Rambling Josh

Well “The Boy” turned 18 this Sunday, and I, the number doesn’t matter much anymore, but I managed to make 45 on Monday. Five more years and I will accept being referred to as “middle aged”. We got to spend Jackson’s day together on the ball field, toiling through a double-header on a hot afternoon.

Jackson had a great day, hit the ball well, did a nice job in the field…enjoyed watching him having fun and playing some good ball. As for myself…I’m 45 now, and I played at an age appropriate level. For those of you scoring at home, I did not hit well, I managed to track a few fly balls down in the outfield, and struggled through four innings pitching. It is time to hand the ball over to “The Boy” for good. Besides, sweat logged Depends make it hard to beat out an infield single.

I told Jackson at the beginning of the season that if I started to embarrass myself out there to let me know. Jackson asked, “How will I know if you are embarrassing yourself?” I replied, “You will know, because I will be embarrassing you too.” I have no intentions of being some old fart novelty that shuffles around the dugout just to hear those ball players in their prime say, “he’s pretty good for his age”.

I don’t want or need to be “pretty good for my age”, my ego doesn’t need a condescending pat on the butt from some kid that will be able to get out of bed the morning after a game without a hitch in his giddy up. I had my time as a ballplayer, I enjoyed that time, but it has past, and I am fine with that. I am fine with that, because it is passing on to the young man that made me love the game again. The young man that let me be a kid again.

My mom told me that when you become a parent you get to see the world through a child’s eye’s again. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed that view, and feel as though I’ve wrung all I can out of it. Both the kids are officially adults now, so I suppose it’s time for me to grow up a bit as well…just a bit.

I realize that baseball is just a game, but it has been a game that has served as a commonality between myself and Jackson from the beginning. As his father, his coach, and now for a brief moment, his teammate, I have enjoyed oh so many days of playing catch, of throwing him batting practice, of just passing the time together.

This passing of time together became more enjoyable when I stopped trying to make him a major leaguer, and just decided to play with him for the sake of playing. There is a very, very small percentage of ballplayers that make it to the major leagues, and there is a very, very small percentage of time before your little boy becomes a man. I chose to bank on the second percentage, the sure bet, and it has paid out handsomely.

Happy Birthday Jackson, you’re a good man.

It’s been a hot few weeks here of late, as is generally expected in the summer I suppose. Expected, but seemingly always surprising. We slowly shake our heads and exclaim in a hushed breathless tone, “man it’s hot”. As if we’re trying not to let the heat hear us for fear that it will kick it up another tick or two just to spite our whining.

Those of you that have little choice but to spend your working day under the angry relentless glare of that fireball, I commend you. Your whining (if you so choose) is completely justified, for anyone else, it is not. Not justified, but highly likely, as the weather is what a good amount of idle chit-chat turns to when nothing else seems to make itself available for discussion.

I’m not very good at extended bouts of idle chit-chat or small talk. I need a good wingman or wingwoman when venturing into those types of social situations. I can hold my own for the first three minutes or so, but then it’s time to withdraw and let the wingperson swoop in so I can commence to smile and nod for the remainder of the interaction. I can smile and nod with the best of them.

If your wingperson is particular adept at carrying a conversational load you can even slip away and stare quietly at the potted plant in the corner or act like you’re intently reading something (anything…VCR instruction manual, recipe cards, mattress tags, etc.). I have two such wingpeople in my life, who I am quite thankful for, my wife and my good friend Paul. Both world class chit-chatathoners, whom I have stood by and cheered on for years. Or at least smiled and nodded once the plant got uncomfortable with the incessant staring.

The heat at least puts a bit of a damper on people’s willingness to stand on the hot asphalt in the middle of the grocery store parking lot and carry on about whatever their chosen carry on topic may be. The heat also seems to put a damper on some of the vacation bound motorhomes ability to carry on down the highway.

There was a particularly vintage looking motorhome fueling up next to us in Broadus Montana a few weeks back on a particularly hot day. In this case “distressed vintage” would probably be a more accurate description. It looked to have been a top-of-the-line RV at one point and time, a point and time, much like the paint, that had long faded. So it goes.

They rolled out about 15 minutes before us, as we had to let the dog sniff around a bit, and I had to make short order of a gas station Sundae Cone. Gas station Sundae Cones are always a gamble. Sometimes the cone is like chewing on a soggy Pringles can (don’t ask), but this one was crisp, crunchy, and cold…delightful.

