Rambling Josh

The crepe paper and streamer stringing season is upon us and teenagers everywhere are preparing to navigate the high school prom rite of passage. A rite of passage that will leave indelible memories and a cornucopia of bunions, blisters, and calluses in its wake. The feet will begin to heal as soon as you slip off those not-so-sensible heels or plastic tux shoes but the memories are there for the long haul so plan accordingly.

This year my daughter Sierra gets her first go at the prom and has been marching around the house in her prom shoes the past week or so to get the hang of having her heals elevated to an unsafe level. As apples don’t fall far from trees I have photographic evidence of my son in my daughters heels as well. Disturbingly enough he moves quite gracefully in them.

My daughter and a bunch of her friends are going stag. Can you call it “going stag” if you’re going with a group? “Group of Stags”…sounds like a band name. Whatever you call it I’m sure they will have a great time and dear old dad’s ulcer will rest easy knowing his daughter is spending the evening with sensible young women rather than a senseless boy caught in the grips of spring fever. Boys are overrated and more than a little gassy, goofy, and obnoxious anyway so it’s best to leave them to their own devices.

As your reading this your mind has probably inadvertently drifted back to your prom experience or lack thereof. Just to clarify…I am in no way legally responsible for any ill effects or psychotic episodes your drifting mind has created.

I can remember standing on the top step of a rickety ladder trying to loop hundreds of yards of streamers over wire in the gym in an attempt to create the illusion of a ritzy glitzy gala. The top step that says in bold letters “THIS IS NOT A STEP DUMMY” trembled beneath my loafers and tight rolled jeans as I tottered high above the unforgiving gym floor.

If I remember right (I seldom do) I was adamant that only girls hold the later while I risked life and mullet beautifying the gymnasium. Gassy, goofy, and obnoxious were not the qualities I was in search of for this particular job. Never in my life have I seen a female jokingly shake a ladder while someone is perilously perched on top of it. Never in my life have I seen a male pass up the chance to shake a ladder with a pal standing on the dummy step. So it goes.

The only time a male might pass on the opportunity to shake a ladder he’s supposed to be holding securely is when it’s his father dangling above him cursing at the storm window he’s attempting to free from 6 layers of paint. Oh it’ll cross our mind…more than once…but “thou shalt not shake thy father’s ladder” is a commandment that is in our best interest to obey.

Hold it steady and have a lovely prom season with or without gassy, goofy, and obnoxious.

Spring is in the air here at the base of the Black Hills. I wish I could say the same for you folks at the base of the foothills up yonder north of north where winter wore out its welcome months ago. At last report spring was set to roll into Lignite just in time for summer. That’s just as well, because any more than a month of summer has been known to cause fair skinned Norwegian’s to spontaneously combust. Poof…nothing left but the scent of lutefisk and smoldering all access passes to the Hostefest…Uff Da. So it goes.

I ate lutefisk on purpose once and have no intentions of doing it again. My grandpa said it was “poor man’s lobster” and seeing how I liked lobster and was poor I decided to give it a go. No amount of butter could stifle the gaging. That was over 25 years ago and my mouth still gets watery just thinking about it. Not the good watery produced when wanting to put food into your mouth but the bad watery that occurs when your stomach is greasing the hinges for a quick exit…Uff da.

I’m sure you northerners are happy to know that a mere 400 miles south of the 97 foot snow bank covering your patio furniture are people gallivanting around in crocs and culottes. Kind of makes you cranky I bet. Cranky enough to make you want to slug the penguins that have moved into your garage until the weather warms up a bit. I wonder if anyone’s ever slugged a penguin? There’s no way their stubby little flippers could block a right hook to the beak. “Dear PETA…I am kidding. I would never slug a penguin while I’m out seal clubbing.”

Let us pause for hate mail to be typed and spell checked. Okay…back to spring. Did I mention that my neighbor mowed his lawn the other day? Baseball practice is in full swing, I got a little sunburnt at a track meet last week, and my wife’s tulips are on the rise. If it makes you feel better the grass is brown and we are most likely headed into a drought so it’s not all sunshine and puppies in our neck of the woods. As is usually the case, good and bad generally frolic about hand in hand.

