Rambling Josh

Me and video games have always had a strained relationship. Mainly because I stink at each and every one of them…always have and I suspect always will. Generally I’m not inclined to fits of rage or anger but video games never fail to get my Underoos in a bunch. Buck Rogers if you must know.

My brother and I, like many children in 1982, found an Atari 2600 under the Christmas tree. We were ecstatic, our very own video game, something else to add to the long list of things for us to fight about. And fight we did. As if it wasn’t bad enough that I stunk at each and every game I had to put up with an irritating little brother beating me and telling me that I stunk.

As you Atari aficionados are aware the Atari came with a “Joy Stick” that the smiling, happy player used to control the objects on the screen. One stick…one button…how hard could it be? If only the objects on the screen would have done what I wanted them to do when I wanted them to do it. Someone at the Atari factory failed to put the “joy” in my stick. When I was “playing” I looked like an angry epileptic chimp trying to get the lid off a jar of homemade pickles.

Such fun, such happiness, such delight, such joy…for my brother and anyone else that played me anyway. For me it was agony. Joyless, frustrating, agony. I feel it welling up now 30 years later just thinking about it. Why wouldn’t Donkey Kong jump the barrel? Why did the Pit Fall guy always..always..always fall into the alligator infested pit? Why did those ghosts in Pac-Man out maneuver me every single time? Why oh why?

There have been many video game consoles that have come out since the Atari 2600. My son has an Xbox 360 that he seems to be able to operate without much problem. I have heard the telltale sounds of video game rage coming from his room from time to time but it’s short lived and he seems to move on with the game quickly once the fit has passed.

He’s talked me into playing a game with him a few times and yes I still stink. I still stink, still get frustrated, and still feel like crushing the controller into tiny little pieces each and every time some zombie gets me before I get them.

Gone is the one stick, one button layout of the previously mentioned “Joyless Stick”. The controllers now have more buttons than I have fingers, which seems unfair from the get go and, for your information, I have a full set of 10 digits despite taking high school shop. I watch my son’s fingers flutter with ease around the controller as the zombie killer on the screen expertly moves here and there making zombies wish they had never been born…or dead…I don’t know anymore.

Then it’s my turn. My son’s barking directions…right flipper, “X” button, left trigger…the zombies are closing in. I assume their closing in. I haven’t had a chance to actually look up at the screen as the 63 buttons are giving me and my 10 fingers about as much sensory input as a man in my condition can hope to handle. I’m not sure exactly what that condition is but I know I’ve had it since Christmas 1982 and it could turn out to be fatal…for everyone but the zombies.

Happy 15th Birthday to my son Jackson. May your day be shiny and bright like the braces we got you instead of a dirt bike, a llama or a chimp.

Back in the early days of baseball, amateur teams, teams that weren’t professional big city ball clubs, that played out in the country, small towns, or any such back and beyond baseball fields were said to play in the “Bush Leagues.” It was a descriptive phrase, or noun (all my English teachers pat yourself on the back you penetrated my skull), that simply meant anything other than professional level baseball teams.

This origin of the term wasn’t meant to be derogatory but soon shifted from a noun to an adjective (go ahead pat yourselves on the back again) and took on a new meaning, a derogatory meaning, that was used in and out of baseball as a reference to something or someone of low quality that is lacking professionalism (think Ponzi Scheme in the corporate world).

Nowadays, we use the term in baseball when other bush league synonyms (one more pat on the back) we would like to use might get us tossed out of a game for not being very lady like. More accurately, we yell the term (rather than “use” it) at an opposing player or more likely a coach for being an unsavory jerk (synonym). It goes without saying, but I’ll say it, you don’t want to be referred to as “Bush League” in baseball or any other arena of dealings with human folk.

I played for a coach in college one season (for some reason he didn’t last long) that loved to run a variety of trick plays. Plays that were designed to outwardly deceive opposing players and get them out in what many of my teammates and myself felt to be an unsavory manner. We hated running the plays as we didn’t think they were very sporting and knew that they were considered bush league.

We would often times accidently-on-purpose “missed” the coaches signal (mutiny on the bush league seas) to put one of his trick plays into action to save ourselves the embarrassment of having the insult of “bush league” hurled our way by the opposition and all goodly baseball folk from the bush to the big cities.

