Rambling Josh

I should know better by now. I should know that the picture of Grandpa Ardell and Grandma Rose’s farm hanging on my wall shouldn’t be dwelt upon under certain circumstances. That picture, and others like it, hang by the drafting table I use as an oversized music stand tucked away in the corner of our basement.

Tucked away in the corner of our basement so I can strum my guitar and sing (my rendition of singing anyway) while mercifully attempting to minimize the auditory discomfort sustained by those that share the household. They don’t complain, they don’t encourage, they silently endure. Like a clown with jock itch, they suffer in silence, a big smile painted on their faces as grease paint stained tears drip off the toes of their oversized shoes.

They endure my insatiable penchant for ballads, songs that tell stories, generally sad stories, long sad stories…the best kind. I should know better than to sing these songs when all it takes is a slight wayward glance to my right and I’ll see the farm. To see the farm is to go to the farm, and when I go to the farm I’m going to be gone awhile.

How long I’m gone and the state the trip leaves me in is variable, and often times dependent upon whatever it may have been that I was using to keep my whistle wet. One should never attempt a stellar set of long sad ballads with a dry whistle.

There seems to be a direct correlation between the wetness of ones whistle, and ones strummin' and singin' prowess. Within the mind of the strummer and singer anyway. Those outside of that mind may disagree, but it’s difficult to know for sure when one is tucked away in the corner of the basement…or lost in a stroll around the farm.

I know that around every corner of this stroll I will stumble upon memory after memory. Most, clear and familiar, as if they have occurred again and again on a steady loop through all that I’ve ever known. But sometimes, sometimes when the time is right, a shadow will move and a memory appears. It’s not that it was lost, it’s always been there, it just needed proper lighting for it to appear.

The proper lighting makes all the difference. I should know better. I should know that this stroll is going to simultaneously bring a wave of happiness and sadness over me. I suppose we can’t appreciate one without the other. It seems as though we were able to separate the two when the memory was formed, when it was fresh and palpable, and all involved were present.

At that place in time we were aware of whether the moment was happy or sad. Why do they blend together with time? I want to be able to simply laugh at one of Grandpa’s jokes again, and dwell in that happiness. Dwell in that happiness, and turn a blind eye to the sadness. Adjust the lighting so the shadow never falls across my smile, and the sun forever shines through the windows on Grandpa’s “fish bowl”.

I should know better.

This just in, effective immediately, Facebook is changing their name to “I’m Right You’re Wrong and You’re an Idiot For Not Thinking, Acting, and Feeling the Same Way I Do”. Doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue, but it is a more accurate portrayal of the endless scroll of excrement one is subjected to when attempting to have a few laughs and stay in touch with family and friends.

The Thumperian Principle, “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say nothing at all” handed down to us by a wise rabbit, oh so many years ago, seems to have been kicked to the curb and buried in a pile of political click-bait and meme’s of myths and misinformation. Who did you vote for? I don’t care, that’s your business, and I’m sure you have your reasons for voting as you did. Who did I vote for? That’s my business, and I have my reasons for voting as I did.

What purpose does posting something derogatory, mean, and most likely unfactual on Facebook serve? Is it done to collect comments, likes, and any number of silly emoticons from those like-minded individual that we share our echo chamber with? Or is it done to irritate and illicit comments from all the “idiots” in the echo chamber next door?

Most likely to irritate the idiots next door, as it seems that it would get boring to simply have your insightfully intelligent postings agreed upon by your insightfully intelligent comrades. I’m not opposed to disagreement. The respectful exchange of opposing views can be an enjoyable and enlightening experience. The spiteful, mean-spirited back-and-forth posting of information meant to mock and discredit one another’s views and beliefs dims the intellect and has grown quite tiresome.

February is supposed to be a time of “courtly love”. Let’s put an end to this nonsensical parade of political poo-poo and take back the internet. Take it back and use it for the nonsensical parade of poo-poo it was intended, like posting instructional videos on how to tie a Windsor knot or tips for capturing and befriending a grizzly bear while wearing a proper Windsor knot.

