going on when you’re raising kids, avoid them, they won’t be a picnic. They will be you attempting to balance soggy paper plates in hurricane winds full of food your kids won’t eat because the potato salad touched the Jell-O.

Apparently the person that coined the phrase about something “not being a picnic” never took kids to a picnic, or was one of those psychopaths that says “yes” when the hostess at a restaurant says, “we have room on the patio if you would like to sit outside”.

These people should be avoided, or at the very least, not allowed to interact with the hostess at a restaurant with an option for outdoor dining (a.k.a. a picnic). I don’t have a problem with outdoor dining if it is in the dead of night, there isn’t a swamp forming at my seated parts, and I can’t spit queso blanco on a passing or parked car from my chair. I don’t feel as though those are unreasonable criteria for an outdoor dining experience.

A “dining experience”. Not sure I’ve ever had one of those. I’ve dined a time or two, I’ve had my fair share of experiences, but have these paths crossed? I suppose every single thing that occurs to us as we’re busy breathing in and out could qualify as an experience. Some good. Some bad. Some memorable. Some forgettable. Each lending meaning to the other.

Last year I made the proclamation that I was hanging up my cleats and putting my baseball career out of its misery. Turns out I lied. Actually, I didn’t lie, I was coerced into playing by my son, and teammate, Jackson. I’ve witnessed a steady decline in the opportunities for “play” with my son over the past nineteen years of his breathing in and out so I said “yes”, or at least I didn’t say “no”.

After each game, the physical discomfort expressed by my 46-year-old muscles attempting to do what they did many moons ago, didn’t make me very happy, but the season as a whole was meaningful.

I’ve driven Jackson to many practices and games over the years, but this year I rode with him, and I could feel a shift occur in who we are to each other. I will always be his dad, and he will always be my son, but the meaning of that relationship is evolving.

He may not be happy when it evolves into him changing my shorts, but perhaps he’ll find some meaning in lending his padre a hand…perhaps. Life is odd. So it goes.

I’m not much of a believer in “signs”, as it seems to me that we can contrive whatever meaning suits us from whatever it may be that we decide to take as a sign. I’m not talking about traffic signs, signs warning of rattlesnakes or falling coconuts, those are generally to be believed and leave little room for individual interpretation.

Regardless if you believe or not, the laws of gravity and a falling coconut may conspire to render you unconscious. Making things easier for the rattlesnake. Coconuts and rattlesnakes have been in cahoots for years. Snakes, and sticks masquerading as such, give me the willies. Poisonous, harmless, dead…all equal in the level of the willies they produce.

Evolutionary biologist say that the fear response us human types have when surprised by a snake has been well honed over the millions of millennia to help us help ourselves from getting dead. Getting dead makes reproduction difficult, so most of us are the descendants of human types that were able to avoid getting dead from snake bites by screaming and fleeing, generally simultaneously.

Simultaneous screaming and fleeing, with arms overhead, chimp-style. My suspicion is that chimps began running around like this to mock us, their misfit cousins. Those eccentric uprights with human pattern baldness who had lost much of their tree climbing ability, but gained the ability to text, and whine about mosquitos and ill-fitting shoes. So it goes.

In a display of the ultimate example of revenge being a dish better served cold, we waited a few million years and launched one of them into space. Ham the Astrochimp paid for the ego bruising transgressions of his ancestors. The species who laughs last laughs hardest.

On a recent road trip with my former good friend Paul (see last Ramblings column), we were in the middle of Kansas looking for a place to eat. As we rolled westward, I went a Googling to find out what food sources were on our horizon. Hays, Kansas, was coming our way, and there was a highly-rated restaurant known for its burgers and all-day breakfast. I’m a sucker for all-day breakfast, but on further inquiry Google said the place was closed on Sundays.

This particular day was indeed a Sunday, and after further Google attempts, it seemed that except for a sushi restaurant, the citizens of Hays have to fend for themselves on Sundays. I like sushi, but sushi in the middle of Kansas seemed like a bit of a figurative, and possibly literal, crap-shoot. Hunger clouded our judgement, and we set the navigation system to sushi.

