Rambling Josh

Happy Fall y’all. It seemed that the heat of summer extended its reach further along the calendar than normal this year. Then again, considering my family and the influence that the village of Lignite has on a person, I’m quite confident that I’ve never possessed a sound judgement of “normal” so I’ll just assume this sort of thing happens on occasion.

What I do know is that the parts of my person that have been relegated to a swampy existence since the arrival of the summer swelter are reviling in the cool fall breeze. Growing up in the southern suburbs of Saskatchewan does not effectively acclimate one to extended periods of swelter, and when there is unceasing swelter, it generally prompts bouts of swelter induced anger (I just wanted to see how many times I could squeeze “swelter” into one sentence).

You ever get stuck on or struck by a word? You’ve heard it, seen it, or said it countless times and then one day for no particular reason it just sounds odd? Odd, and sometimes downright funny, and you find yourself saying it out loud, over and over, and laughing, over and over? No? Me neither, just checking. How about “gulag” or “mollycoddle”? Incidentally, there’s quite a chasm (another fun word) between gulag and mollycoddle. I say “show hall” from time to time and people seem to find that odd and/or entertaining. Hoity-toity big city folk are a strange bunch.

Speaking of odd and/or entertaining, I had the opportunity to visit with Jason Hysjulien, who along with his wife, Marsha, took over ownership of the 109 Club in Lignite a few months back. Here’s what I learnt.

History of 109 ownership?

“Oldest building in Lignite, built in 1911. It was originally a pool hall, barber shop, and living quarters. Went through a few hands in the past 100 or so years, but most recently; Ray Moritz from 1951 to 1967, Evelyn Byrud from 1967-1983 (Incidentally, she gave the name 109 based on a horrible bowling score, for years one could win a drink at bowling alley for rolling a 109), and Laurie and Maurine Chrest 1983-2015.”

*What motivated you to become owners? *

“Autonomy. I love to BS, but not a big drinker. Like to see people having a good time. In any small town this is where everyone congregates. Marsha has worked for years in this business and now we have a chance to do for ourselves.”

Any changes in store for the 109 or sticking with the tried and true?

“Same name, everyone knows this as the 109. Same service. Same clean restrooms. Maureen and Laurie ran such a great place for so many years that we just basically don’t want to screw it up. Changes? Live music on demand. Not a big hunter. These head mounts really creep me out! People may see a gradual evolution as this place takes on a look more reflective of our tastes and interests.”

Was this something you had been pondering for a while? “Yes, for years. Quite frankly the ever reaching arm of Big Brother gave me much pause and trepidation concerning this endeavor. The days of letting Swede Edwards drive home at 25 mph are over. I’m working on a flop house.”

Anything else you would like to add?

“I have always loved how this bar, and it has a reputation for being hard to leave. When I lived in Lignite and had somewhere to be and needed off-sale, I would sometimes drive to Kenmare as it would take less time than trying to get out of this place as there was always someone buying you a round. It always has been, and will continue to be, the kind of place where you want to take a date, or your family. Good crowd, good times, no riffraff.”

“No riffraff”? That’s all up to interpretation. Enjoy the lovely, cool fall breeze before things turn ugly and frigid (sorta like that date you took to the crop judging finals in high school).

The first few weeks of the new school year are behind us, and all the beginning of the year hubbub we must endure has finally passed. Freeing the teachers to teach, the students to learn, and the parents to go to work without the constant worry of a free roaming teenager on their mind.

The faculty and students can now enter a meeting or a classroom without somebody saying, “Why don’t we go around the room and have everyone introduce themselves.” A sentence that beings with “why” is generally meant to be a question in search of an answer. “Why don’t we go around the room and have everyone introduce themselves?” Because, nobody wants to, and those that do want to have already made everyone painfully aware of their existence, and will continue to do so at each and every meeting until an unfortunate accident befalls them.

I cringe in faculty meetings every time I see a new face because I know a mass introduction to the newbie is inevitable. To remedy my cringe I find it useful to make stuff up when it’s my turn to stand and report my biography to a stranger. A stranger whose brain flat-lined six people ago and is now just smiling and nodding and thinking, “One of his sideburns is longer than the other” as I dutifully report.

