Rambling Josh

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.

On February 13th my brother Jarvis’s odometer ticked over to 40. Dad and mom brought Jarvis home to my turf when I was all of 18 months old and I’m sure our first fight took place shortly thereafter. Fighting was what we did. We never conversed we disputed, disputed absolutely anything and everything the other said, did or thought about saying or doing. We embraced any and all opportunities to fervently like what the other disliked and dislike what the other liked.

One of my favorite stories from our childhood occurred when we were about10 years old. Since we were so good at sharing Jarvis and I thought it a good idea to go halfsies on a Shetland pony that our Dad’s boss, Buck Guthrie, had for sale. For $100 bucks a piece we got a saddle and Suzie, a cantankerous 20 year old pony that hated little boys. We were the only kids in Lignite with a horse in our backyard. Motorcycles, go-carts, unicycles, throwing stars, and an ill-tempered pony…our parents went to great lengths to rid themselves of us but like a bad rash we came back time and time again.

When Fall rolled around it was decided that Suzie should move out to our grandparents farm where she could hang out in the barn during the winter months. Someone also decided that instead of hauling her in a trailer we, Jarvis and I, would take turns riding Suzie the 12 miles from town to the farm.

Suzie didn’t hate little boys equally. She harbored a special disdain for Jarvis and was quite creative in her attempts to dislodge him from her back. Suzie would stand stock still until the backside of Jarvis’s Toughskin jeans touched the saddle. That was her signal to become erratic, unmanageable, and generally unpleasant.

Suzie twisted, turned, bounced, and tried to bite Jarvis’s feet as he took the first leg of our ride to the farm. His first leg was more of a foot…30 feet to be exact…then Jarvis dismounted and said, “Your turn, I’m done.” He wasn’t done for now, he was done for the day and set out with dad in the pickup to wait for Suzie, and hopefully me, at the farm. I’m sure he fantasized about both of our demises while he lounged at the farm working his way through a half-dozen of Grandma’s cinnamon rolls.

It wasn’t a smooth or pleasant ride by no means but Suzie and I made it to the farm. I checked her into her new digs and gingerly hobbled up to the house for some salve for my southern region and a tall glass of ice cold Tang to wash the trail dust out of my throat. Although it didn’t dampen her hatred of little boys Suzie seemed to enjoy roaming around the farm. She especially liked all the new obstacles at her disposal for smearing Jarvis out of the saddle. The upturned wings of the cultivator seemed to be her favorite.

Winter rolled around and on Christmas Day we were at the farm when Dad came in and broke the news to Jarvis and I that Suzie had died. One would think that a little boy’s pony dying on Christmas Day would be cause for sadness but you never attempted to ride Suzie. Jarvis and I bundled up and went out to pay our last respects.

Seeing his former tormentor lying there Jarvis was overcome by the desire to settle the score once and for all. He approached Suzie like Charlie Brown approaching a football and delivered the hardest kick an 80 pound 10 year old can muster. The kick was solid but so was Suzie and Jarvis howled and hopped around clutching his foot. Suzie got him one more time. I suppose the moral of the story is don’t kick a dead horse…especially in North Dakota in December.

Happy Birthday Jarvis…may the rest of your ride be smooth.

I have been a fan of Garrison Keillor and his National Public Radio show “A Prairie Home Companion” for quite some time and have always wanted to be a part of the shows live studio audience at the Fitzgerald Theater in St. Paul, Minnesota. My wife made that wish a reality when I found two tickets to his show under the Christmas tree this year.

My wife willingly listens to the show on the radio when we’re traveling but informed me that my good friend Paul was to be the number two of the two tickets of which I was one. Yet another adventure for us to partake in, or allow to partake on us, as seems to generally be the way of such things. As Guy Clark sang, “I got a pretty good friend who’s seen me at my worst…he can’t tell if I’m a blessing or a curse…”

We’re not too hard to entertain. Generally, a bottle of rum, some jerky, a couple of cigars, and excessive flatulence will do the trick, but now we had actual tickets to actual entertainment by actual entertainers.

As mentioned earlier, the show takes place in St. Paul, Minnesota, which is a few miles east of a stone’s throw from Rapid City so a road trip was also on the agenda. In the interest of abiding by the law and not marinating the car and ourselves in carcinogenic stogie soup we chose the lesser of our four entertainment go to’s for the journey east. So as I enjoyed a particularly tough strip of jerky Paul sat with his window cracked contemplating the value and worth of friendship and hoping I didn’t get as good a gas mileage as the car.

Driving 600 miles to see a radio show may seem odd to some, but to the odd it seems about right. The odd manage to recognize the justification for things of this nature and harbor an appreciation for opportunities of exploration of that which they’ve yet to explore and experience.

