Rambling Josh

Norm was a good dog. I don’t say that about a lot of dogs, mainly because a lot of dogs bark unnecessarily, and unnecessary barking is unnecessary. I’ve tried explaining this logic to barking dogs in a calm civil manner, but have found it as useful as using reason with a toddler. There is no reason, there is no reasoning, there is only noise. Norm was not noisy, Norm was reasonable, thus, Norm was a good dog.

Dogs are said to be “man’s best friend”, but I have a sneaky suspicion that if dogs had opposable thumbs, and could read well enough to pass a driving test and order carry out, our friendship would turn cool, leaning more towards acquaintances. Someone they used to know, someone they hung out with before life got so complicated.

You would wave as they drove by with heads poking out of every window, one of them would ask, “Who was that?” Your dog would pull his head in, reflect for a moment as he stares down the road in front of him…humming softly to the radio, and say, “He used to be my best friend, but you know how it is…we grew apart.” The other dogs would slowly nod as thoughts of their former best friends flittered about with long ago memories of fetch, sit, roll over, and rope tug-o-war.

One of them would lament, “Man, by best friend could throw! He could have played centerfield for the Yankees, but he hit the sauce more consistently than he could hit a curveball, so I spent a lot of time trying to cheer him up. It was exhausting, and slightly humiliating, but what’s a dog to do?”

I suspect dog’s, like people, have other dog’s that they enjoy hanging out with more than others. Dog’s they can just be dog’s around. Run full tilt, wallow in a muddy creak, roll in something rank, chase a few cat’s…whatever…no judgement. I suspect this because my dog, Pre, a quiet, mild mannered black lab, is not very chummy with other dogs. Any dog, other than Norm that is. If dog’s can have a best friend, Norm was Pre’s. They never had a spat, they shared water and food dishes without so much as growl. They were best friends.

Norm was my good friend Paul’s dog. A quiet, mild mannered yellow lab, who loved a bumpy ride through a pasture in a pickup box above all else. Recently, Norm wasn’t feeling well, and it was discovered that he had developed several inoperable tumors on several major organs. Paul had to have Norm put to sleep. Just because a decision is for the best doesn’t make it any easier to make.

Paul and I have known each other for over twenty years. We’ve never had a spat, we’ve shared a lot of laughs, spilt a bit of rum, and traveled near and far without so much as a growl. Although, unlike Norm and Pre, we’ve never been compelled to sniff the south end of a northbound friend. Every good friendship has boundaries.

Norm, you were a good dog, and you are missed by all who had the pleasure of knowing you.

Possessing the ability to order beer, chicken, eggs, or coffee with milk in Spanish does not make me bi-lingual. After all, besides counting to ten, that is about the extent of my Spanish language skills. Skills that took me two college courses in Spanish to attain. Not Spanish 101 and Spanish 102, you have to pass Spanish 101 to advance to 102, but rather Spanish 101 dos times.

I take solace in knowing that at least I won’t starve if I find myself in a country that speaks Spanish, and doesn’t understand English, no matter how many times I repeat a word or how much I increase the volume. If that worked I would have learned Spanish, because it is the technique my friendly, but frustrated, Spanish professor was reduced to almost every day in class. Dr. Linares was a nice man, but even nice guys have their limitations, and I found his.

He probably had dreams of being a code breaker for a spy agency or a suave government diplomat, but instead he was in Aberdeen, SD, ensuring that I, at the very least, could obtain employment as a very, very short-order cook at a Mexican resort that didn’t have more than diez rooms. I would have learned more than numbers one through ten, but as fate would have it, I only have ten fingers, so anything beyond that seemed excessive and unnecessary.

Although, the first time around, I believe Dr. Linares took some delight in failing me, I am fairly certain he passed me the second go round out of fear that my North Dakotan accent was beginning to rub off on him. He would have been laughed out of Taco John’s. I don’t think I’ve ever taken delight in seeing a student fail one of my classes, but as an older brother, I may have taken delight in witnessing my little brother fail a time or two.

The reason I witnessed the failures may have had something to do with my instigating the failure in some way, shape, or form, but let’s not quibble over details. The German’s have a word for pleasure derived from the misfortune of others, “Schadenfreude”. Ironically, I would hazard a guess that there are a few automotive companies experiencing some schadenfreude in regard to Volkswagen’s “exhaustive” issues.

