Rambling Josh

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.

When my brother Jarvis and I were in elementary school our bedtime was 9:00pm, which meant that we were in bed and sound asleep not a minute past midnight. It also meant that somewhere around 8:59pm on February 13th we would tell mom that we needed to make a Valentines box for school. By “we” we meant “she”.

We did the grunt work, the cutting, the gluing, the whining, the wandering off to catch a little M.A.S.H. with dad, but mom was the idea generator. Our mom was, and still is, an amazingly creative woman, with the power to transform something out of nothing at the drop of a shoebox.

I must admit that I secretly enjoyed being a ringside witness to her endless creative prowess. Maybe she secretly enjoyed it too? If she did, she hid it well as she yanked down the newspaper she had been unwinding with on the end of the couch while contemplating what she had done to deserve the two idiots that had just finished fighting about who could brush their teeth the fastest and were now proclaiming their need for Valentines boxes.

While tossing the paper aside, she would ask through clenched teeth why we had waited until bedtime to bring this up. Asking such a question makes sense when those that you’re asking it to are sensible. Jarvis and I would look at each other and, neither of us seeing anyone sensible, would both look at our mother and shrug. Just shrug, because it seemed sensible to keep our mouths shut.

The dumbfounded shrugs were the starting pistols for moms race to create two knucklehead approved Valentine boxes, get previously mentioned knuckleheads to bed, and enjoy a full five minutes of relaxation before having to stomp upstairs and tell two knuckleheads to get to bed “now…I mean it…this is the last time”. As the parenting expert Merle Haggard once proclaimed, “Momma tried”.

What our mother didn’t know was that my brother and I had side bets going as to how long it would take her to whip something up. Each year we would reflect on the previous year’s events, “Okay, last year we told her the night before…to easy…this year we hold out until breakfast on the morning of February 14th. Then just as she’s getting into the flow I’ll pop the head off of Amanda’s favorite doll. There’s no way mom can maintain focus with that racket going on.”

If only that were the case. If only it wasn’t simply our stupidity and complete lack of comprehension in the concept of time. But alas, it is so. So it goes.

I still remember the shoebox I…she…we turned into a covered wagon. Complete with a cowboy cut-out from one of my comic books to drive the horses hitched to the wagon. No Pinterest, no Google, just the creativity of a mom that could always be counted on in our time of need. Some things never change.

Happy Trails.

Going to our cabin in Montana during the dog days of winter is always enjoyable. Well actually, being at the cabin during the winter is enjoyable, getting to it can be a bit of a crap shoot, as one never knows what the condition of the road going in is going to be until one is on the road going in.

Calling the road going into the cabin a road may be a bit of an overstatement. It’s more trail than road, a trail that only accounts for about 1.5 miles of a 350 mile journey, a short stretch that occupied a long bit of thought and concern as my good friend Paul and myself made our way west back in January.

The temperature was a concern, stuck well below the donut, it was going to take some time to put the “cozy” into the cabin upon our arrival. More concerning was the record snowfall that eastern Montana had been experiencing. Record snowfall that we were unaware of until Paul, bored of conversing with me, went Googling when we were about 50 miles from the cabin.

Concern upon concern, but we ventured on towards the unknown, with the bravado and confidence generally reserved for the moronically delusional. So it goes.

As I pondered the list of concerns, some ancient Stoic philosophy drifted into my concerned consciousness and reminded me of the dichotomy of control. The dichotomy of control simply states that there are things that we can control and things that we can’t control, and concerning ourselves with things that we can’t control is a waste of time.

What could I control regarding my concerns? I could control the pickup, stop it, turn it around, and come back when the record snowfalls gave way to record wild flowers. Paul had only completely rearranged his schedule and put in two hard days of pre-feeding his cattle and assorted ranch prep to accompany me. I’m sure he won’t mind.

I can’t control if he minds, so why should I concern myself with such a concern? Well, as the great philosopher Forrest Gump once said, “he’s my best good friend, and even I know that ain’t something you can find just around the corner.” So onward I drove, contemplating my concerns and reconciling them with that which is and that which is not under my control.

Record snowfall…nope, nostril freezing temperatures…nope. Moronically delusional it is…it’s gotten me this far.

It turns out the trail in wasn’t so bad. The cabin heated up nicely and we had an enjoyable few days of staring at the fire. Sometimes staring in silence, sometimes staring as we chatted about things we’ve most likely chatted about before, but that’s of little concern. Most things are of little concern when you’re at the cabin.

I was mildly concerned when one of the lanterns had a bit of a flare up, and had a bit more of a flare up when I tried to remedy the situation by blowing out the flame. The logistical issue with blowing out a flame is that you have to get your face close to the offending flame. Otherwise, it’s just heavy breathing in proximity to a potential concern. Safer, but not particularly useful.

The angry lantern only managed to singe about half the hair on my sparsely populated scalp, and my eyebrows were in need of a reduction in force anyway. Thankfully, Paul didn’t appear too concerned. I’d hate to disturb his R-and-R with burn care responsibilities.

What can I control? Good question, and a worthy concern.

Another year has teetered and tipped into the abyss of the past, but worry not my friends, the abyss of the future stretches before you. How far does your future stretch? How should I know? I’m not a certified astrologist, and if I was, the going rate for such information would run you about $150.00 an hour.

