Rambling Josh

With the proper motivation all of us are capable of incredible feats. Sometimes that motivation comes from within, but more often than not it is powered by someone else, someone close to our hearts. I recently had the good fortune of being exposed to such an individual through an email from a friend.

It’s a story about a father motivated by a son. Children have a way of motivating us to be better than what we are, better than who we may believe we are. They generally see their father as some sort of superhero with limitless power and ability to overcome anything and everything. It’s not wrong for them to believe so highly in us. Maybe it’s wrong for us not to. Not to at least try.

This is a story about “can” not “can’t.”

Dick and Judy Hoyt’s son, Rick, was strangled by the umbilical cord during birth, leaving him brain damaged and unable to control his limbs. When Rick was nine months old the doctors told them that he would be a vegetable the rest of his life, there was nothing going on in his brain, and that eventually they would have to put him in an institution.

The Hoyt’s thought otherwise. They new there was something going on in Rick’s head by looking into his eyes. When Rick was 11 they took him to the engineering department at Tufts University and asked them if they could find away to help Rick communicate. They could and they did.

They designed a computer that allowed Rick to control the cursor by touching a switch with the side of his head. A high school classmate was paralyzed in an accident and the school organized a charity run for him, so Rick typed out, “Dad, I want to do that.”

Dick was overweight and out of shape, but decided to give it a try. They finished the five mile run in second to last place, but they finished. Something happened that day that changed Rick’s life and ultimately Dick’s life also. After the race Rick typed, “Dad, when we were running it felt like I wasn’t disabled anymore!”

Dick became obsessed with giving Rick that feeling as much as he possibly could. He got in good enough shape that they started running marathons and then triathlons. Eighty-five times he’s pushed Rick 26.2 miles in marathons. Eight times he’s competed in the Iron Man Triathlon where he towed him 3.2 miles in a boat while swimming, pedaled him 112 miles in a seat on the handlebars, and then pushed him 26.2 miles while running. All of this in one day.

They not only compete in these events but they finish in the top half with times that athletes pushing, pulling, and pedaling only themselves would be proud of. To truly appreciate “Team Hoyt” I ask you to experience “The Strongest Dad in the World.” It is incredible.

If Rick could have one wish what would it be? Rick types, “The thing I’d most like is that my Dad sit in the chair and I push him once.”

Go dig your cape out of the closet, the kids might need you.

My daughter is a gentle soul that loves to care for animals and from what I’ve seen animals love her to care for them. Usually these animals are normal pet sized animals that you wouldn’t be surprised to see milling around someone’s house.

The other day I was startled to hear the mournful sounds of a terminally ill elk caught in the agonizing throws of death coming from the kid’s bedroom. This raised a few questions. How did she get an elk in her room? How big an elk is it? How sick is this elk? For the record, it sounded very big and very sick.

Does the elk have insurance? Is Sierra an approved provider under the elks plan? Does Sierra carry malpractice insurance? Does it cover an elk? Will the elk sign a waiver allowing taxidermy to occur if he doesn’t pull through? So many questions were running through my mind as I ascended the steps to the kid’s room.

As I got closer the sounds became more mournful and gut wrenching. Poor elk, once so majestic roaming the meadows and forests of the Black Hills, now bugling madly surrounded by stuffed animals and Barbie dolls.

I slowly open the door, just a crack, to where I can see the bed. Huh…no elk in the bed, must be on the floor, to sick to even make it into bed. I tentatively open the door the rest of the way and there it is.

Jackson’s in the corner, face contorted in pain, hands pressed tightly over his ears. Sierra poised in one of her little chairs, black case opened at her feet, and…and a trumpet pressed against her lips. No elk, just a trumpet in the hands of a first year band member.

“We learned ‘G’ today Dad, how does it sound?” How does it sound! “It sounds wonderful dear…keep practicing…keep practicing.”

Learning to play an instrument is hard, hard for both the learner and the listener. But when you finally start to get it, finally start to make what sounds like music; it is a wonderful thing, wonderful for both the learner and the listener.

Sierra is learning to play on the same trumpet I learned on and played throughout my band days. I think she chose trumpet because seeing as she isn’t a teenager yet she still likes to be like her father. She comes from a long illustrious line of Burke Central trumpeters, well maybe not long, illustrious could be argued also, but lets not quibble over details.

My aunt Susan played trumpet, then myself, then my sister, and I believe my brother Gabe may have dabbled in it for a week or so. My brother Jarvis played trombone, but I don’t think he has it anymore, traded it for a set of tires or something of that nature. My wife played clarinet, but thankfully…uh, I mean tragically it was sold.

