Rambling Josh

When Tuesday November 5th roles around there will be one more adult residing in our home. No it’s not the day a Russian mail order bride arrives…she’s on back order until after the holidays. Does a mail man actually deliver them? There’s not a lot of room in our mail man’s delivery truck. She’d have to ride on his lap. He could let her steer, run the blinkers, fart around with the radio, honk the horn, deliver a few letters. It would be a fine welcome to her new life in America. A much more suitable arrival for a new bride than a cardboard box with a few holes punched in it.

November 5th used to be our little girl’s birthday. Then one day I turned around for a second helping of Little Mermaid cake and next thing I know she’s gone and grown up on me. Our daughter, Sierra, not the Little Mermaid. I haven’t kept up with the Little Mermaid much. Last I heard she had fallen on tough times, had a fling with Shrek, and developed a taste for lobster.

On November 5th of this particular year Sierra will be 18 years old. It seems like only 10 years ago she was turning 8. Eighteen. We’ve got a busy day planned for the newest member of the adult world. A world that will take all of your childhood hopes and dreams, hoist them up nice and high and then ever so swiftly bring them smashing down. She’s got plenty of time to experience that so we’ll ease her into it.

We’ll start off with a nice adult breakfast of bran flakes, prune juice, and lactose free milk. Once breakfast has ran its course we’ll head down to the Marine recruiting station, give blood, buy a pack of Vantage Menthols, get a couple tattoos, register to vote, buy a lottery ticket, and head to Manitoba for a Labatt’s. The most vexing question is whether to go with a unicorn, a butterfly, or a dragon tattoo…with my face on each of course.

On the return trip from Manitoba she can swing into a pawn shop to start her gun, guitar, and gold chain collection. Then it’s off to the courthouse for jury duty and to change her name to something more exotic and worldly. Maybe Raksmei, Chankrisna, Yooralla, or Peg. Such a busy day.

An adult. My daughter an adult. Do children ever actually fully become an adult in the eyes of their parents? It seems as though to accomplish that I would have to completely forget about the piggy back rides to bed, the pushes on the swing, the way she yelled “Daddy” and ran into my arms when I picked her up after school, how she needed me to tie her shoes, braid her hair, and be her horsey.

I can’t forget those things. She hasn’t needed those things for some time now but I’ll keep holding onto them for her…for me.

Happy Birthday Sierra. Proud of the adult you’ve become. Being an adult’s not so bad if you can resist growing up.

He was born on October 10th, 1928 at Van Hook, ND and died June 1st 1987. To a few he was known as Fredrick, to some Fred, to most Fritz, but I called him Grandpa. Grandpa Fritz would have been 85 years old this year but his big kind heart gave all it could give and went silent when he was only 59.

I knew him for the first 15 years of my life and not a day has gone by in the twenty-six years he’s been gone that he hasn’t crossed my mind. He was a good man, a kind man, a quiet man that seemed to be happiest when he had a hammer or a Louie Lamoure book in his hand. Some of my fondest memories of him are the times I had sense enough to just shut my mouth and watch him in his woodshop.

Watching someone do what they were born to do is one of the great pleasures in life.

Even as a child I knew I was watching someone special, someone that had a gift and enjoyed nothing more than sharing that gift with others through the things he built. The things he built were built well, built with precision, built with patience, and always built with kindness.

Many of us are fortunate enough to still have some of the things he built for us. Things we can touch and they touch us back. The ease in which he worked with wood is what I remember most vividly. It was as if he was simply letting the wood become what it wanted to become, as if they were partners, and the tools were an extension of him. A hammer, a chainsaw, a drill, a chisel, a trowel…whatever the tool was when it was in his hands it became part of him and without struggle did exactly what it was supposed to do.

An artist is defined as somebody who does something skillfully and creatively. Grandpa Fritz was an artist and I call on him often when I’m doing woodwork to guide my hands and to calm my mind. He was who a lot of people called on quite often in Lignite when a problem needed to be solved. Apparently he managed to acquire a lot of wisdom and know how in his all too brief 59 years.