The navigation system new better, and took us on some backroad route where we encountered several large “Road Closed” signs blocking the route between us and possible intestinal doom. We attempted to follow the “Detour” signs, but lost the trail. Not unusual for us. Despite these “signs” we were bound and determined to hunt down this evasive sushi. Dead fish shouldn’t be that difficult to hunt.

We stopped to try and figure out where we were, when what should appear, but the burger and all-day breakfast restaurant that Google said was closed. Google lied. Must be a bunch of vengeful chimps running that joint.

Signs…dumb luck…coincident…? I suppose that’s up to each of us to determine for ourselves. We determined that the burger and omelet hit the spot, and contently continued our way west into the Kansas sunset…a sure sign that another day was coming to a close. Get the most out of each one you’re given. Word on the street is that this Planet of the Apes thing is gaining traction, and we have a lot to answer for.

I spent a month in Huron, South Dakota, one week…last week actually. I think it was last week anyway, it felt like one very, very long day. I arrived Sunday, and lost track of my whereabouts amongst the days of the week sometime Monday. I felt like that spinning icon that we spend so much time staring at on our computer screens.

A few months back my former good friend Paul, asked if I wanted to help him provide sports medicine services for the National Junior High Finals Rodeo. Seven days, thirteen performances, over 1,200 contestants aged 12 to 14 from 45 of our nation’s states, and the countries of Australia, Canada, and Mexico. Sure, why not. Why not? I didn’t know the “why not” then, I do now. So it goes.

The days were comprised of breakfast at the Coney Island Cafe, a performance at 9:00 in the morning, lunch at Manolis Grocery, sitting around, milling about, a performance at 7:00 in the evening, and then back to the hotel to plead with Captain Morgan to help us forget the day. Forget everything but breakfast and lunch anyway, they were our havens of serenity amongst some pleasant locals we came to enjoy the company of.

Other than playing baseball there a few times in college, I had never spent much time in Huron, and came away with new perspective of the town. A town, like many other towns of its size and location, trying not to lose itself and those that inhabit it to the larger cities.

There are conveniences that come with living in a large city, conveniences that those that have always lived in a large city may not recognize as conveniences, but as common necessities. Necessities that keep their lives moving comfortably along, and allow them to do what they want when they want. Huron might lack some of these conveniences, but I found it had the necessities one who grew up in a small town can appreciate.

The necessity of a connection with people and businesses that appreciate you for more than just the money you spend in their establishments. It’s a mutual appreciation of time. Time spent satisfying the curiosity you both have of one another’s worlds. Curiosity that is generally genuine, or at least genuinely polite. Time is a convenience that many of these people have seen pass them and their town by. Time they know very well that they can’t get back as they face the necessity of moving forward.

The city of Huron will host this rodeo again next summer, and looking back on the month-long week, I’ll probably give it another go next year. Not because I can’t get enough rodeo, more than enough of that was had, but because misery is said to be less miserable with company. I suppose that depends on the company, and Paul’s pretty good company to be miserable with.

Happy Independence Day. Enjoy the conveniences living in this country allows and the necessities it provides.

To celebrate and commemorate endings and beginnings, something out of the ordinary is generally in order. Our family decided on a European graduation vacation to mark our ends and our beginnings. The kids graduating from various levels of academia, and my wife and myself graduating from being fully responsible for the trajectory they take their lives from here on out.

We’re not completely washing our hands of them, the dirt and grime one acquires in the trenches of parenthood can never be completely scrubbed away. A little two-seat convertible may not cure post-traumatic parenting disorder, but it’s worth a try, and the wind rustling the hair in my ears might dull the voices in my head.

The voices that continually make me question if I did the best I could as a parent. Could I have did more for them? Could I have prepared them better to face the challenges adult life is going to throw their way? So it goes.

For those of you that failed geography, there is a bit of distance between Rapid City South Dakota and London England. A distance that required various planes, trains, and automobiles to traverse. A distance that required a lot of time and a lot of patience.

I am generally a patient person, but my patience was tested as we were herded into the cattle carrier portion of the airplane referred to as “economy-class”. I failed this test. My angst was not aimed at my family, but after being placated by as many complimentary drinks as the airlines will allow the commoners in economy-class to consume, I humbly apologized to them for my brief fall from grace.