“It is what it is” might be the refrain you’ll here to such situations or any situation for that matter. I refrain from that refrain almost as stringently as I refrain from cladding my hooves in crocs. Nothing personal it’s just that the saying is senseless and crocs make my feet sweat and clash with my culottes. It’s not the only senseless saying; most sayings are senseless and simply serve as a way for us to keep a conversation going without actually having to say anything that contributes to the conversation.

Well I hope you all learned something today. Not from me but from someone more qualified to learn you good. For my family and friends to the north I am quite sure that nobody in the country appreciates summer as much as you. Both weeks of it…Uff da.

Toga’s are breezy. Breezy is good if you’re a Roman in Rome and your fan flappers are on their 15 minute grape and oil break. Breezy is not so good if you’re a North Dakotan in North Dakota and spring is on winter vacation. Such are the Ides of March in Upstate North Dakota. Unpredictable, volatile, frightening, and maybe even a little beautiful. The birthday crowd not the weather.

My Uncle Tim’s odometer ticked over to the half century mark this past weekend which was good a cause as any for a Caesar inspired celebration. Instead of daggers to the stomach Brutes, Cassius and the gang attempted to bring the emperor down with booze to the liver this time around. The Great Caesar wobbled and swayed under the relentless barrage but refused to fall. Hale Caesar!

Friends, Roman’s, country boy’s…a good time was had by all. My Uncle Tim’s a good man and is well deserving of such a celebration in his honor. I was thankful my family and I were able to slide in between storms and be a part of the festivities. I haven’t had a good excuse to wear a toga since my college days.

Actually the last time I wore a toga I wound up with a wife. Let me rephrase that…I wound up with a girlfriend who eventually became my wife. Don’t want to wind up with a wife it’s hard to run in a toga. A mini skirt is a better choice for high speed zigging and zagging. I would assume.

To be exact, the last time I wore a toga was September 24, 1994. The final day of our college homecoming week, Gypsy Day’s, was at hand and me and buddies decided to rip the sheets off our beds and finish off the festivities Roman style. It seemed like a good plan since I hadn’t done laundry for 17 months and my sheets were somewhat cleaner than any clothes I could hope to wrangle from the depths of my closet. Somewhat.

That decision, that toga, that musky scent I was laying down, may very well have altered my destiny. Who knows where I’d be and what I’d be doing right now if my wife hadn’t been suckered in by the toga tempest. I hear my wife cursing that toga in her sleep some nights…most nights. I kept that toga and after 19 years I finally got to where it again. Yes, it’s been laundered sometime between 1994 and now.

If you’ve never wore a toga you should give it a go. They are quite liberating. Not so handy for holding loose change, swizzle sticks, or nun chucks but sometimes such sacrifices are worthwhile. I must say that Tim looked quite dashing and dapper in his drapery and made a fine emperor for the evening. He carried the chalice well.

Happy Birthday Uncle Tim and Happy St. Patrick’s Day, “May you live as long as you want and never want as long as you live.”

We have heard it said by many people many times, “There is a fine line between bravery and stupidity.” I met an individual this weekend that I have yet to decide on which side of that fine line he should reside. I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt and withhold my final judgment until my daughter and the rest of her driver’s education car mates complete their behind the wheel training. A driver’s education instructor is a saint with a clipboard, high blood pressure and a half spilt cup of coffee.

My daughter and her 29 driver’s education classmates each have to log 6 hours behind the wheel with the above mentioned lunatic seated in the passenger seat. Correct me if I’m wrong, there’s a pretty good chance I am, but that equals 180 hours of clenching, cursing, and cringing. This Sunday the instructor joy rode around Rapid City from 7:00 AM until 7:00 PM with six different teenagers for two hours at a time.

Why would anyone do this to themselves? I teared up a bit just thinking about the self-imposed torture the instructor endured. I flat out wailed when I found out he does three separate sessions of this course over the next 4 months…and all the classes are full. That’s 540 hours which would be one long 22 day drive if you strung them all together…this guy needs a hug and a snifter of rum. I’ll provide the rum if someone else will volunteer a hug.