He was a veteran of the U.S. Army, a farmer, a silver miner, a roughneck, Lignite Chief of Police, Lignite Fire Chief, a school bus driver, school custodian, managed the bowling alley, and wasn’t too shabby of a bowler either. A busy man that was always there for the people in the town he called home.

His handy work can still be seen around Lignite. The next time you find yourself in the Lignite City Park seeking shelter from the sun or the rain under the picnic shelters you can thank Grandpa Fritz. After all these years he’s still got us covered.

Happy Birthday Grandpa…We miss you.

It was opening antelope season here in South Dakota this weekend so my father-in-law and his brother ventured west of the Missouri to try their luck and enlighten my son Jackson in the ways of the old Pollock hunter. After a successful inaugural deer season last year Jackson wanted to have a go at antelope hunting this year.

Jackson’s antelope tag was a mentor tag which meant that he could only hunt while in the company of a responsible unarmed adult. Finding someone that met all three of those stringent requirements proved difficult so we did the best we could and loaded four grownup types into the pickup with the hopes that between the four of us we could provide some semblance of mentorship to the lad.

I met the “unarmed” requirement but was doubtful that a game warden would believe I was in compliance with the other two requirements. My father-in-law and his brother are both in their 70s so they presumably had the “adult” portion covered. My buddy Paul came along and was forced into the “responsible” role which mainly involved explaining to Jackson why he couldn’t or shouldn’t shoot various animals and objects. Paul hunts a lot so it was good having him there to share his pearls of wisdom with boy. Also, since Jackson is at the age where he believes his father to have the intelligence of a sack of hammers you need some credible back up.

There is a reason they want the mentor to be unarmed. It cuts down on self-defense claims and it’s a full time job making sure the business end of a fourteen year olds rifle is pointed in a relatively safe direction relatively all the time and asking “is it loaded” and “is it on safe” six thousand times every thirty seconds.

I didn’t mind going along as the chauffer and gun barrel watcher instead of toting my own barking stick. The parts I like most about hunting are walking and making jerky out of the unlucky game. The shooting part and the results of a successful, or worse yet, quasi-successful shot I don’t care as much for.

Yes, I know they need to be hunted to control their population I fail to see the beauty in seeing a living breathing creature absorb the impact of hot lead. I hunt occasionally but have never felt the “thrill” of the hunt but if my son does then that’s fine. I’m happy that he at least confided that he “sort of felt bad” after shooting his deer last year. I would rather have that than see him cheering wildly at the sight of a dying animal he just shot…that would be troubling.

It was enjoyable riding around with the mentor gang and spending time with Jackson away from technology and what not. It’s good for kids to be subjected to the banter of adults in an enclosed space for an extended period of time with no hope of reprieve. Given time they may even step outside their little teenage world and fully engage in the banter and learn a little bit about life outside of the little box teenagers tend to put themselves into.

I believe it is also good for a kid to see firsthand that video games are not an accurate reflection of the consequences potentially brought about by firing a gun. Jackson has a little ways to go before I would feel comfortable sending him out for a hunt without a few mentors close at hand but he’s a good kid and seems to enjoy hunting.

As for me, well I think I’ll stick to rock hunting. Safe hunting everyone.

During one of our family car trips this past summer we stopped at a rest stop along the interstate so everyone could do whatever it is they had to do. I don’t ask questions I just pull over upon request as quickly as possible because kids being kids will generally wait until they are past the point of prolonged refrain when they get around to asking. My kids are older now so the buffer zone between the request the action has increased considerably but I’d rather not take any chances.

I noticed that apparently the health of our pets has become high priority at rest stops nowadays as most have a designated “Pet Exercise Area” for Rufus to get in a quick jazzercise session. Do pets know they are in an exercise area or is “Pet Exercise Area” a less graphic way of saying watch your step and check your shoes before hopping back into the sedan.

I was in a “Buffalo Exercise Area” once during a family trip to Medora in my grandparents Southwind motor home. I remember I had just received my free Time Magazine 35mm camera that I had gotten by simply signing my Mom up for Time Magazine. Not wanting Dad to feel left out we signed him up for a magazine as well…strictly for the articles.