Winning by embarrassing another player through trickery is not winning in my book (I don’t actually have a book so don’t ask for it in your local bookstore). If you win or gain an advantage in this manner the baseball gods will surely frown upon you and karmic misfortune will most certainly track you down and bounce a baseball into your groin at the most inopportune moment (see “Bernie Madoff”). I don’t like to have baseball’s bounced into my groin and as far as I know there is no “opportune” moment for such a ghastly event to occur.

Coaches that employ bush league tactics and teach them to the players under their charge defend their less than sporting ways by claiming that winning is what matters most and you should try and win at all costs. These are not coaches I want my son to play for. I want my son, and all kids for that matter, to have the opportunity to play for coaches that teach respect for their opponents and respect for the game. Those are teachings that will foster character and sportsmanship. Useful and desirable attributes on and off the field.

Thankfully my son has had the opportunity to play for such coaches and will be better because of it…win or lose.

I have a bike that I ride thus I am a bike rider, or cyclist, not sure what the difference is other than bike rider sounds more passive than cyclist. Bike rider makes it sound like your just sitting there whereas cyclist sounds like you’re doing something. I guess both can be true on any given ride. Going downhill your generally along for the ride, smiling and squealing like a fool, going uphill your wheezing, sweating, cursing, snorting…you’re a cyclist.

Some feel the need to peddle on the downhill…they are called idiots. These are the same people that walk on escalators and habitually partake in other foolishly unnecessary exertions that perhaps provide them some sort of false sense of accomplishment. Poor souls don’t know what they’re missing.

Rapid City has a wonderful bike path that meanders through town along Rapid Creek. The path is a favorite for local bikers, walkers, runners, and general wanderers on walkabouts and such. I have found that the bike path is the most dangerous place to ride a bike in Rapid City. I would rather take my chances with the herds of rental RVs and other motorized forms of metal mayhem.

Dodging destruction on the highways and bi-ways is much safer than navigating the duffers, dogs, kids, squirrels, and most recently…basketballs on the bike path. What are the chances that you hit a rogue basketball so squarely that it completely stops your bicycles forward progress and drops you to the pavement faster than a narcoleptic pigeon?

I wasn’t in a hurry, I wasn’t riding too fast, I was abiding by bike path etiquette. I was coming up behind a young man in his early 20s that was apparently taking his basketball out for a stroll. He was walking and dribbling between his legs and as I approached him I said, “On your left.”

Apparently I startled him or broke his ball handling concentration and just as I was about to go around him he lost the handle on the basketball. A little to the left or a little to the right and all would have been well but I managed to hit the basketball dead solid perfect. I hit the ground and skidded a bit, leaving some of the hide from my hip and arm in my wake, eventually my skin provided sufficient braking and I came to a stop.

When I came to a stop I heard, “Are you all right?” Am I alright? Good question. When my quick assessment of my physical condition checked out okay, other than a few abrasions, I became angry for some reason. I know it was an accident, I know that guy didn’t have any malicious intent when he set out to dribble his basketball down the bike path, but something snapped. Physically I was fine but mentally things were headed south.

When he asked if I was all right I responded, “No I’m not (insert favorite four letter word here) all right!” He should have just shut up at that point and let the crazy old man in tight shorts and funny shoes fret in private but he felt bad and said, “The ball got away from me.” To which the crazy old man in tight shorts and funny shoes replied, “No (insert other favorite four letter word here) the ball got away from you!”

The nice young man that had previously been minding his own business said, “I’m really sorry sir I can call someone for you if you need help.” The lunatic in lycra replied, “I’ve got my own (insert favorite four letter word here) phone!” At that point my anger, which I almost always have absolute control over, boiled over and I picked my bike up overhead like a rabid Yetti…yelled my favorite four letter word…and hurled my bike as far as I could. I was actually pretty impressed with the distance of my bike toss.

The polite young basketball dribbler took that crazed confusing act as his cue to leave the crazy old man in tight shorts and funny shoes alone to battle his demons. As he left he said, “I’m really sorry sir…my apologies.”

Young man, wherever you are, “My apologies.” Crazy snuck up and shanghaied my congeniality. Maybe I should stick to riding escalators. For all those who may be concerned…my bike is fine.

It’s the rainy season here in the Black Hills. That time of year when you can hear the grass growing. The rainy season always corresponds with baseball season, which is in full swing for my son and me. Most baseball players don’t mind the occasional rainout easing its way into the schedule. You don’t get to play ball but you get to watch it rain, both a pleasure in their own right.

If you’ve been in a bit of a slump, an affliction no ballplayer is immune to, a rainout always seems to put the body and mind at ease and get you back on track or at least make the slump more tolerable. I’ve been playing baseball for over 35 years and what I used to consider a slump has become so common place that it’s pert near the new norm.