Generally when you mention something like this there is always someone who pipes up and says, “Yeah but I bet he makes pretty good money doing it.” Pretty good money? He’ll need pretty good money to help him walk upright again after sitting in a car for 540 hours. You tell me what you feel is “pretty good money” then ride around town for twelve hours with teenage drivers and tell me again what “pretty good money” is. I bet we’ll see a drastic upward trend in the dollar amount and an adjustment of your definition of pretty good money.

I can remember driving around Lignite with our driver’s education instructor. There’s not all that much difference between the traffic in Lignite and the traffic in Rapid City. The only differences I can conclude are that in Lignite you don’t have to worry about running a red light, there’s no need to merge or exit, and blinkers are optional.

Probably the biggest difference is that most of us had been driving for 6 years prior to having to take drivers education to make it “legal”. Grandpa Ardell was an excellent instructor. His program included driving around the light pole in the yard at the farm with the riding lawn mower, advancing up to his Chevy Chevette, and then graduating to a tractor. I never graduated.

Somewhere tonight a full grown man cried himself to sleep only to startle himself awake reaching into the darkness for a steering wheel and frantically jabbing his foot into the bedding searching for a brake pedal. Is this man brave? Is this man stupid? I’m leaning towards brave, but then I’m stupid that way.

With the final semester of her junior year in full swing the gap between the end of high school and the beginning of college is narrowing quickly for my daughter and I am finding myself nervous and excited for her. Mostly excited because college is this lovely little world where I am confident that someone like Sierra will thrive and have a great time.

Maybe more thrive than great time or at least a few notches below the great time meter her father attempted to max out. Someone should have given that boy a good talking to about frittering away the precious time of youth on such shenanigans. He would have smiled and nodded as he watched your mouth move but the concern in your eyes would not be reflected in his because he wouldn’t have been listening. So it is that he only has himself to blame. A blame fully accepted and fondly remembered.

It is with some relief that I have detected slightly more sensibility and direction in my daughter than I was capable of at the ripe old age of seventeen. She already has genuine concern for her future career. I feigned concern my second year of college when my academic advisor wouldn’t accept “play baseball” as my response to her question of “what do you want to do in college?” Sometimes the truth fails to set you free and you end up sitting in some stuffy office listening to some adult blather on about rudderless sailboats and what not.

Of course before you can attend college there are several well-meaning hoops that one must jump through before a university will consider exchanging four or five years of your time for twenty to thirty years of debt and irreversible liver damage. The first hoop is the ACT test. A standardized test designed to assess an individual’s general knowledge in the areas of English, Mathematics, Reading, and Science. I can remember going to Minot to take the ACT and determine if I had any general knowledge when I was in high school during the last century. I remember being thankful it was a multiple choice test because effective guessing has always been one of my strengths. I guess therefor I appear to have general knowledge..

I also remember the superintendent bringing us into the study hall one at time to go over our test results. I had assumed I had I failed miserably and that the superintendent would ask me to clean out my locker and immediately leave the premises as my presence was detrimental to the mental capacity of my fellow students. Judging by the surprised, impressed, and confused tone and expression of the superintendent he was just as baffled as I was as to how I did so well on the exam. It’s smart to be lucky.

Sierra has many hoops to navigate and decisions to make in the coming months but she’s a smart girl with a plan and I’m confident she will get to where she wants to go.

The other morning, a morning not unlike any other morning, I was standing at my post gazing out the picture window drinking my coffee and wondering why mornings have to be so early. I wasn’t gazing at anything in particular I’ve just found that it’s less awkward for everyone if I gaze out the window rather than at the ceiling, newel post, or ottoman. Looking out a window as a majestic winter morning unfolds at least offers the illusion of thoughtful pondering while I think of nothing.

On this particular morning my thoughts of nothing were interrupted by a squirrel scampering down the sidewalk in front of our house. Nothing unusual, I’ve seen a squirrel before, except for this squirrel was followed by four more squirrels.

It may have been my imagination but I swear I saw sparks flying from what appeared to be metal sword scabbards as this rogue bunch brazenly squirrel strutted by my picture window. A slight pang of fear washed over me as the last one in line stopped directly in front of me, rose up on its hind legs, and starred right at me with a smug little smirk on his fuzzy face. If my memory serves me he was wearing an eye patch and a beret.