When you’re 13 years old a trip becomes much more exciting when you have your very own camera dangling around your neck waiting to capture the majesty of a 13 year olds world. I think this may have been before the time when it became necessary to warn people about obvious things as I don’t recall a “Angry Buffalo Are Bad For Your Health” sign anywhere as I strolled out into the “Buffalo Exercise Area” to capture a Pulitzer prize winning photo.

I also don’t recall any of the grownup adult types in the motor home warning me about the obvious and it’s highly unlikely that I wasn’t listening. I’m not pointing fingers or making accusations but they all seemed fairly relieved and overly encouraging when I asked if I could get out and take some pictures of the buffalo.

So I strode out towards the buffalo herd, free Time Magazine 35mm in hand, to capture the essence of tatanka in its natural environment. Snapping a picture every few feet so that the forensic report accompanying my trampled, but not torn, tuff skin jeans would have sufficient photographic evidence to confirm my stupidity.

My Grandpa, after reading the paper, eating a bakers dozen of Grandma’s world famous rolls, and drinking a pot coffee must have noticed that I had gotten closer to the herd than a sane boy should be and blew the horn in the motor home in attempt to get my attention. It got my attention and the attention of the buffalo that were enjoying their day out on the range. Even as a 13 year old I knew that it probably wasn’t healthy to get the attention of a buffalo herd.

I also knew from listening to my grandparent’s 8-track collection that you couldn’t roller skate in a buffalo herd and hoped the same wasn’t true for running. About two steps into my retreat I firmly planted my foot in something soft, ankle deep, and aromatic. A buffalo giggled, Grandpa gagged, and the Southwind headed north with a hand-me-down Converse dangling from the luggage rack.

As a married man married to a woman there are a few phrases spoken in my general direction, by the previously alluded to wife, that almost always elicit an internal cringe and an external expressionless stare. An expressionless stare that will hold for as long it takes the phrase to rattle around in my head and create an entire made for T.V. movie with a bad beginning spiraling into a dismal ending.

The movie begins with my wife striking up a conversation with a female coworker where they learn that they both love Hallmark holiday movies, Dwight Yoakam, tiramisu, and Audrey Hepburn. As misfortune would have it this female coworker is married to a man who by some stretch of the imaginations of females hopped up on thoughts of tiramisu being served to them on Dwight Yoakam’s guitar should be my new best friend.

Scene two is my wife walking into our bedroom as I’m curled up in my favorite beanbag unwinding in my salmon colored velour jumpsuit, sipping a Zima, smoking my pipe, and writing poetry on triscuits with ez cheese. She eats verse three, washes it down with a swallow of Zima, and says, “I was chatting with Elvira at work today and it turns out we have absolutely everything in common. You’ll have to meet her husband you two would get along great.”

“You’ll have to meet her husband…” The camera zooms in to reveal a blanket of blankness rolling down my face, a partially chewed triscuit sits anxiously in my mouth waiting for me to regain facial control, as my mind races in slow motion.

Early on in our marriage you would have heard me say, “Sure, sounds good.” It’s not early on in our marriage anymore and now you will hear me grunt, “Hm” as the ez cheese runs amuck from my clenched hand. Actually it’s been quite some time since my wife has suggested that myself and one of her friend’s husbands would be inseparable buddies.

Yes, I do believe she’s given up on the possibility of fixing me up with a bosom buddy or perhaps she’s realized that if she wants to keep her friend it might be best to keep her friends husband quarantined from me.

It’s not that I don’t like people. People are good. I have friends that are people. Not lots of them but enough for me. If one of my friends should have an unfortunate carnival ride accident or get kicked into permanent submission by an angry bovine then I will entertain the prospect of bringing a new buddy on board but as of now they need not apply. There’s no room in this cartoon for another character but I’ll keep your resume on file for future openings.

What questions would you ask during an interview of a potential buddy? Before I asked any questions I would make one simple request…make me laugh. Make me laugh so hard that I regret not wearing dark pants. If you can accomplish that one task I’ll freshen up and we’ll begin the interview.