Useful stuff. Stuff that’ll lend a hand to hoist life up a bit, rather than dole out a steady barrage of groin kicks and ear flicks. Come on! Who’s with me? Get on Facebook and re-friend or unblock that knot-head friend that voted for that knot-head candidate and shower their page with some February affection and kindness.

Invite them out to coffee, ask them to explain their knot-headedness, then you explain your knot-headedness, then you two knot-heads get back to good natured ribbing and leave the vile mudslinging up to the professional knot-heads in Washington.

Take Back Facebook month is upon us, do not waiver in the face of misinformed meme’s, steadfastly refuse to lend your hands to the stinky stick stirring the pot of political poo-poo. Brothers and sisters the time is now. Let your fingers of freedom march on Facebook and tap out messages of kindness to all…especially to those too ignorant and bull-headed to know that you are right and they are wrong.

I find all of the titles or labels ascribed to various generations of Americans to be useless, annoying, and seemingly contrived by the previous generation for the purpose of writing and selling books chronicling the perceived woes of the current generation.

We stuff these cohorts of people in boxes and stamp them “Generation X 1970-1980: MTV watching latchkey cynical slackers” or “Millennials 1980-2000: Self-centered entitled narcissists”. Of course we have “The Greatest Generation 1900-1924: Saved the world from fascism and tyranny”. Hard to compete with that.

They were called the “G.I. Generation” or the “WWII Generation” until Tom Brokaw christened them “The Greatest Generation” and wrote a book about them of the same name. I’m not arguing with Tom’s assessment or seeking to lessen what this generation did for the world. What they did was indeed great, but it seems that Tom has set the stage for a generational battle royale for second best from here on out.

Maybe that’s why it seems that the previous generations don’t have much flattery to bestow upon the current generations. By necessity, if big brother is gunning for second best he had better knock down little brother as much as he can. The problem is that these youngsters have stamina.

We’re bitterly heading down one side of the hill; tired, sweaty, paunchy, soft, knee’s aching, and we can hear them (and their terrible music) effortlessly and jovially bounding up the other side. Well we’ll just sit down and write a dozen books, and publish a couple hundred research papers, breathlessly explaining how your generation will lead us to ruin.

You won’t read the books, or care about the research, because your busy carving out your place in this world, but it will make us feel better, and it will give us something to talk about while we listen to NPR and search the internet for gout remedies.

I recently read a book that traced the first written example of this elder generational brow beating of the younger generation to the Greek poet Hesiod in 700 BC. That means that 2,717 years later we are working on about the 135th volume of the “Kids Nowadays” chronicles. The written version anyway, as I’m sure this topic has been one of interest since the first Neanderthal dad caught his daughter socializing with that smart-alecky Homo Sapient boy two caves down.

I don’t like being put in a “Generation X” box with all the characteristics assigned to us, and I don’t think it is fair to put other generations in boxes along with all the contrived traits that have been assigned them.

I’ve taught “millennials” for about 14 years, I’ve raised two “millennials” and spent a lot of time around their “millennial” friends. Are they self-centered entitled narcissists? No more than any other young adults, of any other generations, at any other time. It seems to me that it’s hard to carve out a “self” in this world without being a bit self-centered.

It’s difficult not to think of yourself when you are being asked, “What do YOU plan on doing with YOUR life”, “What job is of interest to YOU”, “What do YOU want to study in college”? They are constantly asked about themselves, asked to turn their thoughts inward, and then accused of being self-centered narcissists. A dirty trick, but there are no rules in the competition for “Second Best Generation”.

Kids nowadays are going to be us some day. They will look after their aging parents (I hope), they will work to give their families the best that they can, they will keep this country moving forward, and if they are tested (I hope not) they will do “good” (“great” has been taken).

The kids nowadays? If a box is necessary, I’m inclined to label theirs “thoughtful, caring, creative, inspiring, and just fine”.

There’s a Zen-like proverb that can be found in many variations if a-Googling-you-go. I’m not sure of the original source. Sometimes, when I’m roaming through a bookstore or a library amidst the rows-and-rows of books, I wonder how it’s possible to write anything “original”.

