Rambling Josh

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.

I recently was in Salt Lake City to attend and present at a conference with a few of my colleagues. I won’t bore you with the details of the conference, but it was a pleasant trip and a good conference. We didn’t have much time for extensive sightseeing, but we managed to mosey around downtown a bit while in search of local fare to fill our gullets with.

I often hear some of my colleagues complain about “kids nowadays” and their students constantly farting around with their smart phones in class. To combat this they implement a variety of classroom electronics rules and policies in an attempt to divert student’s gazes away from their shiny “Google machines”. This “Google gaze” used to bother me, but then I thought about “why” it bothered me.

I think it mainly bothered me because I had spent three hours preparing for this one hour lecture, a lecture that I was sure my students would find quite educational and enlightening, and yet, some preferred what their smart phone had to offer. So the “why” turned out to be about me, not them. About “me” lecturing about what “I” thought they “should” be interested in. Strangely enough, a 20-year old college student may not be interested in what a 44-year old college professor has to say.

Faced with this revelation I decided to step off the stage, shut my mouth, and let the students and their interests guide the course. Strangely enough, 20-year old college students are very interested in what they are personally interested in, and will choose to engage with real people rather than their phones when not being bored to tears by some 44-year old college professor who thinks he knows what they are interested in. Go figure.

The conference I attended was regarding college education, which meant that there were college professors presenting to other college professors (poetic justice). I found some of the presentations to be engaging and interesting and some of them not so much. What I found most interesting was the number of college professors gazing at their smart phones while being lectured by other college professors. If only their students could have seen them.

My phone is not so smart, so even when a presentation is boring the shine off of my shoes, I’m forced to rely on old fashioned doodling to keep from slumping to the floor in heap of disinterest. Doodling…Googling…two sides of the same coin I suppose.

My son called while I was listening to what I’m sure was a riveting presentation had I not been doodling. Thankfully, I always put my phone on vibrate, because nobody can hear a phone vibrate. Although nobody can hear a whispering, hushed voice in a small, quiet room exclaiming, “I can’t talk right now” I did have the common courtesy not to answer.

After the presentation I called my son to see what he wanted or needed, because when he calls he either wants or needs something, and quite often mistakes wants for needs. He answered, and I said, “Hello, need something?” His response caught me off guard, “No, just calling to see what you’re doing, and how the conference was going.” Surprised, but still skeptical, I waited for the follow-up need or want to come as we chatted, but it never came.

Could it be that a seventeen-year-old boy would call his dad to just talk? It was an enjoyable visit that didn’t include me having to come up with any defensive arguments against a need or a want, or any cash for a need or want. I’m still not convinced that I wasn’t being softened up for an upcoming need or want, but as it currently stands, a son called his dad just to talk. Kid’s nowadays.

I rarely watch the news on television, but I do enjoy reading the newspaper each day to find out all the local, and worldly, goings-on. Reading the news with a cup of coffee, in the peace and quiet of our back deck, is a much more pleasant mode of delivery than having the news blabbed at me by one of the many talking heads on television.

Talking heads topped off with luxurious piles of hair, mouthfuls of shiny, perfect rows of teeth, all hovering above an impeccable ensemble of attire and accessories. One clone after another, blah, blah, blah, blah, look at me talk, blah, blah, blah. The local news isn’t quite so painful, the talking heads don’t take themselves as serious, but I have a difficult time enduring three weather reports in a thirty minute news cast.

I have a perfectly good window, or two, I can take a gander out to get an up-to-date weather report, or I can even step outside if I desire a more accurate climatic assessment. All of this without having to watch a meteorologist stammer and orchestrate little weather symbols around a green screen, and act as though they are in some way responsible for the weather conditions. “See that sunshine? I did that. That breeze? All me.”

The kids were always concerned about what the weather was going to be like when they were getting dressed for school in the morning. “Should I wear a short sleeve or long sleeve…shorts or pants…?” I would generally respond, “You are going to be in school, you’re not a longshoreman or a lumberjack, what’s it matter what you wear?” They would roll their eyes and Google the forecast. Hate to wind up stranded on the monkey bars wearing inadequate attire.