With the passing of the first few weeks we have also passed the first of many breaks to come. We had an enjoyable Labor Day weekend at our cabin in Montana. Sierra and her boyfriend were able to swing over from Bozeman and hang out with us for a few days of “off the grid” cabin time. My father-in-law, Bernie, and his brother, Tony, made the trip from Rapid City with my wife, our son, the dog and myself.

Our cabin has no electricity, no phone, and no cell service. It is one of my most favorite places to “just be” and it was fun having a cabin full of family ages 16 to 79 enjoying one another’s company without the many distractions we have at our fingertips in our so-called “connected” world.

We played a lot of cards, read a few books, cut a little wood, starred at the flickering light of the fire, and tipped our heads skyward to a blanket of stars with the coming of each night. Actually, the rest of the gang played a lot of cards, I took on the duty of starring at the flickering light of the fire. Sitting in front of the fire, listening to family laugh and chit-chat over a card game under the low hiss and gentle glow of a lantern…I smiled, and quietly thanked the cabin for that moment.

Now we’re off. Off and running with another school year, and already it seems that the plate that looked so orderly and sparse a few weeks ago is now an overflowing mess of this, that, and another thing. So it goes.

I wonder what the cabins up to? Why don’t we all go introduce ourselves.

Well friends, yet another long held dad duty has been quite literally kicked to the curb (or at least confined to the driveway). For the most part my parental taxi service sign has been flipped to “Off Duty” now that our son, Jackson, has managed to attain the legal right to operate a motor vehicle. He can now go where he must, when he must, and not have to endure NPR or Irish music while en route. Previously, he was limited to training excursions in and around Lignite as a student of the “Grandma Joann PT Cruiser School of Swervology”.

As I look back, the road from there to here is littered with the vestiges of many such dad duties that I once was counted on to perform. All of which I cherished and miss, except of course, the clean-up of bodily discharges great and small.

How such cute little people can produce and release such volumes of biohazard is truly a mystery. They’re like little dirty bombs with erratic and unreliable detonators. They should be rolled around in tightly secured 50 gallon drums instead of minimum security strollers…drums with a slot to slide the occasional balloon animal and Dilly Bar into and a few air holes punched in the lid of course.

What have my dad duties dwindled too? Providing unsolicited and unheeded advice? Charitable donations of various amounts for unspecified items of interest (food, because he “wasn’t hungry” three minutes prior when we ate at home)? Fuel for and general maintenance of his wheels of freedom (by “general” I mean anything that requires no mechanical knowhow beyond that which can be “fixed” with a chainsaw and/or a hammer)?

I did get the opportunity to share some pent up fatherly wisdom with him recently while doing a bit of back-to-school clothes shopping a few weeks back. Life altering advice, such as how to decipher the sizing label on pants and dress shirts to achieve proper fit and socially acceptable appearance in the adult world.

I don’t pretend to know what is deemed “socially acceptable” apparel in the teenage world, nor do I have any intention of finding out. I do, however, reserve the parental right to point, laugh hardily and obtain photographic evidence for my grandkids to point and laugh hardily at…in the very, very distant future. Such is the sorted fashion circle of life, and probably has been since the first angstful cave teenager shunned the wearing of the drab, but sensible, wooly mammoth loin cloth in favor of the more hip and trendy saber-toothed tiger tunic.

As I mourn the loss of yet another dad duty I do look forward to whatever is needed of me in the future. As a dad, that’s what I’m here for, that’s what I will always be here for. I have no plans of signing up for the mission to mars or traipsing off to any far-flung places here on earth to find myself. I found myself when my children were born and have found that being a dad suits me just fine…even at an ever increasing “on-call” status.

On that note, I’d like to send a “Happy Birthday” up Lignite way to the man that taught me how to be a dad, and remains on-call for us each and every day. Thanks Dad.

The Burke Central All-School Reunion has come and gone, leaving fond memories of good times with old friends in its wake. Thinking back over the events of the last couple of days it’s all sort of a blur of familiar faces in familiar places accompanied by a soundtrack rife with the buzz of conversation and laughter.

