Rambling Josh

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 Tour guides clunkin' around with a half a tank of gas, bald tires, smelly exhaust, and outdated maps.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?

Early on a recent August morning I awoke well before the sun had even thought about rising, earlier than I prefer to wake, closer to the time I prefer to go to sleep. I had remembered to set the timer on the coffee maker the night before so the only sound in the house was the odd assortment of groans and gurgles required to produce a pot of hot coffee. To those of us that drink coffee it is musical. Incidentally, the same noises are required of me to tie my shoes or any other task that requires bending at the waist.

I awoke early because the day that always seemed like one of those far off days had arrived and it was time. It was time to take our daughter and a few of her belongings that she had deemed “essential” to a college campus eight hours away.

Drive eight hours, unpack those essential belongings, carry them up 8 flights of stairs to a room half the size of the one in which those essential belongings had once adorned, and then leave our daughter to be educated. Leave her to sleep in a room where a father can’t peak in and take comfort in knowing that she is sleeping safe and sound as I have done most every night since the day we brought her home.

When I went out to load one last box of essential belongings into the pickup it was dark and the stars were bright and it made me think of the night we brought her home from the hospital. It seemed like yesterday that I was unloading the last of the essential belongings a new parent gets issued, when I paused and looked up at the stars and said to nobody and everybody, “I need some help.”

Somehow over 18 years has passed since that night, and somehow we managed to raise a girl that is above all things a good person. So early on an August morning I looked up at those same stars through the same eyes that see different now and said to nobody and everybody, “Keep her safe.”

So we loaded up and headed west towards the future with thoughts of the past so thick it was hard to see sometimes. Thankfully by the time those thoughts were getting to me the sun was up and I had an excuse to hide my teary eyes behind sun glasses. It seemed to hit hardest when we got within 100 miles of Bozeman. In a last ditch attempt to drag Sierra’s childhood out a little longer I started to gradually let up on the accelerator and contemplated taking a wrong turn while she was napping.

It’s not wrong for a parent to entertain such selfish thoughts. You sort of get attached to these people when you spend 18 years completely entangled in their every moment. Apparently teenagers are not of this same mindset as it didn’t seem all that trying of an experience for Sierra to part ways with us. Perhaps it’s a built in mechanism to keep them from being content to live in our basements.

For a little girl that would cry when I didn’t get her pony tail straight she never shed a tear as she hugged us and ushered us to the parking lot. I am happy she wasn’t content to spend the rest of her life in our basement, and I am impressed with her strength, motivation, and drive to move onto the next chapter in her life. But come on…are just a few tears and a little blubbering as you bid ado to dear old dad too much to ask for? Kicked to the curb by college…so it goes.

Early on a recent August morning things changed. I’ll keep you posted.

About six Augusts ago our family started doing a “See Ya Later Summer” meal where we go out to eat and mourn the passing of yet another summer. We look back fondly as our Coppertone comrades jaunty steps gradually slow to a gasping shuffle. Summer moves amongst the wilted flowers and discarded popsicle sticks refusing to look back and acknowledge the slow steady advance of its old nemesis, Fall.

Our “See Ya Later Summer” meal used to be pizza at a picnic table by the kids favorite playground but the kids don’t have much use for playgrounds anymore so we upgraded to one of those “sit down” type restaurants this year…so it goes.

The agenda for the “See Ya Later Summer” meal doesn’t vary much from year-to-year. I ask what the fondest memory of the past summer was, what they enjoyed most…so forth and so on. They are teenagers so usually I have to settle for the usual teenage response to such parental prodding’s, “I don’t know”.

This year I made a more future focused addition to the agenda and asked them what they hoped to accomplish between this “See Ya Later Summer” meal and the next. This elicited the same thoughtful response of, “I don’t know.” Sierra eventually offered up that she hopes to successfully complete her freshman year of college (good idea) and Jackson said, sarcastically I hope, “get loaded and have a good time.” One for two isn’t bad.