I do read the weather report in the newspaper though, actually I read everything in the newspaper, front-to-back…comics to classifieds. Occasionally, if I have a lot of time on my hands, or I just don’t feel like moving anything but my brain, I’ll do the crossword puzzle. My wife prefers Sudoku. Like most things numeral orientated (other than batting averages and bingo cards), I find Sudoku extremely confusing. My wife tried explaining it to me once. You would have thought she’d learned her lesson after attempting to explain algebra to me in college. I think she enjoys the confused, dim witted glaze that overtakes me.

The weather report in the paper generally has the local seven-day forecast listed. The high and low temperatures, a weather symbol of some sort for those too busy to read words, and a brief description for those that have time to read words. Words like, “Breezy and hot with clouds and sun”, “Sunshine with a thunderstorm in the area”, and “Partial sunshine”. Brief, but descriptive, just as it should be, no “blah, blah, blah”.

Generally, I glance through the seven-day forecast without much thought, but in this Friday’s paper the description of the weather for Saturday caught my eye. It simply said, “Delightful”, and delightful it was. Sunny, not to hot, hardly a whisper of a breeze, “delightful”. As I peddled my bike around town, enjoying the delightful day, I thought, “What if every day was delightful?”

I thought of the many days I’ve been granted that I would label as “delightful”. Some weren’t “forecasted” to be delightful, most were just ordinary days made “delightful” by the company of a loved one, a phone call from a good friend, or maybe stumbling upon an old photo album of memories. May your “delightful” days be plentiful.

Well it’s back-to-school time for the Ellis gang. Sierra headed west for her junior year at Montana State in Bozeman and Jackson is commencing his junior year at Stevens High School, and hopefully will progress to graduation commencement next year. Dawn’s prepping to dazzle her students at National American University and I’m a few weeks deep into my third year at Chadron State College. It was nice knowing you summer.

As has been the custom for many years now, the family convened for an end of summer supper. This year’s venue of choice was the Golden Phoenix for some Chinese cuisine, and the hopes that a small piece of paper, liberated from a stale cookie, may provide some wisdom for the year to come. No such luck on any useful wisdom from a crappy cookie, so I guess we’re going to have to fly blind into yet another academic year. So it goes.

Like a game of Tetris played with an assortment of shoes, cameras, and clothes, Sierra and I loaded up her little two-door Honda Civic, until the nooks and crannies were no more. Before she slid into the driver’s seat I offered up some last minute fatherly advice, “Don’t fart, there’s no room.” Then we both tried not to cry, neither one of us are good at trying not to cry, so we shed a few tears, and said as much as one can say when they’re trying not to cry.

It was good to have the family under one roof for the summer. Sierra and Dawn were working much of the time, but I found that simply being at the house to witness their many comings and goings to be a comfort.

It doesn’t seem to be possible, but it was 25 years ago that my parents left me to fend for myself at Northern State in Aberdeen. I can still see that big green Chrysler pulling away, with dad watching me wave goodbye in the rear view mirror. Dad later told me that Mom cried all the way to Jamestown, and all he could think was, “What are we doing? We can’t just leave him here all alone.”

I don’t remember thinking much of anything at the time (thinking isn’t something 18 year old boys do much of), but I laid in bed that night on a tear soaked pillow missing everyone and everything I had known for the past 18 years. I remember thinking, “This is stupid, I don’t belong here.” The only way I could make it stop was to convince myself that I would finish the semester at Northern and then transfer to Minot State, closer to everyone and everything I had always known.

That one semester turned into two, and I met people that are still my good friends today, people that made me feel like I belonged there. If it hadn’t been for them, and the distraction and joy playing college baseball brought, I don’t think I could have weathered all those homesick storms.

It takes great strength for a parent to let their child go off and find out who they are and what they want to do in this world, but it also takes strength for a child to leave everyone and everything they’ve ever known and face an unfamiliar unknown. I guess we each put on as brave a face as we can to try and put the other at ease.