Groups of varying sizes could be seen scattered about Main Street during the street dances, catching up with the goings on of former classmates and friends. Some people could be seen migrating amongst the groups, intermingling and exchanging a few pleasantries, and then moving along to another cluster of familiar and, at times, unfamiliar faces.

Some were less migratory and seemed to enjoy the company of a select few over mass serial intermingling. There’s always those that we find it easier to visit with for reason’s we may not know. Comfort and commonalities from shared time and experiences I suspect to be a major contributor to who we choose to jaw wag with.

It seems as though when with those we are most comfortable with a constant conversation flow isn’t necessary and long moments of silence don’t carry any uncomfortable unspoken connotations. In depth conversation with everyone isn’t always necessary, or possible. For some a nod and a smile in passing is enough of an acknowledgement to get you by until the next reunion.

The next reunion? That’s the last idea anybody wants to entertain at this moment, but I hope there is a next reunion. Not for a few years or five, but sometime. I enjoyed playing a small part in the reunion planning committee and would like to thank all of those that played much…much larger roles in ensuring the success of the reunion. Their organizational skills and attention to detail was impressive, and made the weekend festivities flow seamlessly.

I am proud to be a graduate of Burke Central because I feel that as a graduate of Burke Central I am in the company of a lot of good people. Burke Central is a good school that has managed to endure in the face of many changes, great and small. It has managed to endure change and succeed because of the dedication and devotion of many caring faculty, staff, and board and community members that seem to always hold the best interest of the students first and foremost.

As a student I took this for granted. When such an environment is all you have experienced it is hard to see how good you have it. Especially when you’re armpit deep in the rarely real horrors of teenage life. After being out and about in the world of education for a few years I have come to fully appreciate my experience at Burke Central. Appreciation and gratitude seem to increase with age.

To all those, past and present, that have and continue to make educating the young people that walk the halls of Burke Central a priority in your life I thank you. Summer’s over…you’re on.

Welcome to August everyone. The month that creeps up on us like ill-fitting underwear. As we stand there picking, pulling, and tugging in search of comfort we wonder where the summer has gone and commence to plot and plan how we might squeeze all we had planned to do in June and July into the few tattered weeks remaining before the kids head back to school and that old routine revs up yet again.

Summer has a way of getting away from us, always has, and I suspect it always will. Seems as though it was just yesterday that winter seemed safely behind and I braved the jumbled mess of bicycles, balls, bats and garden hoses in the garden shed to dig out the deck furniture. The sheds not sound proof so the neighbor kids got a bit of a vocabulary building lesson while they bounced around on their trampoline.

I recall that during that fit of rage I vowed to clean that shed out this summer. I still have a few weeks to make good on that vow but the shed rage has since been soothed so it can wait. Besides, there’s a family of rabbits living under the shed and I’d hate to disturb whatever it is rabbits do under garden sheds.

There are more pressing issues that need to be addressed before the close of summer. The Burke Central All-School Reunion being one such matter that is in need of some last minute preparation. Teeth to whiten, buns to firm, wrinkles to wrangle, stories of success to concoct, so much to do so little time.

Registration for the reunion is open until August 7th so mosey on over to the reunion Facebook page and get registered. If you’re a Facebook holdout feel free to send me an email and we’ll get you registered. If you don’t have email stop by my house, we’ll have coffee, chit-chat a bit, get you registered, and clean out my garden shed.

Some other matters to ponder prior to your arrival at the reunion are that there will be luminaries available for purchase at the reunion. A great way to commemorate the memory of a friend or classmate or to finally say something witty and inspirational. Ten bucks each, you decorate them the way you want and we will have all of them lit in front of the school on Saturday night (probably won’t be the only thing “lit” in front of the school on Saturday night).

We are also on the prowl for any and all band geeks that would like to put their embouchure to the test and blurt out the school songs for the program at the school on Saturday night. A director would be helpful as well. Also, if you have a classic car or motorcycle that you would like to enter in the “parked” parade let me know.

Golf, softball, visiting…so much to prepare for. The reunion is also a good time to renew your 109 Club membership. Jason and Marsha Hysjulien are the new proprietors and are doing a bang-up job keeping the populace fed and fueled.

See you soon.