As of late I’ve been thinking that maybe I should hang up the cleats but I’d miss those rainouts too much. I thought I’d at least play until my glove broke so I’d have that for an excuse, as lame as it may be, but that old piece of cowhide won’t give up the ghost. Curse my parents for spending more than they could afford back in 1990 on a glove that any cow would be proud to give their life for.

That’s another reason I’ve been pondering putting the game to rest, there are 14 guys on the baseball team I play on and my glove is older than 12 of them. Why did these kids go and get so young? Maybe when my face begins to resemble my glove I’ll stop the madness and take up bocce ball, yard darts, or some other old fart shuffle and toss type game. Old fart shuffle and toss…and fart and wheeze and hack…would probably more accurate.

Speaking of yard darts I think we’re coming up on about the 30th anniversary of that fateful day my father permanently banished the game from our family. I’d like to say that the banishment was a result of being a sore loser in a tightly contested match but I can’t say that for a couple of reason. First, my dad’s not a sore loser, secondly he wasn’t present when the “incident” occurred.

It was one of those wrong-place-wrong-time type of incidents. Wrong place for my sister wrong time for me to prove to my brother that I could throw a yard dart higher than him, which, for those of you scoring at home, I did.

I gave it chuck and we, my brother and I, watched it arc high into the North Dakota breeze until gravity turned it’s very steal, very sharp tip down towards dad’s beautifully manicured lawn. Only this time it didn’t find dad’s lush green lawn on its downward flight. It found my sister who was, as usual, minding her own business while her two knucklehead brothers were demonstrating their stupidity, as usual.

She never saw it coming. I saw it coming, but hoped a knuckleheads hope that that North Dakota breeze would alter the yard darts flight just enough so that we could continue being knuckleheads. That wind never liked me much.

I found out right quick that head wounds bleed…a lot. It was hard to keep direct pressure on the wound while my sister ran screaming to the house. My brother, who’s a bit squeamish at the sight of blood, was no help.

So there was Jarvis, fainted away face down where the yard dart was supposed to have landed, and me running behind my sister with my finger in the divot repeating the mantra Amanda had heard numerous times before, “Don’t tell mom…don’t tell mom…” She didn’t have to tell. The grisly scene was pretty self-explanatory.

Dad got home from work, snapped each yard dart in two, said some words that would make a sailor blush and that was that…the end of my aspiring yard dart career.

Summer’s upon us…be careful out there and enjoy the rainouts…they keep the yard darts grounded.

I’m not entirely sure how this happened. The other day I was giving my daughter, Sierra, a piggyback ride up to her room as she excitedly filled me in on all the fun stuff her class was doing during the last week of kindergarten. Then, one maybe two days later, she pulls into the driveway with some friends and I overhear them excitedly talking about their last few days of high school before they graduate.

Graduate! From high school! Say it ain’t so. I guess that would explain the graduation gown hanging on her bedroom door, the pile of graduation announcements sent far and near to family and friends and the steady stream of congratulatory cards in our mailbox addressed to Sierra. I’m not old enough and surely not mature enough to be the father of a high school graduate. My mullet and I just graduated a few years ago.

How’s the parent of a high school graduate supposed to act? Old, groggy and slightly medicated? What do they look like? Rundown, rickety and mostly out of style? There must be some mistake. I’m just not ready for this. You can’t just spring something like this on someone. Can’t we go back and try it again?

Try it again. Wouldn’t it be something if this parenting gig were more like making a movie. “Nope sorry….I didn’t like that take…let’s do it again.” Instead we get one take, no script, no director, just non-stop “ACTION”.

I do feel very fortunate that my job allowed me not to miss much during Sierra’s K through 12 days. It seems like a simple mundane thing but what I especially enjoyed was being able to drop her off and pick her up at school most every day. Each day I’d send her off with; “Have fun…learn a lot” and she’d smile and say, “I will. I love you” and skip off to join her friends on the playground. Mornings aren’t my thing but that was always worth getting up for.

Then it was off to work for me. Where I would often wonder what she was up to and how her day was going? I suspect I’ll wonder those things for as long as I’m able to wonder. My children fill my world with wonder…always have…always will. For instance, right now I’m wondering when they’ll get around to picking up the dog crap in the back yard…minus what I picked up on my shoe.

