Rambling Josh

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.

Our daughter, Sierra, left her teens behind her a few weeks back with the arrival of her 20th birthday. I’m not sure how she can be 20, seeing how I’m only 23, but then again I’ve never been all that handy with numbers. I was 23 when Sierra was born, and I do still “feel” like I haven’t strayed all that far from that age, although there is some greying fellow in the mirror who intently watches me brush my teeth and shave each morning. He seems harmless, a bit odd, but harmless.

Time is an odd thing. Relentlessly moving forward, yet fluid and timeless within the confines of our memories where time travel is very much a reality. If I could go back and chat with my 23 year old self, the new dad of a lovely little girl, what sage advice would I offer? Other than, “don’t wear pleated front pants and burn your muscle shirts” I’m really not sure what I’d have to say? The stock advice, “enjoy it, it goes fast” just about sums it up.

It does go fast, and I enjoyed every minute of all that has passed and look forward to all that there is to come.

It just feels odd when your child gets to an age that you distinctly remember being yourself. Most of my students are the same age as my daughter, which has also been an odd transformation for me, a transformation that has made me a better instructor. Feeling “fatherly” around my students has allowed me to get past any delusions of appearing “cool” and “hip”. Both of which, we are well aware, a dad cannot be. At least not simultaneously.

Being able to remember being 20 and having a daughter that is 20 can make a dad lie in bed and stare wide eyed at the ceiling at night. Knowing quite well that the Chrest and Ellis force is strong in that one, you hope against hope that some of your wife’s sensible genetics rise up when the sun goes down. Unlikely, but sometimes hope is all we have.

When Sierra was little, one of the things I dreaded most was the thought of a boyfriend. I dreaded this because generally speaking, boys are idiots. We…I mean they, are immature, crude, and lack the sensible foresight to realize that most every thought they have should be ignored…okay, I mean we. Then one day an odd thing happens, some of those boys grow up and seem to possibly be suitable enough to keep company with your daughter, and you grow up and realize that seeing her happy is all that really matters.

Being a dad is funny that way. You spend all those years holding them tight and then you realize that when you are able to let go a little they become closer than ever. Sierra is doing well at Montana State. Bozeman has been a good fit for her…hipsters, gypsters, cowboys, and odd artistic folks abound. It’s a long ways from Rapid City, but her room is just down stairs, and I sit in there from time to time when the distance feels too far.

Happy Birthday Sierra, see you at the 109 Club next year.

I had the opportunity to spend a few days in Charleston, South Carolina, for a conference this past week. It was my first time in Charleston and I found it to be a very enjoyable place to visit. Friendly, easy to get around on foot, good sea food, and most importantly, exceptional Irish music.

The lead singer, who was about 65 years old, was from Dublin Ireland and knew every old Irish song you could think of. He was accompanied by his son, who was about 25 years old and one of the finest fiddle players I’ve had the pleasure of listening to. I was told by the bartender that the lead singer is undergoing chemo for stage-four lung cancer but still manages to perform for four hours three nights a week.

Despite chemo for stage-four lung cancer he also managed to smoke a few cigarettes between sets, accompanied by his son as well. So it goes.

I celebrated Halloween dressed as a traveler this year. There’s never much by way of direct flights to Rapid City from anywhere so a taxi, three flights, and twelve hours after leaving my hotel in Charleston I made it back home. I’m not complaining, I enjoy traveling, and a full 12-hour shift of people watching and unavoidable eavesdropping is always entertaining.

If you spend any time in an airport it is only a matter of time before you will hear some poor soul telling an exhaustingly detailed story about their lengthy layovers, flight changes, and missed connections.

These stories all have two things in common. First, the one telling the tale seems to sincerely believe that their “plight of flight” is unique and tops all other airline travel stories of woe. Secondly, the poor soul that the story has been aimed at, may be knowingly nodding with a look of sympathy forcefully stretched across their face, but could sincerely care less and is patiently waiting for the story to stop so they can go sop up their misery with a Cinnabon.