I actually didn’t know there was such a thing as a “certified astrologist” until I decided to do some investigating to make sure I gave you accurate information on the hourly rates. All these years I was under the impression that anyone with half a brain could dole out useless information, but it turns out that the owner of that half a brain has to be certified.

Well, they don’t have to be certified, but setting out to face an uncertified 4-star day is risky, and not recommended by the Organization for Professional Astrology or the Astrology News Service (yes they exist). What if your willy-nilly uncertified 4-star day would have been astutely deemed a mere 1-star day by an actual certified astrologist? Rather than sequestering yourself within the friendly confines of your home, with your tinfoil hat strapped securely on, you unwittingly venture out into a certified 1-star day brimming with uncertified 4-star confidence.

You run a few red lights and blatantly jaywalk your way over to a convenience store to purchase your 4-star day lottery tickets, and roll the dice on a gas station burrito. What could go wrong? 4-star day all day baby! Well thanks to your uncertified astrological reading you have a couple certified traffic tickets, a certified case of the trots, and someone else won the 3.5 billion dollar lotto jackpot. Someone that most likely had a certified 4-star day. A sad tale indeed.

How far does your future stretch? For the most part that’s a certified crap-shoot. There are things you can do that might nudge the odds in your favor during your quest to stretch your future a bit further. Respecting chainsaws, wild animals, and women is a good place to start. Maybe a better question is how deep does your future go? What resistance is holding you back?

Sure it’s fun, and relatively easy, bobbing around, splashing and giggling on the surface for a while, but maybe this year calls for a change of pace. Maybe this is the year we toss off the water wings, take a deep breath, and dive a little deeper into life. Dive deep and really get to know those we care about, and let them know the depth they bring to our lives. That is within our control. That we can do if we so choose.

Nobody, certified or not, can grant you a 4-star day, but you are more than qualified to go get one on your own, and if you manage to go get one-after-another you will most likely have a certifiably good year.

I’ll wave the $150/hr this one time, and hazard an uncertified proclamation, that as of this very moment, I am quite confident that your future has stretched to this very moment, the present. Regarding that present, in the words of Grandpa Art in National Lampoons Christmas Vacation, “Are you going to bawl all over it, or are you gonna open it?”

Happy New Year my friends.

For those of you that aren’t on our Christmas card mailing list (you know why) I thought I’d share this year’s letter with you. I’m sure you’re thrilled. For those that are on our Christmas card mailing list (who knows why)…carry on…you’ve already ignored this once.

Here we are, jingle bells deep in the holiday season, once again. Round 45 for this elf. Ding…ding… time to come out and take a few swings before the swing slows to a wobble and you find yourself slowly twisting in the breeze with icicles dangling from your Depends. Kids, no matter what your big brother tells you, those are not lemon-mocha flavor icicles.

I apologize for the potentially melancholy and unfestive-like start to this installment of the Ellis Family Christmas letter, but we lost the angel atop our family tree this year. Grandma Rose passed away in August, and although we are all so very thankful for having had her in our lives for as long as we did, the holiday season is proving to be a bit more trying than I anticipated. I’m sure many of you understand, and I wish you strength as the nostalgia of Christmas on The Farm works its way around the string of cranberries and popcorn strung around your memories. I’m sure it’ll be alright, but it still stinks.

All-in-all the Ellis Family is getting along just fine. We’ve avoided incarceration, indoctrination, and remain diligent in the fight for truth and goodness in the face of alternative facts and flatulence.

When should you stop announcing the age of your children in the family Christmas letter? Not this year…Sierra turned 22, and is one semester away from finishing up her undergraduate degree in Film at Montana State University in Bozeman. One semester, and it’s off to wherever life takes her. Scary? Heck yeah, but we are extremely proud of this strong young woman, and have no doubt that she will find her happiness and leave her creative mark somewhere out there…near, or far, from mom and dad. Dawn and I can be strong in these shifting tides of growth and change, because our daughter is strong.

The Boy, is now a young man. Jackson is 18…registered with Selective Service, able to buy lottery tickets, a pack of Camels, and get hitched without parental consent. What else is there? He’s a short timer at Stevens High School, and looking forward to one last season of high school tennis in the spring. One last of a lot of things seems to be the theme around here. Ends are beginnings, and he’s exploring some options on those fronts. I’ve conducted some research investigating high school seniors, and 11 out of 9 wish that people would stop asking them, “So…what are going to do after you graduate?” I was raised by a good man, my father-in-law is a good man, and I feel that I know what a “good man” is, so I am quite proud to proclaim that our son is a good man, and I’m sure the next chapter in his life will be a page-turner.

Dawn and I are just fine. We both get to spend our professional lives doing what we love. Fulfilling, rewarding, and all those things that allow one to flourish in life. If you want to get personal, we find ourselves in uncharted territory. Not exactly uncharted territory, but territory that has not been visited for quite some time. Territory where the focus is shifting from the whirlwind of raising kids back to us. Back to where it all started. The kids are, and always will be, a major part of who we are, and what we’re here for, but the responsibility for wrangling the whirlwind is mostly theirs now. They are both quite capable and we are both quite proud.

This holiday season hold onto it all…the little bits…the big bits…all of it. All we have is each other and the bits of time we get to share as life pulls us this way and that. Our clan lost a bit in August, but we’ll gain a bit in May, and we’ll all keep moving along. Have a good year my friends. Health and happiness to you and yours.