Ready or not Sierra is in fact graduating from Stevens High School this week. Pomp and Circumstance will play and she will cross from this stage to the next where a new adventure awaits. An adventure that will be more hers than anything she’s ever done. We are quite proud of what she’s accomplished thus far and look forward to her future endeavors as she pursues a degree in film and photography at Montana State University.

Many changes are on the horizon but the advice I gave Sierra every day when I dropped her off at school remains the same, “Have fun and learn a lot.”

Congratulations to the class of 2014…go get em’.

Yet another May Day has come and gone without a knock on my door or ding dong of my doorbell. Each year I awake on May 1st, carb load with Cap’n Crunch, limber up with some light calisthenics, put on my running shoes, and wait…and wait…and wait.

I wait for some poor misguided soul to ring my door bell and dash away leaving a May Basket teaming with left over Easter candy in their wake. This is where it gets interestingly odd for all directly or indirectly involved.

Those directly involved would be the dasher and myself, of course, and those indirectly involved would be the innocent neighbor who picked the wrong time to tend to her azaleas or the unfortunate UPS driver leaving a package that’s mistaken for a May Basket teaming with left over Easter candy by an overzealous idiot in a cashmere track suit hopped up on Cap’n Crunch.

On a side note (I love side notes…they’re generally more interesting than the actual note), I used to wear a cashmere track suit in high school during chilly football practices. It was graciously loaned to me by one of my classmates, who shall remain nameless, as his father may still be wondering what ever happened to his cashmere track suit. Only a quarterback can get away with wearing cashmere. Ahhh…glory days.

Getting ran down, tackled, and smooched should not come as a surprise to anyone on May Day unless this May Day Basket tradition was merely a ruse perpetrated by a sadistic elementary school teacher entertaining themselves at the expense of the ill-mannered students they’ve been stuck with for an entire school year. I’ve chaperoned a few elementary school activities in my day and would not hold any elementary teacher at fault for such a stunt.

They are after all human and elementary students are not. They are fidgety little things with wild imaginations, a surplus of energy, and a steady stream of absurd questions and comments that pass from their brains to their mouths without the benefit of any sort of filter. Many advance into adulthood without ever developing such a filter and wind up being the subject of reality T.V. shows or columnists for their hometown newspaper. So it goes.

At any rate, if it weren’t for the May Day Basket tradition there would be little use for the cardboard tubes from toilet paper rolls, pipe cleaners, and leftover Easter candy. This also explains why many parents find piles of unrolled toilet paper on the bathroom floor on the morning of May 1st…kids aren’t so good at planning ahead. What do you expect from people that rely on “number of sleeps” instead of a calendar to plan future events?

After a long day of adorning my cardboard tube with construction paper and affixing the pipe cleaner handle I remember leaving school with my third grade buddies discussing whose step we were going to leave our baskets on. Before any of us could decide or get up the courage to follow through with the May Basket tradition some cooty infested girls broke the rules and took chase. We zigged and zagged for all we were worth and then, fearing the worst, we wildly flung our May Baskets in an attempt to create a diversion.

The diversion was successful…I guess. The girls got all our candy and we were left empty handed and confused. Some things never change.

We’re looking forward to venturing to Upstate North Dakota this weekend to be a part of “Otto’s Roundup”. Otto’s Roundup is a gathering to celebrate my wee nephew reaching the ripe old age of 2. The entire contents of my underwear drawer are older than that and not due to be decommissioned until cheesecloth status is achieved.

Two years old. I remember when I was 2…the year was 1974 and I was spiraling out of control, consuming an alarming amount of Pixy Stix and Licorice Whips in an attempt to deal with the birth of my brother, a birth that signified the end of my innocents and the beginning of being an instigating older brother.

I believe my second birthday had a bit of a cowboy theme as well. I received a leather cowboy vest complete with conches and tassels from my Great Grandma Arlene. I still have the vest but it fits a little snug so I have to wear it without a shirt under it and it appears that a varmint of some sort gnawed a few of the leather tassels off.

My Grandma Rose made me a birthday cake, as she did every year, until the powers to be shipped me off to work at the brewery (college) when I was 18. The 1974 model was western themed topped off with a 12-inch toy horse. I still have the horse but I can only play with it when I’m wearing my leather vest…without a shirt of course…can’t play horsey in restrictive clothing.

The horse and I didn’t always have such a congenial relationship. On the day of my birthday, while I was off playing nail the tail on my little brother, my Grandpa Ardell crumpled up a chocolate cookie behind the horse and told me it pooped on my cake. No 12-inch toy pony is going to get away with crapping on this hombre’s cake. I refused to play with that pony until my Grandma convinced me of the 12-inch pony’s innocents…last year.