They’ve organized I thought, I’ve seen this before with the Planet of the Apes and it doesn’t end well for the humans. We at least share a common ancestry with the apes so they are more apt to extend a bit of humanity towards us in a takeover but I don’t trust these squirrels to be as civil in their treatment of humans. We put that corn cob on a stick that spins around when the squirrels try and eat it and we sit and giggle and point and post videos on YouTube while they get vertigo. Who’s laughing now?

I went to the computer to see if there was any breaking news regarding similar occurrences in other neighborhoods regarding a malicious squirrel coup d’état. Nothing. Either they’ve managed not to arouse suspicion or all the 24 hour news companies have already been taken over and will be forced to show non-stop reruns of the Rocky and Bullwinkle Show. The moose must have seen this coming; he was smart to endear himself to the squirrel. Poor Boris and Natasha what will become of them in a squirrel society? The thought makes me shudder.

Taking a cue from the moose I assemble a combination platter of nuts to set forth as an offer of peace. Smokehouse almonds, peanuts (salted and unsalted in case some of them are watching their blood pressure), macadamia, and peanut butter for those with bad teeth or braces. If you can picture a squirrel with braces without the slightest hint of mirth or merriment crossing your face you either have more self-control than me or you’ve suffered fewer concussions.

It is with great relief that I am able to report that the squirrel with the eye patch has graciously accepted my platter of peace and my sincere promise to create higher paying jobs and better health care for all squirrels. With a courteous tip of his beret and a creepy little paw handshake we move forward towards a better tomorrow, a tomorrow where squirrels and humans live in harmony. You my friend can put away your worries. All is well…for now.

My Mom has always had a nose for important breaking news, in this case breaking wind. Somehow the news story regarding a federal worker receiving a formal reprimand for excessive flatulence in the workplace silently slipped by me undetected. Thankfully my Mom pointed it out. I laughed, I cried, and yes I farted.

If you fancy yourself to be of the serious sort and lack the patients to tolerate the childish immaturities of a middle-aged man I would advise you to stop reading. You’ve been warned.

The charges levied against this intestinally active individual in the official reprimand were, “Conduct Unbecoming a Federal Employee” and “creating a hostile work environment”. A coworker went so far as to document the winds of change in a log book noting the date and time of each malodor melody.

According to these “Methane Memoirs” which are rumored to have been adopted into a screenplay that will stink less than a Nicholas Sparks movie, Count Die Ferz had a banner day on September 12, 2012 putting nine in the books (three between 2:42 and 2:54).

Nine? During an eight hour work day? This guy made national news? He’s an amateur. I use an even dozen to keep a steady beat while I brush my teeth…three times a day…four if some carney suckers me into a caramel apple with nuts. Carneys and caramel apples, such temptation has been the bane of man from the beginning. Nine…pathetic. Eat a box of Grape Nuts and come back when you got game junior.

In my extensive research on this subject I uncovered some very interesting fartnotes…ah I mean footnotes regarding one of the oldest words in the English vocabulary. Benjamin Franklin once wrote an essay to the Royal Academy urging and suggesting the scientific study of flatulence. A suggestion that some Chinese holistic healers have taken seriously with claims that the nuances of a person’s expelling odor can be used to detect diseases by individuals specifically trained to sniff out such issues. “Hmm…the scent of pack rats wrestling on a block of muenster cheese. You sir have rickets and gout.”

Out of concern for his fellow Roman’s health, the Emperor Claudius very astutely passed a law legalizing the release of gas at banquets. My guess is this law was not about his concern for others but more of an elaborate ruse to give old Claudius some cover for his own toga tremblers. Another Roman Emperor, Elagabulus, is credited with the use of whoopee cushions at his banquet hall gatherings. Those zany Romans.

Do you think you have what it takes to go pro in the flatulence field? I’m not in the business of dashing people’s dreams but only two people have had the moxie to cut it as performing flatulist, Le Petomane and Mr. Methane. Le Petomane performed in the 19th Century but as luck would have it Mr. Methane is still actively entertaining the masses with his gift. DVDs, books, and a Christmas Album are available on his website. Gifts that keep giving.

