Rambling Josh

Continued…The reason I know our house was a rutabagas toss from Blanchard’s house surely wasn’t because Blanchard had thrown a rutabaga our way. It is common knowledge that a twelve year old boy can spit further than an old man can throw a rutabaga. No, the reason I know is because I threw one of Blanchard’s rutabagas from his garden, behind his little blue house, to my brother Ray who was playing in the sand box behind our house.

I didn’t so much throw it “to” him as “at” him, but let’s not get caught up in details, just know that it was one heck of a toss. One of those tosses where you stand for a moment prior to launch feeling the weight of the rutabaga in your hand as you contemplate windage, distance, trajectory, and how angry that turd Ray’s going to be when that rutabaga hits him true and square.

That last thought is the one that focuses your senses, puts that extra spring in your crow hop and whip in your arm as you let it fly. When you let something fly from a good distance you have what seems like an eternity to shift your hopeful gaze back and forth between what you’ve thrown and who you’ve thrown it at. Once the projectile leaves your hand you become a mere observer, watching with anticipation as the distance between the two objects gradually decreases.

When you make it your business to throw things at people you get good at your business. I knew the instant that rutabaga left my hand that it was a money shot. It just felt right. It wasn’t a matter of if it was going to hit Ray it was a matter of where. A head shot might render him unconscious, a blow to his bony little back might knock the wind out of him, both of which would be cause for bawling and potential tattling, but that was a chance I was willing to take.

The potential for collateral damage was accepted long before I let the rutabaga fly. Somethings are just worth the consequences. The head, the back, a glancing blow to the shoulder, all were possibilities, but the south side of Ray’s north facing Toughskins jeans was the target of choice. Every big brother worth his salt knows that a shot in the seat will produce the optimal balance between pain and anger. Painful enough to drop him where he stands while simultaneously producing enough anger to keep him from limping to mommy. The perfect scenario. He knew as well as I did that it would be a waste of time to limp to mom crying about taking a rutabaga in the bum. Mom would’ve laughed his bruised backside out of the house.

Ray stood there in the sandbox completely unaware of what was about to rain down on him. Under normal circumstances he probably would have detected something was amiss, he would have heard the smile stretch across my filthy garden looting face and the little grunt I let out when I launched the rogue rutabaga, but he was much too busy pounding some character into his Tonka trucks and Matchbox cars with a hammer to notice he was under attack.

Just as he raised the hammer up high above his head to give a particularly resilient dump truck a good whack the rutabaga found its mark. With a fresh smear of dirt on the right back pocket of his Toughskins he went down with a whimper amongst the carnage of crushed cars and dismembered G.I. Joe action figures. It got him good.

To be continued…

One shot at something as grand and glorious as life doesn’t seem fair but it’s all we get, it’s all we have, it’s all. One go around, one time, our time is never to be again. Some have more, some have less, we all get some but always want some more. Want more for us, want more for those that know us and make our time what it is. What’s not to want? A brief cosmic blink from dark to light to dark again. Through the ages many have, do, and will want more but want will come without and this world will move on as it always has, as it always will for many rises and falls to come. Some may have seen the beginning some may see the end. Neither is near us now so we see today, we remember yesterday, and hope for tomorrow. So fast, yet so slow. One without the other who would have known? Who could have known? Where have they gone? Why have they gone? Questions will remain but we will not. We will go. Not out of want but go just the same. Go and be gone and hope to remain through the memories of those that get to stay. Memories. How deep will memories of you flow? Thinly stir the surface and vanish without a trace or rip and tear the earth leaving a wake of remembrance stretching your life without life? Either is not up to us rather it is up to those that knew us and those that are to know them and know them and know them and…Where and with whom do we stop? When does our life truly cease to be relevant? Cease to make a sound amongst the living? When will our last light go out? Later rather than sooner one would hope or maybe one does not hope or concern themselves with such thoughts. Thoughts are silent in a world that is loud with life. One life, one time. Be loud with life and your echo may be heard…and heard…and heard…

Although names have lazily been changed, more shifted than changed, the story you’re contemplating donating five or ten minutes of your life to read (could be longer depending on your literacy level, cognitive function, and severity of narcolepsy) is mostly true and based on mostly factual events. Our memories of events from our youth are like that, mostly true and mostly factual.

Embellishments, exaggerations, and flat out lies creep into every event and every story about an event almost immediately, and over time, some of those embellishments become a permanent part of the story, some become the story. Over time, a good story, a funny story, will be told and retold because in general we like to laugh and to make people laugh. It feels good to laugh and it feels good to make others laugh. So, maybe this story will make you laugh, maybe it will remind you of stories from your youth, and maybe you’ll share it with someone you think might enjoy such a story. Stories are meant to be shared. Thank you for letting me share this story with you.