“Delightful” would not be the word that probably best described the mood of the owners of the before mentioned vintage RV. When we went past them about 5 miles removed from Sundae Cone’s and Broadus, all involved looked a little overheated. Somebody had stopped to help them, somebody that could probably do more than stare at the motor like it’s a potted plant, so we continued on our way.

We moved on, but my thoughts stayed with them for quite some time. Times like that I wish I had the financial means to airlift in a new RV for those folks. Folks that obviously were just trying to get a little further down the road. Towards something…away from something…most likely both. Maybe they had all they needed. I’d have liked to have been able to give them a little more, but then who am I to decide what someone else needs.

Maybe a kindly rancher took them in, the RV people’s son fell madly in love with the ranchers daughter, they got married, and all lived happily ever after. Now the old RV sits in a tree grove out by the pasture, finally at rest, a pleasant reminder of the circumstances that brought two families together. Such a lovely story.

Sundae Cone brain freeze induced hallucination? It’s all part of the experience. Stay cool my friends.

Happy Father’s Day to all you fine folks that answer to the call of “Dad” or whatever brand of call your children have settled on. I spent the first part of my father’s day watching my son play in a tennis tournament in Mitchell, South Dakota. Then around high noon we loaded on the bus and headed back to Rapid City to cover the 275 miles in time to make our 5 o’clock double-header baseball game.

It seemed like a good idea to take up the tennis coach’s offer of riding with him and the team to the tournament on the bus. I thought since I wouldn’t have to drive I’d have some time to nap and read a bit while enjoying a leisurely ride to Mitchell. It has been a few years since I’ve ridden on a school bus, there is nothing leisurely about lumbering down the highway in those grain bins on wheels.

I thought longingly of the comfort of my car as I sat bolt upright, continuously shifting about trying to find comfort, but having to settle on varying levels of discomfort while simmering in a small vat of my own sweat. Thankfully it was loud enough in that rattle trap that I couldn’t hear myself complain. The kids all seemed to find some variation of body positioning that allowed them undisturbed sleep. Apparently, teenage bodies have a wider variety of comfort settings than this later model.

We made it back to Rapid City in time to get our uniforms on and head for the ballpark. My son, Jackson, and I are teammates on the Drillers, an amateur baseball team in the Black Hills Amateur Baseball League. We didn’t have a team last year, and I thought my baseball career had finally come to a close, but here we are…back on the field. The things we do for our kids.

I play right field and Jackson plays second base. Right field is about as far away from the action as I can get without sitting in the stands, which is my plan for next summer.

I’m sure I’ve shared this story with you before, but when I was about 12 I went with my dad to one of his softball games in Columbus. Columbus’s field had those old wooden grandstands, pert near a major league ballpark to me. I always liked going with to dad’s games to chase foul balls, play a little catch, and of course watch my dad play ball. Dad played left field, and he dove for a ball down the left field foul line, and was a bit slow getting up.

He walked back to his position, and as he stood there I remember thinking, “I don’t think his left shoulder normally hangs that much lower than the right.” He waited for Martin Halverson (the barber) to throw a few more pitches, and then called time and slowly came off the field. It ended up being a grade-three shoulder separation, and put him in a brace for the remainder of the summer.

During our game on Father’s Day, I dove for a ball in right field, and when I not so gently descended to the ground, I felt and heard quite a racket from various parts of my body that were voicing their objection to such foolery. As I stood up the vision of my Dad standing in the outfield in Columbus rushed into my mind. Jackson yelled out to me, “Are you all right?” I wanted to shake my head up and down, but left and right seemed much closer to reality.

“Reality”. In reality I am going to be 45 next month. In reality I have no business trying to make a diving catch. In reality I stood alone in right field afraid to take stock of the end results of my stupidity. Thankfully the cosmos decided to just deal me a bit of a warning shot, perhaps a Father’s Day gift. In the end I fared better than my dad, probably a bit less than a grade-one shoulder sprain, nothing a little time won’t heal. Nothing a little acting my age won’t prevent from occurring again.

It’s hard to act your age on a baseball field. Maybe it’s time?

A happy June to you and yours. I was fortunate enough to ring in the month with four days of general puttering about and farting around at our cabin. If puttering about and farting around were Olympic events, the cabin would be a world class training center for all those that have made it their life’s ambition to be atop the puttering about and farting around podium.

Generally, a requirement of a world class training center is that it have world class coaches. People that have made it their life’s ambition to stomp around scowling in a polyester track suit and an ill-fitting polo while attempting to hammer and meld the best of the best into something better than the best.