So the musical lineage continues. I look forward to seeing my daughters face light up when all the practice pays off and she finally “gets it” and starts to make music. I really look forward to it.

How many times have you heard someone say, “I’m trying to grow my hair out.”? It always puzzled me because I never realized you have to “try” I had always just assumed it was something that happened without much assistance. Maybe that’s why my hair isn’t as thick and luxurious as it once was. It just got tired of doing all the work.

My hair may have been overheard muttering, “We’re busting our follicles up here night and day so he can parade around in his precious mullet and he doesn’t even try to help.” Disgruntled and more than a little miffed it decided to show its power and make me take notice of it by migrating from where I would prefer it reside to less desirable areas.

Maybe it’s not as easy as one would think. I guess I was wrong to think that all you have to do to try and grow your hair out was not cut it. I would see someone that had informed me two weeks earlier that they were trying to grow their hair out with an obvious hair cut and I would ask them, “I thought you trying to grow your hair out?” To which they would reply, “I am but I got it cut.” Then I say, “Well your not trying very hard then are you?”

The reply to this line of question is, “It grows faster if you cut it.” To which I reply, “But it grows from the roots not the ends, so how does cutting the ends make the roots grow faster?” To which they reply, “Shut up.”

I have an aunt that’s upstate ND’s premiere hair dresser, I suppose I could ask her, but it’s probably something they aren’t allowed to discuss. A dirty little secret of the beauty salon world that I’ve stumbled onto. Susie might get roughed up by the “Big Bouffant” if I don’t stop nosing around and asking questions.

For those that don’t know, I’ve been doing a little research and the “Big Bouffant” is the head of the beauty operators union. She has total control over every beauty operator in the lower 48, parts of Haiti, and one Canadian province (not sure which one). All hair styles are under her jurisdiction and if we mess with her she will send us back to the mullet and bangs day’s without a tinge of remorse.

All this digging around and asking questions isn’t without danger, she threatened me personally with a pompadour. I assured her that I would end my crusade and spread the word that cutting your hair makes it grow faster.

It’s been just about 15 years to the day that I reluctantly had my mullet amputated. Maybe it’s time to give it another shot, except this time around I’ll try really hard. I’ll get my hair cut every week so it grows nice and long.

Next time you see me I’ll look like Neil Diamond, hair and rhinestones…..Sweeeeet Caroline..Da..Da..Daaa….

Insanity is in the eye of the beholder. What may seem to be perfectly normal behavior to one person, usually the person performing the behavior, is often construed as completely insane by the average onlooker. Things get real confusing when the person performing the potentially insane behavior, behavior he previously believed to be normal, begins to realize that the average onlooker may be correct in suggesting that he’s an idiot.

A few weeks ago I made a personal journey through this confusing paradox between the perception of sane and insane. On August 18-20 I took part in an endurance cycling race that started at the Wyoming/South Dakota border and followed Highway 212 for 412 miles to the South Dakota/Minnesota border. Riders had 48 hours to complete the distance. Seemed sane to me in the blissfully, agony free months and days leading up to the event.

The race was an event that I had organized to raise funds and awareness for the Crohn’s and Collitis Foundation of America. We raised about $1,000.00 and received a whole lot of publicity. It’s a sane cause.

We left mile marker 0 at 4:00 pm (MT) with a nice tail wind, the exact tail wind I had been praying for since I devised this race. We were flying along at about 25mph, and someone, some moron, somebody that must walk around looking gift horses in the mouth said, “We’re going to be in Faith by 9:00 at this pace!” Faith is at mile marker 114, and the tailwind gods, apparently angered by Mister Gift Horse Mouth Looker, decided to keep us on the road a little longer.

The wind shifted and our pace was slowed to about 13mph, not a comfortable toodle around town 13mph, but a peddle up hill for the rest of your life 13mph. At 11:00 p.m. with my wife and kids driving behind me to light the way I was disgruntled, tired, sore, and realizing I was not only insane, but an idiot. A grown man riding through the dark dodging road kill, potential road kill, and wondering if my butt could hurt any worse (it could).

When I went to sleep that night I was pretty sure that I would never walk normal again and prayed that a jackalope would drag my bike off into the prairie. The next morning however I felt great and my bike was still present and accounted for, jackalope are an unreliable bunch. This feeling of greatness was fleeting. I was never really comfortable on the bike all day; I just experienced various levels of discomfort.

One minute feeling as though I could ride all day and the next finding myself screaming at cows for taking for granted how easy they have it. I apologize to the cows I berated along Highway 212; I’m sure you do more than just stand around and eat all day. I also apologize to the wind; I didn’t mean all those nasty things I yelled at you after the cows ran away crying. Oh yeah, and I apologize to the road sign that said “Gettysburg 10 miles.” I know you’re just a helpful messenger but you caught me at a bad time.

