Rambling Josh

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.

About five years ago I took our daughter to Montana State University in Bozeman for a campus visit to see if it might be the kind of place she would like to attend to move a bit closer to that person she wanted to be. It didn’t take long that day for me to feel that it was that kind of place. A feeling confirmed by Sierra about ten minutes into the visit when she turned to me and said, “We don’t have to visit any other colleges Dad, this is where I want to go.”

Go she did. She went to that place, and each year we watched her move a bit closer to that person she wanted to be. Not a different person than she was, but a person that was a bit stronger, a bit more confident, a bit more of all the good she’s always been.

A person that embraces the unknown and rambles through life with ever present wonder and curiosity. A person that holds great reserves of empathy and kindness for all those she encounters along the way. A person to be proud of. A person that went to that place with a dream has moved herself a step closer to her reality.

We had the pleasure of watching Sierra graduate from MSU on Saturday May 5th with a Bachelor of Arts in Film & Photography. The night before graduation we saw her and her film, “Kimmy for Dinner” be nominated for and take home several awards at The Tracy’s, MSU’s version of the Oscars. The creative talent and rambunctious exuberance of these young people is truly inspiring and a joy to behold.

Throughout the weekend thoughts of the past drifted amongst the present. A little girl smiling at me from the backseat of a passing car as she allowed her hand to drift lazily in the breeze, a child alternating between swinging and walking, as they moved giggling down the sidewalk supported at arm’s length between the grasp of each parent.

Simple moments. Moments I have been a part of many times with our children. Moments that don’t seem all that long ago. Moments that are gone, but not forgotten, mingle with the present moments and remind me of where we’ve been and hint at where we might be going. Where we’ve been and where we are is a good place. Where we’re going remains to be seen.

This place was a good place for Sierra. Where she’s going remains to be seen, but wherever it is it will be better because of her.

A young woman smiling from the driver’s seat waves her hand in the breeze, the hands she grasped as a little girl wave back.

“Did that make you feel better?” I have good news backed by actual scientific research conducted by actual scientist type people on actual live people, much like yourself…I assume. The next time you’re strolling around the friendly confines of your home barefoot and you step on a well-placed Lego or stub your toe on the stool that’s sitting two inches further away from the kitchen island than normal you can answer, “YES, actually it does make me feel better”, through gritted teeth, to the smirking source of the question.

Often time’s science supports the obvious and lends reason, logic, and varying levels of proof to what we’ve always suspected to be true. It provides data and language that gives structure and form to the abstract intuition we’ve never really questioned.

So the next time your mowing the lawn and you bang your head on the tree branch you were going to cut off the last time you mowed around that tree and banged your head, know that science fully supports the word or words that reflexively come out of your mouth as you clutch your melon with one hand and fling your sunglasses against the side of the garden shed in a fit of rage with the other. So I’ve heard.

Just in case mister-know-it-all Alex Trebek asks, “coprolalia” is the medical term for involuntary swearing. It comes from the Greek words “kopros” (feces) and “lalia” (to talk).

I recently read an interesting book “Swearing Is Good for You: The Amazing Science of Bad Language” by Emma Byrne, where she amusingly reports on research that indicates that “swearing helps us bear pain, work together, and communicate emotions.”

Interestingly, the research also supports what I’ve always suspected, “fake” swear words don’t cut it. It seems that the “Jiminy Christopher” my potty-mouthed wife lets fly occasionally in exasperation does little for her exasperation, but quite a lot for my entertainment…which is probably quite exasperating.

This doesn’t mean that the real McCoy’s of your blue streak go-to list should be slung about willy-nilly. As Ms. Byrne puts it in her book, “swearing is like mustard; a great ingredient but a lousy meal.” Many moons ago when I was a college baseball player the team got lectured by an umpire who wasn’t particularly fond of our use of the English language. We had made the mistake of making a meal out of it, but in our defense he was a lousy umpire. So it goes.

The next day at practice our coach, a colorful guy who possessed a lovely sarcastic wit, and once quipped to one of my teammates after he got thrown out at third base trying in vain to stretch a double into a triple, “Nice slide. You looked like a monkey falling out of tree” said, “Fellas, if swearing helped us win ballgames we’d practice it. I was in the Navy, I could teach you a few you haven’t heard yet.”

Well Coach, research indicates that although it probably wouldn’t help us win ballgames, it did help us bear the pain of getting rooked by an umpire that was apparently in the latter stages of macular degeneration. Besides, the coach started it when he loudly suggested that the umpire “turn around and use his good eye”.

Swearers are reported to be an honest lot. The research says so…I swear.

I was looking forward to spring, but I guess the Daisy Dukes will have to wait until summer. A few days back, a balmy 60 degrees if memory serves me, I walked by our exhausted snow shovel, that’s been standing at the ready by our back door for the past 16 months of winter, and foolishly thought that maybe it was safe to hang it in the shed for some well-earned R&R.