These people aren’t invited to the puttering about and farting around training center. Polyester track suits are a liability around a campfire, and all that stomping, scowling, hammering, and melding would frighten my dog. Labs are sensitive.

Would I be their coach? I’ll mix their drinks and make sure they get an appropriate ration of bacon each day, but the puttering about and farting around is on them. They must arrive at their own particular style and technique, develop their signature moves, the moves (or lack of) that will define the very essence of their being.

When you’re at the cabin (no electricity, no phone service, no nothing…but everything) you find those moves, or perhaps they find you. It’s hard to tell. The days take on a rhythm, a rhythm that stretches in all directions, unhindered, but rather enhanced, by the tree’s and hills that stand sentinel, protecting you from interruptions attempting to ride the waves from the cell tower.

Puttering about and farting around is simply moving to that rhythm, which, at times, may bare a suspicious resemblance to not moving. One can move without the outward appearance of movement, and will possibly cover more ground doing so.

Speaking of “moving”, north of Billings there was a prairie dog trying to hitch a ride. He was standing on the shoulder of the road, little thumb up towards the traffic, and a more obnoxious finger pointed towards the residents of the prairie dog town he was trying to distance himself from. I stopped to inquire as to where he was headed, and was told that he was working his way west, he’d had enough of the prairie, always wanted to see the ocean.

I was heading east, back to South Dakota, but offered him a ride my way if he was so moved. He declined. Something about a jilted lover in Wind Cave National Park that, rumor has it, had hired a couple coyotes to rough him up if he dare burrow in those parts again. I didn’t prod him for any details, prairie dog business is best left to prairie dogs. We chatted a bit, the air-conditioned cab of the pick-up was a welcomed reprieve from the asphalt and hot sun I suppose.

I wished him luck, gave him the number of friend of mine that lives in Oregon that would put him up for a few nights if need be, and we parted ways.

Get a move on.

It seems as though the professed imminent demise of anything and everything that is real is demonstrating to be greatly exaggerated. By “real” I mean things you can hold, things you can put on a shelf, things that your grandchildren might find in a box that will prompt a conversation about a time before their time. By “things” I mean books, record albums, photographs…real things that aren’t stored in a “cloud” or any number of electronic storage locations.

Storage locations that we can conveniently access from anywhere, anytime, unless we can’t. There are a couple of certainties in life, an electronic device will experience a terminal error and cease to be viable, and we will eventually do the same. Of course those that prefer to frolic in the technological landscape will argue that this is precisely why back-up is necessary, and possibly back-up to the back-up.

We humans in the worldly landscape don’t have the luxury of a back-up when we experience a terminal error. When that occurs, chances are that the electronic devices and access to the back-up, to the back-up, to the back-up won’t be accessible to anyone but your recently non-backed-up expired self. No “things” for anyone to have and to hold in remembrance of your time here. Maybe that’s okay with you, maybe you don’t want to leave “things” in your wake after your wake, but I think most of us would like to be remembered occasionally…maybe even fondly.

In the last few years the sales of e-readers, such as Kindle, have declined and the sales of actual printed paper books has increased. There has also been a resurgence of record album production and sales, and dark rooms are seeing the light again as film photography and Polaroid make a comeback. Why? Why would we want to dig through stacks of record albums and poke around boring old bookstores?

After all, the little google machine in our pocket can handle all these chores, freeing up ample time for us to attend to more pressing matters, such as backing-up our back-up. The other day I was trying to remember what the source of our anger and frustration was in our day-to-day lives prior to computers and the avalanche of other technological gizmos? A bookmark falling out?

I’m not anti-technology. It would be hard for me to procrastinate to the level that I do if I had to write this column by hand and then mail it in for publication. However, I don’t believe I’ve ever so much as raised my voice at my notebook and pen, but my computer has been at the receiving end of several death threats and embarrassing outbursts.

All of this came to mind the other day when I was listening to a few albums that I’ve acquired from various family members over the years. I know who most of them belonged to because someone took the time to write their name on them many years ago. Because of this I know that my Great Grandma Lizzy Gins enjoyed listening to Connie Francis long before she knew she was going to be my Great Grandma. I couldn’t access a “cloud” for that information.

Dean Martin, Frank Sinatra, Elvis, etc. It’s enjoyable to listen to these records and think about all those that held and read the album cover while the music played. Now, I can do the same. A google machine can’t do that.