There’s only 26-letters in our alphabet, and it amazes me (I’m easily amazed) the plethora of ways those letters can be mixed-and-matched and strung together to form words and sentences that attempt to move something from one head into the head of another.

Some are more successful at this attempt than others, judging by how quickly some books move from the festive, well-organized “New Arrival” section, to the random disarray of the “Just Take It” pile of discarded not so interesting sentences.

How does it feel as an author to stroll into a bookstore and find the ideas, thoughts, and whatnot that you were trying to move from your head into the heads of others, piled amongst last year’s diet, get rich, or become a likeable person books? The product of hours-and-hours of your time and effort lying there in a heap with a big red sticker over your smiling face on the cover boldly proclaiming “196% off”.

As a rule, I’m skeptical of a book whose author found it necessary to put themselves on the cover. Usually standing, arms either crossed or on the hips, with an expression attempting to convey mirth, wisdom, and vulnerability.

Good or bad…hard to say. At least they did it. They put themselves, and whatever was in their head, out there for the public to render judgment upon. In this day and age of constant and instant everything, that judgement occurs swiftly and without mercy for Mister or Miss mirth, wisdom, and vulnerability. So it goes.

Back to the Zen-like proverb…

There was once a farmer in a village. One day, his horse ran away. So, the villagers came up to him and said, “That’s bad.” The farmer shrugged his shoulders and said, “Good or bad…hard to say.”

The next day, the horse came back with seven wild horses. The villagers came up to the farmer and said, “More horses, that’s good.” The farmer shrugged his shoulders and said, “Good or bad…hard to say.”

A few weeks later, the farmer’s son was riding one of the wild horses and was thrown off it. As a result, he broke his leg. The villagers came up to the farmer and said, “That’s bad.” The farmer shrugged his shoulders and said, “Good or bad…hard to say.”

The next week, the king sent word commanding all able men to enlist in the army for the upcoming war against a neighboring kingdom. The farmer’s son wasn’t enlisted as he had a broken leg. The villagers came up to the farmer and said, “That’s good.” The farmer shrugged his shoulders and said, “Good or bad…hard to say.”

The next month the farmer and his gimpy son harvested a bumper carrot crop. A more impressive crop of carrots had never been witnessed by the villagers, and they said, “That’s good.” The farmer threw back his shoulders, puffed out his chest, and said, “Darn right!”

That night the scent of freshly picked carrots attracted a massive flock of giant flying rabbits. A flock so vast they blotted out the moonlight as they descended upon the village. Nibbling and hopping about ferociously until nary a carrot remained, reducing the village to rubble, and littering it with boulder sized…You get the idea.

The “original” proverb didn’t descend into giant flying rabbit chaos, but if that farmer kept shrugging his shoulders, and didn’t get a little cocky, the proverb would never end. A proverb in itself I suppose. Don’t get cocky about your carrot crop.

Just think of the possibilities if you could break one of those rabbits to ride…“Good or bad, hard to say.” Or as an old German proverb states, “Fortune helps the bold, but not always.” Definitely maybe…or not. Such is life.

As you are most likely aware, another year has recently been put to rest. Rest in peace 2016, thank you for your time. If you were not aware of this, I apologize for the spoiler, and would recommend you place “get a friend” towards the top of your list of resolutions for 2017. If your personality or lack of personal hygiene (or perhaps both) renders that particular resolution unlikely, replace it with “acquire a calendar”. Wait a minute… my mom gives me a Lignite Community Calendar every year for Christmas. So it goes.

After our New Year’s celebration this year, I put “avoid champagne” at the top of my list of resolutions. It’s tasty and makes my friends tolerable, but apparently some sickly soul must have coughed on one of the half-dozen glasses that found their way to my hand, and passed along a bit of a fast acting stomach flu to me. I’m much better now, thank you.