Otto, like his father, is an entertaining little cuss and I’m sure he’ll be a wonderful host for his roundup. My son, Jackson, went through a cowboy stage as well back when I could count his birthdays with one hand tied behind my back. Seems like yesterday that our living room was a rodeo arena and I was the kids bucking bronc. It all goes so fast.

John Lennon was right when he said, “Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.” I’m thankful every day that my children are part of the life that’s happening to me. Being a Dad is a great gig. The pays lousy but the benefits are phenomenal.

For Otto on his special day I wish him nothing more than many, many more and to Gabe and Marki…enjoy the ride with your little cowboy. See you at the roundup pardner.

Well here we are…another Spring valiantly attempting to roll into the Dakota’s. Spring always seems to bring snow here in the Black Hills. Heavy wet snow that bends branches, bows power lines, and buoys the hopes of children that they will awaken to reports that school has been cancelled. A snow day is pure magic to a kid.

Of snow day’s the most prized and sought after would have to be a Monday snow day. A Monday snow day is like a last minute phone call from the governor right before the switch was thrown on “Old Sparky” for some heinous crime you were wrongfully convicted of.

A Monday snow day where you’re mom wakes you from a fitful dream where you’re standing in front of your 5th grade classmates attempting to give a report on the migratory patterns of whooping cranes when you look at your reflection in the window of the classroom and discover that you’re wearing nothing but your great grandma’s underwear and a pair of rubber wellies.

None of your classmates seem to notice so you attempt to carry on with the presentation as planned but there’s not much waist band left to speak of in your great grandmother’s skivvies. She was of that generation who believed the phrase “waste not want not” applied to everything which has left you with waist not.

To receive full points the report had to have a demonstration component but try as you may you cannot properly demonstrate whooping crane wing dynamics because you only dare remove one hand from the waist band at a time. The teacher is obviously not pleased with your one winged whooping crane demonstration and a nervous flop sweat overcomes you and you can feel your rubber wellies slowly filling with sweat as you flap and whoop…whoop and flap.

You’ve been hovering around a “B” all semester but if you can pull off an “A” you’re dad has promised to buy you a new BMX Coast King. You would like nothing more because your old bike was backed over by your drunken uncle and you’ve been forced to ride your little sister’s My Little Pony banana bike with the sparkly handle bar tassels and pink basket that she insists remain forever full of My Little Ponies and My Little Pony accessories.

With the new BMX Coast King clouding your judgment you decide to just go for it and give a proper whooping crane wind dynamics demonstration. Exactly what you feared would happen if your waist band was left unattended has happened. You know this because you’ve sensed a breeze in places you weren’t sensing one previously. This fact has managed to gain the attention of your classmates and as they laugh and point you turn to run out of the classroom.

As you turn to run you find that one cannot run fast or far with undergarments around their ankles and you slowly totter towards the ground still whooping and flapping for that “A”. As you hit the ground the sweat from your rubber wellies sends a warm wave up the backs of your legs and then suddenly you’re awake.

You’re awake and your mother is telling you that school has been canceled. The words, “school has been cancelled” slowly register and you realize that you have more time to prepare your report on the migratory patterns of whooping cranes. You also realize that you should have listened to your mother and not drank that huge glass of Tang before you went to bed. So it goes.

Happy Spring.

Two old Pollock’s and a middle-aged Welsh-German-Norwegian-French Canadian-Irishman walk into a blue grass festival. The middle-aged mutt says, “Should we sit over here?” One old Pollock says, “Sure I’ll have a beer.” The other says, “Should we sit over here?” The middle-aged mutt says, “It looks like there are three empty chairs over there.” One old Pollock says, “I emptied my underwear before we left the house.” The other says, “It looks like there are three empty chairs over there.” The middle-aged mutt says, “Let’s sit here.” One old Pollock says, “Sure I’ll have a beer.” The other says, “Let’s sit here.”

The middle-aged mutt says, “The music’s about to start did you turn the ringer off on your phone?” One old Pollock says, “Yes I got a low interest car loan.” The other says, “The music’s about to start did you turn the ringer off on your phone?” The middle-aged mutt says, “Would you like a beer?” One old Pollock says, “No I want to sit here.” The other says, “Would you like a beer?” The middle-aged mutt says, “How do you like the music?” One old Pollock says, “Yes I used to have moustache before I joined the army.” The other says, “How do you like the music?”

