Rambling Josh

As Mark Twain once said, and many have said since, “Truth is stranger than fiction.” Those words crossed my mind when I first read about the “Piggy Back Bandit” in a newspaper article a few weeks ago. I have a disorder that makes me laugh at inappropriate times or at least what is deemed inappropriate by a statistical majority of the adult population.

When I first read the story about the Piggy Back Bandit I thought, after a less than mild chuckle, that this may be one of those inappropriate times and that there may be something more to the story. Something darker and more sinister that would make me regret chortling over the issue, but so far nothing dastardly has turned up so for now I feel vindicated of all counts of inappropriate laughter.

Oh I’m sure there are still those that feel this is a very serious matter; the same that feel most every matter is serious. I know who you are. I’ve seen you frown in my direction while I’m struggling to overcome my above mentioned disorder. Have you no compassion for the disordered?

For those who may have missed this little nugget of news allow me to fill you in on the exploits of the Piggy Back Bandit. First of all, I must inform you that Piggy Back Bandit is not the Christian name his parents picked out of their “10,007 Baby Names” book. If it were his given name it would be a simple case of a young man trying to live up to his name. But it’s not so this isn’t a simple case, it’s a strange case, stranger than fiction.

It seems Sherwin “Piggy Back Bandit” Shayegan has spent the last few years making impromptu visits to high school sporting events to solicit piggy back rides from high school athletes. The 28-year-old entrepreneur founded his “business” in Washington and then expanded east collecting piggy back rides and the ire of high school sports officials in Oregon, Montana, North Dakota, and Minnesota.

A Montana high school sports official was quoted as saying, “What’s disturbing to me is that he is jumping on our young athletes, he is 240 pounds, and he can hurt someone.” What’s disturbing to me is that that’s all he finds disturbing. So if Sherwin coupled a reduced calorie diet with a strenuous regime of daily calisthenics and lost 70 pounds his actions wouldn’t be disturbing? In the event I have the urge to pick up a new hobby I would like to know the optimum non-disturbing weight for a piggy back bandit.

Before you pass judgment on misunderstood and mildly misguided Sherwin know that he is not a free loading piggy back rider. His general mode of operation is to gain close access to the team, he prefers basketball, by taking on the role of water boy. Once the game is over and his water boy duties have been completed he asks for his hard earned wages in his favorite form of currency, the piggy back ride.

Have your free loading kids ever offered you anything in exchange for all the piggy back rides you’ve dished out to them over the years? I need to go get an oil change tomorrow so when the guy finishes up and hands me the bill I’m just going to tell him to hop on. We’ll settle up piggy back bandit style…if he’s under 240 pounds…otherwise it would be disturbing.

During my glorious carefree fun filled college days I claimed, on paper anyway, to be a biology major and I somehow managed to graduate with a bachelor of science degree in biology. A B.S. in Biology, the B.S. part is accurate and somewhat fitting as I had intended on becoming a forest ranger and spending my days moseying around the woods analyzing various forms of animal droppings. Now as an athletic trainer I mosey around gymnasiums and football fields waiting for athletes to drop. B.S. is in just as plentiful a supply at a sporting event as it is in the forest, it’s just being produced and expelled in a different format.

Sometimes what we set out to do or be isn’t what we end up doing or being. For instance, my brother had dreams of one day performing on Broadway. He would dance fervently around the house, dancing and dancing until he would collapse in an exhausted heap, his leotard soaked with sweat. Then one fateful day while dancing he slipped on a stray Lincoln Log rolled his ankle and was never the same. With his dreams of Broadway so cruelly and violently ripped away he sold his leotard and leg warmers and became a lineman.

Since both my brothers are lineman feel free to create a mental picture of whichever one you would find most entertaining dancing around in a leotard. I find them both entertaining and as their older brother I’m confident that I could convince both of them to slip into a leotard.

B.S. got me thinking about B.S. and the other words and phrases we use to express ourselves. For example “Son of a biscuit” is a phrase I refuse to use for various reasons. First of all, as a quasi biology major I do not recall ever studying the reproductive system of a biscuit which makes me question the validity and accuracy of the statement. Since I wasn’t the most attentive student it is entirely possible that I missed that chapter or was absent the day we went over the biscuit reproduction system and had biscuit dissection lab. If that is the case I apologize for my ignorance.

