Rambling Josh

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.

Another successful Christmas tree hunting expedition has concluded and we have a fine specimen of Black Hills spruce mounted and adjourned in front of our picture window for all the world to see. All the world that drives by our house anyway. The hunt took place a little later than usual as we waited for our daughter, Sierra, to venture home from her first semester of college. First semester of many, we anticipate.

We’ve been venturing out into the Black Hills to hack down a Christmas tree for about 15 seasons now. Fifteen seasons go fast. If I remember right (I seldom do anymore) the first of the fifteen Sierra was about 4 years old and I pulled her through the woods on a pink plastic sled while she sat pondering the majesty of it all. The pondering produced a question, as it often does, and her question was simple, thoughtful, and poignant.

She simply asked, “Dad, don’t they sell Christmas trees at the store?” To which I replied, “Yes, they do, but isn’t this much more fun than going to the store?” Rarely one to complain and always conscious of the feelings of those around her, she took a brief reflective pause and tactfully and gently replied, “Yeah, but they sell them at the store too.”

The traits our children carry into adulthood show themselves at a young age. I often wonder just how much sway our parental nurturing has over nature in how our children act and who they become and whether, as parents, we’re simply poorly paid tour guides. Tour guides clunkin' around with a half a tank of gas, bald tires, smelly exhaust, and outdated maps. Maps that lead somewhere at one time. Somewhere we thought we were headed but habitually find ourselves nowhere near for reasons we can’t identify.

Life’s distracting. With all the flashing lights, bells, whistles, hairpin turns, and black ice it’s easy to get turned around. That’s assuming you had an inclination of the direction you were headed in the first place. That’s a rather large assumption to assume. I think it’s safe to assume that an assumption of any sort is something that should be avoided, especially if you happen to be a man married to a women. Which, in that case, assume you’re wrong and you will be right and vice versa. So it goes.

So we have a tree. Christmas cards and letters from near and far find their way to our mailbox most every day, and we are grateful for those our wayward winding path has crossed somewhere hither and yon. It’s that time of year. Time to prepare for the end of one and the beginning of another. They come and they go and so must we. We can think back and we can look forward but the present is all we have that is of any certainty.

I hope you get all the present you wish for with all those you wish to share it with. Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

Sometimes winter holds off just long enough that you allow yourself to foolishly ponder for a moment that maybe for some reason the cosmos has decided to spare us Dakotans the discomfort of wind chill and early morning window scrapping. Holding such a tantalizingly thought in one’s head leaves you with a feeling of mischievous giddiness.

The very same feeling you get when you goad someone bigger, stronger, and meaner to chase you in the dark towards a trip line you and your equally small and weak buddies strategically placed in the hopes of toppling the before mentioned bigger, stronger, meaner individual. Why? For the adventure of course. As with any plan, especially those hatched in the minds of small boys, there are things that can go wrong and there are many…many things overlooked and not accounted for.

Things that you and your buddies didn’t consider, or you, being the bait, didn’t consider, so your buddies decided not to bring it up and leave well enough alone and let the chips (a.k.a. you) fall where they may. Personal concern regarding the effectiveness and overall success of such a plan directly correlates with one’s proximity to the bigger, stronger, meaner variable during the execution of the plan. The “brains” and “bait” of an operation are never the same person.

Important questions like, “What if the bigger, stronger, and meaner kid catches me before I reach the trip line? What if the bigger, stronger, meaner kid decides to just pound the brains of the operation instead of expending energy chasing the bait? What happens if the bigger, stronger, meaner kid misses the trip line?” Perhaps, more importantly, what happens if the plan is a success and the bigger, stronger, meaner kid gives chase, trips, rolls, and skids to an agonizingly angry stop?

Such a plan skids to a stop at the very same point in the minds of young boys and one of them will experience agony. No mind is paid to what happens after the bigger, stronger, meaner kid trips…skids…curses…and gets back up. Gets back up meaner and seemingly stronger. Having been avid fans of the Incredible Hulk series we should have known better.

At this point the plan is over leaving this one big “what if” to test how well the brains, the bait, and everyone else on the dream team can improvise and overcome. This is also the point where the “brains”, generally a bit slower of foot than the bait, finds themselves in closer proximity to the now stronger and meaner variable than they had anticipated.