To kick off the first day of 2017, my wife asked if I would like to accompany her to the movie theater to see Will Smith’s new film “Collateral Beauty”. I am not one to go to a movie willy-nilly, just for the sake of going to a movie, as I see it as an investment of my time and I value time, mine and yours. I found the movie description intriguing “Retreating from life after tragedy, a man questions the universe by writing to Love, Time and Death” so I decided to give it a go.

As a minor side note, I prefer to call movie theaters “show halls”, but have found that nobody outside of northwest North Dakota seems to know what I’m talking about, and I grew weary of the pointing and laughing. My Grandpa Fritz took us to the Columbus Show Hall, not some hoity-toity theater, to see “Smokey and the Bandit”.

Although my taste in movies may be questionable, you may find comfort in knowing that both my wife and I thought it was a good flick. It was well acted, thought provoking, and it managed to pull a tear or two down my cheek. I’ve attempted, with moderate success, to train my tear ducts to only release tears from the side away from wife during movies to limit the mocking.

As the description may have indicated, the movie spoke of time, and that coupled with the arrival of the New Year, has time on my mind as I sit down to write this first column of the new year. New Year’s is an interesting time. It’s as if, for a fleeting moment, we get to straddle time…past, present, future…all right there, all at once. We stand in the present swaying to “Auld Lang Syne” with our arms draped around the shoulders of friends and loved ones, thinking back fondly, looking forward hopefully.

The parties over folks, it’s time to take on another year. As the late Steve Jobs once said, “Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Have the courage to follow your heart and intuition.”

Here’s to time, may good people and good times make you lose track of it often.

For those that aren’t on our Christmas card list (you know why) I thought I’d share a bit of our goings on over the past year. First, a word from our 2016 holiday sponsor, “Aged 12 years in bourbon oak casks, Knappogue Castle Single Malt Irish Whiskey, making the holidays mostly tolerable for ye and me. Mellow and well-balanced…unlike your in-laws. Enjoy a dram over ice or straight from the bottle…drizzled with the tears of Christmas present. Knappogue Castle…your home for the holidays.”

This summer, the wife and I celebrated our 20th year of being locked securely, and blissfully, within the institution of marriage. I thought only crotchety elderly couples that smell of Vicks, Ben-Gay, and foot powder celebrated 20th wedding anniversaries. Turns out I can’t smell. Dawn is a thoughtful lass, and got me a 12 and an 8-year old bottle of lovely Irish whiskey for our anniversary. The gift was, and still is, much appreciated, her attempt to make me do math was not.

Dawn loves the holiday season, and spends as much time as she can wrapping her thoughtful gifts, baking goodies, listening to Christmas music or watching sappy Hallmark Holiday shows. Not necessarily in that order and sometimes simultaneously. I’ve tried to watch those Hallmark Holiday shows with her, but Dawn finds the chronic eye-rolling and frequent bouts of bulimia to be distracting. I just get so emotional.

Jackson is 17, and is a kind and caring young man that is begrudgingly, and not very attentively, attending to his junior year of high school. He had a successful tennis season last year, and we’re looking forward to quietly cheering him on again this spring. Unlike other sports, at tennis matches, yelling and screaming like a fowl mouthed howler monkey is frowned upon, rather you are to politely rattle your jewelry. Charm bracelets snag on my arm hair, but we all must make sacrifices for our precious children in an attempt to keep them from resentfully sticking us in a cut-rate retirement home that serves generic jello and cold coffee.

Sierra is thoroughly enjoying her junior year studying film and photography at Montana State University in Bozeman. She is a caring, creative soul that harbors great reserves of empathy for one and all. She has a genetic predisposition to wanderlust, and has scratched that itch this past year by attending the Sundance Film Festival, gallivanting around Arches National Park, exploring Seattle and the Pacific Northwest, and has plans to visit San Francisco in the spring. Sure, it makes a parent nervous having their child out in the world without their hand readily available for them to grab if things get unsteady, but I’m proud of her independence, and the lens of curiosity and caring that she views the world through.