What would the son of a biscuit be? A crouton? An oyster cracker? Secondly, I don’t use that phrase because I believe if you’re going to curse, if you want to curse, if you need to curse then don’t dilly dally around with the low-fat diet version. Spit out a mouthful of the real McCoy. Always full flavored, always satisfying. When you smash your thumb with a hammer and, “Oooh snicker doodles!” just doesn’t cut it reach for the tried and true. This message approved and funded by Cursers of America. We swear by it.

Cursing is an art and like all art forms some people are better at it and more fluent in it than others. Like any great artist you need to know what to use, when to use it, and how much is necessary. That is where many go wrong and give cursing a bad name. I like salt but too much of it can make you cringe. The error those people are making is that they are not taking their audience into consideration. Like an artist who paints portraits of hamburgers and steaks to sell at the PETA convention they just don’t understand the wants and needs of their audience. Don’t understand or don’t care.

Properly used, cursing, can make you feel better, get your point across in fewer words, and provide some level of entertainment to those around you. Unless of course the curse is directed at those around you which of course is the beginning of an entirely different scenario that may find you with a fist in your curse emitter. If you’ve been wanting to give cursing a try start with muttering obscenities to test the waters. Start low and grow is what we teach here at the Cursers of America Academy of the Arts and What Not.

Speaking of B.S., cursing, and muttering obscenities, I hope you had a wonderful Valentine’s Day and the box of chocolates you got didn’t have too many of those chocolates filled with that nasty orange marshmallow substance.

I drew the taxi to Terry Peak straw this past weekend and as I was sitting in the ski lodge passing the time until 4:00, when the lifts shut down for the day and my son and his buddies are forced to stop snowboarding, I spied a sign. A sign I’ve paid a passing glance to in booze pedaling establishments once or twice over the years.

The sign’s intention is to assist those that may have forgotten their age or have been traveling abroad and need to be reminded of the legal drinking age in the United States and South Dakota. The sign said, “If you were born on or before January 29, 1991 enjoy an ice cold Pabst Blue Ribbon.” A simple sign, you’ve seen it, I’ve seen it, we’ve all seen it time and time again.

I worked as a bartender when I was in college and rotating the numbers on the sign was one of a multitude of exhausting duties required of me. Slicing lemons, putting pickle spears and olives on little swords, making sure there wasn’t too much lipstick on the clean beer glasses, and rotating numbers. Oh yeah, and making sure the televisions were all tuned to various sporting events. If no sports were on customers were forced to watch golf or NASCAR instead.

What caught my eye this particular time was the year, 1991. That was the year I graduated from Burke Central High School. Baby’s that were just making their messy and noisy entrance into this world that year can now legally make a messy and noisy exit from a bar. Using my rudimentary math skills and general knowledge of legal drinking age I deduced that 21 years ago I was a young man in tight pants, loafers, and a flowing mane strolling the halls of BCHS on the downhill side of my senior year.

I was enjoying myself sitting at the bar in the ski lodge until that point. Who wants to be reminded that they are well before the “if you were born on or before” date? Not me. As my high school history and shop teacher, Mr. Savelkoul, always said, “Ignorance is bliss.” I was blissful until that sign threw 21 years at me and made me ponder this and that. Pondering this and that reminded me that I will be 40 in July and if the next 21 years go by as quickly as the last I’m going to be 60 sometime next week.

I feel a little nauseous. Mid-life crisis? Does mid-life mean half done or half to go? I can count on the half done part; at least until I forget it, but the half to go part is a crap shoot. I gotta stop with this line of thought; it’s not good for my complexion. Those of you more experienced in the matters of aging could maybe fill me in on how long I’m going to fret about all this number and age nonsense because it’s exhausting.

In my experience hiking, going downhill always means there’s going to eventually be an uphill so you enjoy the downhill because you know the uphill is going to be difficult and tiring. I’m not ready to enjoy the downhill yet so I guess I’ll turn around and walk back up to that knot head in the tight pants and loafers and tell him to enjoy life it goes by fast…and to get a hair cut.

Early one blustery South Dakota January morning the “Pre and Me Meat Co.” was founded and brought forth stuff made of meat. One meat, actually, brought forth in various delicious forms, smoked venison, dried venison, and venison summer sausage all were carefully hand crafted and Labrador approved.