New Year’s Resolution to be a mature professional meets with failure once again.

For those of you ascribing to the Gregorian calendar I would like to offer a warm welcome to 2013. The rest of you will have to wait for your new year your fresh start your ending your beginning. By the time you get around to strapping on your dragon head and dancing through the streets to celebrate the Chinese New Year most of us will have abandoned our fresh start and new beginning for the comfort and ease of our old ways.

I think if we would have stuck with the Babylonian New Year celebration time from a few thousand years ago, during the Vernal Equinox at the beginning of Spring, our resolutions would have had a fighting chance. The dead of winter when we get 17 minutes of day light doesn’t seem to me to be the best time to institute quasi-starvation measures and intense physical activity.

The Romans always thought they knew best but the Babylonians had it right. Bump the New Year back a few months, take your time eating the Christmas leftovers and thoroughly scour the Christmas tree for the last candy cane. Let the bright lights of spring be the beacon of motivation shining its truthometer on the flesh you’ve kept under wraps over the winter months.

It seems to make more sense to have the new year and other such days of celebration follow the cycles of the moon and seasons rather than just a specific date but I guess it makes it much easier to market and make commercial gains when everyone is in agreement on buying noise makers and stupid hats held on with a rubber band that your brother is going to grab and snap at some time during the evening on a specific number on this thing called a calendar.

Let’s just get rid of the calendar. I’m tired of it. All it does is make me feel old, rush me to get things done I want to put off, do this then, do that now. Let’s just go by sleeps like my kids used to. They would ask, “How many sleeps until we go to Grandpa and Grandma’s house?” Days, weeks, months mean nothing to a kid. That’s just boring and needlessly confusing adult stuff. I’ll have a little chit chat with the Romans and see if we can’t make a few changes around here.

Oh that’s right, the Romans are dead. We don’t have to listen to dead people…well I don’t or can’t but some of you might. If you have such a gift let me know what Caesar has to say about my plan so I can note it in the minutes.

So your New Year resolution or assignment this year is to follow your own calendar. Celebrate whatever you want whenever you want as often as you want. Noise makers and stupid hats are optional. I must warn you that as an older brother it is my right and duty to snap the rubber strap on any and all stupid hats. Consider yourself warned.

Happy New Year…if you want. See you in a few sleeps.

Put on your Santa hat, proudly display those elf ears you strategically camouflage with bushy sideburns during the other eleven months of the year, belt out your favorite Christmas carol, bite the head off a snowman sugar cookie, grab the eggnog from the fridge (check the expiration date) and take a pull straight from the bottle. Now you’re ready to settle in for the 2012 Christmas edition of “Ramblings.”

How is this edition different from the one offered up in 2011? How would I know…I don’t read this nonsense…I just write it. It’s a year later that much I know, I’m a year older and I suspect the same may be true with you. Other than that not much has changed.

We can count on the evening news to regale us with the same helpful holiday hints they dole out every single year at this time just in case you’ve been communing with Tibetan monks or silver back gorillas for the past 30 years. Such chestnuts like, “During the holidays keep you and yours safe by refraining from hanging gasoline soaked rags on the Christmas tree in front of a raging fireplace to dry.”

“Thank you channel 9 news…kids grab those rags off the Christmas tree…the news guy says it’s dangerous.” Also, “It may seem like fun to turn your favorite cinder block or bowling ball into festive ornaments but these items can be heavy and could possibly disrupt the balance of the tree potentially causing it to tip and injure children, pets, and the elderly.”

Ya know a few years back the Ellis family tested the Christmas tree up in flames scenario. It was a few days after Christmas and we had been cooped up eating leftovers and questionable peanut brittle while playing Pictionary and Yahtzee and the idea of burning the Christmas tree entered into the conversation.

We all had different ideas as to how quickly it would be reduced to a smoldering staff of Christmas past. I personally could hear the “wwoooph” sound it would emit as the flames engulfed and ravished its needles and limbs while the Ellis family stood by with their faces aglow with the last flickers of holiday season providing one last warm embrace.