I experienced schadenfreude the other day while watching my son’s tennis matches. A few courts down from where my son was playing there was a young man that wasn’t being very sporting. He was losing, which may have contributed to his angst, but I think the fact that he was losing to kid three feet shorter and five years younger may have pushed him over the edge. Schadenfreude began to grow with each of his angry outbursts of unsportsmanlike frustration, and peaked when he broke his racket by slamming it against the ground.

It is questionable as to whether his racket breaking qualifies as a “misfortune”, since he was the one that broke it, but I can say, without question, that I found great pleasure in it. Pleasure that bumped up to yet another level of schadenfreude when the kids coach gave him a very thorough and very animated talking to regarding his behavior.

Schadenfreude was enjoyed by all, well, almost all.

Our daughter, Sierra, is nearing the end of her sophomore year of college. Unless she ends up on the “scenic route” that I took to reach the end of my undergraduate degree she is half way to the finish line of her bachelor’s degree, and the starting line of what some refer to as “real life”. Of course, if one isn’t quite ready for “real life” there’s always graduate school.

Sierra is enjoying her college experience, and is gaining a lot of valuable knowledge and experience. Knowledge and experience that I hope translates into a satisfying, fulfilling career that provides enough income to make monthly payments on her college experience with enough left over to put me in a retirement home that changes my diaper at least once a week and allows a daily ration of whiskey and a cigar. A parent can dream can’t they?

I knew she would enjoy college, and I know she has chosen a program of study that suits her well, so I am excited to see what the future holds for her. I am excited to see what the future holds for both of my children, but not so much so that I would wish away a minute of time in the present. As I’ve lamented in many past columns, the future will come soon enough.

One thing that I wasn’t expecting out of Sierra’s college experience as a student, was that it would change me as a professor. This change has been for the better, and can be summed up in with the word “empathy”. Being privy to her various experiences, good, bad, and down right frustrating, trying to navigate all the working parts of a university from a parent’s vantage point has increased the empathy I have for my students.

It’s not that I didn’t care about my students before, I just didn’t really concern myself with all that was vying for their energy and attention outside of my classroom. I knew what I wanted them to learn about the subject I was attempting to teach them, but beyond that it didn’t seem like much of my business. After twelve or so years of blabbing in front of young adults, that has changed, and empathy has made me a better teacher.

A teacher that doesn’t just see the students sitting before me in class anymore, but one that sees them, and the bleacher full of people behind them. The bleacher full of family, friends, children, spouses, and former teachers cheering them on and wanting nothing but the best for them.

Having a daughter in college has motivated and inspired me to take a seat in the bleachers behind each of my students, and not be another pain-in-the-posterior professor holding yet another flaming hoop that they need to jump through on their march towards “real life”. I focus much less on what I feel they should know, how they should learn it, why they should learn it, and who I feel they should be striving to become, and instead, focus on, and take sincere interest in, who they want to be and what they need to know to navigate their world. Their “real world”.

College may exist outside of the “real world”, but it is a world, and any world can benefit from a little more empathy.

I often hear, “the music nowadays is terrible” and “these kids don’t know what good music is”. These of course are personal opinions, and like all personal opinions, they are strongly biased and generally void of any semblance of objectivity. Opinions on politics, religion, and preferred brand of saltine crackers also fall into this void. To avoid an inbox full of hate mail I’ll just keep my opinions on the crackers to myself.

Despite the fact that tuning into the radio is free, my wife and I subscribe to satellite radio for our car. Mainly because the endless car dealership and furniture store advertisements that obnoxiously overtake the airwaves between every song makes me want to chew my radio nobs off. This angstful aversion to advertising is also why I can’t watch television. New televisions don’t have any nobs to chew off.

I know the money from these advertisements are necessary to keep the radio waves waving, or whatever it is they do, but I’m also aware that car dealerships and furniture stores exist and that they are rarely not having a super blowout sale of some sort.

My point, I think I had a point, is that with satellite radio I am able to listen to music from the 1940s to the most recent flavor of the day. Over 75 years of music available at the touch of a button. Bringing me to the point I thought I had, music and kids today don’t have exclusive ownership of crappy music, there are turds all over the dial from 1940 to today.

I like some of the music my kids listen to, they like some of the music I enjoy, and we all manage to tolerate that which doesn’t fall into the “some” category. They’ve been subjected to my preferred choice of music since they were wee lads and lasses, and I’m glad they are able to enjoy some of it or at least tolerate it without too much of a ruckus.