This process of processing was much more time intensive than I imagined and I now understand why people would ere on the side of stinginess when it comes to sharing their homemade jerky and sausage. My right hand dog, Pre, took a keen interest in the art of turning this into that and was by my side every step of the way.

If he had thumbs and better penmanship I’m sure he would have been taking detailed notes. With the large volume of drool this meat work was producing I was concerned about Pre’s hydration and electrolyte levels so I kept him well supplied with Gatorade.

I have made jerky in the oven and in the dehydrator with success in the past but that seemed too easy and predictable so I thought I would take the “Pre and Me Meat Co.” to a new level and really impress our customers and attempt a few new methods. I read an article a few years back on making a smoker out of a garbage can and wanted to give it a try so I set out to do some net surfing to get the particulars on garbage can smoker construction.

To answer your first question, “Yes it was a brand new never been used to contain actual rubbish and what not metal garbage can.” To answer your second question, “I didn’t just go buy a smoker because I saved at least $7.00 by building one of my own.” The Pre of “Pre and Me Meat Co.” will be more than willing to answer any further questions you may have in regards to smoker construction, meat preparation, or canine thoughts and beliefs about UFO’s and Big Foot.

With my garbage can smoker materials list in hand I headed to the hardware store with visions various smoked animals dancing in my head. I apologize to any vegetarians that may be reading this but the vision was a most pleasant site and like a Pavlovian dog I began to salivate as I strolled through the hardware store. Uncontrollable salivation in the hardware store isn’t anything new but this time the reason had nothing to do with the latest and greatest model of table saw with laser alignment and free dado blade.

While searching for all the necessary components I did run across an actual factory made smoker that would only require me to open the box. I was in Wal-Mart at the time and in a weakened state, my general state when forced to venture into Wal-Mart, and of course it was on clearance but I fought of the urge to go with “Made in China” and stayed the course for “Made in my garage”.

Besides, I figured if it didn’t work out at least I would have a garbage can and Pre would have his fill of smoked meat. With some personal modifications to the plans I found on the internet the garbage can smoker worked. Men always make personal modifications to plans because otherwise it’s just following instructions and no man likes to have their creativity and undiscovered genius stifled by instructions.

So after fifteen hours of tending to the needs of drying and smoking meat my family can enjoy the tasty, and let us not forget healthy, products of the “Pre and Me Meat Co.” Be sure to tune in next week as we transform a Mini Winnie into a mobile smoker capable of the simultaneous production and transportation of various forms of smoked and dried meats.

Another holiday season came and went and took 2011 with it. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again…time goes by way too fast.

With the holidays being such a prominent presence in the ever-growing chapters of our life story, you can’t help but reminisce a bit when this time of year rolls around. When quietly pondering the past while staring at the unblinking truth of the present, you never know what emotion will win out. Happy, sad, or possibly a potent cocktail of the two swirled together like a big sticky half eaten candy cane.

While I was in Lignite for Christmas I had to go out to Grandpa and Grandma Chrests’ farm to pick up a few odds and ends leftover from the almost move. Grandpa passed away a few years ago and Grandma moved to town so nobody lives at the farm anymore, but I still like to visit when I’m home.

Why visit a place where nobody lives anymore?

Sometimes you can’t remember the words to a song until you hear the music play. The farm plays the music that helps me remember some of my song. To a stranger that house may appear empty, but when I walk through it, I see layer after layer of the past unfold all around me. A past, happy and full of love and laughter.

Laughter is a constant presence in the music the farm plays for me which makes me happy but a little sad. Happy I have the memories, sad those times are gone; happy I’ve had so many wonderful people in my life, sad that some of them are gone; happy I was able to spend so much time at the farm as a child. I feel the same way and hear more of the same music when I walk by Grandpa and Grandma Ellis’ old house in Lignite.

As a child Christmas Eve was spent at Grandpa and Grandma Ellis’ and Christmas was spent out at the farm. Both families are big, loud and full of it, so there was a not so dull roar in each household as family after family shuffled in and out of the cold for their yearly helping of food, presents and laughter.

So when I was out retrieving my stuff from the almost move I could see all the cars in the driveway, all the relatives staking out their usual spot in the house, Grandpa’s laugh rising over the roar, the rickety card table where us cousins ate quickly so we could begin prodding the adults to get to the present opening.

The Chrest family gets together at the Senior Citizens Center in Lignite for Christmas now and although it’s a different place, it’s got that same familiar roar. What I wouldn’t give to hear Grandpa’s laugh rise above it one more time. I’ll put that on my list for Santa next year.

