Rambling Josh

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.

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.