On July 16th, 2015 our son, Jackson, will click over one more notch on the odometer and celebrate his “Sweet Golden Birthday…Golden Sweet Birthday…” or something to that effect. Jackson has been a bundle of nerves for the past few weeks in anticipation of this momentously grand, golden, and sweet event (please read this sentence with thick and heavy sarcasm for proper conveyance of reality).

I didn’t think it possible, but the boy may be surpassing me in “laidbackness”. Which is troubling since my father proclaimed when I was teenager that, “If you were any more laid back you would soil yourself” or something along those lines…perhaps with a bit more colorful language thrown in for effect. Let the record reflect that this is a blatant exaggeration on behalf of my father as I have not soiled myself since college…or thereabouts…and it had nearly nothing to do with being laid back.

I’m not entirely sure where it began, but it appears that the outward expression of this laid back gene is intensifying with each generation. This does not bode well for my potential great-grandchildren (several…several years from now) who apparently will spend their lives shrugging and grunting indiscriminately from their hammock homes. I have to admit there is some allure to that life, but it doesn’t pay well and Depends are not cheap…so I’ve heard.

Do any of you remember your “golden” birthday? How about “Sweet 16”? Were they as shiny, sweet, and life changing as you had hoped or was it just another birthday? Just another day celebrating the completion of one more year free of suffering an unfortunate hotdog eating incident or zigging when you should have zagged…while eating a hotdog. Hotdogs are dangerous.

My wife asked Jackson what he wanted to do for his special day and got the same response we get for most questions asked of him, “don’t care”, “don’t know” or when the formation of syllables and other grammatical structure is just too much to deal with, “mmaahhmmah”. Sometimes he may get dramatic and throw in a discrete shoulder shrug to accompany his response. The shoulder shrug lets us know that he REALLY, “doesn’t care”, “doesn’t know”, or “mmaahhmmah”.

As of this writing I’m not sure what his big day will entail. Historically, the kids get to pick a place to go out and eat for their birthday. So the day will most likely find us dining at the Japanese Steak House where my wife and I will have the pleasure of translating the boys menu related grunts and shrugs to a server that has a rudimentary grasp of the language our son is sort of communicating in.

Teenagers are interesting creatures that seem to exist in an alternate universe from their parents and any other adult that may have the audacity to try and help them.

Jackson is a good kid. A bright young man that is polite, friendly, and fully in possession of the ability to verbally communicate intelligently and completely when he so chooses. Stay golden, stay sweet, and, for the most part, go ahead and stay laid back.

Happy Golden Sweet Birthday Jackson….and many…many more.

I just spent four days in St. Louis at our National Athletic Trainers' Association yearly convention with about 10,000 other certified athletic trainers from around the globe. My travel companion and roommate for this excursion, and most every conference I’ve attended over the past 18 years, was my good friend and fellow athletic trainer, Paul.

The conference moves from city to city each year so Paul and I have had the opportunity to visit several major cities over the years and explore a small slice of each along the way. All this big city exploring is interesting and enjoyable but generally leaves us with the same thought at the conclusion of each conference, “Thank God I don’t live here!”

Rapid City is big enough and interesting enough for this small town boy. Enough of enough is enough and those big cities are too much. Too much cement, too many people, too much traffic, and from what Paul tells me, too much stink. As one who lacks a sense of smell, I always forget that a subway train full of people that have been simmering in the balmy Missouri humidity may just have a certain odor about them. A bouquet that I’m sure I contributed to as well.

Paul claims that New Orleans still holds the top spot for “Most Odorous City” but proclaimed that St. Louis rolled in at a decidedly “stanky” second. The fact that Paul is a cattle rancher, athletic trainer, and the father of four, leads me to trust that he knows stink, and is quite adept at “ranking” it (bad pun intended).

Even without access to the stink factor, I’m still quite grateful I don’t call one of these concrete and steel hives home. I like people watching, but I like the luxury of being able to do it passively, without worry, rather than as an active necessity to avoid being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’ve never really felt unsafe in a big city, but that may be out of sheer stupidity rather than the reality of the areas we’ve stumbled into…and thankfully out of.