We need places and events that play our music, so we don’t forget our songs. The holidays are played out for another year but feel free to sing your song whenever the mood or that big sticky half eaten candy cane strikes you.

Happy New Year.

For my wife’s 40th birthday, which could have occurred this year or possibly sometime within the next ten or so years, I got her four tickets to watch her 49ers take on the Steelers this Monday night. After weeks of deliberation, she decided to fill the other three seats with myself and the kids to make a fun-filled family vacation of it.

So, on Thursday we descended into the San Francisco airport, promptly rented a car, and headed for the hills of Yosemite National Park for the first leg of our clockwise California vacation loop. With El Capitan and Half Dome crossed off the list, we made our way to Sequoia National Park.

I have always wanted to see those giant trees I have seen in pictures with my own two eyes and Mother Nature did not disappoint. Pictures do not come close to conveying the grandeur of these magnificent giants of the forest that sprouted through the earth almost 3000 years ago. If those behemoths could talk, imagine all they have witnessed from their mountain top vantage point.

The mountains of California are like the Black Hills on steroids.

From the mountains we headed towards the coast and the rolling waves of the Pacific. To get out of the mountains required navigating switch backs so tight I caught a glimpse of myself coming or going several times. Myself gave me the bird once when I forgot to dim my headlights. All the mountain road zigging and zagging was also threatening to present a grizzly reminder of all that my daughter had consumed that day.

The kids have really enjoyed the beach, and the weather has been great. “Unseasonably warm” we’ve heard several locals exclaim. An “unseasonably warm” winter day in California bares a strikingly similar resemblance to the average summer day in the Dakotas. Just substitute the mosquitoes with sea gulls and the cows with tourists.

The last few days we’ve been meandering in a northerly direction via California Highway 1, back towards San Francisco. Thus far it has been a very enjoyable trip and as we speak, or as I write, we are in Santa Cruz at the Coastview Inn. It’s hard to forget the name of the place as the establishments sign is directly outside our window providing a wonderful night light.

The ocean is right across the street, and I can see where people could find its continuous rhythmic sounds an enjoyable neighbor. Actually, the beach is right across the street and with any luck it will stay between us and the ocean. Tomorrow we’ll load up and make the final push for the big city on the bay and prepare for some Monday Night Football, cable cars, Alcatraz, and Rice-A-Roni. Not necessarily in that order.

If you watched the game Monday night, I was the guy with “Go Niners” shaved into my back hair and “Go Steelers” on the flip side. With the way opposing fans have been mistreated as of late you gotta stay bipartisan.

What has become most obvious to me on this trip is that my children are hardly children anymore and we need to take more family vacations before adulthood starts to lay claim to their time.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year everyone. See you next year.

Settling into a new home is a process of taking what was once someone else’s and making it yours, by undoing and redoing all the work the previous somebody spent a lot of time and effort doing. Most likely the majority of those changes were thought to be permanent by that previous somebody but change has been the order of business for our house the past few weeks.

Changing this and that, painting anything and everything, your basic undo redo projects that have created a “honey do” list longer than my leg…foot and toe nails included. DIY gone wild. Do It Yourself has gotten out of hand or foot if that’s your preference. I’m not talking about our house, of course, no honey, I love, love, love everything you tell…ask me to do.

We spent Thanksgiving with my wife’s side of the family at her sister’s house and they have cable. We do not have cable and a request for it has shown up on the kids’ Christmas list every year. Going to a house that has cable reminds me of why I’m glad we don’t. There apparently are very few television shows nowadays with made-up characters living made-up lives.

Television is no longer an escape to Fantasy Island, with a Charlie’s Angel on each knee and the third fetching you an egg nog. It’s watching real people do real home improvement projects. As you air your complaints about the programming, you are shushed by your wife who is poised with a note pad making a list of things that will significantly subtract from your hiking, biking, and general doing nothing time.

There never used to be “Home Improvement” stores. There were hardware stores and lumber yards where men would go to visit, scratch, spit, swear, fart and buy 2x4’s and sacks of nails. You couldn’t buy lilac scented bath oil, fuzzy slippers, or anything else of that nature and if you asked you would be beaten with your new 2x4 and given a few whacks with your sack of nails. About the only items other than lumber and hardware you might find, would be a bottle of Coke and for a quarter and a few cranks a handful of stale cashews.