The years click by so fast. Seemingly overnight our children have grown into young adults, on the brink of a life of their own. A life “of” their own, but never “on” their own, as family is a forever sort of deal. A deal where we raise them to the best of our ability, and in exchange, they eventually forgive us for our shortcomings, and begin asking us for advice…and get this…listening to it.

This whole “kids growing up and kicking ma and pa to the curb” deal is sad at times, but sitting on that curb together, after 20 years of chasing kids and careers, Dawn and I took a bewildered glance at one another, and seemingly simultaneously said, “Where have you been?” Thus has begun another chapter in this crazy book of life. The chapter where we ditch the kids and go on vacations or out on the town (sort of like adults). The chapter where the holidays become more about simply enjoying fleeting family time together, rather than a quest to cross the shiny gadgets of the year off of a list so your child doesn’t suffer any irreparable mental trauma questioning the existence of Santa and small herds of Rangifer tarandus that have magically mastered flight.

As for the old dogs, Pre and me are getting by just fine. We walk where we used to run, and are much more selective as to what we expend our time and energy chasing. I suppose one could call it contentment. Grateful for the work I get to do at Chadron State College, appreciative of the friends that call me a friend, and so very happy and proud of the family that counts me amongst their clan. May contentment find you and yours.

Happy Holidays from the Ellis family.

It’s that time of year. That time of year when the final few weeks of a sixteen week semester marks the beginning of some student’s sudden concern over their grade. I don’t really have any complaints about my students, there a good lot of young adults, and being young adults they’re prone to bouts of irresponsibility now and again. For that matter, young adults don’t have the market cornered on bouts of irresponsibility.

“Bouts” aren’t generally an issue, after all, one bout of diarrhea, although unpleasant for all involved, isn’t generally a major concern with excessive long-term negative consequences. Other than, perhaps prompting the immediate shift of your favorite white Levi 501s from the “looking snazzy in school” pile to the “only wear while shoveling coal in the dark of night” pile. I’ll chalk that one up to divine intervention, protecting me from excessive photographic evidence that I once was the proud owner of white jeans.

Over the course of the next week or so, I will generally get a couple of emails from students stating, “I see that I have an “F” in your class. Is there anything I can do to raise my grade?” Some instructors are greatly annoyed by these emails, I happen to find them entertaining, and will type out my response with a smile, “Yes, I also see that you have an “F”, so we are in agreement. Myself, and the rest of the class, have missed you greatly over the past 14 weeks. Swing by and see me and we’ll chat about your grade.”

If they overcome their 14 week bout of irresponsibility, and bother to stop by my office, I will accept any and all late assignments they turn in. If they don’t bother, neither do I. The majority do bother, and the majority own up to their bout of irresponsibility. I think, and I could be wrong, that allowing a student to rectify such a bout can be a positive learning experience for them, and hopefully will serve to prevent the bouts from becoming chronic.

Chronic anything is generally a bummer. Chronic bedwetting, chronic pain, chronic constipation, chronic whining about the chronic pain from chronic constipation, chronic flatulence…okay, that last one has some entertainment value. Chronic happiness in the face of someone chronically whining about the chronic pain from their chronic constipation won’t win you any friends, but then who wants chronically constipated friends…they’re like ticking time bombs.

I’m not sure where I was headed with all this lowbrow talk of bodily functions? If I never got sidetracked, I’m not sure if I’d ever move.

The holidays can bring about both bouts of laughter and tears. Laughter, as we visit and spend time with friends and family, and tears, as we think of friends and family that are no longer with us. By “no longer with us” I’m not referring to those that moved to Canada after the election.

As the holiday season marches on, my wish for you is that your bouts of laughter outnumber your bouts of tears (and chronic constipation…avoid fruitcake). Speaking of fruitcake and laughter, I’d like to wish my mom, a chronically witty and creative woman that is always good for instigating a bout or two of laughter, a happy birthday.

Happy Holidays my friends.

Mission accomplished. Our daughter Sierra’s longtime wish of celebrating her 21st birthday in Lignite at the 109 Club was a rousing success. It was the birthday girls wish that everyone come to her party dressed as their favorite movie character, and a grand old time was had by all the “stars” in attendance. A few years back I had my 21st in the 109 as well, but it pales in comparison to this star-studded gathering.