So off we went, rolling east on I-90, bucking a north wind that made for the untimely demise of many a tumbleweed that seemed to be hastily trying to make a dinner date somewhere in Nebraska. I picked two out of the grill of the car at a rest stop, and with few sticks short of a full tumble, they limped south in search of friends, family, and a better way of life. Godspeed tumbleweed…Godspeed.

As luck would have it we hit Minneapolis approximately the same time as a snow storm which effectively transformed the fast and furious big city traffic to slow and slippery. An exit ramp guard rail attempted to put a hitch in our giddy up, but thanks to my cat like reflexes and superior driving skills, the attempt was thwarted and we crept onward unscathed and oddly entertained. With the help of my navigator we located our hotel and then got lost in the parking garage. You weren’t there…don’t judge.

It just so happened that the Fitzgerald Theater is located about one block from Mickey’s Diner. I hadn’t been in Mickey’s Diner since about 1993 and I had questioned its actual existence since that time. Twenty years ago, without the aid of GPS, my college buddy and I stumbled upon Mickey’s at 3AM with a hankering for some greasy food to fill the void our liquid diets had left vacant. Our preferred mode of navigation, dumb luck, always seemed to get us where we didn’t know we wanted to go. So in the spirit of dumb luck Paul and I had our preshow meal at Mickey’s. A patty melt, a mound of hash browns, a shot of penicillin (Mickey’s could use a good scrubbing) and I was ready for the show.

The show was great and the Fitzgerald Theater is a grand old venue that first opened its doors in 1909. As Garrison spun his yarns of life in a small Midwestern town I got a little misty eyed and felt the stirrings of the emotion that overcomes you when you’re witnessing the making of something special. Something you’ve only heard, and now get to see and be a part of and most likely won’t again. Thank you Dawn.

When my brother and I were approaching our teen years my mother decided that it would be a good idea for us to become altar boys at St. Mary’s Catholic Church. Exactly why she thought this to be a good idea I’m not real sure. A desperate attempt to save our souls perhaps, or maybe it was simply a way for her to wash her hands of us for an entire hour one day a week. If the latter is the case I’m not sure that the grief she put up with to get us to church was worth that single hour of freedom, but I could be wrong.

Whatever her motivation and reasoning was there was no way out of it and the job of transforming two knuckleheads into altar boys fell to the Busch boys. They were a little older than us but I’m pretty sure Jarvis and I had already managed to fall further from grace. Despite our general propensity to be disruptive and disorderly we were good students of the cloth and the Busch boys had us properly ringing bells, genuflecting, and lighting candles in no time. The lighting candles is what hooked us…fire is such a temptress.

Thus began our pious careers and thus began our relentless Sunday morning whinefests. The whining and complaining would begin the instant we heard, “Go get ready for church boys.” All hopped up on Frankenberry and Count Chocula we would rant and rave like lunatics while our mother would attempt to ignore us. She had an exceedingly high tolerance for our displays of disproval but being overachievers we could generally push her past the snapping point.

I always knew when she was approaching that point and would give in and accept the fact that I had altar boy duties to attend to. Jarvis, on the other hand, either didn’t notice mom was teetering on the edge of sanity or didn’t care, and would carry on until she was in teeth gritting mode or beyond. Mom spoke to us through gritted teeth quite often. Gritted teeth…wild eyed…the whole transformation was effective in scaring the stupid out of me for a good minute or two but Jarvis was more resilient. I think it encouraged him…he’s more of a thrill seeker than I am.

Once round one came to a close and we were both dressed for church, round two would immediately commence. Round two generally consisted of a last ditch standoff where Jarvis and I would proclaim that we weren’t going as mom headed out the door to rev up the Ford Econoline. We would stand steadfast in the entry way while the van roared to life. Then mom would honk. I always gave in on the first honk and shuffled on out. Besides, if I went out first I would get to ride shotgun.

Jarvis, ever the antagonist, would hold out for a couple honks and wouldn’t come out until mom had finally had enough and decided to leave him. She would start backing out and he would come out slamming the door, kicking gravel and muttering. Muttering bible verses I believe.

Then it was off to St. Mary’s where we would push and shove each other down to the basement to change into our altar boy garb and then push and shove each other up the stairs to play with fire and ring some bells. Mom settled in for her hour of solitude with our little sister Amanda kneeling close to her side. Her little hands clasped tightly together and eyes squeezed shut, praying for a bolt of lightning to strike her brothers down sometime before next Sunday.

  Apparently, Santa decided this was the year he would settle up for all the years he turned a blind eye and gave me the benefit of the doubt in situations where I behaved closer to naughty than nice.  In my defense, most of the questionable behavior occurred while I was misbehaving, well within my rights, in the capacity of an older brother.