I was defeated in Gettysburg at mile marker 227. I never would have made it as far as I did without all the support and encouragement my wife and kids gave me along the way. If you encourage an idiot they keep doing idiotic stuff.

Next year I’ll make it….it can’t be that hard.

Sad to say that summer is on its last leg and the structured portion of the year is about to commence. Soon the pools will close, the schools will open, and the kids will have to be tamed again. No more staying up late and getting up only when the craving for Fruit Loops becomes unbearable.

I’ve had a good summer. We left Rapid City on June 5th and plan to return August 15th. In the time in between we’ve put on a few miles, seen a lot, did a lot, and enjoyed our extended stay in Lignite.

The kids have enjoyed the freedom a small town allows and I’ve enjoyed the safety. It’s going to be like penning up wild horses when we return to Rapid City where they are constantly under my direct supervision. I know I’ll be hearing “Why can’t we live in Lignite?” for quite awhile after our return.

It will be especially hard on Jackson whose bike hasn’t stopped the whole time he’s been in Lignite. If you’ve seen him lately you probably noticed his stylish hairstyle. For some reason he wanted a mohawk, and for some reason I gave him one. Dawn and myself agreed that he could keep it for a couple of weeks, but it may have to be removed sooner. The mohawk seems to have adjusted his attitude in the wrong direction.

Sierra isn’t quite as active as Chief Jackson, but she found plenty to do in Lignite also. Bingo with Great Grandma Helen, hours of “Animal Planet”, and keeping Grandma and Grandpa company at the store. The profit margin at DJ’s will increase dramatically without the grandkids daily ration of candy and snacks.

I’ve spent the past week playing in the dirt at an archeological dig on Beacon Island by New Town. This was my first experience volunteering for such a thing and I found it to be quite enjoyable and interesting. I had no idea how much work was involved in field archeology. My hand modeling career will have to be put on hold until my blisters heal up.

The site we were excavating is a 10,300 year old paleo-indian bison kill area. To get to the bison bone you have to use a hand trowel and work your way down anywhere from one to six feet. Being a good Catholic I was somewhat conditioned for the constant kneeling and standing.

Kneeling in the dirt scraping soil for a week, eight hours a day, under the blazing ND sun may not be everyone’s choice for a good time but it sure beats working. It was just amazing to think that the bones I was touching were over 10,000 years old and also to think about who the people were that touched them then.

The dig was interesting but not as fun and dangerous as the glow ball golf tournament I played in Columbus last weekend. Swinging clubs, hard flying objects, high speed carts. Mix those with, well whatever you mixing, and you’ve got a recipe for fun. I think Tiger Woods is planning on adding it to his tournament schedule for next year, but I don’t think he has the liver for it.

Enjoy what’s left of the summer…or right.

I have a good friend named Bubba that’s a pretty good guitar player and song writer. Bubba is an athletic trainer like me but he lives in Kansas City so I only get to see him once or twice a year at our yearly athletic training conventions.

We always bring our guitars with to the conventions for some pickin', grinin', and general song butchering. Thanks to a little rum the butchering gets worse as the night progresses, but thanks to a little rum we don’t generally notice or care. Sometimes we work on new songs, sometimes we play old ones, mostly we laugh like idiots.

Bubba was hiking in Nebraska last year and came upon an old headstone that had an epitaph that read: “Ordinary I Wasn’t Wild I Was.” This inspired Bubba to write a song titled “No Ordinary Life,” which I would like to share with you.

I found the old man asleep in his chair
Just like I had done the past twenty years
But this time was different for he did not rise
I knew he was gone to the other side

Laid out on the table next to his chair
Was an album of photos with a letter in there
The album was full of photos and such
But under each one he had written so much

What I found on that day was no ordinary man
But a man of conviction who had taken a stand
Some were of family, work and of strife
But none of a man with an ordinary life

Chorus:

Ordinary I wasn’t, wild I was
A man’s measured by what he doesn’t do, not by what he does
Chase all your dreams, always do what is right
And don’t you go living an ordinary life

The first photo was him, little sister in tow
His clothes were too big, his shoes were too old
“Out in Kansas Somewhere” the picture it read
During the depression, before daddy was dead

The next was of him and the 101st
Labeled 1944, December 31st (spoken)
The snow was piled high and the men looked pretty bad
But there stood Jim smil’n with his rifle in hand

Another was taken on a large ship at sea
Hauling freight from the gulf up the Mississippi
Next was a mountain with him at the base
Titled “This time tomorrow, I’ll touch outer space”

The next was a bar that I’d seen many times
Titled “Grand Opening, 42nd

It’s that time of year again…flowers in full bloom, corn growing a foot a day, brats sizzling on the grill, and of course children playing with explosives. I’m in a tough spot this year. Both my kids are “technically” old enough to blow stuff up this 4th of July. I know its fun, I know its part of growing up, I know, I know…..I know too much.