My homecoming to Rapid City was made even more enjoyable when my entire family came to the airport to meet, greet, and shuttle me home. Sierra was home from Bozeman for a few days to remedy an acute case of homesickness (I think we cured it), Jackson pulled himself away from his teenage duties of hair care and texting, and my wife arrived with plans to try and catch a glimpse of the Northern Lights before we headed home from the airport.

Sitting at an approach along the highway, outside of the reaches of the light pollution from Rapid City, all four of us looked towards the northern horizon, searching for a glimmer of the Northern Lights. Although they didn’t show themselves, the night was clear and the stars and fire flies danced to the sound of crickets and a slight prairie breeze.

The crickets and prairie breeze were pleasant, but the sound that filled my heart with happiness was the sound of my children in the back seat visiting, laughing, and of course arguing…always arguing. Our family together. No push…no pull from all the directions life takes us…just together.

Happy Father’s Day to all you Dads. I’m sure many of your dads are lovely fellas and all but I’m particularly partial to mine. Not just because he’s a member of the duo responsible for my existence, although that may bias me some, there are other reasons. Reasons that are many and multiplying as we meander through life as father and son.

Father and son. I have a vivid memory of an official “Father Son” gathering we took part in back when I was a wee lad and he was a young dad. I was about 12, and all I knew going in was that it was billed as a “Father Son Banquet”, and that title alone peaked my enthusiasm in attending this special supper. I should have done a little more investigating into the exact agenda of the event before getting caught up in the jovial anticipation of attending such an exclusive gathering of us men type.

The event turned out to be a recruiting party for the priesthood. The atmosphere took a turn while we were shown a grainy black and white video of a day in the life of some boys in the seminary. I got nervous, panicky, and bit nauseous. I suddenly felt that there was a possibility that although I had come there with my dad I was going to be leaving in a bus full of boys bound for the priesthood.

As a twelve year old I didn’t know much, but I did know that I didn’t want to be a priest. I wanted to play shortstop for the Yankees, jump a motorcycle like Evel Knievel, and live in the mountains with a pet squirrel like Grizzly Adams. Bears scare me so I downsized to a squirrel. Besides it takes less fabric to sew costumes for a squirrel than a grizzly bear. You have to consider such things when you’re going to be out in the middle of nowhere relying on varmints for entertainment.

Were all of our dads in cahoots with the priesthood recruiters? How much did they stand to make for selling us out? Would mom notice if dad come home alone? How can people eat scalloped potatoes at a time like this?

The boys in the recruiting video all wore the same uniform and had Johnny Unitas haircuts. This too would be an issue. My mother had traumatized me as a young child by dressing me and my brother in matching homemade outfits and I was beginning to dabble in the thrilling world of the mullet. Exciting times.

I am grateful to my father for so many things. Not handing myself and a Ziploc bag containing my toothbrush and a spare pair of underwear over to the priesthood recruiters is one such thing. Maybe two pair of underwear, I had a bed wetting issue.

Mostly I am grateful for the unyielding love and support he has selflessly given my siblings and myself day in and day out. No matter the height of stupidity we ascend to he is there to cushion our fall back to reality with kind words and perhaps some money for the damages. Love you dad.

As of late I’ve found myself feeling a shift in the character I have played for many years in our family. My roster spot as the biggest, strongest, and most athletic male in the household is being aggressively challenged by some bushy headed 15 year-old rookie that I used to haul to bed piggy-back style. Witnessing the dramatic upward trajectory of his physical size and athletic ability over the past year has served as a not so subtle reminder that my upward trajectory has peaked and is now rapidly earth bound.

I can still lift more weight and run further than the bushy headed punk and I’m sure if my alpha status were challenged in a direct altercation I could hold my own but I can feel it slipping. Like a transmission in an old Studebaker that doesn’t quite grab in each gear. Stuff grinds, things pop, the seats are worn, and the exhaust lingers long after it’s limped on by.

This shift has been gradual but seems to have picked up speed a bit as of late. Things that used to require little effort on my behalf now take everything I have to attempt to keep up with the above mentioned punk. Before his spurt of growth towards manhood I could get away with about a 60% effort when throwing him batting practice. Now the percentages have shifted and I feel as though he only needs 60% effort to match my 100%. What does this mathematical shift mean? It means that my arm hurts, my low back is twitching, and my pride is aching.