While poorly suppressing their amusement with my angry battle with the overhead compartment, they forgave me. For the record, I won…sort of.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if they didn’t parade you through the luxury-class section on your way to the poop deck. It’s as if the airline is teasing you. “Look at how cozy and content these people are that are not you. Take a good look. Maybe if you had worked a little harder in life you could afford one of these seats instead of the milk crate you get to sit on for the next ten hours.”

How many people intentionally share a bit of “travel gas” as they are herded through first-class just to let them folks know what life is like in the rear? Just curious.

London has a lot to take in, and there are a lot of people taking it in. It was a bit much for small town folks like my wife and I, but the kids didn’t seem to mind the hustle, bustle, bus fumes, and general chaos. If you’re looking for “Jolly Old England”, it’s not in London.

Once our sentence in London was up, we rented a car and drove to Dolgellau Wales. Actually, we drove there once I was able to break free from the maze surrounding Heathrow airport. A task not made any easier by having to drive from the right-side of the vehicle on the right-side of the road. Two rights that made for much wrong.

Why Dolgellau? In 1707, at the age of 24, my 8th-Great Grandfather, Thomas Ellis, was the first of my ancestors to leave Dolgellau in search of a brighter future in America. He was of the Quaker faith, and apparently the King of England didn’t care much for the Society of Friends, so they flipped the king a hearty salute and sailed into the sunset.

Dolgellau was peaceful and scenic, the perfect place to unwind all that London wound up. I wanted to see what Thomas had left behind. See what he thought of when he thought of home. I’m not sure why this was important or meaningful to me, but it was. It felt like a way to thank Thomas.

It was an enjoyable trip, and an experience I’m thankful we were able to take in as a family. Something to look back on as we move forward.

It was a busy spring for the Ellis family. College graduation for our daughter, state tennis tournament and high school graduation for our son. Many ends, many lasts, many emotions, and much anticipation as to what’s next.

What’s next for our children as they move beyond the relatively safe and structured existences they’ve inhabited for so long? What’s next for my wife and I as we find more and more time left unscheduled with our children’s events? Empty nesters? Isn’t that for old people?

All this seemed so far away for so long, and now, here it is. It all creeps up on you…like ill-fitting underwear, and like such, sometimes you can discreetly wiggle your way out of the discomfort, but often times you have to get your hands dirty.

Our son, Jackson, has been able to wiggle his way out of the various discomforts that come along with being a teenager and a high school student-athlete, and now it’s time for him to get his hands dirty. The adult advice has been plentiful, and even his car has been issuing him a daily reminder that “OBJECTS IN MIRROR ARE CLOSER THAN THEY APPEAR”.

Some of those objects that he’s been able to maintain some distance from are now beside him, and they have questions. Questions that only he can answer. We all want the best for our children, we want to see them answer these questions, walk confidently into a bright future, and live a life of purpose and meaning. Is that too much to ask?

Long before the first breath of air was breathed into the “Congratulations Graduate” balloons, Jackson has been fielding the usual questions from the curious and well-meaning adults that want the best for him. Now that the last breath of air has leaked from those balloons, I’m not sure if he’s any closer to answering those questions.

I know he cares and I know it is weighing heavy on his mind, as it is on the minds of many that walked across the stage and into the unknown this spring. What I do know is that he is a genuinely kind and caring person, a gentleman. A humble and good person that may be hesitant to believe that he has the ability to walk confidently into a bright future and live a life of purpose and meaning.

How does one find purpose and meaning in life? Can you find it? Does it need to find you? How does a young person that has had much of their purpose and meaning defined for them the first 18-years of their life create their own definition? Difficult questions.

I suppose the answers lie within and without. We need time within ourselves to explore and discover what the world without needs from us. Often times we also need to change our location in the world to awaken that within that we never knew existed. Who we are, or want to be, sometimes can’t be found where we are. You never know which station you’ll find the music your life can dance to.

It has been said that we don’t find a vocation, a vocation finds us. A calling that finds, and eventually, defines a part of who we are and who our piece of the world needs us to be.

I keep glancing in my son’s mirrors hoping that some of these answers, these objects, are getting closer, but I have to remind myself that what appears to me doesn’t matter. They are not my mirrors, they are not my questions, and nobody likes a backseat driver.

Take the wheel son, and no matter how heavily “Are we there yet?” weights on our minds, your mom and dad will try to relax and enjoy the ride.