Check another milestone off the old teenage “rite of passage” list for our son Jackson. “I don’t understand what the purpose of prom is” he stated a week or so prior to the arrival of the big day. That wasn’t the end of his misgivings with the affair, and as the weeks turned to days he went on to lodge such complaints as, “this is all a waste of time and money” and “I’ll never agree to this again” and a litany of other angstful teenage remarks which I’ve grown quite accustomed to ignoring.

The remarks, like his dirty socks, can be counted on to be strewn about, but I have the choice of when or if I want to pick them up. To paraphrase Victor Frankl, “Between stimulus (dirty socks, remarks, etc.) and response there is a space, and within that space we have the power to choose” and I choose to smile and nod like an oblivious idiot. Which I might very well be, but that is beside the point.

He agreed to put himself through this ordeal a few months ago. In teenage time “a few months” is a long stretch of eternity that, in their mind, has about as much probability of coming into fruition as going riverboat gambling or deep sea fishing with Barney the dinosaur. Something I would agree to if the fish we were seeking had an insatiable hankering for fuzzy purple bait.

I’m not much of a fisherman, but I have some repressed Barney hostility that needs to be dealt with. I won’t bore you with anymore of the dark and twisted, but completely justified, desires of my Rainbow Randolph alter ego.

The standard attire society has deemed acceptable for young men to wear as they step onto this rung of fun to ascend a bit closer to the wobbly uncertain heights of adulthood is, of course, a tuxedo or a suit of some sort. We opted to buy him a suit rather than rent a tux, as the price isn’t much different, and I wanted him to have something nice to wear when he elopes with the elderly widow down the street.

To save him the anguish of limping around in shiny plastic ill-fitting rental shoes all night, I loaned him my wing-tips for half the cost. I threw in the necktie tying seminar for free.

The young women have much more latitude in regards to the plumage they wiggle into, the un-sensible shoes they totter about on, and the plethora of accessories, hair thingy’s, nails (fingers and toes), flowers (hair, wrist, bouquet, etc.), handbags, and several square feet of makeup they tirelessly adorn themselves with. So it goes.

Once I told the angstful one to get off of his computer (for the fourth time) and get dolled up, roughly three minutes passed, and he was standing in the kitchen fully dressed. Still lodging complaints, but fully dressed, hair done, and…well that’s about it for us men folk when it comes to getting gussied up. We’re just there to carry our date’s un-sensible shoes after they’ve walked in them for the first four steps of the evening.

In the midst of all the posing and picture taking I could see that our son was enjoying himself, and as a parent that’s pretty much what we hope to see. The morning after prom I asked him, “So, did you figure out what prom is for?” He said, “No. I had fun, but it still seems like a waste of money.” Whether he meant to or not, he omitted “time” in his post-prom reflection, and concluded it only to be a waste of money.

Money comes and goes many times over in life, but time, well time just goes (too quickly), so I’m glad he felt it was an enjoyable use of his time.

Watching him grow and navigate this world is an enjoyable use of my time…and money.

Do you live in a place that has proven itself to be a hotbed of creativity and genius? Can a geographical location foster creativity and genius? Should I stop asking stupid questions pertaining to creativity and genius? If you’re perpetually perusing for interesting reading material I recommend, The Geography of Genius, by Eric Weiner.

I don’t know the author, I’m not on his payroll, and I have no conflicts of interest to divulge in this completely unsolicited reading recommendation. It’s just a good read, but then with books, like with most everything, “good” is subjective to the taste of the consumer.

For instance, if you were to say that your grandma’s sweet rolls are good, without even a taste, I could, with great confidence, tell you that although I’m sure your grandma is a lovely lady, her sweet rolls are surely akin to the north end of a south bound mule in comparison to my grandma’s sweet rolls.

Or, if I’ve seen a movie that my wife hasn’t, and she asks me what I thought of it, if I respond that I thought it was “good” she hears, “fake blindness and avoid”. Even if there is a tornado and the theater is the safest place to seek storm asylum, do not enter if that film is playing. If your pants are on fire and the lone fire extinguisher is in that theater, find an alternative means to dampen the flames.

I read somewhere that we are less likely to watch something that has been recommended by a friend, than if the friend kept their mouth shut and just waited for us to watch it when we were good and ready. Does this mean that those that do watch what we recommend aren’t really our friends? Maybe we just need friends with better taste, but then friends with better taste probably wouldn’t be our friends. Quite a conundrum.