In such a situation every kids worth his salt knows that to avoid angry noogies, snuggies, and knees to soft vitals you must outrun one of your “friends”. If you’re the bait you had a running start and are more likely to have a noogie-free, snuggie-free, knee to the soft vitals-free evening. Outrunning a physical threat is exhilarating. You almost feel bad for the slothy, wild eyed co-conspirator that you high step by while they erratically pump and flail with one arm, holding their pants up with the other, knowing full well that the bigger, stronger, meaner kid is angrily closing the gap.

Mean old winter closed the gap in a hurry this weekend and put the snow boots to that mischievous giddiness I was feeling. I watched solemnly as negative wind chills kicked up swirls of fresh snow leaving me to wonder why I hadn’t braved the 65 degree weather the day before and hung up the Christmas lights.

There’s no adventure in it that’s why. How am I supposed to drum up material to write about for you fine folks if I go around hanging up Christmas lights on perfectly beautiful days with little or no chance of slipping on a patch of ice 15 feet off the ground while in a tangle of blinking lights? Once the bait always the bait. Happy Holidays my friends.

I was at the grocery store the other day leisurely strolling through the aisles, reading labels on this and that as I searched for the various items I had come for. I knew where the items could generally be found in the store but I was in no particular hurry to gather them up and haul them out to my car in the brisk weather that has found us. As I sauntered about I could hear the familiar sound of parental-child interactions occurring in and around each of the aisles I perused.

Each interaction had its own tone and unique flavor but all possessed the common element of a kid trying to get their parent or parents to buy them something. By “trying” I mean shamelessly begging as if their entire existence were dependent on them having whatever the item of desire was at that particular time and place. The time, place, and item didn’t seem to matter much to the little beggars as I heard the same wee negotiators spinning their hard luck yarns in various aisles throughout the store for various items.

To the casual observer these interactions are always interesting and amusing to various degrees. Especially to us casual observers who have been on the receiving end of a little one’s pleas for a fifty pound bag of candy and a toy that’ll be lost or broken before you get home. To the casual observer that has never been in the trenches with the fruit of their loins the entire scene may seem ridiculous. “Just tell them no. How hard is it? No, end of story…that’s what I would do.” That’s what you would do? Lay down the law…conversation over. How quaint.

Why didn’t the parents think of that? The casual observers that have been beaten down and berated a time or two by those they gave life to are very aware that the parents have most likely already said, “No” to the child 364,215 times in the last 5 minutes. Also, we understand that this confrontation has probably been brewing all day long and what we are witnessing is that boiling over point. The point where the parent has had enough and the kid knows they are walking that fine line between the parent cracking and giving in to the incessant begging or cracking and leaving a full cart in the aisle.

As a parent on the ropes I’ve cracked and fallen both directions a time or two. Some days you’re just not up to the battle and give in to the little fascists but other days you hold the line like a champ and go home with only the items you intended to buy. Now that our kids are older these battles are behind us…that war is over…and like many old veterans I miss the fight.

When you’re in your 20s and 30s, earhole deep in the thick of making a go at life, raising kids, and still growing up yourself, you could never fathom that one day you would only be ankle deep and wishing you could jump back in.

A parent in the trenches doesn’t care to hear, “You’ll miss this someday” from an old veteran of the parent-child wars that has spent the last hour leisurely comparing carbohydrate levels in various brands of ketchup. A parent in the trenches only hears those relentless little voices begging, pleading, and prodding. They’ll miss it someday…not today…but someday.

In general, we men folk tend to eat as if a fast moving blaze were advancing up each of the four legs of our dining room chair and we need to finish before it reaches the seat. My wife always tells me I should chew my food better before sending it on its solemn trip to the dirty south. That is a wife’s job after all, to tell us husbands things that we should have the sense to know without being told.

Maybe it’s not that we don’t know, maybe we just like to know someone cares enough about us to tell us what we should know. Proof that someone would just as soon see us breathing freely without obstruction rather than clutching our throats…eye’s bulging…neck muscles straining (the same way you looked in your wedding pictures). Proof that we are worthy and loved enough to have cautionary words of advice repeatedly repeated in our general direction. Or we just don’t care. We don’t see the danger in lobbing an entire bread roll in our pie hole before we’ve given the fist sized piece of brisket previously placed in said pie hole sufficient attention.

I have noticed that I am a more attentive and meticulous masticator when I’m dining alone or in the company of those that I don’t trust to effectively perform the Heimlich. Such as, those not wearing pants or in possession of stubby arms. By alone I mean far enough removed from other people that I couldn’t run wild eyed, crashing towards them with a slab of sirloin in my throat before losing consciousness. It’s always difficult to effectively convey your situational needs when you’re unconscious. Though I’ve never tested my range I suppose I could make it 100 yards…give or take…depending on terrain, wind, and proper footwear.