            So this Christmas Eve, despite visions of sugar plums dancing in my head, Santa gave me heaping helping of the flu.  My wife, an innocent bystander deemed guilty by association, also got a Christmas sprinkling of influenza.  You might want to put a mask on while you read this and take a bleach shower when you’re done to protect yourself from any wayward influenza flak.

The flu wasn’t even useful in getting me out of work as we are spending Christmas vacation in Houston with Dawn’s sister’s family.  Christmas vacation down south, a whole week away from snow, away from cold, and for three days I lay in bed quivering like a sparrow in a dilapidated barn on an abandoned North Dakota farmstead.  Thank you Santa.

It’s been awhile since I’ve had the flu and I hope it’s a long, long while before it visits me again.  The flu shots always a crap shoot and I lost the crap shoot this time around.  Better luck next year I guess.

I guess it’s one way to keep from gaining that holiday weight that tends to hang on and haunt people throughout the year, and the next, and the next…I’m surprised there’s not an infomercial selling the flu as a weight loss method.  You send them your money they send a verified flu transport technician to sneeze on the door handle of your fridge or for an extra $39.95 you can get yourself a long wet kiss…while supplies last…a great stocking stuffer.

You take for granted how good it feels to feel good until you don’t feel so good.  In a just a few days you forget what it was like to perform easy tasks easily.  Brushing your teeth and putting on socks suddenly takes an effort that seems equal or in excess of giving piggy back rides up Mt Everest.  So many teeth and only one tooth brush…oh the humanity of it all.

On a positive note, I guess ending 2013 in such grand fashion doesn’t leave many directions but up for the beginning of 2014.  So with an eye towards the New Year I’ll take the nasty influenza riddled hand I was dealt for Christmas and play it out until everyone’s sympathy has been sufficiently depleted.

I wish you all an eventful and enjoyable New Year filled with more than your fair share of good times and laughter.  The flu might be infectious but so is laughter…spread it liberally.

As you dawdle about in full holiday hustle mode diligently checking the “To Do’s and To Get’s” off your lengthy list of loved ones wants, needs, and must haves keep in mind that the best gift of all is the gift of time. Maybe that’s why we buy gifts, so people will be forced to spend time with us in order to receive, open, and act like they adore whatever it is you’ve presented them with. Buying time.

The amount of time you spent thoughtfully looking for a gift, wrapping the gift, transporting the gift, and presenting the gift should be accurately recorded on the “To and From” tag so the gift recipient is well aware of how much time you are owed from them. In fact, the gift recipient is not allowed to open the gift until the time you have bought has elapsed. During the time you bought fair and square the gift recipient must commit their full undivided attention to you.

The use of any and all electronic devices during this time is strictly prohibited unless an exception is agreed upon by the gifter. This prohibition on electronic devices does not include anything medical in nature, such as pacemakers, hearing aids, respirators, defibrillators, so forth and so on. This clause on medical devices is necessary to prevent gifters from utilizing the process of buying time to bring about the demise of the giftee. This would be “killing time” which may be entirely justified in some cases but is generally frowned upon during the holidays.

I think if this “buying time” idea were to be instituted it would completely change the holiday shopping and gift giving experience. It may prompt you to hustle a bit when looking for gifts for that certain somebody. “Merry Christmas, you only owe me seven seconds so rip that sucker open so we can start the timer…of course I like you I just know how busy you are and all so I didn’t want to take up a bunch of your time. Oh, you have a gift for me as well? How nice. You traveled to Shanghai in a row boat to get my present? I owe you 3 years…you shouldn’t have…you really shouldn’t have.”

Yes I’m aware this buying time concept has a few glitches that need to be worked out before a full society wide launch. Is a pat on the back considered a gift? How about a nod of the head as you meet someone on the highway? Have comfort in knowing that if you don’t really care to spend time with someone most likely the feeling is mutual. Not everyone can like everyone can they? Nobody could possibly have time for that.

If “buying time” doesn’t strike your fancy or seems to complex, complicated, and fraught with pitfalls “time shares” may be of interest to you and yours. Not the overpriced, dingy, run down, time share in Topeka you invested in one night while experimenting with the moonshine still your mother-in-law won at the “No Shave November Quarterback Club Beardathon”.

Sharing time with friends and family is what the holidays are about. No gifts necessary. An extensive chin wag or a slight nod…like will be returned with like whether you like it or not. Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

Thank you to all the family and friends that helped make for an enjoyable surprise 60th birthday celebration for my Mom. Light Up Night in Lignite made for a perfect cover for this covert operation and added even more people and merriment to the mix.

To the delight of the wee one’s Santa was also in the house to take in a few last requests before he and the elves begin their final push towards Christmas. Mom and Santa had a brief discussion regarding a series of misunderstandings that occurred in the 1960s that prompted Mom’s removal from the “nice” list. They had a good laugh and both agreed that she should remain on the “naughty” list.