I don’t know if this applies to books as well, but I thought I’d throw my recommendation out there in case anyone’s battery is dead on their smartphone and they need something to hold while it recharges. “Idle hands are the devils workshop”, this saying obviously wasn’t coined by anyone that had a teenage daughter dating a teenage punk, with teenage hands, being controlled by a teenage brain, but I digress.

The book that I recommended, that we now know nobody will read, because it’s been recommended, unless you’re not my friend, in which case you won’t know any better than to blindly follow my recommendation. I just came to the realization that “friends” keep knuckleheads around so they know what movies not to watch and what books not to read. I feel so used. So it goes.

Now it all seems like a bad idea. You know what, just forget about the recommendation, read what you want. Sometimes it comes off as a bit pompous to make a reading recommendations, besides, life’s too short to be spent running around reading and watching everything your friends with poor taste think you will adore. If they were any sort of friend they would just tell you what the book was about and save you the time.

What has creativity and genius ever gotten anyone anyway? Chronically mismatched socks? Prom dates with close relatives? Stay safe this prom season. Idle hands…idle hands.

We’ve started off the month with a few showers, and according to most of the elementary teachers that attempted to teach me many moons ago, those showers should produce May flowers. As the late Steve Jobs once said, “You can’t connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backwards. So you have to trust that the dots will somehow connect in your future.” So in the spirit of Steve Jobs I will trust that my teachers were right.

All the signs are beginning to point towards spring. Baseball has thrown out its first pitch, outdoor pursuits of all sorts are revving up around town, I’ve scrounged around under my bed for my sandals, and the struggle to hold my students attention continues its upward trend. Winding down a semester always brings about reflection on the past year. What went right? What went wrong? What did my students learn? What did I learn?

When a semester wraps up, the reality is that there are some students that I may never see again. A friend of mine brought this point up once, and since then I have tried to keep that thought in the forefront as the semesters come to a close. Over the course of a semester, sometimes many semesters with some students, I get to know these young adults. I learn about why they came to college, why they chose their particular field of study, what they hope to do with their lives once their time at the college comes to a close.

Sometimes the end of the year sneaks up me, and before I know it they’re gone. My shot to bid them farewell in a proper manner squandered. So for those students that got away, I’d like to let them know that one shot at something as grand and glorious as life doesn’t seem fair, but it’s all we get, it’s all we have, it is all.

One go around, one time, our time is never to be again. Some have more, some have less, we all get some, but always want some more. Want more for us, want more for those that know us and make our time what it is. What’s not to want? A brief blink from dark to light to dark again. Through the ages many have, do, and will want more, but want will come without, and this world will move on as it always has, as it always will, for many rises and falls to come.

Some may see the beginning some may see the end. Neither is near us now so we see today, we remember yesterday, and hope for tomorrow. It all seems so slow, yet, as you will find, with age, it moves so very fast. Slow and fast, one never without the other. Who knew?

Questions will remain but we will not. We will all go. Most likely not willingly, but go just the same. Go and be gone, and hope to remain through the memories of those that stay. How deep will memories of you flow? Thinly stir the surface, and then vanish without a trace, silently slipping into the ages, or rip and tear the earth leaving a wake of remembrance stretching your life well beyond your life?

Either is not entirely up to us. Much is up to those that knew us, and those that are to know them, and know them, and know them, and…

Where and with whom do we stop? When does our life truly cease to be remembered? Cease to make a sound amongst the living? When will our last light go out?

Later, rather than sooner one would hope, or maybe one does concern themselves with such thoughts. Thoughts are silent in a world that is loud with life. Speak, write, paint, build, do…whatever voice suits you. One life, one time. Be loud with your life.

The Spring Break weather wasn’t all that spring-like, but more often than not, that happens around this neck of the woods. My wife and I had planned on transporting our pasty winter complexions somewhere sandy, sunny, and warm over break, but a transport such as that from a place such as this, came to a grand total that was bit too grand. So we unpacked our bathing suits, made room for some wool socks and thermal underwear, and headed west to see how our college girl was doing in Bozeman.

We hadn’t seen her since she was home for Christmas, and looking at our calendars, if we didn’t go now, it would probably be a few more months before we got a chance to see her. She has her Spring Break this week, and is hanging out in sunny San Francisco with a few friends, and will be off to Los Angeles for a class trip in May. Ma and Pa keep getting bumped a bit further down the list.

For your children’s sake, you shouldn’t let too much time pass between visits, the shock of your rapidly aging appearance and physical degeneration may be more than they can handle. Parental decrepitness is best doled out in small doses at regular intervals.