Blanchard’s house was a rutabagas toss from ours. More accurately, I suppose, our house was a rutabagas toss from his, as our parents didn’t plant rutabagas nor would they have thrown them towards Blanchard or his little blue house. Civilized, I suppose you could say “normal”, folks don’t do such things. I suppose it could be said that both my parents are civilized and mostly normal. The same can’t be said for all of their children.

The youngest, Arthur, only a year old at the time of these particular events, was still too young for judgments of character to be passed, but with the errant role models he was exposed to there was a pretty strong inclination as to the path he would follow. Rose, a stubbornly quiet six year old, was much too busy concerning herself with the life and times of her many dolls to pay any mind to the comings and goings of her two pain-in-the-Barbie butt older brothers or some little troll that willingly soiled himself. The poor girl, adrift in a sea of stupidity, stuck sharing her inner most thoughts and feelings with a spirited but misdirected Cabbage Patch doll and a ratty haired stiff legged Barbie.

Our given names were Charles and Ray, not to be confused with the musician Ray Charles, as neither of us were blind and we were both too dumb to play the piano. Ray couldn’t keep his hands out of his pants pockets long enough to learn how to tie his shoes so the piano was most definitely out of the question. The advent of velcro shoes was a godsend for Ray.

Our mother grew tired of repeatedly taking each of our names in vain and took to referring to us jointly, and accurately, as “fricken' idiots”. Maybe this allowed her to emotionally separate herself from our behavior, making herself believe that it wasn’t her flesh and blood, Charles and Ray, performing those idiotic acts of lewd depravity, it was those fricken' idiots. I was 12, Ray was 11, and my mother was right, we were fricken' idiots.

To be continued…

This past Saturday was one of the first days of the year to have that full on “summer” feel to it. A lazy feeling day that directed myself and our black lab to our back porch to seek out the optimal chair angle for appropriate sunlight absorption. While peering up at a cloudless sky, soaking in the warmth from a sun that seems to have just come back from an extended vacation, fleeting thoughts of all that I could, and possibly should, be doing eased on through.

The sun felt good. Felt better than what completing a laundry list of chores, tasks, and what have you could bring…laundry being one of them. Those clothes aren’t going to wash themselves but with weather like this who really needs clothes? Maybe the 80 year old couple bent over pulling weeds across the street or the 60ish lady next door that enjoys doing aerobics on her back porch. But who am I to judge?

Most of our “Sunday bests” aren’t what they once were. This fact would be easier to forget or ignore if it weren’t for the parade of youngins prancing around in the spring rut to remind us. At this moment there’s no prancing or fawning going on within sight of my back porch. The household teenagers have taken their spring song and dance elsewhere for the time being. Somewhere away from the judgmental and jealous stares of the has-beens and never-will-be-agains. The daughter’s off at college (so she says) and the boy is out golfing with friends (I hope “golfing” is still what they call actual golfing).

We had or moment in the sun and generally gravitate towards the shade now but today in the semi-seclusion of my back porch I sit comfortably with my shirt draped over the back of my chair, bare feet kicked up, and a cold beer resting comfortably and progressively lighter in my hand. My dermatologist would not approve as I’ve chosen to forgo the slathering of sunscreen she brow beats me about every time I see her.

My dermatologist, my doctor, my accountant, my banker…all these people we acquire as we advance in years, responsibilities, and various stages of physical deterioration. At this moment, right now, I don’t need any of them. My dog, my back porch, my lawn chair, the warm sun, and a slight breeze. That’s all I need at this moment. These moments are too easily swamped in the wake of what needs to get done so I’ll just sit this one out. Just sit and enjoy. Enjoy what I’ve found today for it may be lost tomorrow.

The dog has made his way to the shade by the door leading to the cool confines of the house and peers at me from time to time in a way that seems to suggest, “Haven’t you got anything better to do?” He’s just jealous. My fur coat is nearly half as thick as his…nearly. More or less in some regions. More south and receding to the northern snow cap. Another winter has passed (possibly), another spring is here, and another summer is coming. I believe I’ll have another.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day to all ye lads and lasses. I left the exclamation point off of the last sentence out of consideration for the wee pounding in your head. Corned beef and cabbage will do that. It will also gain you a few more feet of personal space for a day or two.