”What are your thoughts on clowns and mimes?”, “Do you prefer to act your age or your shoe size?”, “What songs do you sing in the shower?”, “Do you consider flatulence a form of entertainment?”, “If you could pick one trick to teach an old dog what would it be?” In conclusion, have you come to this interview of your own free will with complete absents of coercion from well-meaning females resembling our wives?

Thank you for your time…I’ll be in touch.

Despite a continuous onslaught from a cantankerous South Dakota wind the seventh edition of the Highway 212 Gut Check has been peddled to completion. Actually, if you want to get nitpicky, the 412 miles was peddled to completion by some and peddled to various “I’ve had enough” points by others.

The “Hell and Back” division, 824 miles of peddle power bliss, was won by Jason Harms of Ortonville, MN with a new record of 54 hours and 34 minutes. After riding across the state and back again Jason and his wife hung out at the border and greeted each finisher with cheers, beers, brats, burgers, and friendly hospitality.

The solo division was a battle for the first 16 hours between two riders. Then at three in the morning, after nodding off on his bike several times and fighting thick fog, one rider decided to take a cat nap and was passed in the night as he slumbered.

Forgoing sleep and ignoring bodily discomfort in areas where bodily discomfort generally demands immediate attention, Pete Ellis, of White Bear Lake, MN rolled across the finish line in 25 hours and 20 minutes. Very impressive accomplishment with the wind conditions as they were.

The Mud Butte Merger leapfrog team, consisting of riders Tim Chrest, Jay Stevens, Susan Dixon, myself, and crew Donavon and Joann Ellis, put up a good fight but were not able to ignore bodily discomfort and the relentless taunting of the wind. At mile marker 320 we gave into the temptation of the brats, burgers, and beer waiting at the finish line and called it quits.

Although our team didn’t finish the race we did raise more money for the Crohn’s and Collitis Foundation of America than any other riders or teams. Mud Butte Merger raised $3,350.33 of the $6,306.33 brought in by the event. Jay Stevens was once again the top fund raiser bringing in over $2200.00. It seems that our team was so busy raising money that we didn’t have enough time to train sufficiently for the race. Not an excuse…a reason.

We raised the most money and I would hazard a guess that we had the most fun as well. Laughing with each other, laughing at each other, always laughing. It seems that our team was so busy laughing that we didn’t have time to train sufficiently. Not an excuse…a reason.

I’m always a little nervous the weekend of the Gut Check. Since I’m the knucklehead that puts this event on I feel responsible for each of the participants and am always relieved when the weekend passes without any major incidences. Thankfully everyone stayed safe and other than a few aches and pains had nothing but good things to say about their experience.

Thank you to everyone that contributed to the success of this event in some manner. My mom is trying to put together a 413 member relay team. She plans to be the 413th member poised at the finish line camera in hand. If you’re interested she’s currently reviewing applications.

Gut Check 2014…see you there. www.GutCheck212.com

In June of 1943 a B-17 Flying Fortress with ten airmen aboard was flying from Pendleton, Oregon to Grand Island, Nebraska where it was to join other bombers and continue on to England to take part in World War II.

When the bomber and its crew failed to arrive in Grand Island they were declared missing and the Army conducted several unsuccessful searches in an attempt to locate them. In August of 1945 a couple of cowboys saw something shiny on a ridge in the Cloud Peak area of the Big Horn Mountains in Wyoming. They set out to investigate and discovered the wreckage of the B-17 and the deceased crew.

Those involved in the recovery effort believe that one of the crew may have survived the crash as he was found propped next to a rock with an open bible and his open billfold with family members’ pictures lying next to him.

In August of 1946, the Forest Service christened the unnamed mountain, Bomber Mountain, in honor of the fallen crew members. A plaque listing the men who died in the crash was placed near Lake Florence at the base of the ridge where the crash occurred. Much of the wreckage still remains strewn amongst the massive boulders on the ridge of Bomber Mountain and many people hike to the area every year to see the wreckage and pay their respects to the crew.

I first heard the story of Bomber Mountain several years ago and have wanted to hike up there and have a look around for quite some time. In August of 2013, myself and two of my best friends, Paul and Bubba, set out for Bomber Mountain. I’m really not sure what’s so intriguing about trying to locate the 67 year old wreckage of a bomber but I’m glad I’ve got a couple friends that were willing to take part in the adventure with me.