Then superstition crept in and reminded me that that was akin to flipping Old Man Winter the bird, and Old Man Winter doesn’t like getting the bird flipped in his direction. As I stand in our drive-way, pausing to lean on the previously mentioned snow shovel, and revel in the glorious winter majesty being pushed on me from above, I realize that Old Man Winter pays no heed to the silly snow shovel superstitions of those foolish enough to live north of Florida.

So I put my Daisy Dukes on under my snow pants, flipped him and his winter majesty the bird, coveted my neighbors snow blower for a moment (she’s a beauty), and went back to the dancing polar bear routine. Bouncing back and forth between the boundaries of our driveway before someone drives on it and I have to wait until August for the snow packed tracks to soften enough to be chiseled off.

Speaking of Old Man Winter, well old men anyway, there was some interesting research conducted in the 1970s that attempted to turn back time (before Cher’s attempt). The researcher put about eight men, who were in their 70s, in an environment that was setup to mimic the 1950s. Music, books, magazines, newspapers, photos, television programs…an all-out blast into their past.

The men were told not to reminisce about the 1950s they were surrounded by, but to speak of the by-gone era in present terms, and act as they would have then. These men stayed in this 1950s time capsule for a week, and the results were pretty interesting. Some that came in leaning on a cane for assistance, walked out a week later leaving their canes behind, while others engaged in a game of touch football.

In general, their overall physical and mental feelings of well-being improved markedly in a brief period of time travel. I don’t think anything “magical” occurred during this week, The Ed Sullivan shows black-and-white rays didn’t teleport the subjects through some mystical hula hoop porthole.

I’m not a scientist, white lab coats wash out my complexion, but I think that the only “magic” that happened was between the time travelers ears. A switch was thrown that set forth the flow of thoughts and feelings from a time when they probably had a much more well-defined sense of self, a sense of meaning, a sense of purpose. Apparently sense is important…try not to lose it.

Our environment plays a big part in influencing our thoughts and behavior. Maybe the home improvement channels should back off and leave us and our wood paneling and shag carpet alone. They could become personal improvement channels. You pick the era, they “unmodel” your home to match that era, and you get to enjoy thoughts and feelings of youthful exuberance while you admire your bowling trophies and witty ashtray collection.

I forgot to mention…the researcher also made sure that there weren’t any mirrors in the throwback setting. Apparently, mirrors have the power to knock time travel off the rails and make for a rocky re-entry into reality. A sort of krypton that strips away illusions of mullets and firm fitting skin and brings youth to its arthritic knees. So it goes.

“Goodbye grey sky, hello blue, there’s nothing can hold me when I hold you….” Sure Fonzie…shut up and grab a shovel.

I’m toying with the idea of becoming a guru. Wikipedia tells me that “in Sanskrit, Guru means the one who dispels the darkness and takes you towards light.” I thought that going towards the light wasn’t advisable? Maybe that only applies to moths and those with a penchant for hiking through train tunnels. Wikipedia needs to be more specific.

I don’t entertain any such delusion that I actually am, or ever will be, a guru, but there are people that pay large sums of money to be brought towards some sort of light. As a pert near middle-aged man there are things I need (not want) that large sums of money would assist me in acquiring. Various lifts, tucks, and hair line repopulation procedures to name a few. Guru gotta look good.

A little stroll around the internet in my Google sneakers turned up a number of “silent meditation retreats” being offered to moths with the financial means to leave society behind and sit in silence for a lower extremity numbing period of time.

For those without the means or the time, you can create your own silent meditation retreat, free of charge, in the comfort of your own home, by simply irritating your spouse. You know your spouse’s silent meditation inducing buttons (sometimes), push them as needed (results may vary).

We have a cabin in the middle of nowhere that would look lovely on brochure promising a “life changing silent meditation retreat like no other, guaranteed to bring you to the light”, or at least “a” light. The cabin of course would be the Guru Sanctuary of Silence. The moths would be required to silently disperse into the woods surrounding the cabin, and silently set up their personal sanctuary of silence (tent) in close proximity to the tree or rock that they feel speaks deeply and profoundly to their inner most being.

If you can set up a tent without uttering your favorite string of profanity, you are well on your way to enlightenment.

Early each morning, who am I kidding, each mid-morning at best, the guru, gracefully and serenely, saunters out of the Sanctuary of Silence onto the deck and gazes quasi-wisely at the ascending sun…scratches a bit…farts (the signal for the moths to assemble) and listens to the chorus of tent zippers. The guru is about to speak…or not.

Some days I would send our black lab, Pre, out onto the alter…I mean deck…he too would scratch…most likely fart…and the moths would assemble. Pre is a quiet one, so the moths would have to interpret the message of transcendence his panting and scratching is implying and silently relay that message to the tree or rock that spoke to their inner most being.