I was up north visiting family and friends in Lignite for a few days this past weekend and was fortunate enough to have the opportunity to enjoy some preemptive St. Paddy’s Day revelry while we celebrated my Uncle Tim’s birthday. The Burke County Brew Master, Doc Stevens, was in attendance and provided some fuel for the fun with a fine sampling of his homemade brews.

Doc is 86 years young and has always impressed me with his constant tinkering. Since retiring from welding he has taken up such hobbies as quilting, mitten making, wine making, and beer brewing. His style is not just to “take up” these hobbies, no, he is an artist that studies and perfects each of them. He is an intelligent lifelong learner who seems to have insatiable curiosity and a constant desire to challenge himself.

These traits have served Doc well and very well may be as close to a fountain of youth as we can ever hope to find. I suppose it could be the beer. Better partake in both just to be sure.

About 15 years ago I developed an obsession with Irish music and this is the one week each year that it is socially acceptable to sing these songs in public. Socially tolerated may be a more accurate statement.

I would like to leave you with the lyrics to a traditional Scottish and Irish song that has been belted out in various forms since the 1600’s. A song that is traditionally sang at the close of a gathering. Perhaps a gathering of friends, family, a six-foot leprechaun, a toga clad cowboy, and Cleopatra’s blue-haired step-sister Dougerella. Perhaps.

Hoist a pint of whatever elixir of life you sway towards and lend your voice to the gathering.

“The Parting Glass”

Of all the money that e’er I’ve spent
Was spent in good company
And all the harm that e’er I’ve done
Alas it was to none but me
And all I’ve done for want of wit
To memory now I can’t recall
So fill to me the parting glass
Good night and joy be with you all

Of, all the comrades that e’er I’ve had
That are sorry for my going away
And all the sweethearts that e’er I’ve had
Who would wish me one more day to stay
But since it falls unto my lot
That I should rise and you should not
I’ll gently rise and softly call
Good night and joy be with you all

My Grandma Rose celebrated her birthday on March 1st, her 81st time to celebrate the occasion. An occasion myself and many, many others are quite thankful for. A few years back, Wednesday March 1st, 2006 to be exact, a column appeared in this very same spot by this very same writer about my very same Grandma Rose titled, “Kitchen Wishes”. Many things have changed between that column and this in all of our lives. Some changes for the better, and as it has to be in life, some changes are changes that we would prefer to have remained unchanged.

To go through life without that sort of change is just not possible. We can’t always choose the changes that occur in life but we can choose how we let them affect us. Whether we choose to find inspiration, motivation, or desperation in a hand we’re dealt has a lot to do with the people and environment we were raised in. I got lucky.

Grandma Rose is, and always has been, an inspiration to me. With her vast array of kitchen appliances…juicers, dehydrators, bread machines…“Grandma Gadget” was the first to inspire me to really think about the bond between our health and the food we eat. She is a constant experimenter in the kitchen, on an apparent quest to create the healthiest loaf of bread to ever be broken between kith and kin.

Grandma Rose inspired me to take an interest in family history. We would go through suitcases full of old photos and she would give me the facts and figures on each person in each photo. Grandpa always played the part of “color commentator” filling in the gaps between the facts and figures with humorous stories and perhaps a bit of fiction.

Grandma Rose has always inspired me to be empathetic, kind, and accepting of others for who they are. An inspiration taken not from things she says, but rather from who she is, and how she has lived her life. Selflessly and lovingly giving of herself to her family.

A more beautiful Rose has never bloomed. She is a unique Rose. A Rose without thorns. A Rose overflowing with pedals of “loves me” without a single “loves me not”. That’s my Grandma Rose. A women of inspiration.

Nine years ago “Kitchen Wishes” was titled such because, whenever you were at the farm and were poking around the kitchen for something to calm a craving, Grandma would say, “What do you wish for?” “What do you wish for?” A simple question with so many answers. At the time, as a kid, I wished for one of her cinnamon rolls, I wished for her lefse, I wished for her homemade fruit roll-ups, I wished for her special “microwave sandwich”. I wished and she granted whatever a kid could wish for.

I’m a few years removed from that kid, and those kitchen wishes, but I think of that question often. “What do you wish for?” I wish time would ease up a bit…I wish some things would never change…I wish we all were a bit more like you Grandma Rose.

I wish you a Happy Birthday.

Well folks, make haste, we have just under six months to mold and sculpt ourselves into a quasi-presentable bodily state for the Burke Central All-School Reunion. I’ve got a fresh pair of Spanx on order in the event that the molding and sculpting fails to put stuff remotely close to its 1991 place by August 14th, 2015. Enough time has passed since the last reunion to have made most of our recollections of one another cloudy enough that we’re willing to reunite again.