My wife should take it as a vote of confidence in her life saving abilities that I choose to forgo chewing in her presence. I liken it to skydiving with the instructor strapped to your back. Steadfast and poised, on high alert to keep you both from sudden slimness. I’ve never skydived before but I would imagine that it is somewhat easier to bail out of a perfectly good airplane while in the warm embrace of a professional as compared to all alone with nobody but yourself to rely on.

From past experience I am aware that yourself can be unreliable when entrusted to do far more mundane tasks than properly opening a parachute. Sure, we’ve all heard stories of people surviving parachuting mishaps but those are stories I am content to just hear about. You can have your harrowing story of landing face down in a manure pile and walking away scented but unscathed.

Besides, how many times could you tell a story like that? Do you want that to be the pinnacle of your existence? The only lasting impression you leave behind…except the one in the manure pile of course. Even that impression will eventually get filled in with more manure. There’s never a shortage of manure. I suppose there’ll never be a shortage of people falling face down in it either.

I guess if we allow ourselves to be defined by the act of getting out of it rather than falling into it we’ll be all right. After all, for the most part, that’s what we want for each other…to be all right. Maybe I’ll start chewing my food better…maybe.

I’d like to send a birthday wish over Bozeman way to our daughter Sierra. Nineteen years old, away from home, learning a trade, learning about life, learning, learning, learning…she’s doing all right.

Our daughter, Sierra, returned home for a visit this weekend. Her first time back from college, and the first we’ve seen of her, since we parted ways in Bozeman back in August. The first we’ve seen of her in person anyway. There have been numerous sightings of her via Facebook. Pictures of her hiking…pictures of her mountain biking…pictures of her white water rafting…pictures of her rock climbing. In essence, a pictorial montage of the poor girl trying to mask her homesickness.

To the casual observer the massive smile on that mask is fairly effective in portraying someone thoroughly enjoying college life, but a father is not a casual observer. A father see’s right through that massive smile. A fathers sees a girl desperately missing home. A father doesn’t see sweat and river water he sees sorrowful tears. A father…ah who am I trying to kid, the girl is having the time of her life…and she has good grades.

As long as those two can coincide I have no problems. The life of a college students is such a grueling affair who can blame them for letting off a little steam now and then with all that the Big Sky state has to offer. It’s a good thing I went to college in Aberdeen, South Dakota where the two biggest distractions from studying were watching it snow and shoveling snow.

I managed to squeeze a little fun out of my time in college (a little more than some a little less than someone…I’m sure) but good grades and good times did not coexist in a congenial manner for me. Fortunately for Sierra a relatively even split of genetics has made it possible for her to balance the two ends of this college equation. A relentless drive for academic success from me and an eye for all things fun, funny, and frivolous from her mother (historical accuracy is always at the mercy of the writer).

That’s why my wife stalked and wooed me 20 years ago in college. She needed someone serious and studious to balance out her penchant for partying so her children had half a chance of being productive citizens and resist the urge to become pixy dust spreaders on the Tilt-A-Whirl. Hard to believe it’s been 20 years since she set her diabolical plan into action.

Dawn and I went back to our old alma mater a few weeks ago for homecoming. She had an alumni gathering for the track and cross-country team to attend and I went along as her arm candy…as usual. It was fun to see some familiar faces that shared our time and place at Northern State. Twenty years of living had exerted itself to varying degrees on all of us. Some more fortunate than others.

Some hadn’t changed much at all and some you had to squint and use your imagination a little more extensively to see who you saw 20 years ago. I have a good imagination but it does have its limits. It was enjoyable to visit and catch up with all the goings on in some of their lives…some not so much. Some were able to jar your memory right quick on why you were never really chums 20 years ago.

If only our appearance was as resilient to the passage of time as our personality.

It’s possible that I’ve explored this topic in days gone by, I tend to block out painful experiences, but when they’re experienced again I find it therapeutic to write about them to rid myself of the demons. You people are much more economical and understanding than a shrink.

Somehow I always seem to draw the short straw when that fateful day arrives that it becomes necessary to introduce our children to the wonderful world of the Department of Motor Vehicles. My wife will fain rickets, the plague, scurvy or even dare use work as an excuse to get out of this parental purgatory. I guess it makes up for the whole child birthing thing. I witnessed that messy ordeal, and although it appeared to create a bit of discomfort for my wife, it didn’t take nearly as long as a trip to the DMV.