To reach Bomber Mountain one must hoof it about 23 miles round trip at an altitude between 9,000 and 12,000 feet with about 30 pounds of what not strapped to your back. We were planning to spend two days on the trail so we divvied up the food, tent, and what not amongst us and set out from West Tensleep Campground with jovial anticipation.

It is a beautiful hike with a lot of high mountain scenery to soak in while you totter along as both a sightseer and a beast of your own burdens. Mile after mile, hour after hour of pondering the beauty of it all, exchanging insults with good friends, and contemplating whether the weight of an extra pair of underwear and a toothbrush are worth the added strain is good for the soul.

The first day was a relatively easy 8 mile hike to Misty Moon Lake where we eagerly dropped our packs, set up camp, and took an uplifting soak in 40 degree lake water. The second day was not so relatively easy and left all three of us in various degrees of discomfort.

To make a short story long…we were not able to locate the wreckage. We were in the right area but apparently went wrong when we went right instead of left. So it goes. I guess you could say that the mission was a failure but the journey was a success. Successful in bringing friends together and allowing us a little time to try and put the big picture on hold while we enjoy the company of people who know us better than they would like. Sometimes it takes a mountain.

July 17th is my birthday. Hold the applause, all I did was not die for a whole year…again. No cause for celebration, balloon animals, silly hats, or clowns…especially clowns. It is just the day the record keeper of all things numerical raises its ugly head and with a slobbery sneer, dripping with sarcasm and cynicism, blathers on and on trying to convince me that I’m 41 years old. “You’re closer to 50 than you are to 30” he says in an attempt to make me slump into a melancholy stupor and ponder my life.

I don’t like him much but luckily as I get older it’s getting easier to turn a deaf ear his way. Not because I don’t care, not because I’ve accepted my advanced state of years, but because quite literally my hearing isn’t what it used to be. Teenage boys must speak in a frequency that scrambles as it reaches my ears. I’m about to hang a chalkboard around my sons neck and just have him write whatever it is I’ve had to have him repeat seven times. I assume it’s some form of the same English language I enjoy using but maybe their using Dutch in the school systems now. It’s been awhile since I’ve been in school things change.

So how was the first year of my fourth decade? Optimistically, I postponed my mid-life crisis until I hit 50. I’ve got a lengthy list of things I need to get done and 80 years just didn’t seem to be enough time to squeeze it all in.

The 40th year was a pretty good year. Way back in the early 1990s, during my first few years of college at Northern State University in Aberdeen, I was fortunate to have many wonderful instructors. Instructors that enjoyed what they did and inspired me to want to become like them. It was at that time that my younger self told himself that by the time he was 40 he was going to complete a doctoral degree. Fighting off my weakness for procrastination I was able to cross that goal off my list a few months ago.

Why didn’t my younger self tell himself he was going to be a billionaire by the time he was 40? The idiot never thought of that I guess. Maybe next time.

It’s hard not to find yourself pondering life when your birthday rolls around. It’s good to reflect but what’s done is done and life isn’t going to pause very long for you before it rolls on. Pause and ponder but don’t pout or the big bird of bad tidings will crap on your lip. You won’t get invited to any festivities of fun with that on your lip, your wife won’t kiss you, your kids will run their fingernails along their chalk boards and their friends will scoff at you in Dutch. Bad news on all fronts.

So 41 it is. It’s mirror image year for my son and I this year as he turns 14 on July 16th. I suppose we could hold each other up to the mirror and see reflections of what was and what’s to come but that would be depressing for all involved. Proficiat met je verjaardag Jackson…and many…many more.

What are your plans for the 4th of July? You don’t have to tell me if you don’t feel like it I was just asking to be polite. What am I doing? Well since you asked, we are going to the land of a lotta lakes (10,000 or so) to hang out at my sister and brother-in-laws house. Yes we were invited and yes they are going to be home. I think.