Thus far, the reunion planning committee has a band booked for Friday and Saturday night for those of you that have the stamina to flail about for two nights in a row. Come on in Thursday night to defend yourself against lurid rumors and to renew your club membership at the 109 Club Meet and Greet.

For those of you that manage to weather the wit and sarcasm storm of Thursday and Friday, there will be a catered meal and an emotionally stirring program on Saturday night that is sure to tide you over for another ten years. There are numerous other activities and such that are being pondered and kicked about and if you have ideas feel free to let the reunion planning committee know. If you bring an idea forth, standard committee operating procedure dictates that you have also brought yourself forth to be in charge of seeing that idea through to fruition. Especially if it’s a really bad idea.

Why come to the Burke Central All-School Reunion, or any reunion for that matter? In our work-a-day lives we rarely have the opportunity to surround ourselves with people that share a reunion worthy commonality and are genuinely happy to see us or at least jovially tolerate us for 48-72 hours. Although, you most likely had very little control over the circumstances that brought you to Burke Central, the fact that you were there, that you walked those halls, makes you a part of something that you will always be a part of.

Our lives are made up of many pieces and parts that provide us direction and continually shape and mold who we are. Would you be the same person you are today if circumstances had been altered and a different school and different people had been a part of your life? Maybe, maybe not, but the fact remains that you were a part of something that is tied to a lot of other someone’s, and it seems selfish to withhold your part from that picture.

Circumstances and life events are such, and always will be so, that there are some that were with us at the last reunion that cannot be with us at this or any other time. They are gone, and it’s up to those of us that hold a memory of them to come together with others who hold similar memories and allow those that are gone to come back, if only for a little while. Seems like reason enough to come join us.

See you in August.

Well the Super Bowl commercials are over for another year. Seemed to be a lot more focus on dear old Dad this year. Apparently some of us men folk aren’t as painfully inept at the parenting gig as the majority of sitcoms portray.

During the game I managed to happily eat my weight in the wonderful wings my wife prepared for the masses but the rum chasers I prepared don’t seem to be getting along with the globs of guacamole and lil' smokies so let the post-game nausea begin. If only the distance from hand to mouth were greater so we would have more time to ponder and possibly dampen the overindulgence. Possibly but not likely.

We human types aren’t so smart sometimes…many times. Most of us have been around most of our lives so we should know by a certain time, let’s say 42 years, that too much good is bad and bad is not good. Many a good human has been laid low by that gap between knowing and doing. Knowing what’s right and doing what ain’t so right is a right. Right?

I exercised that right to ignore what is right and now I feel sorta wrong. I’m sure it’ll never happen again. Right.

The phrase, “I know right” has cropped up the past few years or so and I don’t like it. Can’t say for sure why I don’t like it and now that I’m over forty I don’t have to have a reason. Right? Maybe it’s because it’s a throw away phrase that doesn’t seem to lend anything of value to a conversational exchange. Kind of the verbal equivalent of the half-hearted head nod. The head nod that is code for, “I have nothing to say…shut up so I can move on with my life and take part in something more productive than this conversation before I die…please.”

A code that many choose not to appropriately acknowledge. So it goes or as they say, “It is what it is.” “It is what it is”? Well what else would it be if it isn’t what it is? Something else? Then it wouldn’t be what it is I suppose. All these little throw away phrases that we use to fill up that quiet space in conversation. Quiet space isn’t so bad. You can learn a lot in quiet spaces. We need more quiet spaces to interrupt the nonstop nonsensical dialog in this ever connected disconnected world. Right?

A college classroom is a captive audience that is many times not so captivated so for sport I enjoy seeing how big of a quiet space my students will tolerate during class after a question is posed to them. I ask the class a question and mill around in the quiet space until someone cracks and provides an answer. The sport within the sport is seeing how quickly some students will avert their gaze when you look at them within that quiet space between question and answer.

Ten seconds is about the average quiet space they can tolerate. Sometimes a little less, sometimes a little more, but someone always talks. That someone may not know what they’re talking about but they talked and now the ball is back in my court. So goes the game. Some days it’s a good game, some days you throw an interception on the goal line when you should have run the ball.

It is what it is…Right?

As some of you may know, and just the same, some of you may not, my wife graduated with her Doctorate in Physical Therapy from the University of South Dakota in Vermillion a few years back. May of 2008, to be somewhat exact, and to be exactly exact, she is a fine physical therapist. Caring, kind, and considerate with her patients to be even more exact. Exactly what one who finds themselves in need of physical therapy would want. Exactly.