My father-in-law and his brother, Tony, have stopped in for a few days on their return trip from their yearly bowling pilgrimage to Reno. They are an entertaining duo and we always enjoy having them here for a visit. Lots of card playing, coffee drinking and general farting around (figuratively and literally) is usually on the agenda when they come to town.

I’m not particularly good at playing and remembering card games and poor Tony gets stuck being my partner all the time in whist. Thankfully he is patient, forgiving and has learned to have very low expectations when sitting at a card table across from me. He doesn’t expect me to play a certain suit at a certain time because I have absolutely no idea what suit to play at a certain time.

It’s not from lack of instruction from those that know how to play the game…I just have a blind spot in my brain for card games…a big blind spot. Several well-meaning people have went through agonizing hours to teach me a card game only to have it slip from mind sometime between them saying, “Ok…you got it?” and them shuffling the cards.

Several of my college baseball teammates used to play cards on the bus during our endless road trips to far reaching corners of the Midwest. One of them got spooked when he overheard me conversing with a cornfield we were driving by and in an attempt to salvage my psychological well-being, insisted I join them in playing cards. I wasn’t really conversing with the cornfield, I was conversing to the cornfield. I’m well aware most cornfields don’t talk but they are all wonderful listeners…they are all ears after all. So it goes.

We had a wonderful weekend of blue grass, bowling, basketball and bantering over cards and we look forward to their next visit. I would like to promise Tony that I’ll be a better whist partner next time we play but the cornfield insisted that giving him false hope was worse than giving him no hope.

I hope you had a wonderful St. Patrick’s Day. As some Irishman once said, “May those that love us love us…and for those that don’t love us may God turn their hearts…and if he can’t turn their hearts may he turn their ankles so we’ll know them by their limping.” Luck to ya till we meet again.

Family and friends from near and far gathered this past weekend to celebrate Grandma Rose’s 80th birthday. Grandma Rose is truly an angel on earth whose loving, kind, quiet and gentle way is the medicine those of us fortunate enough to call her “Grandma” needed and wanted as children when we were sick…or at least pretending to be sick.

There are a few years between me and my childhood, but even now, when I’m not feeling well, I often find my dreams filled with grandma’s soft soothing humming. It’s hard to put into words the gratitude and love we all have for this selfless saint of a women that manages to see the good in each of us no matter how deep we sometimes bury it.

It was enjoyable seeing so many that have shared in Grandma’s life at her party wishing her well and sitting down for a visit with the birthday girl. It’s hard to fathom the extent a single person’s influence can extend through time, but after seeing how many people took the time to venture out into the arctic air to be a part of Grandma’s celebration I’m confident her reach will extend beyond my years on this earth.

Whether March came in like a lion or a lamb is up for debate. The day wasn’t particularly blustery and the sun was shining but it was colder than the stares I got from all my former elementary teachers that came to grandma’s party. Just kidding, they all smiled and said, “Hello” but I kept a watchful eye on them just in case they came with revenge on their minds. They say that time heals all wounds but they never say exactly how much time…they need to be more precise so I know when I can quit worrying about retaliation.

If you ask me the sun was wasting it’s time. If you’re going to shine, shine warm…that’s the same advice my interpretive dance coach gave me right before I stepped on stage for the national “Jazz Hands are Happy Hands” competition. I was narrowly defeated by a former cosmonaut in a highly controversial and scandalous judging fiasco rumored to have been orchestrated by the Russian mafia. Not wanting to risk having a spirit finger snapped, I left well enough alone, took my second place trophy, and went on to enjoy great success as a hand stunt double in power tool and dish soap commercials.

That being said, I think the lamb wins the March 1st battle due to the simple fact that I spotted several lambs out and about on that frigid day but neither hide nor hair of a single lion. Could a lamb beat a lion in a one on one face off? I think Marlin Perkins answered that question years ago in the Mutual of Omaha Wild Kingdom episode, “Lamb Chops”. Shari Lewis’s hand was not harmed in the making of that episode.

The North Dakota air was brisk, the conversation was lively, and, as always, the Chrest kids organized a fine get together fueled by more food than anyone could ever consume…no matter how hard we tried. Fear not, none of the leftovers went to waste. Grandma taught us better than that.

Grandma Rose has given each of us more love and kindness than we could ever use, leaving us leftovers to share for many generations to come. The sweetest flowers never stop blooming.