The bushy-haired punk is a pretty good tennis player and the Studebaker is not. In my previous role as household dominate male action figure I could go to the tennis courts and lollygag about, smash a few shots here and there to show the punk how dangerous this dude could be. I was made aware a few days ago when playing tennis with the boy that this dude is not dangerous anymore. This dude has lost an “e”. I believe it was knocked off by one of the forearm smashes the rookie wacked my way.

He seemed to take delight in my inadequacy on the court. I wouldn’t say that he gloated but I’m pretty sure he wanted to. I could sense a pre-gloat in the air but he was empathetic enough to stifle it and turn it into something more sinister…patronizing. That thing you do when you are playing against someone that is slower and less talented. That thing I used to do to the kids when we played sports. That thing looks ugly from the other side.

This role adjustment has elicited an array of thoughts, feelings, and reflections on my part. Most of which has led me to the conclusion that there is absolutely nothing I can do about this mess I’ve gotten myself into by aging. This aging thing seemed like a good idea when I was his age, but somewhere along the way I took it to far. I’m painfully aware that my good ain’t so great anymore but I’m not sure where to go from here.

I’m not even sure how I got here so how am I supposed to know where to go from here? This is a fine mess.

Continued…Ray hopped up as quickly as he went down and attempted to spin around and see who would do such a thing, but the rutabaga had hit him so hard in the right cheek that it gave him “dead leg” and he crumpled to the ground again. Flopping and writhing around in the sandbox, amongst toys in various stages of disrepair, trying to squeeze the pain out of his right cheek with both hands he noticed the rutabaga and said though gritted teeth, “What did you hit me with?”

“It’s a rutabaga dummy…Grandma puts it in that nasty stew she makes at Christmas.” I said, as I came up for a closer look. Close enough to where Ray could clearly see I was pompously gloating, but yet far enough away to dodge anything he might throw my way in his trademark retaliatory rage. “Why did you hit me with it you moron!” Ray yelled, as he picked up the offending projectile and attempted to return the favor.

A big brother is fully aware that objects thrown by little brothers in fits of rage rarely hit their intended target. The teeth clench, the muscles tighten, and accuracy and velocity both go to Helena in a hand basket. Hobbling on one leg with one hand rubbing your rear end doesn’t help either, so I had very little concern that anything he threw my way was going to find its mark. “Nice throw Nancy.” I chuckled. “Shut up! I’m gonna tell Mom!” Ray threatened. “You better not or I’ll fart in your mouth while you’re sleeping again,” I assured him. I could see Ray mulling that bitter pill over in his tiny little mind as he conceded defeat…for now.

A few months previously, in a possible attempt to save our souls, Mom had forced Ray and I to become altar boys at the Catholic Church we attended. Obviously our new vocation had not swayed our love of fighting in any way. Fighting was a great pleasure to us and it would take more than a threat of eternal damnation from some rickety old priest to break us of the practice. It took everything we had to stand side by side on the altar and act civilized for an entire hour every Sunday.

You could get away with trivial things here and there like an “accidental” bump while the other was holding a candle. Done correctly this little bump would send a searing hot cascade of wax splashing down across the tops of the torch bearers hands. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph that hurt but neither of us would ever give the other the satisfaction of knowing the agony they had managed to inflict…in front of God and everyone.

Ray cooled down a bit from the rutabaga bludgeoning after a bowl of Cocoa Puffs and an episode of Scooby Doo and asked, “Where’d you get that potato thingy?” “Rutabaga, not potato, you ignoramus” “Whatever. Where did you get it?” “Blanchard’s garden.” I matter-of-factly say, bored and coming down from the high of putting a hitch in Ray’s gittyup with a world class rutabaga toss. “Are there anymore?” Ray asks. “Of course, it’s a garden, there’s lots more. I usually just eat the peas and snag a few tomatoes to throw at the train and…” I trailed of knowing I had said too much.

Ray now had information that would be useful in getting me in trouble so I knew I had to bring him in on my garden heist gig so he wouldn’t have anything over me. I liked to work alone but I knew he had me in a tough spot and judging by the smug look on his stupid face he knew it too. To be continued…