Those people on those home improvement shows do nice work but then they are people in the plural, and I am I in the singular. Many hands make light work and more interesting television I guess than one inept guy and one house. To be fair, my wife is an active member of our home improvement cast and can usually be found at the helm of a paintbrush.

I admit there is great satisfaction in successfully completing a DIY project. There’s also something to be said for being sent off to Disneyland while a group of professionals with nice hair and bubbly personalities whisk in and undo and redo your entire house in less time and with less profanity than it would have taken you to hang a curtain rod somewhat straight.

So, if you’re in the neighborhood swing on in and sit for a spell. We can visit, scratch, spit, swear, and fart as long as you can do it with a paintbrush in your hand.

There are times when the words “Thank You” seem inadequate and so little to say in return for so much. This is such a time.

No matter how much I ponder, and I ponder a lot, I can’t string together any of the words in our vast English language that could come close to expressing the depth of my family’s gratitude, appreciation, and thanks to the Williams family.

Back in July when the “Great Debacle” began, our family had sold our home in Rapid City and was in the process of moving to Minot during the worst possible time to move to Minot in the past 500 years…give or take. Our friends, Steve and Tammi Williams, told us we could stay with them until we got things figured out and found a place to call home in Minot, Rapid City, or anywhere here or there.

There are words and sentences we impulsively put out there sometimes that the passage of time has us lashing ourselves with regret each time we see and hear ourselves uttering the words. “You can stay with us” is one such sentence that has most likely frequently tormented the thoughts and dreams of each member of the Williams family the past few months.

They are good people and I hope after all is said and done, they will remain good friends.

All will be said and done this week as we finally close on our new home here in Rapid City. A safe distance away from the banks of the mighty Mouse River and the exorbitant real estate prices courtesy of the Bakken boom.

This week the Williams family can have their life back the way it was prior to the “You can stay with us” day they have rued for so long. After long last their home will be Ellis free and once the fumigators pay a visit, or two, they will hardly even know we were ever here.

Physically they will be free of the ties that have bound us all in this communal living experiment that taught us more about each other than we probably cared to know. Physically they will be free but mental freedom may only be found at the bottom of a bourbon bottle coupled with the drug regime of a sympathetic psychiatrist.

I know they don’t expect or want anything more than a “Thank You” from us and possibly a promise we will turn them down if God forbid a similar situation were to ever arise again and they are unable to keep from uttering “You can stay with us.”

Thank you Steve, Tammi, Maura, Hermione, Martha Mae, and Buckeye for opening your home to us. Thank you for providing stability for us and our children during an unstable time. Thank you for the laughter we’ve shared and the talks we’ve had when laughing and talking were what we needed most. Thank you for everything. Your act of kindness and selflessness will always be greatly appreciated, and you can stay with us anytime.

Still makes you cringe a little doesn’t it?

On Saturday, Nov. 5, 2011, our daughter, Sierra, will celebrate her 16th year on this earth.

Sweet 16 so it is called for reasons that are not entirely clear. Sweetness isn’t a recent revelation we have spent the past 16 years anxiously awaiting the day that would suddenly bestow a sunny disposition upon our daughter.

As her father my opinion may be slightly skewed, and I’m sure her brother would strongly disagree, but I believe Sierra would score in the top five percent of the nation if a ranking for sweetness, kindness, and sunny disposition were established. It’s who she is and who she’s always been.

It is a great privilege granted to us parents to have a front row seat in watching a child grow into a young adult and beyond. A privilege I am thankful for every day as my wife and I do our best to provide our children with a foundation that will be strong and stable enough to successfully launch them time and time again onto the various paths they choose once they go out to face the world on their own.

So, at 16 my daughter is only a few years away from her initial launch into the world and that scares the hell out of me, but it would be selfish to build a rocket and not let the world see how high and far it can go.

My children’s birthdays turn me into a sentimental sap as I uncontrollably think back to the years that have passed.

When I think back to when Sierra was a little girl the memory that always comes to mind is the way her face would light up and she would yell out, “Daddy!” as soon as she spotted me and come running and jump into my arms every day when I picked her up after school. I can hear and see it, like it was yesterday and it makes me smile now just as it did then.