I attempt to extend the same courtesy of tolerance towards their choices of music, and even if it doesn’t strike my fancy, I try and hear why it might strike the fancy of my children’s auditory palate. Maybe it gives me deeper insight into the minds of my children. Maybe that’s insight better left alone, but curiosity never hurt anyone, other than the cat.

In honor of my Uncle Tim’s birthday, and St. Patrick’s Day, I wanted to share with you a song that Tim and I like to sing when our vocal chords are properly lubricated. It’s called “The Wild Rover” and I expect your well lubricated voice to join in the next time Tim and I give it a go. Sláinte.

I’ve been a wild rover for many a year
And I spent all me money on whiskey and beer
But now I’m returning with gold in great store  And I never will play the wild rover no more 

Chorus:
And it’s No, Nay, never,
No, nay never no more  Will I play the wild rover,  No never no more 

I went into an alehouse I used to frequent  And I told the landlady me money was spent  I asked her for credit, and she answered me nay  Such a customer as yours I can have any day 

Chorus

Then from out of me pocket, I took sovereigns bright  And the landlady’s eyes opened wide with delight  She said “I have whiskeys and wines of the best  And the words that I spoke were only in jest” 

Chorus

I’ll go home to my parents, and confess what I’ve done  And I’ll ask them to pardon their prodigal son  And perhaps they’ll caress me as oft times before  And I never will play the wild rover no more 

Chorus

I have coffee with my Grandpa Ardell and Grandpa Fritz every Sunday morning. I don’t have Miss Cleo on speed-dial, I’m not neighbors with the Long Island Medium, nor do I hold séances or hover over a Ouija board. I simply pour a cup of coffee, look towards the north, hoist the cup once in my left hand and once in my right, and let thoughts of them rise up with the warm, gentle swirl of steam coming from my cup. Black coffee with two heaping spoonful of fond memories.

The cup is not actually mine, it was my Grandpa Ardell’s. It’s a souvenir cup that was sold by St. Mary’s church during the 1982 Lignite Diamond Jubilee. Some of you most likely have one amongst the menagerie of coffee cups we seem to acquire through the years. One side of the cup has a picture of St. Mary’s church, which includes the brick bell holder that my Grandpa Fritz made. This one cup covers a lot of bases and effectively conjures up a lot of memories.

That church was where my parents were married, my siblings and I baptized, and my brother and I not-so-willingly served as altar boys. Its basement is where we attended catechism, partook in more potlucks than you can shake one of Marlene Schmidt’s delicious finger sandwiches at, and attempted to be “wise” and “men” while wearing dresses in the Christmas pageant.

The part of Joseph was a speaking part, and was reserved for someone they could trust to stick to the script and only say what was supposed to be said. Our mom was one of the catechism teachers, so my brother and I were not on the short-list for that part. Casting us as the silent wise men was an attempt to shut us up for about 15 minutes a year. Our mother’s gift to herself, and a true Christmas miracle.

That church is also where I broadcast my first, and last, live performance of Elvis Presley’s hit “Hound Dog”. As an altar boy I was privy to how to access, and crank up, the church sound system. My classmate, Travis Chrest, the only fan in attendance, and who also happens to be the one that bet me fifty cents that I wouldn’t do it, enjoyed the brief show immensely. Our catechism teacher, apparently not a big fan of “The King”, pulled the plug on the whole production before I got to the second verse.

All of these memories from a simple coffee cup. I’m not suggesting we spend an inordinate amount of time living in the past, shutting ourselves out from the present, but rather just setting aside a few minutes here and there to tune into those “golden oldies” and enjoy that station that is unique to each of us. I guess that coffee cup is my amplifier, it helps me see and hear all those memories a little louder and a bit clearer.

I speak and write of them often, their influence is ever present. My Grandpa Ardell’s entertaining “gift of gab”, my Grandpa Fritz’s preference for the solitude of his woodshop. Two sides of the same cup.

There have been a few “special days” this past week; International Darwin Day was celebrated on February 12th, my brother Jarvis’s birthday on the 13th, Valentine’s Day the 14th, and President’s Day on the 15th. All worthy days of recognition and celebration to various degrees, for various people, for various reasons.