It’s hard for me to believe that Mom will be 60 on December 5th. She makes 60 seem so young. It provides me with hope and reassurance to know that I come from a family that demonstrates time and time again that it is possible to grow old without growing up.

I’m not saying they’re a bunch of irresponsible knuckleheads and nincompoops. They’ve just managed to maintain an infectious zeal for life and the ability to weather many a storm with their smiles and sense of humor firmly intact. There are many families made up of people like this and I am quite thankful I am a part of such a gang.

Through the years Mom has captured many families on film during photo shoots. She has stopped time for many people, events, and celebrations through her gift of photography. A gift she gives of so freely with obvious joy and endless creativity.

Whenever I look at pictures my Mom has taken I don’t just see the picture on the print I also see my Mom taking the picture. Our house isn’t simply filled with pictures of our children; it’s filled with pictures of our children smiling at their Grandma. Camera or not her grandchildren are generally all smiles when she’s around.

Her quick wit and sarcasm are always good for a laugh…even if her sarcasm cannon is pointed squarely at you. She can dish it out with the best of them and will be the first one to make fun of herself when she does something a bit left of right. I shudder to think what would have become of me if I had been raised by someone of a serious stuffy disposition. Norman Bates in the movie “Psycho” comes to mind.

I am quite thankful for my Mom. Thankful for and proud of who she is and all that she does for her family, her friends, and her community. It was great to see so many familiar faces come out and lend their smiles to the portrait of Mom’s 60th sleigh ride around the sun.

Happy Birthday Mom…and many more.

Generally I’m fairly indifferent when it comes to my reaction to the various advertising photos used in stores to depict how wildly wonderful the product being peddled supposedly is. People, mostly beautiful well groomed people, grinning like idiots as they gaze, awestruck, at the latest device meant to distract us from the boring world passing us by.

The picture is supposed to make us think, “If I buy that thing I to can grin like an idiot and be seen as beautiful and well groomed by all the people I won’t have to interact with while I’m staring mindlessly at a piece of plastic that will be in a landfill in some third world country before the banana’s on my kitchen counter go bad.”

A picture is worth a thousand words, which is fortunate, because nobody wants to be forced to read a thousand words anymore. I like pictures, pictures transport us to places we may never go and back to places we would like to go again. The reaction of one person to a photo is most likely not going to be the same reaction shared by absolutely everyone so I’m not sure what process a photo ad goes through before the powers to be deem it display floor worthy.

I was forced to venture into BestBuy recently with a friend that was in search of a gadget of some sort. BestBuy and I have a sorted past which has left our relationship a bit rocky so I don’t frequent it’s dazzling, buzzing, blinking electronic world much. As my buddy discussed his product of interest with a sales associate I wandered around aimlessly in awe of how much absolute crap was being peddled in this store.

Then I saw it. The photo advertisement that said a thousand or so words to me…none of them good or printable in a paper my grandma is going to be reading. It was a picture of lovely well groomed family of four clad in L.L. Beanish type apparel sitting around a campfire with the family tent standing in the background. The mom and daughter each have fluffy white marshmallows on a stick poised over the fire, the dad is sitting back with a mug of hot coffee clasped between his hands, and the boy…the boy is in the middle holding an iPad.

He’s holding an iPad and the whole beautiful well groomed gang, ma, pa, and little sister, are grinning like idiots as they all stare at whatever gem of humanity is being displayed on the magical rectangle held in the boys clutches. It is a sad, sad sort of affairs when a crackling, dancing campfire in the wilderness is upstaged by an electronic device.

In an effort to soothe and distract me my mind played out a lovely scenario of what followed minutes after the camera captured the atrocity in front of me.

The fluffy white marshmallows teetering unattended and ignored by mom and little sister burst into flames. Little sister screams and begins wildly waving her flaming marshmallow around and it flies off the stick landing on the sleeve of the boys L.L. Bean fleece jacket. The fleece jacket, which was not properly inspected during manufacturing, is found to be highly flammable and the sleeve is immediately engulfed in a marshmallow fueled inferno.

The mother, whose marshmallow is also ablaze, jumps up to save her precious boy and her marshmallow flies off her stick and lands on the tent which begins to simmer at the same rate as the fleece. Dear old dad jumps up, spills his piping hot coffee on his crotch, keels over from the searing pain and lands on his son snuffing the fleece fire out and knocking the iPad into the fire rendering it a very high priced shrinky dink.

Lessons learned. Campfires get angry when their ignored, you should always be diligently wary of siblings with flaming marshmallows, and surprisingly the warranty they sold you doesn’t cover “that”…or most likely anything else that could conceivably go wrong with your purchase.

Keep your head on a swivel…the holiday season is upon us.