It’s that time of year…be strong…all will be well.

Every four years, around this time of year, I find myself watching more television in a two week span than I do during the other 50 weeks of the year combined. No, I haven’t fallen victim to a “Say Yes to the Dress” or “Long Island Medium” marathon. I would prefer to stare at the back of your head for two weeks. It’s the Summer Olympics, the Games of the XXXI Olympiad in Rio de Janeiro.

For those that are a bit rusty on their Roman numerals and geography, that is the 31st in Brazil…South America. The games and events being contested on the Olympic stage vary as much as the athletes competing in them. It is the athlete’s that draw me in, more so than the games they play, their stories, their struggles, their triumphs, their sacrifices. They are why I watch.

They are why I find myself out of my seat, arms raised overhead, cheering on people I don’t know, from countries I couldn’t find on a map. They are why I find my eye’s welling up with tears over and over again, while I watch their eye’s do the same, as they listen to their countries national anthem play for them and their accomplishments. They are why I feel a lump form in my throat when I see the competitors loved ones, that have traveled near and far to support them, overcome with emotion.

The competitors' family, friends, and loved ones know the story, know the struggles, and have most likely made sacrifices themselves to help these athletes' reach this level. For many of these athlete’s this is it, these Olympic Games are what they’ve worked for, and when the games are over we may never hear of them again.

My son and I were watching one of the swimming events, and the commentator mentioned that for some of the medalist this would be their first and last Olympics, because they had graduated from college and had careers to pursue. My son said, “They should be able to get two weeks off of work for the Olympics.” As if it involved little more than packing up your goggles and little rubber hat for trip to the cement pond.

I felt my eyes widen in confused disbelief as I launched into a mini-lecture on the four-year commitment, and hours and hours, of practice involved in preparing for these two weeks. This got the usual dismissive shoulder shrug, and grunt, that the majority of my mini-lectures are welcomed with. The spectrum of drive and ambition amongst teenagers is baffling. Some willingly endure torturous workouts, day in and day out, in pursuit of an Olympic dream, and others, well they have Pokémon to pursue.

We can’t all be Olympians, for various reasons, muscle tone like ball of mozzarella cheese, the speed and agility of a limp dishrag, or possibly an acute aversion to any physical activity that may produce nausea (other than tequila shots). Besides, as Syndrome in the movie “The Incredibles” said, “When everyone’s super, no one is.”

Someone needs to watch, someone needs to cheer, someone needs to tear up when a member of the synchronized swim team overcomes a childhood fear of getting water in their ear to lead Kazakhstan to a hard fought victory over Estonia. The drama…the pageantry.

Go Team USA!

The Ellis clan, from the Fritz and Helen branch of the tree, are having a reunion in Lignite this weekend. Any and all are invited to come and visit with those you’re on speaking terms with, collect on a debt, or maybe settle an old score. Whatever brings you our way, know that most of you will be greeted with wide smiles and a healthy dose of sarcasm. Most of you.

It’s been five years since our last Ellis family gathering. A seemingly sufficient time for most wounds to heal and septic systems to be plunged and purged. We shall see.

Grandpa Fritz and Grandma Helen spent the first few years of their marriage moving their ever expanding family here and there. Going where the work was, moving on when it wasn’t, and eventually settling for good in Lignite.

We lost Grandpa back in 1987, but I can still walk by their old flat roofed house and see him sitting on the front step having a cigarette and cup of coffee. A good man, a nice man, gone, but not forgotten. Although he may have preferred the solitude of his woodshop over a large gathering, I’m sure he would have lent his ready smile and sweet chuckle to the mix if he were still here.

Grandma Helen stills calls Lignite home (when she’s not dabbing bingo cards), as do three of her nine children, four with Julie, who was taken from the clan in 1977, and lies next to Grandpa in St. Mary’s Cemetery just outside of town. My dad, his sisters, and his brothers are good people, and although I don’t remember Julie, as I was only four when she was killed, I assume she was much the same.