International Darwin Day implores us to celebrate “intellectual bravery, perpetual curiosity, and hunger for truth”. No matter your understanding or stance on evolution those three tenants could easily be a means to increase the joy and fulfillment in most any facet of our lives. Living an unexamined and unexplored life in opposition of these suggestions is another option I suppose. As my high school shop and history teacher, the Reverend Leonard Savelkoul, who passed away on February 6th, 2002, used to say, “Ignorance is bliss.”

He was not an ignorant man, and always uttered this saying in a heavily sarcastic and exhausted tone when a student didn’t see the necessity of learning the knowledge Mr. Savelkoul was attempting to impart on our teenage minds. I admit that I would not be nearly as troubled if I chose to remain ignorant of some of the goings on in this world, but if we know we just might be able to help, and helping others is a blissful enterprise as well. Unless you’re trying to help middle schoolers. I substitute taught for those hormone riddled monsters once, and experienced no bliss whatsoever.

As easy and comfortable as ignorance may be, I encourage you to give the Darwin Day suggestions a whirl, and see how you evolve. I have a feeling the changes you incur will outlast any changes the box of chocolates, negligee, and roses from Valentine’s Day brought about. I have nothing against negligee, it’s a bit drafty and lace chafes something terrible, but it gets you plenty of personal space in the changing room at the YMCA and might get you out of chaperoning your kid’s school field trips.

Although, curiously venturing into a Victoria Secret to buy negligee for your wife on Valentine’s Day is brave, it is far from intellectual, and might reveal a truth your wife would rather not reveal. So I would caution applying the Darwin Day suggestions to that area of your life. Besides, it will just end up wadded up in that dresser drawer that houses all the other Valentine’s purchases you’ve made in the name of love over the years. The Victoria Secret drawer, a drawer of blissful ignorance.

Thankfully my wife is not a big Valentine’s Day aficionado, so I don’t have any expectations of glitz and grandeur to try and unsuccessfully live up to. Husband’s don’t need a special day set aside to unsuccessfully live up to expectations our wives have for us. It’s not that we don’t care, it’s not that we don’t love you, we’re just ignorant. Blissfully so. Besides, women live longer, you have plenty of time to mount a search for a less ignorant, more evolved substitute. Good luck.

As the great Irish writer Oscar Wilde once said, “Everything in moderation, including moderation.” His full name, Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie Wills Wilde, is hardly a moniker of moderation, and he seemed to be conflicted by the idea of moderation, as he was also quoted as saying, “Moderation is a fatal thing. Nothing succeeds like excess.” He probably uttered those words after his visit to the United States in the 1880s.

This country of ours is not without issues, but overall it is a great success in many ways. Many of these successes have been the result of people not being complacent with a moderate amount of success. A continuous insatiable appetite for more, seems to be the prevailing force behind many of our countries great successes…and its failures. How does one know when the gap between success and excess has been bridged? When is enough of anything truly enough? At what point does positive success turn to negative excess?

I have been involved in sports in various capacities for a large portion of my life, either as a participant, a coach, a parent, or professionally, as an athletic trainer. Each of these modes of involvement allows for a varying and unique perspective regarding the sport in question. I believe that the perspective I have gained as an athletic trainer has offered me the clearest, most unbiased, view of the culture of sports. This view is not concerned about winning or losing, not concerned about how much playing time one kid is getting in comparison to another, not concerned about much of anything, except for the safety and well-being of the athletes.

What I have seen from this perspective is that moderation has given way to chronic excess, and in many cases the act of simply playing for the enjoyment of playing has been taken from our young athletes. I believe that sports are great for building character, teaching the importance of teamwork, and provide a means of expressing talent and hard work. For a very, very small percentage of the population, sports can be a way to make a living, to become famous, to make money…a lot of money, an excessive amount.

Is this small percentage of professionals being paid large amounts of money the driving force behind making the sports experience for many kids a miserable apathetical slog towards achieving the hopes and dreams of others? If a kid needs to be regularly coerced or forced to practice and play a sport “for their own good” they will not enjoy the experience for their own good or for yours.

Young athletes are not voiceless, brainless material goods brought into our lives for the purpose of living out the life we feel we could have had if our parents hadn’t been so busy trying to make something of their own lives. Instead of wastefully funneling the family’s financial resources into food, clothing, and education they should have been flying me around the country to year-round baseball camps in support of my dream to play shortstop for the Yankees.