There’s only one way to find out how quickly a Christmas tree will burn…this was before Google or Bing. Like an angry mob hopped up on cherry popcorn balls we grabbed the tree and made for the door. Mom, being the practical one, suggested we take the decorations and lights off it first. Since we always listen to our mother we gave the tree a few angry shakes leaving the ornaments in a neat little pile for mom to collect.

We took the tree to a snow bank in the yard that offered an unobstructed view for the family members that decided to stay in the house and view the tree lighting festivities from a safe distance. Being the eldest and most responsible and safety conscious of my siblings I took it upon myself to handle the matches.

If all went as planned there would be a big “wwoooph”, a hot bright burst of flame, and possibly the scent of burnt rabbit fur from my hat if I was slow on the escape. With great anticipation, I pulled my rabbit fur bomber hat down tight, lit the match and slowly moved it towards the needles of the tree. Nothing…no “wwoooph”…match after match…nothing.

Relying on everything Grandpa Ardell taught us about proper fire starting we commandeered a gas can and liberally splashed gasoline on the tree like cheap cologne. As visions of fireballs danced in our heads I struck the match and let it fly. A paltry little flame flickered up the tree doing little more than singeing a couple strands of wayward tinsel.

After an hour or so of testing various flammable substances we came to the conclusion that either the news guy was wrong or our tannenbomb was a dud. I respectfully tipped my rabbit fur hat towards the tree and in defeat we shuffled inside put the tree back in the living room and consoled ourselves with lefse and finger jello. Kids don’t try this at home. We are trained and highly experienced idiots.

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good light, because you can’t rely on a burning Christmas tree to guide the way. Happy 41st Wedding Anniversary to my patient and loving parents. This is all your fault.

Another successful hunt is in the books. Dawn and I got a nice big one and each of the kids got a small one of their own. As has been tradition for quite a few years our good friends, the Richter’s, joined us for the hunt and filled both of their tags as well. We covered some pretty rough terrain but the gang was up to the task and were willing to do whatever it took to bring down the prey. Those trees never stood a chance.

Particularly, the Black Hills White Spruce (Picea glauca, as it’s known to somebody much smarter than I). It’s short needles, hardy limbs, and full figured appearance make it a highly desirable Christmas conifer here in the Black Hills National Forest where ten bucks buys you the right to rescue the tree of your choice from the scary old forest and bring it back to the comfort and safety of your home.

There it will be placed in front of your picture window for all the passersby to behold and adorned with lights, and a host of hooked trinkets commemorating you and your family’s march through the years. A sturdy stalwart holder of Christmas past, standing guard over the bow covered boxes of Christmas present with an angel perched on its spire pondering Christmas’s yet to come.

The kids did a wonderful job decorating and I couldn’t help but notice that more and more of the ornaments are hung a little higher on the tree every year. It wasn’t all that many Christmas trees ago that the ever expanding ornament collection was relegated to the low hanging limbs and the angel installation involved me holding a squirming kid precariously over my head while simultaneously trying to coach them into the proper placement of said angel.

The interior of the house is now officially open for Christmas. The exterior illumination hasn’t occurred yet but it’s next on the holiday cheer chore list. The last few days have been too warm to put up Christmas lights and I don’t want to chance a tumble from a ladder without the extra padding afforded by layer upon layer of cold weather clothing. If I’m going to gracefully glide into a holly bush I would prefer to pick the thorns out of a thick layer of Carhart rather than a thin layer of my birthday suit. Have you ever seen a nudist colony with properly hung exterior Christmas lights? I rest my case. Don’t look up if you’re holding the ladder.

The stockings are hung by the chimney in disrepair, the yule log is doing whatever it is yule logs do, the little lights aren’t twinkling (I checked every bulb), bells are ringing, angels are winging, and Christmas is singing. I hope this finds you and yours well and good as we prepare for another bout of Christmas or a happy holiday if you’re so inclined. Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, Festivus for the rest of us…however you say it say it with a smile or Tiny Tim will give you a ghost guided guilt trip.

Sing “Happy Birthday” to my Mom on December 5th, spanking and sock to grow a block are optional and risky to all involved.