I have always been interested in the continuous ripple and growth of family through time, and often wonder what the people looking back at me from those old black and white photos were like. What is the story behind each of the names stretching back through the ages? What happened between the day they were born and the day they died? What were their dreams and aspirations? Many times, we can’t even answer those questions for those we’ve shared our allotted time with.

So it goes with us, so it probably went for those who came before, but a family reunion may offer a bit of mitigation in the matter, and provide us with a story to go with the face and the name. Sometimes the story may not be all that flattering, but flattering or not, a story is much more interesting than a list of dates.

The Ellis family story came from Wales to the United States with Thomas Ellis in 1707 when Thomas was 24 years old. Thomas, and his wife Jane Hughes, were of the Quaker faith, and he was said to come from ancient nobility in Wales, and was the most prominent Quaker in Pennsylvania in his time. A real hoity-toity one he was. Thomas and Jane were apparently buddies with Daniel Boone’s family and Abe Lincoln’s great-grandfather, Mordecai Lincoln.

“Coonskin Caps and Quakers” was the name of their band. Jane played tin whistle, Thomas was on kazoo, the Boone’s yodeled, and Mordecai twanged the mouth harp…honestly. Maybe, maybe not, but I can honestly say that I am looking forward to getting together with my clan, a noble clan at that. Swing by for some laughs and a swig of Red Eye.

The Lignite Community Calendar hanging on the wall in our kitchen tells me that today, July 17th, is my birthday. That calendar tells me a lot of things; birthdays, anniversaries, holidays, the moon phases, and that Doc Stevens is a quilter. Lounging under the stars on one of Doc’s quilts with a keg of his home brew within arm’s reach sounds about right. Maybe I’ll pencil that in on my calendar…“Q & K Night”.

As far as birthdays go, the calendar tells me the “when” but not the “how many” for each person listed. I suppose the “how many” didn’t seem like a necessary number to post as public knowledge. This allows for the conversational game surrounding the question of, “how old do you suppose so-and-so is” to be played amongst the curious and bored. For those that are curious, and/or bored, as of this writing I have managed to log 44 living and breathing calendar years on this earth.

To commemorate this grand achievement I decided to peddle my bike 22 miles up Highway 44 and meet my family at the Sugar Shack for a bacon cheeseburger deluxe and a beer. A Sugar Shack burger is probably the only burger I would exert that much effort to obtain, as they have been voted “best burger in the hills” for four years running. I was not disappointed.

Why didn’t I peddle the 22 miles back to Rapid City to make it 44 miles on Highway 44? The thought crossed my mind when I left the house, but 22 miles of uphill, a half-pound of beef, and a pint of beer later, I was convinced otherwise. Besides the roads were thick with “Rent Me” RVs, and age has diminished the brazen stupidity I used to peddle around the hills with.

Action without thought generally guarantees that more action will be necessary to remedy the thoughtlessness. I suppose this falls under the “measure twice, cut once” advice I’ve often failed to heed. I thought twice, and thought it would be enjoyable to ride back to town with my family rather than dodge Mini-Winnie’s pulling pontoons. Besides there was a second-hand birthday cake waiting for me at home, complete with second-hand candles to blow out.

As I’m sure I’ve blabbed about before, my son’s birthday is the day before mine, so for 17 years a second-hand celebration has been the way of it, and that way is just fine by me.

It was a lovely day in the hills, and the ride gave me some time to do a little birthday pondering. A little birthday pondering between the huffing and puffing, between perusing the ditch for treasures untold, between hoping the driver of the vehicle coming up behind wasn’t texting, between wishing the downhill outnumbered the uphill, between questioning why there was a solitary sock laying on the road, between wondering whether I should have a double bacon cheeseburger or a single.

Between all of that I managed to squeeze in some birthday pondering. Not too much, just enough. Just enough to remind me of how thankful and fortunate I am for all those that let me share in their lives. My family, my friends, my students, my colleagues…an embarrassment of riches that I cherish each and every day and twice on Sunday (whatever that means).