As is my general mode of operation, prior to heading out of town for a visit, I went “a Googling” to see what events might be going on at our destination during our visit. Turns out our trip to Bozeman coincided with Sir Elton John’s performance in the arena on the MSU Bozeman campus. One would think that the performance of a Sir such as he would be common knowledge, and sort of a big deal, amongst those that regularly shuffle about the campus, but Sierra, and many more it turns out, were unaware of such.

I’ve never seen Elton John in concert, but I’ve heard he’s not too shabby of a musician, so I ordered up seats for Dawn, Sierra, and myself. We had to leave Jackson behind in Rapid City. (Note: please read the following sentence with as much sarcasm as you can muster) He’s such a diligent and conscientious student, he couldn’t bear to miss a few days of school. Besides, someone had to watch the dog and eat the frozen pizzas before they went bad.

A good time was had by all. Despite nobody knowing about the concert, the place was packed, and Elton did a fine job. If he keeps at it he just might have a future in the music industry. He’s been performing longer than I’ve been alive, and not to be selfish, but I hope I manage to be alive after he wraps things up and shuffles away from his piano for the last time.

He announced, to the apparent approval of many in attendance, that he will be turning 70 at the end of the month. It seemed odd to express such exuberance for such a feat, but I didn’t want to appear rude, so I gave a few claps of approval for him not dying for the past 70 years. I reserved my more enthusiastic clapping for his performance of a few of my favorites; Candle In the Wind, Levon, Daniel, Rocket Man…good stuff…good time.

Have a lovely St. Patrick’s Day my friends. “Oh the summer time is comin', and the trees are sweetly bloomin', and the wild mountain thyme grows around the bloomin' heather. Will ye go lassie go…."

Last year, this point in time marked the end of February. This year, this point in time marks the beginning of March. A leapless year has left us a day shorter than the last. I grew so accustomed to those 366 days last year, I don’t know how I’ll cope with a mere 365 this go around. I had some chores on my to-do list that I estimated would require 366 days to adequately complete that will have to be put off until 2020.

The lady that waxes my back will understand, and possibly rejoice a bit, if she’s into rejoicing, can’t say I know her that well. She seems exhausted and a bit nauseous when she’s done so pleasantries don’t seem in order. Besides, between now and 2020, that hairs not going anywhere, besides further down my back. That make anyone gag? I assume I would have, but seeing how my backs behind me, I’ve been spared from the horror of it all.

It seems like a silly place for hair nowadays, but 30,000 years ago when thumbing through Montgomery Ward wasn’t an option but thumbing a ride on a glacier was, we would have changed our tune. Evolution is a lovely thing. I’d talk more about it, but I don’t want to spoil the surprise for those that are still working at it.

Speaking of evolution, curiosity got the best of me last year and I ordered a DNA test kit from National Geographic to get a better idea of what tree my ancestors fell out of. For the price of a relatively new helmet, in case you fall out of a relatively tall tree, I received a kit that would tell me who I was…relatively.

When the kit arrived I excitedly opened it, and found two cheek swabs and two vials to put each of the cheek swabbing’s into. As evolutionary luck would have it, I have two cheeks, and thus began swabbing. When the results came back indicating that I was a genetic match to an ancient family of dung beetles whose lineage had thought to have gone extinct during the great dung famine of the late Paleolithic era I realized I had swabbed the wrong cheeks.

The second DNA cheek swabbing, acquired with much less sweat and tears than the first, revealed that I was most definitely mostly Homo sapien. By “mostly” I mean about 98% of my person is Homo sapien, and the other 2% is Homo neanderthalensis. My sister’s response to the breaking news that I was 2% Neanderthal was, “I beg to differ.” I believe the percentage is variable, and rises in direct correlation with the percentage of rum my sister has forced upon me in an attempt to make our time together more tolerable.

My dear old dad decided to give the DNA fun a go as well, and see if a swabbing would reveal any ancestral ghosts lurking in the shadows of his genome, or possibly attempt to prove he wasn’t my father so he could stop crying himself to sleep every night. I probably shouldn’t publicly divulge such sensitive genetic information, but dad’s results said he was 4% Neanderthal. I immediately looked at my mother and thanked her for evolving her children 2% closer to being fully human. As the song goes, “Momma tried…”

There’s a lovely lady, who I’m quite proud to be of the same lineage, celebrating her birthday today. I don’t know what her genetic percentages are, but she tolerated us Neanderthals for many years, and managed to always be nothing less than 100% loving and caring. Happy Birthday Grandma Rose.