To be fair, my parents drove me to Minneapolis for a tryout with the Twins, flew me to Colorado for a tryout with the Rockies, and willingly funded my travels to Reds and Braves tryout camps. They did not make me do any of this “for my own good”, rather, they let me do it out of support for something I thoroughly enjoyed. My parents have always been supportive of whatever it is that interests us. Supportive, not excessive, and I have tried to toe that same line with my children.

Let young people explore their interests and curiosities. Resist the urge to make them specialize in one sport or activity early on “for their own good” and the good of the professional career you have planned for them. Exploration of diverse activities makes for a more interesting and well-rounded individual (research indicates a better athlete as well). Also, resist the temptation to view every single interest and talent a child has as the beginning of a lucrative professional career.

The ice auger that has been hanging in the rafters of my garage for the past four years was not bought because I had aspirations to be a professional ice fisherman. It was bought because I thought it might be enjoyable. I found out that what I enjoyed was eating fish, not fishing. As adults we allow ourselves to explore various interests and hobbies for the sake of curiosity and personal satisfaction. Let’s allow our children to do the same.

Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls, we are more than half-way through the first month of the New Year. There are those among us that seem to thrive on the constant acquisition of varying levels of guilt through the act of doing, or not doing, things they have been told they should, or should not, be doing. January is a banner month for such guilt. One way to avoid this guilt is to assume that those telling you what you should or should not be doing are generally acting in their own best interest, not yours.

The seeds of guilt originated with them, and were given to you. As the saying goes, “it is better to give than to receive”, but like a collect call we have the option of not accepting and leaving them with a busy signal. Assertively wielding one, or both, of your middle fingers in the direction of the guilt peddler is also a quiet and effective way to say, “Thanks, but no thanks, you keep it.”

I don’t watch much TV, commercials irritate me too much, and it is many of those commercials that are covertly peddling guilt to the masses. Do they want you to order their “new and improved” weight-loss pills because they have genuine concern for the health and well-being of all the citizens peering at the visually appealing physiques of the models they’ve hired to saunter around and hit beach balls? Judging from the commercials I have managed to endure, when people rid themselves of excess body weight, baldness, or toe fungus they have an urge to frolic about with beach balls.

Even when I had a full head of hair, I didn’t find playfully whacking beach balls around to be all that engaging of an activity. Due to their size and lack of weight, the wind plays havoc on them and you can’t throw them hard enough to raise a welt on anyone. About all their really good for is a floatation device, but seeing how “This Is Not To Be Used As A Floatation Device” is clearly stamped on it, you may feel guilty using it as such. Some may believe it better to drown guilt-free than to survive by means disapproved of by the writing on an otherwise useless object, don’t go boating with those people.

If guilt makes you a better person, a more productive member of society, and rids you of toe fungus, then by all means, soak it up. The masses are generally happy about the better self you’re parading around, but keep in mind that not all of us have toe fungus, and some of us that do really don’t care, and if we did care we would take care of it ourselves.

So yes, guilt can be useful in keeping us on the straight and narrow, but generally we have to divert from the straight and narrow a time or two to develop a reminder to ourselves that, “If I eat that pillowcase full of brownies I’m going to feel guilty and I won’t be able to fully enjoy my new beach ball this summer.”

Although, maybe you resolved to eat a pillowcase full of brownies each week this year, because you happen to really like brownies, and it’s your grandma’s old recipe, and you get to think of her with every single bite. In that case, enjoy, and return the beach ball to the bald guy with the toe fungus that sold it to you.

I have a confession to make. No, my hair is naturally this luxuriously grey and sparse, this don’t come in no bottle. What I must confess is that both of my children wear Birkenstocks or “hipster crocs” as I like to call them. You know, those odd sandals made in Germany that they ship across the pond as payback for WWII. Not the flip-flop, strap between your nasty lookin' toes variety that you get to shuffle around in for about three days a year in the stone’s throw from Saskatchewan kingdom of sleet and snow.

In bygone years, the first person I knew that willingly wore those cork and leather abominations (with socks of course) was my college biology professor. He was an ornithologist, that is, he spent his entire career studying birds. Not my cup of bird bath water, but I guess we all need something to spend our careers doing. I suppose when you study birds for a living you never really take the time to look down and question your choice of footwear. He was an odd duck. My apologies Dr. Tallman, I meant, “odd Anas platyrhynchos.”