The answers they give aren’t as important to me as getting them to simply think about the questions. At least it makes me feel better to “think” that I’ve made them reflect on the past and ponder the future.

Change is the natural order of things when you have children. They’re never content to just stay kids. They grow up…I grow old…beats the alternative I assume. Last week we did our yearly measurements of the kids and Jackson managed to grow up about a 1/8 inch taller than his father. We stood back to back and when my wife announced the results Jackson turned, chest bumped me, and exclaimed, “New alpha male Pops!”

I returned a chest bump of my own and applied a quick choke hold to demonstrate the fact that alpha male status has little to do with height…then I went to lift weights to prepare for the young pups next attack. Like Falls inevitable advance on Summer the boy’s gaining on me and seems pretty happy about the entire turn of events. A little too happy for my taste.

After I reviewed the stats my wife recorded regarding our height I came to the conclusion that he didn’t catch me we sort of met going in opposite directions. I claimed to be 5'10" when I went to college back in 1991 and scaled that back to a more realistic 5'9" after a particularly detestable woman working at the Department of Motor Vehicle snidely question my claim of 5'10".

I know better than to mess with DMV so I decided to forgo any mention of her facial hair and left an inch shorter than when I entered. But now it appears that somewhere along the way I’ve misplaced another inch as my wife listed me closer to 5'8" in the alpha male showdown with Junior. I know people shrink as they age but I had always assumed that applied to “other” people.

I’ll be in my hammock if you need me…if I’m still tall enough to get in it.

My name is Josh and I have been cell phone free for three days. I quit cold turkey, as quitters sometimes say to emphasis their iron will and strange disdain for tepid poultry. I prefer cold turkey, especially during these dog days of summer when creating hot turkey would turn your home into a sweat lodge. Besides any turkey left to linger into August is most likely some sort of degenerate wayward bird not worth the gravy you lace it with.

The shunning of the smart alec phone is in no way a show of my iron will, although I am able to fully commit to things stranger and more difficult than unhinging myself from the tether that has tied me to the new world order of communication, connectivity, and Google for so long. Without the all-knowing Google at my beckon call I have been forced to simply wonder and ponder how many different dogs played Lassie and other such questions that perpetually haunt humanity.

It has been a quiet three days with no intrusive pings, dings, or rattles vying for my immediate and constant attention. The side effects of the iPhonectomy have been minimal thus far. Very little discomfort, no uncontrollable bowel issues or persistent longing for screen tapping. There have been a few phantom vibrations in my pants pocket but my doctor has assured me they are unrelated to prolonged cell phone exposure…the nurse giggled…I blushed…so it goes.

The reason behind this cold turkey episode was that one of the perks of my job was that my employer supplied me with a cell phone so they could be sure to have access to me whenever and wherever my person may be at any given time. That particular employer is no longer employing me as I have moved on to what I hope to be greener, lusher, and much more intellectually stimulating pastures. As is the nature of pastures cell phones are not standard issue. They spook the cattle.

No, I’m not going to work on a ranch, Wranglers make me talk funny and flip-flops create anxiety amongst hens which negatively effects their egg production. Chadron State College was kind enough to bring me on board and hand me the keys to a classroom full of unsuspecting and highly impressionable college students. No cell phone required.

So far being off the iLeash has been quite pleasant and has stirred a yearning for the way things were prior to all the iClutter that has inundated our lives. I admit that many of these devices bring quite a measure of convenience to our day-to-day lives but waiting for the next available customer service representative one more time may put me over the edge.

The only thing that keeps my dander down when I’m forced to call these gurus of the gadgetry is to mentally chant the mantra “I’m not them”. When I hang up it’s over for me but for them it’s the beginning of another problem solving fun fest with a shiny new knucklehead. One after another…day in and day out.

Enjoy what’s left of the summer. In a few weeks your kids will be someone else’s problem.