Maybe it’s my imagination or a case of wishful thinking clouding reality but I can still see a hint of that look on her face when I pick her up after school or haven’t seen her for a few days. I don’t think it’s in Sierra’s nature to be anything but genuine but even if she is feigning excitement at the sight of her dear old dad, I hope she doesn’t stop.

So, what privileges await my daughter as she advances to the ripe old age of 16?

She can get married in Scotland without parental consent, marry in South Dakota with parental consent, donate blood, join the armed forces in the UK, drink booze and buy smokes in several European countries, drop out of school, and move out with parental consent. Nothing Sierra’s been anxiously waiting for…I hope.

No matter how much disbelief I conjure up, Sweet 16 it is and will be. My girl Sierra…sixteen for a year but forever sweet. Can I get an “ahhh” from the sappy section?

Happy Birthday, Sierra.

If you have plans and if you have children, your plans will change. A simple truth that early on in your parenting career you will expend great amounts of energy and experience many moments of frustration trying to rail against. Then eventually you take a step back from the wall you’ve been beating your head against and realize it is energy wasted.

Another simple truth of parenthood is if you decide to include your precious yard apes in an activity you enjoy but don’t intend on amending the activity to account for your children, you are in for less activity and less enjoyment than you set out for.

Just a few pearls of wisdom I’ve picked up along the various hiking and biking trails I’ve drug my children to for a fun filled day of perpetual forward movement. Nothing about a kid’s forward movement is perpetual so these pearls were usually picked up along the trail at a distance much less than I had planned.

My kids are a little older now, so they have the ability to move a little further along the trail than they used to back when I was still delusional enough to think my plan was their plan. They have the ability, but the desire and interest is still lagging, which would be frustrating if I was still in the business of beating my head against the wall.

Recently we went for a bike ride through the Black Hills on the Mickelson Trail. My plan was to ride 30 miles with the kids to a trailhead where my wife would be waiting to pick them up and I would continue kidless another 70 miles. My wife’s plan was to walk about eight miles with our dog before proceeding to the designated trailhead for kid pickup.

I figured it would take about the same amount of time for the kids and me to cover 30 miles on bike as it would for my wife to walk eight miles. I figured wrong.

My wife’s plan of walking eight miles with the dog went off as planned. My plan of riding bike 30 miles with the kids did not. “Why” you ask? Haven’t you been listening? I had the kids with me, she had the company of our agreeable and energetic lab.

It could also be that she’s generally more conservative, some would use the word realistic, in her plans and I tend to hinge on the side of optimistic, some would use the word unrealistic, in my plans. I sincerely doubt that’s the reason for my higher than average rate of amended plans but I just thought I would mention it. I’m going to keep blaming the kids.

My plan first encountered a snag about a mile in, and like the sweater your great aunt made you, it was completely unraveled by mile two. My plan had called for a 12-mph pace and here we were dawdling along, just fast enough to keep from tipping over but not fast enough to keep a chipmunk from relieving itself on my tire.

The old man cracked the whip and told the troops to pick up the pace, so we surged ahead about 30 feet and then had to stop for a drink, clothing adjustment, and to lodge formal complaints.

My daughter informed me she felt sick and didn’t know if she could continue and my son told me he couldn’t go any faster because his bike was hard to peddle. This prompted me to offer up a motivational story of how I road a western-themed banana bike 30 miles in a bike-a-thon when I was six years old to raise money for crippled kids who would have given anything to be able to ride a bike.

While trying to contain the vast amount of motivation this story obviously produced, my son said, “I bet your butt hurt after that. Did I mention my bike’s hard to peddle?”

So, I saw my plan fade away from the seat of my son’s bike, which I rode 20 miles to our amended pick up location. Well, I didn’t really see it from the seat, the bike was too small for me to sit down on and peddle without looking like a circus clown and encountering more discomfort than I cared to endure, so I just stood up and peddled….for four hours.

I’m proud of the kids for the 20 miles they put in. The trail was a little more difficult than I had anticipated when I laid down my optimistic 12 mph pace, but we made it further than I thought we would after the mutiny that occurred at mile two. Don’t tell him, but yes, I agree, my son’s bike is hard to peddle.

In my green horn parent days, I may have been upset with the snail pace change of plans but as a grizzled veteran of many similar campaigns, I was able to step away from the plan and enjoy the ride and the day out and about with the family.

It’s not so bad to step back and let your plans unravel from time to time, because like that old sweater, they probably didn’t fit right anyway.