Another thing you will be sure to hear are numerous cell phone conversations where it seems that the person on the other end is apparently a hard of hearing mime, because the person in your world has not paused their commentary for an excessively loud and annoyingly impressive length of time. You can almost hear the person on the other end of the line rolling their eyes and doing the “blab blab blab” thing with their free hand.

It was interesting traveling on Halloween. When else would you get to witness a pirate and a six foot four blue crayon try and put an irritated traveler at eases? United Airlines employees, Ken the Pirate and James the Crayon, did a fine job addressing the needs of the cranky traveler. Hard to be cranky talking to a pirate and a crayon.

During my five hours of moseying about the airport in our nation’s capital, I saw a very tall man that looked very familiar. He was browsing through the menu outside of an airport restaurant when the host asked him, “You ever play basketball?” I watched as Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, a 19-time NBA All-Star and NBA Hall of Famer glanced from the menu to the host and back again. He just sort of shook his head slightly, sat down the menu, and walked off.

When he turned to walk off we briefly made eye contact. I smiled and nodded but he seemed to have an “I hope nobody recognizes me…I just want to eat” look in his eyes. So, I let the big man be, and went back to watching Ken the Pirate and James the Crayon address customer complaints.

Happy travels.

I can remember many a car ride, short and long, where I sat in the backseat and watched my dad in the rearview mirror as he navigated one of the many four-door “boats” we had growing up. Sometimes to ensure that a well-deserved punch to the scrawny thigh of my brother would go undetected, but more often than not, just to watch him. When you’re a kid you fail to take into account that sound does travel, and that a parent knows the distinct sound of a sibling being “corrected” for any number of offenses, real or imagined.

Having spent a couple of tours in the trenches of parenthood now, I have heard, and ignored, such behavior occurring directly behind me as we traveled here and there. I knew the punishment occurring was probably justified, just as I’m sure my dad did, and since it is socially acceptable for siblings to tussle, it relieves a parent of having to explain themselves in a court of law. It’s like hiring a bounty hunter without them knowing they’ve been hired. The bounty hunter is quietly given an extra ration of candy at the next gas station for their troubles.

When all was quiet in the seatbeltless domain of our backseat travels I would watch as my dad’s blue eyes would dart about, scanning the ditch and road for anything that dare challenge the forward progress of thousands of pounds of steel and chrome. I always felt safe with my dad behind the wheel, and still do for that matter, and I always wondered what he was thinking. He was never real chatty while we traveled, never really seemed to care what was on the radio, just seemed content to drive. Content to safely get us wherever it was we happened to be going.

One time in particular stands out in my mind. I was thirteen. It wasn’t a long trip, only a few miles, more of a ride I suppose. It wasn’t a ride any of us wanted to take and it wasn’t to a place any of us wanted to go, but it was a ride that I’ve come to see as a part of life, more accurately, a part of the consequences of sharing in one’s life.

I sat in the comfy couch like backseat of our massive maroon 1978 Lincoln Towncar, shoulder to shoulder with my siblings. It was quiet in the car, no bickering, no pinching or poking, just quiet. Like many times before, I watched my dad in the rearview mirror, only this wasn’t like any of the times before. I watched his eye’s, watched and wondered what he was thinking, what he was feeling, as we waited for the funeral procession to leave the church and take his father, my Grandpa Fritz, to his final resting spot north of town.

I of course didn’t ask him what he was thinking or feeling, those aren’t things boys ask fathers all that often. Things we often times don’t know how to ask. I could see he was sad, but there was strength in his sadness as well, a strength that let me know that it was alright to be sad sometimes.

I don’t know if he knew I was watching, he knew I was sad, he knew we all were, and he let us know, without saying a word, that although Grandpa was gone we were still a family, and everything was going to be alright.

You can learn a lot from the backseat when you have someone like my dad at the wheel.