We had Ethel and Norman from “On Golden Pond”, Vivian from “Pretty Woman”, Jim Halpert from “The Office”, Ricky, Lucy, and Ethel from “I Love Lucy”, Joanna or Annie from “Overboard”, Samantha from “Sixteen Candles”, King-Kong, Donnie from “Donnie Darko”, and Rachel from “The Bodyguard”. Sierra and my brother Gabe chose The Dude and Walter from “The Big Lebowski”, makes a father proud.

As for me, I chose my favorite “home” movie character, 1980s Donavon. After I got into character, a costume that included an actual pair of my dad’s old cowboy boots, I walked upstairs to wet my whistle, and to see if dad would recognize the “character” I was shooting for. As I walked, the clip-clop of dad’s boots on the floor instantly brought me back. Back to my room in the basement of our old house, where most every morning I would hear the sound of dad’s boots moving about above me as he prepared to head off to work.

That sound above me meant many things. It meant my father worked long hours to provide for his family (still does), and it meant that I had about two more hours of sleep before I had to shuffle upstairs for a bowl of Peanut Butter Captain Crunch and be late for school. It was a comforting sound (unless you had done something stupid and hadn’t cooked up a good story yet), and thirty-years later, as I strolled around in my dad’s boots that same feeling of security and comfort came over me.

Although my dad’s boots fit me perfectly, I know I will never fill them to the capacity he has, but a boy can try.

The party started at mom and dads with food, drinks, stogies, lots of laughs, and of course a photo shoot of the stars in all their glory. The party really got going when the karaoke machine got fired up, and all the stars acted like they could sing. After a bit of indulgence in all the above, murmurs of heading uptown to pay our respects to the 109 Club began, and the crowd of characters dispersed like moths (possibly a plague of locust) towards the street lights of main street Lignite.

For the most part the rest of the evening consisted of dancing (a.k.a. jumping about in a quasi-rhythmic fashion), singing (a.k.a. yelling in a quasi-intelligible tone), and of course the occasional cocktail (hate to cramp up mid “Hammertime”).

I’ve been to a few 21st birthdays in my day, and this one takes top honors. I think the “come as your favorite movie character” directive was the key ingredient lending to the success and elevated level of revelry.

“Thank you” Sierra, for giving all those characters you call family the opportunity to share your day with you. Also, a big “thank you” to the lead characters in our lives (mom and dad) for hosting the party and fanning the flames of fun. You’ve taught us well.

On November 3rd, 2004 my first attempt at “Ramblings” was published in this newspaper, and in the twelve years between that day and this, I have made roughly 288 more attempts. Any statement, answer or explanation I’ve ever given that required the application of math has been, and always will be, preceded by the word “roughly”.

I’m sure you odd (and even) “numerophiles” that can’t help but ensure that things add up correctly, rather than roughly, are busy trying to solve the very advanced formula I used to arrive at 288. No, I didn’t take into account leap years, those weird months when I had three columns, or the 284 times my pet chimp, Mr. Chips, filled in as my ghost writer when I was experiencing writers block or other intestinal issues.

Mr. Chips has actually evolved into an “associate”, but we are able to take advantage of various tax and legal loopholes if he is referred to as a “pet”.

Twelve years. Other than my underwear, a lot of things have changed in that time. The 5 and 9-year-old kids that provided me with so much material to ramble about, are now young adults that are busy trying to write their own stories. Just twelve years, and all those day-to-day routines that accompanied the raising of our children have all disappeared.

I often wonder when the last time was that I gave them a piggy-back ride up to bed, read them a bedtime story, and sang “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” and “Take Me Out to the Ballgame”. When was the last time I picked them up at school, and heard them yell, “Dad!” as they ran and jumped into my arms?

I don’t remember when those things stopped, but I remember them happening quite clearly, and the fact that they happened, is much more important than that they have stopped.