I made no less than three pilgrimages to this village of the disgruntled with my daughter a couple of years ago and found myself venturing down the very same trail of tears with my son a few days ago so he could have a go at securing a learners permit. My wife was kind enough to ease the pain a bit by rounding up the plethora of documentation required for this rite of passage in advance. You need less documentation to purchase an automatic weapon.

I’ve never bought an automatic weapon but I’m fairly certain the first question on the application is, “Will you be making a trip to the DMV sometime in the next 78 years” and if you answer “yes” your application is promptly denied and you are placed on a “probable terror suspect” list.

When my son and I walked into the DMV I immediately recognized all the poor souls behind the counter that were busy explaining to people, “I’m sorry that’s not the right documentation. Those were the right documents when you arrived but we changed our policies while you were standing in line.” My son looked at me and said, “Everyone working here looks so pale.” Pale and unflinching while the red faced and angry rummaged through their pile of documents to try and find the elusive proof that they are who they claim to be. Whoever they were when they came in is not who they are now…and may never be again.

The only people smiling are the teenagers, either because they are getting a license or because their parents are being reduced to tears by some pale stranger in a wrinkled government issued polo shirt. I suspect the latter. I’m certain that the phrase, “misery loves company” was born in the DMV…and will probably die there as well.

To make a short story long, Jackson missed passing the exam by one point. One lousy point. I suspect he did it on purpose as pay back for me not buying him a pony when he was six. Teenagers are spiteful that way. Maybe a pony’s not such a bad idea. I don’t think the DMV has any authority over the issuance of a pony riding license. We’ve got a spare bedroom and our dog could use a buddy.

Computers and the World Wide Web make our lives easier in many ways. For instance, I can pay bills without having to find an envelope, track down a stamp, write a check, stuff the envelope, lick the envelope (tasty), walk all the way to the end of the driveway, put the envelope in the mail box, raise the little flag, and walk all the way back to the house (it’s uphill).

That entire exhausting rigmarole takes an excruciating three minutes. Three and a half if I step in something unsavory on my way to or from the mailbox or get chased by the neighbor kid (he’s odd).

Oh no, none of that nonsense for me thank you very much. I’ll just flip open my laptop lid, realize the batteries dead, track down the cord, plug it in, wait for it to start up, find out the internet service isn’t working, reset the modem, try and find the 241 digit security code to reconnect to the modem, log onto the internet, curse at a few hundred popups, find the bill pay website, forget bill pay website username and password, answer 38 security questions to prove to me that I’m me, wait for email to reset password, reset password, login to bill pay site, attempt to login to bill pay site, login in after 17 failed attempts, and pay the bill.

That entire effortless convenience of modern technology takes a mere six hours. Six and a half if I have to call the police on the neighbor kid.

Since the smartphoneectomy I underwent over a month ago I’ve started to appreciate the joys of past inconveniences. I have a cell phone but it’s only good for calling and texting. Remember those dusty old relics? If you see me sitting and poking around on my phone nowadays you can rest assured that I’m not looking up fun facts on Google I just don’t want to talk to you. It’s not true…we can’t all be friends…no matter what Facebook says.

In class the other day I was chit chatting with my students about Facebook friends, because chit chatting is my job and the only thing my students and I have in common is access to and knowledge of Facebook. Through some intellectual fact gathering and statistical analysis we came to the conclusion that 400 Facebook friends is roughly equivalent to ½ an actual friend.

Some bored (or boring) statistician determined that over the past 10 to 15 years the average American has went from having 3 good friends to 1.5 good friends. We have all lost a friend-and-a-half somewhere along the way since the turn of the century. Either that or we still have three friends but they only like us half as much.

Is the half a friend a wee friend on the short side of tall or a friend who likes you half the time? The bored (or boring) statistician didn’t clarify those points as they generally aren’t much interested in things of interest.

Can your 1.5 friends take turns being the ½ a friend? “He borrowed my favorite sweater and stretched the neck hole out with his oversized head…I get to be the ½ friend for a few weeks.” “Oh, okay I’ll be the full friend…but only for a few weeks…he still hasn’t replaced the bag of pixy stix and wax lips he took from my pantry when he baby sat my cat last weekend.”

I’d like to think I have several full friends. I like to think a lot of things. Who’s your ½ friend?