Amanda invited her siblings and parents some time ago but maybe she’s had second thoughts since extending the invite. When I say “some time ago” I really do mean some time ago. As in not much less than a year ago. That’s the way my sister rolls. She’s good at planning. That gene skipped me. I’ve been unplanned from the beginning.

I always say that if you have no plans then you’re never disappointed or at least you have no reason to be disappointed. Some of the best times I’ve had have managed to transpire out of nothing. Of course I’m easy to entertain and difficult to disappoint so my “good time” bar may be a bit lower than the lot of you.

I am thankful for people that like to plan and I am quite thankful that my sister invited all us yahoos to her home to share in some Independence Day festivities. What’s on tap for the Ellis-Undjhem family in Paul Bunyan land? You sure have a lot of questions but I’m glad you’re so interested in the goings on of my family.

Well let me tell you. The Yankees happen to be stopping off for a few games against the Twins so we’re all going to take in some major league baseball action at lovely Target Field. If you haven’t been to Target Field yet I highly recommend it. It’s a beautiful park and beats sitting under the big top at the Metrodome any day. Baseball was meant to be played out doors on real grass and Target Field is a great place to take in a ball game.

Other than that I’m not sure what’s on my sister’s itinerary. Maybe she told me but I didn’t hear much after the Yankees and baseball game part. I could really care less if we didn’t do anything but sit around and chit chat for a few days. We don’t get to do that much anymore.

Everybody gets so busy with their lives. Time spent sharing in each other lives is a hot commodity that we can’t squander when the opportunity presents itself. My sister has provided the opportunity and for that I am grateful.

What I am most looking forward to, even more than the baseball game, is sitting around a fire all hopped up on smores listening to my family tell stories and laugh. We’ve all heard the stories before, we all know how they end, but we’ll laugh like it’s the first time because they are our stories. Every family has stories. I hope you spend your 4th of July sharing stories with the people that helped write them.

Happy 4th of July my friends.

Generally the way it works amongst us humans is that a mother and a father are standard issue to kick start our existence in this world. As for other worlds, I cannot say, because other than Saskatchewan I have not visited any other planets. If I do and if I find anything of interest I will promptly report my finding back to you. Until then, carry on.

These “standard issue” mothers and fathers come in very unstandardized shapes, personalities, and shoe sizes. Father’s Day is day set aside for us to shower our father with gifts, praise, and a fresh jug of cologne. It takes more than a standard issue man to be a father to be a dad. It takes someone special. Someone like my dad.

I’ve always known my dad was a good dad but now that I’m older I realize that he’s more than that, he’s a good man as well. A trustworthy, honest man, with a great big heart that works hard and can be counted on to do what’s right.

My dad was only 20 years old when I was born and he was who I wanted to be. Watching him play softball when I was kid was something that I enjoyed and remember even now. I wanted to run, throw, and hit like him. Actually, I wanted to run, throw, and hit for him and, being a good dad, he let me do just that.

Football, track, baseball…I could hear his voice above any crowd and it always made me want to do my very best. Not because he’d make me shovel coal until my hands bled if I played poorly but because I simply wanted to make him proud. Proud to be my dad because I was proud to be his son. Still am and always will be I imagine.

A father son relationship is such that words and feelings are often times replaced or expressed through activities or actions. No need for Hallmark when we have sports, lawn care, and varmint control as a means of which to say, “Dad you’re the best and I love you”. Words are just so…I don’t know…direct, mushy, and uncomfortable for all involved. A couple beers while discussing dandelion eradication and proper tire inflation is productive, useful, and caring.

As I advance in age I’ve noticed that the dad I grew up with possesses my vocal cords from time to time. Without warning I open my mouth and my dad’s voice comes out. This vocal cord possession oddly enough seems to occur most often when I’m “reasoning” with my thirteen year old son. I used to find it concerning but now I find comfort in knowing that when I’m at my wits end my dad will always find a way to come through.

Happy Father’s Day to all you dad’s out there bustin’ your hump so junior can have basketball shoes that cost more than your first car. Mine was a 1970 Pontiac Bonneville that came out on the losing end of an altercation with a snow blower…but that’s another story isn’t it dad.