“Time marches on” as they say, but it crawls, wobbles and runs first. The kids are off and running. Sometimes in four directions at once, sometimes headlong into a wall, but they’re running, and whenever they look back they’ll see me cheering them on. Except for the first and third Sunday of the month, when I’m busy mixing daiquiris (banana of course) for my associate, Mr. Chips. He claims that they fuel his creativity, and help him tolerate my whining about writers block and other intestinal issues.

If you indulged in a little more math a few paragraphs ago, you may have deduced that the 5 and 9-year-old kids that I waxed poetically about are now 17 and almost 21. Yes, on November 5th, our little girl can legally drink anywhere in the world, and Wyoming. Anywhere in the world, and she has chosen to celebrate her day, and most likely a portion of the wee hours of the next, with her family in Lignite.

Actually, she made it known that she was going to celebrate her 21st in Lignite when she was about 11-years-old, and being a goal orientated woman of her word, Lignite is where it shall be.

As a film major, her only request is that everyone come dressed as their favorite movie character. Armed with an excuse to dress-up, the Ellis and Chrest clans are eagerly rummaging through their tickle trunks in anticipation of the celebration. Stay tuned for the Mr. Chips exposé on Sierra’s 21st the next time “Ramblings” comes around.

I’ve always enjoyed a good sit-and-sway in a porch swing or the rhythmic rock-and-creak of an old rocking chair. Each have their own rhythm, their own unique sound, and eventually, if you allow, you might find yourself a part of that melody.

Over the years I’ve made a few chairs for our cabin, chairs whose sole purpose is to allow their occupants endless hours of comfortable fireplace gazing while tipping back a hot cup of coffee or an indulgence of something of a bit higher octane. The cabin is a long way from anything or anyone claiming to be civilized so howling at the moon is tolerated and encouraged.

I thought about making a rocking chair, or possibly converting one of the chairs I made into one, but it seems I must have missed rocking chair conversion day in shop class, because the task proved to be beyond my woodworking skills. Thankfully wood tends to burn quite well, so all evidence of flawed design and shoddy craftsmanship can be reduced to a bucket of ash before it, and its creator, have to endure the pointing and laughing of the before mentioned “moon howlers”.

Thoughts of, “I can build that” soon gave way to, “I can buy that”, and so began my search for the perfect rocking chair for our cabin. I’m a bit peculiar about everything that goes into our cabin, and I suppose that’s bound to happen when one starts planning and picturing it all at the age of 11 after watching the first of many episodes of “Grizzly Adams”. Most everything in our cabin has some sort of story behind it, so if you’re ever in the mood for a story, or you feel the need to howl at the moon, swing by and sit a spell.

During my rocking chair search I found a few potential rockers here and there, but none of them sat or creaked quite right, and more importantly, their story was unknown, so I passed them up in hopes of finding “the one” (or “the one” finding me).

I was out for a bike ride one Saturday morning last month, slowly pedaling up a hill, when I saw a garage sale on the horizon. Not just any garage sale, a garage sale with a rocking chair sitting in the driveway. With more excitement and anticipation then one should have over a garage sale rocking chair, I rolled up, lay my bicycle in their front yard, and gave it a sit.

It sat well, it creaked nicely. The owner came out of the garage, looked at me a bit oddly, (might have been the form-fitting lycra biking outfit, funny silver biking shoes, and helmet) and said, “That’s a good rocking chair, it was in my classroom for over 25 years.”

As I rocked, we visited, and I learned that she was a recently retired elementary school teacher. She said, “A lot of kids sat around that chair over the years as I read to them during our story time. Sometimes laughing, sometimes crying, you never know how a story is going to affect a kid.” I said, “I’ll take it” and assured her that it was going to a good place, a place where most everything had a story, and that many more stories were going to be told around it.

I confessed that some of those stories may not be fit for an elementary kid, but she didn’t seem to mind. I suppose a story is a story, and this is the first story I’ve written from my new rocking chair, while sitting in front of the fire at our cabin. I hope you like it, and I hope a story finds you now and again.

Rock on.