Actually, I believe his ill-chosen footwear may have been my saving grace one very well timed icy, cold, blustery day. He was on his way to class to hand back the exams we had completed the week before, an exam I was quite confident I had scored a fair distance to the right of an “A” on. He arrived in class about ten minutes late, looking more disheveled than normal, with an arm full of rumpled up exams. He explained that he had slipped and fell in the parking lot, and when he hit the deck, Birkenstocks up, the exams had scattered in the wind and snow.

He wasn’t the most athletic individual, but he had managed to chase down a few of them. One had a tire track across it, and several had Birkenstock stomp marks on them. As he read the names off of the exams he had rescued, myself, and several other students that had dismal futures in the field of ornithology, hoped our exams were fluttering far away from campus. As it turned out, mine had in fact evaded the “Birkenstock stomp”, and I was given another chance to demonstrate just how little I knew about birds. The fact that I had inadvertently laughed out loud when he told the class what happened probably didn’t help my cause.

Back to my “Birk” wearing children. Thinking back, I came to the conclusion that every piece of clothing I’ve ever wore could only be described as “snappy”. So I’ve racked my brain retracing my children’s upbringing, trying to find an explanation for their poor taste in footwear. I guess there is that “Zubaz” fashion error I made…oh yeah, and those cut-off jean shorts I was so fond of. As the familiar ode to all that never should have been worn goes, “but they’re so comfortable.” Sometimes comfort should be overlooked.

Without things like Snuggies and Chia Pets under the tree we wouldn’t have anything for next year’s white elephant exchange. Gifts that keep giving, but are never truly received. I guess there are worse things than Birkenstocks, besides our children need something to regret when they get older.

I suppose this is my last column of the year…or is this December a leap month…I can’t keep all this stuff straight. Anyway, I would like to wish you all a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. Safe travels, near and far, and remember to resist telling your in-laws how you really feel about them, because they feel the same way about you.

I hope Black Friday didn’t propel you headlong into any corners, posts, purses, or perfume displays. One would hate to be physically bruised and mentally dented this early in the holiday season. It’s a long limp to New Year’s. Long enough to work on a convincing sniffle, wheeze, and cough to ensure your very own bottle of champagne at the New Year’s celebration.

Aim your cough right and you could also make out like a bandit at the hors d’oeuvre table. The desired effect of this ploy lessens with each passing hour toward the midnight ball drop, and is completely disregarded once the slather of New Year’s kisses has dried up. Anything resembling food is fair game from that point forward, no matter how many times it’s been coughed on, kicked, or partially chewed.

My wife, the kids, and I went out for a Black Friday family stroll around the mall. The kids felt the need to ogle at stuff they don’t need, my wife was there to tell them why they didn’t need it, and I never pass up an opportunity to watch people being people. The mall on Black Friday loses its wild-eyed edge when you are simply there as an observer and have purposely left your cash and credit cards at home. That way if I lose my pants in some sort of mall mallei I’m not out anything…except my pants.

My wife had to work a bit on Thanksgiving, as many in the medical world do, so we had Thanksgiving at our house for any family that happened to be in the neighborhood. We had a houseful, and completely ignoring table manners, which are generally optional and often frowned upon, enjoyed visiting and laughing with mouths full of food and drink.

My father-in-law couldn’t make it this year, so I didn’t have to fight anyone for the grab bag of giblets hidden like a prize in about the only place a turkey without plumage could hide anything. Who was the first to think of “presenting” the nutritious and delicious offering of offal in such an odd and disturbing manner? A Columbian drug smuggler? An angry proctologist?

How does one find themselves at that end of the turkey assembly line? “Small hands, strong grip, excellent hand-eye coordination…Richter, come with me, I’ve got just the job for you. It pays a little more to offset the cost you’ll incur from psychotherapy, but just think of all the giblet loving smiles you’ll have a hand in.”

By my calculations, I believe we’re on course to finish our Thanksgiving leftovers a few hours prior to Christmas dinner. We plan on heading to Upstate North Dakota for Christmas this year so we can properly introduce ourselves to the newest edition of the clan. Congratulations to my brother Gabe and his wife, Marki, on the successful introduction of their second child into this world back on October 29th.

We’re all looking forward to meeting Perry Ardell Ellis and lending our voices and laughter to the soundtrack of his first Christmas. May you and yours enjoy the holiday season.