When you find yourself a graduate of a university, as my wife and I have been fortunate enough to find ourselves a time or two or three, aside from receiving student loan bills in the mail each and every month (for many months to come) you also receive a nice monthly newsletter from the university. A newsletter highlighting the comings, goings, and accomplishments of the various alumni and updates on improvements being made to the university (compliments of your student loan payments).

I always enjoy reading these newsletters and keeping up on the shiny new stuff we’re contributing to the university for the enjoyment and benefit of the never ending flow of shiny new students. In each newsletter is an “In Memoriam” section devoted to alumni that have passed on and, I guess you could say, paid their final installment. Some of these alumni graduated long ago and sadly some not so long ago, such is life.

In the latest newsletter I noticed a “Corrections” notice at the end of the “In Memoriam” section that stated that in the previous newsletter a certain alumni, “was listed in error as deceased in our last issue” and it went on to say that, “We regret the error.” Both of these statements made me laugh out loud (LOL for you youngins). A response that I assure you is not a regular occurrence when I read the “In Memoriam” section.

First off, it struck me as humorous to think of the reaction the individual “listed in error” must have had when they read that they were no longer residing on the ground level of this world. It reminded me of that old chestnut from Mark Twain, “The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.” Humor struck me a second time (it tends to strike me at regular intervals and at inappropriate times) with the idea that the university “regretted the error”.

Would the university have rather not made the error that they regretted? Was the individual such a delinquent student during his time at the university that they would have preferred to have correctly listed him as deceased? I’m fairly positive that the individual in question didn’t “regret the error” and was probably quite relieved to find himself “listed in error”. Did it take any convincing on behalf of his loved ones that he was indeed “listed in error”?

Maybe he was relieved for a moment. I could see him tossing the newsletter on the coffee table, sinking back in his chair and with a sigh, exclaiming, “Finally, no more student loan payments, no more calls from the alumni association pandering for funds to build an addition onto the butterfly arboretum or stock the cafeteria with gluten-free pancakes. I’m free to move on with my life (or death as seemed to be).”

May you all be “listed in error” for many…many newsletters to come. Take care.

Happy New Year to you aficionados of the news and noteworthy goings-on in Burke County. Despite the blatant newslessness (not a real word) and noteworthylessness (also not a real word) blathered about in this column I would like to thank you for swinging by from time to time for a gander…or a goose if you prefer. Without the reader the writer is as useless as a New Year’s resolution or a dog that will fit in your shirt pocket.

Canine condensing specialists are probably already set to overtake the fashion and infomercial world with such a critter. “Why wear a drab old pocket square? Be the envy of all…the talk of the ball! Get the all new Pocket Square Pooch. Is it a corsage you need? Flowers are so fuddy-duddy. A Kitty Corsage…now that’s purrrrfect.” You heard it here first.

New Year’s resolutions are abound this time of year and bound to fail sometime soon…real soon. If someone asks you what your New Year’s resolution is just say, “I resolved not to slug nosy people in the ear but I’m about to break it.” Or maybe, “I resolved to stop peering into your bedroom window late at night and watching you sleep.” Choose the route most likely to successfully set you free from the shackles of the conversation.

Some shackles are harder to shake than others. Which always makes me wonder…who of my acquaintances sees me coming their way while out and about and thinks, “ah crap” as they quickly look for a potted plant or passed out hobo to hide behind? We’re all bound to rub a few people the wrong way and possibly be the bore whose blab they seek to avoid. The Irish writer and poet, Oscar Wilde, once said, “A bore is someone who deprives you of solitude without providing you with company.” Perfect.

Speaking of those that deprive you of solitude…I hope you all had a very merry Christmas. We had an enjoyable time in Lignite and got to deprive my parents of solitude for a solid week. Like a bout of influenza Christmas left them sleep deprived and low on toilet paper…tis the season.

We were pleasantly surprised by the mild weather that greeted us early on in the week but then temperatures plunged well below the donut to remind us not to overstay our welcome. When I tell people where I’m from the initial response is almost always, “Ooh…I bet it gets cold up there.” Yes…yes it does. Painfully so.

While I was loading our Christmas bounty into the pickup and preparing to flee south in search of positive temperature readings I slipped on the same patch of ice twice. Both times I managed to save myself from hitting the tundra by vigorously waving and flapping my arms while cursing loudly. Loud enough that my Mom asked who I was talking to out in the driveway. I explained, and like any well-seasoned North Dakotan, she completely understood and approved of the technique I had employed to remain upright.

Friends…family…influenza…May 2015 bring you all that you deserve.