I know how to accurately shoot a sibling with a bottle rocket, I know how to quietly toss a firecracker behind a sibling that is squatted down concentrating on lighting fireworks, I know how to time the fuse on a firecracker so that when thrown it will blow up at a siblings ear level.

These are not things I know because someone told me about them or I read about them. No, these are things I know because I did them. I did them every year, and when my kids aren’t watching I’ll do it this year also.

When you know about these things and partook in such behavior as a child you assume your kids will do the same. I assume that after my OSHA approved pre-firework lighting safety meeting is concluded and proper firework lighting technique and courtesies are demonstrated that my kids will wait till I’m out of sight and give into the temptations.

The temptations that are brought about by the volatile combination of annoying siblings and small explosives are hard to combat. Maybe I’ll just suggest that they just run around the yard and randomly yell “BOOM.” I’ll tell them that when we were kids we couldn’t afford fireworks so that’s what we had to do…..and we liked it. Go out in the yard and give it a shot. For added enjoyment you can blink a flashlight on and off with each “BOOM” you yell.

I’m hoping that evolution is at work and my children are capable of more intelligent choices than their father. Or that they take after their mother. If not I’ll be there to make sure that they’re doing it the wrong way correctly. Since Dad handed them a sack of explosives as soon as we walked in the door it’s not a matter of if they light them, it’s when. Grandpa’s are always so helpful.

I was fortunate enough to make it all the way from Vermillion to Flaxton in time to catch the second half of Sherwin Linton’s performance at the Burke County Fair on Friday. My compliments to the fair board for getting such a top notch performer. Nobody sings Johnny Cash’s songs better, which did create some confusion in my six year old son. He knows Johnny Cash is dead so I think he was a little nervous for awhile, but he got it straightened out.

If you see Rose and Ardell roaming around wish them a happy 55th wedding anniversary. Feel free to give Grandma Rose your sympathies.

Have a wonderful Independence Day……“BOOM”…“Ahhhh”…

I just returned from a four day athletic training conference in Atlanta, and I can confidently say that I don’t care if I ever visit there again. It’s nothing personal, everybody I met there was quite friendly, there was just too many of them. When you grow up in a town of hundreds a city of millions is a bit much.

The first thing I have to consciously not do when I visit a big city is not stare directly at everyone I meet as if I might know them. Just one of many small town habits, like waving and saying “Hi,” that apparently make those in the big city nervous or irritated. Nervous and irritated is the last emotions I wanted to evoke in some of the not so peachy Georgians I ran across.

The constant noise and flow of people, cars, and cement sucks the life out of you. So I was more than happy to get back to the trees, hills, and grass of South Dakota in time to spend father’s day with my wife and kids.

For those of you expecting fathers or those that plan to be fathers sometime in the future here’s a little heads up. Fathers Day is not a day for you to do whatever you want; it’s a day for you to do whatever your kids think you want to do. This just so happens to bear a striking resemblance to what they want to do.

This if fine with me because soon enough they probably won’t care what I’m doing as long as it doesn’t involve them sparring any of their precious teenage time. I may have made it out of the Eastern Time zone unscathed but I suspect the teenage time zone might leave me a little battered.

I know this because as the oldest I had the opportunity observe this horrendous behavior in my younger siblings. Thankfully my superior level of maturity blossomed early and I never caused my Dad any grief. Except for that one time….no wait that was Jarvis, or maybe…no that was Amanda, oh now I remember…nope that was Gabe.

The three formally mentioned defendants and myself are fortunate to have such a wonderful father. Even though we couldn’t all be there with our Dad on Fathers Day, he’s in our thoughts on this and everyday. When I open my crayon cards on Fathers Day my only wish is that my children love me as much as I love my Dad.

Hope all you Dad’s of Upstate ND had a wonderful Fathers Day. That might make a lovely swim suit calendar, “Dad’s of Upstate ND.”

Dad I know your legs haven’t seen sun since the Nixon administration so you’ve got some work to do. Just get yourself a pair of “Daisy Dukes” to wear when you mow the lawn four times a day and you’ll be bronzed in no time.

Happy Father’s Day “Mr. August.”