There would also be a variety of silent chores each moth would be assigned in order to gain further enlightenment. Silent wood splitting and silent fire stoking to keep the Sanctuary of Silence cozy. Silent cocktail making to keep the guru’s level of wisdom at a sufficiently enlightened level.

I will keep you posted on upcoming silent meditation retreats. You too can come to the light…for a price (results may vary).

This is a noisy world, a world of sensory excess, and this excess seems to expand its reach further and further with each passing day. Bit-by-bit, little slices of quiet and solitude are losing ground to auditory and visual intrusions bullying us for attention.

I’ve always felt that there was something peaceful and restorative about swinging into a gas station in the middle of the night during a long drive and standing outside your car in the chilled evening silence with only the wind and flow of fuel into the tank to be heard. There “was” something peaceful about it, but now a little screen on each pump shouts useless blather, competing with the equally unnecessary music blaring from the canopy above.

Is this assault on solitude necessary? Must we have the latest Hollywood gossip and political toilet bowl water splashed on us while Burt Bacharach assures us from the speakers above that “what the world needs now is love sweet love”? It’s too much. Too much of a lot of nothing that does nothing but contribute to the ever growing pile of uselessness we must constantly dig through to find that which is useful.

It doesn’t stop at the pump. You venture inside for some fluid relief, where Mr. Bacharach (who has a lovely voice) follows you into the restroom where more screens hang over each of the urinals rendering it pert near impossible to ponder all that is in need of pondering. The voices in my head find this loss of ponderable moments to be troubling. If my attention is elsewhere they only have each other to talk to as they voice their concerns over whether I’ll remember to grab a licorice whip and some pork rinds.

Who could have imagined this screen filled world years ago when the only screens we had were massive boulders in the corner of the living room pulling a few grainy channels from the airwaves (try hanging one of those behemoths above a urinal)? A world where “losing the remote” meant that none of the kids were within earshot to turn the knob between one of the three available channels. A world where “The Clapper” was a technological wonder.

For better or for worse, the world is, and always has been, in a perpetual state of change. I’m fine with that, I’m not a Luddite (fun word). I just think that we need to be a bit more cognizant of what disappears when something new appears. Gains generally don’t occur without loss, or as the band Cinderella prophesized “don’t know what you got till it’s gone”. Wisdom and luxurious heads of hair…some get it all. So it goes.

At long last the calendar claims spring is here, we have gained an hour…lost some sleep, and await winter to leave us be for a bit. Reminds me of one of my dad’s Faron Young records popping and cracking from the automotive sized hi-fi parked in our living room many Sundays ago “the seasons come, the seasons go”.

My wife and I were recently in California for a conference in Anaheim, and strangely enough millions of people in a relatively small area makes for some interesting traffic. By “interesting” I mean a constantly congested chaos of creeping ebbs and terrifying flows. I’m still undergoing “unpuckering” therapy.

We landed at Los Angeles International Airport, also known as LAX, in which the “X” apparently is representative of whichever of your favorite expletive you would like to insert. It was roughly 40 miles from LAX to our hotel in Anaheim. A short jaunt in the mind of one that is comparing that particular distance to similar distances in upstate North Dakota, let’s say Lignite to Kenmare for instance.

This comparison would have been accurate if a stiff breeze had taken ahold of the Danish Mill in Kenmare and propelled it, dragging the city in its wake, to a quaint place along the Missouri River just north of Bismarck.

For pert near three hours we lurched along, bumper-to-bumper and door-to-door, shifting amid 6 dizzying lanes of a moving parking lot between speeds of 80mph and 10mph. After an hour of this I found myself desperately hoping for the 10mph parade route reprieves, and dreading the accelerations that the rental car wasn’t quite up to. I told Dawn we should have rented the Corvette, but it was a convertible and she didn’t want the top of my sparsely populated melon getting all leathery in the California sun. So it goes.

We mostly moved along in silence, as, other than randomly blurted curse words, the sensory overload and concerns of a fiery crash wasn’t allowing my prairie trail brain to form complete sentences in this 6-lane mangle of machines. All I could do to maintain some semblance of calm was to remind myself that there was nothing I could do about all the other cars and the manner in which the occupants chose to propel them towards wherever they were all trying to get to, and that they, like me, wanted to get to wherever that might be in a lifelike state.

Other than the soul sucking traffic it was an enjoyable trip, the people were nice, there was just too many of them. The conference was interesting, and having the opportunity to stare in awe at the vastness of the ocean with the one I love at my side was worth the risk of life and limb it took to get there.

Although the beaches and the ocean are a beautiful sight to behold, as I sat in the sand looking out as far as the earth would let me look, a familiar feeling came over me. A feeling of calm, a feeling of awe, a feeling of thankfulness and gratitude, a feeling I’ve felt many times looking out across the windswept landscapes of the Dakota’s. Landscapes where the journey is just as peaceful and serene as the destination.

These landscapes, from sea to shining sea as the song goes, don’t need us, in fact were most definitely better off without us, but we need them.