Life is full of choices and turning points, some are big some are small, some are temporary some are permanent. Standing in the bathroom the other morning getting ready for the day I was faced with a choice that was a turning point in my life.

This wasn’t a turning point that you plan for like senior citizen discounts or high school graduation. No, this one I didn’t see coming at all. It was going to be a hot sunny day and I was going to be outside for the majority of it so I had some choices to make. Shorts or pants, shoes or sandals, t-shirt or tank top, sunscreen or hair gel….Sunscreen or hair gel!

The choice between sunscreen and hair care products is one that I didn’t see coming, but here it was rearing its scantily clad head. A turning point. Which one do I NEED was the question at hand or head I guess you could say? Do I continue to support the troops or do I give in and protect the invading scalp?

When I dropped the kids off at school that morning, and gave them their usual hug and bidding of “have fun and learn something,” Jackson asked what that smell was in my hair. “Coppertone” I replied, with a tinge of defeat in my voice. Jackson said, “I like it, it smells like we’re going to the pool.”

His response made me smile. Now if he were older and had fully developed his genetic predisposition to sarcasm he may have responded a little differently. Something like, “Why because your ears and nose are stealing all the hair from your head?” or some other ego bruising, but humorous, response.

Kids are great when they’re at the ages where nothing their father does or is embarrasses them or seems odd in any way. The rabbit fur hat you wear in winter is still entertaining, they still accept hugs and kisses in front of their friends, and your head slathered in Coppertone reminds them of the pool. I better enjoy all this before they discover that I might be a bit strange.

Actually I anticipate that it’ll be just as enjoyable when I am a complete embarrassment to them. I believe that is our right as parents in exchange for changing diapers and putting up with these little people as they try and figure out who they are. Seems fair to me.

You can go ahead and be one of those “cool” parents if you like, but I want to cause my kids to wince a little from time to time. Not from physical pain, but good old fashioned mental anguish. The anguish only a weird father can bring about when you are surrounded by your “cool” friends with the “cool” parents.

They can look away all they want but when they turn back I’ll still be there. Honking, waving, singing loudly to that “weird” music, and leaving a scent of Coppertone in my wake.

Enjoy your summer. Smells like we’re going to the pool.

I would like to commend Shelley Bartow and Jackie Jensen for their time and effort in getting the Northern Prairie Wellness Center up and running. I’m looking forward to visiting the new facility on my next trip to upstate North Dakota. Where else are going to find a room full of sweaty North Dakotans?

The Hostefest on “All You Can Eat” lutefisk night?

I tried lutefisk once and given the choice I would just as soon eat a sweat sock dipped in butter. Grandpa Ardell talked me into it, and I don’t think he was all that disappointed that he had to eat my share too. Just thinking about it gives me that watery eyed nauseous feeling.

That’s not the first time he’s talked me into doing something that made me nauseous. The cigar that turned me green, the oyster stew that turned my stomach, the pulling his finger…well that made me laugh too.

Now that all of you upstaters are getting whipped into shape I’ll expect to be receiving your entries into the bike race I’m organizing for August. Speaking of the “Gut Check”, the dates have been changed since the article about it, to August 18-20th. I’m sure your frantically checking your date book at this very moment. What could be a better way to spend a weekend than pedaling your bicycle 412 miles?

The Hostefest on “All You Can Eat” lutefisk night?

What would make someone attempt to ride a bike that far in such a short period of time? It’s different for everyone I suspect. Personally the wind rushing by as I peddle makes it harder to hear the voices in my head. It’s very therapeutic.

What would make someone live in the wind swept prairies of North Dakota? Same reason I suspect. I’m not implying that you’re all crazy. I’m only saying that when I tell “normal” stories of my life growing up in Lignite to people that have never had the privilege of visiting our neck of the woods they appear both frightened and entertained at the same time. What else could make someone look frightened and entertained at the same time?

The Hostefest on “All You Can Eat” lutefisk night?

Now I’ve never been to the Hostefest, so before I get a bunch of Norwegian accented hate mail, I want you to know that I intend on going some day. I’ve seen the line up of musical talent they have each year, and despite that, I’ll still go.

It’s almost bikini season so finish reading the paper, put down the bon bon’s, get your leg warmers on and head out to the Northern Prairie Wellness Center. Just like Grandpa Ardell told me before I gagged on that first and last bite of lutefisk, “It stinks a little but it’s good for you.” Good sound advice for working out, but it should never apply to food.

Take advantage of the opportunity being provided to you to improve your health and stay in shape. What do you need to stay in shape for?

The Hostefest on “All You Can Eat” lutefisk night, of course.