Rambling Josh

My buddy, Paul, asked me one night if the people who read the Burke County Tribune ever get tired of reading about the stupid things I do?

He asked me this about two hours into a shortcut to a backcountry campsite in the Black Hills. A shortcut that two hours previous I had convinced him would have us rolling into camp in thirty minutes…at the most. It was an easy sell. I had the GPS and let him see for himself the location of the camp, our location, the “recommended” trail and my proposed route.

“Here we are,” I said pointing to the little green arrow on the screen, “and here’s the camp,” I said pointing to a little dot on the screen.

I continued with my pitch, “Now here’s the recommended trail.”

I explained pointing to a thick black squiggly line. “See how it loops waaaay around over here?”

Paul nodded and made the mistake of not raising any questions.

“If we go straight towards the camp we’ll be there in 30 minutes,” I stated with enough confidence to almost convince myself. Paul, feeling the weight of his backpack and knowing it was going to be completely dark in about 30 minutes, agreed to the shortcut. Well, he didn’t really agree he just failed to disagree, or maybe he did but I couldn’t hear him over the noise I was making pushing through the brush to get off the recommended trail.

There’s an old saying, “Never mistake the map for the terrain.” I don’t know who said it, but Paul should have. Sometime during my speech on the glory of shortcuts and how recommended trails are the root of six or seven percent of the world’s problems, he should have said it.

During my speech if I had taken the time to zoom in another couple of clicks on my GPS, I would have seen why the trail looped waaaay around.

Generally, trails do loop waaay around steep mountains, cliff faces, streams and other things that impede safe smooth forward progress but caught up in the excitement of a shortcut I mistook the map for the terrain. So it goes.

This really wasn’t anything new for me as virtually every time I head out for a hike, I abandon the recommended trail at some point and time. You can’t work on your map and compass skills if you always know where you are, besides you get a nice little adrenaline rush when you realize you just might be lost. I found out Paul doesn’t enjoy that little adrenaline rush like I do.

Off trail, in steep terrain, in the dark, through more poison ivy than a poison ivy plantation, with a glorified monkey running the GPS, is as good a way as any to find out something like that. He kept whining about breaking a leg, stepping over a cliff in the dark, and other such probable and likely courses of events. All of which I would like to add, mostly never happened.

Truthfully, I thought it was a blast and we did eventually get to the camp. I can’t remember exactly what Paul said the next day when I suggested we take the same route back, but his statement contained many, possibly all, of my favorite words and phrases. Words and phrases I use when someone cuts me off in traffic, when an anvil falls on my foot, and other such occurrences.

So, we took the recommended trail back. Boring old trail, head down, shuffling along like all the other recommended trail schleps. I tried not to complain because Paul was carrying a knife, it was hot, and I had used most of his drinking water to put the campfire out while he was slipping into a shortcut-induced coma the night before.

Good friends are hard to come by…Paul’s still looking.

The tenth anniversary of 9/11 got me thinking about sacrifice, about life changing events, about those who run towards danger to simply help someone. Someone they may not know. There were many heroes that day and as a result of that day many young men and women answered the call to serve this country.

Veteran’s Day is a couple of months off but sometimes something gets in your head and you can’t write about anything else until you’ve cleared the slate of the words that want to come out. I can “clear my slate” by simply putting words down but it’s not that simple for many of those who have served our country.

Veteran’s Day means something different to each of us. To some–to most, it means a day off from the work-a-day world that demands of our time and to others it’s an official day to remember people and events they will never forget. No matter how hard they try.

Jon Williams is a veteran of the war in Iraq where he served a 394-day combat tour as a Combat Engineer in the Army’s 2nd Infantry Division. Williams gave of his time and a portion of his life to be a part of something bigger than himself for many reasons. To honor a grandfather who fought in WWII, to do what his father was willing but unable to do during Vietnam, and to do something not everyone can or will do.

Williams is a friend of mine; an individual I am proud to call a friend for many reasons. One of those reasons being he unselfishly served his country during a time of war. He served for his country, he served for his family, but when all is said and done, he served for his “Combat Buddies,” the man to his right and the man to his left. Jon drove an armored track vehicle and many of the men to his right and to his left came home because he was good at what he did.

To say Jon “came home” is to over simplifying things. Jon came home physically but like any soldier who has seen combat and has stepped in front of and saluted the battlefield cross of a fallen comrade, a fallen friend, a part of them never did and never will come home.

The men we send off to battle are barely men and have scarcely had the time to define themselves in our civilized world of comforts and freedoms. They are young men doing what they have been trained to do the best way they know how. We don’t know what they’ve endured, we don’t know what they’ve seen, we don’t know and don’t understand, and we never will.

Knowing is their burden and trying to make sense of what they know may be an exercise in futility, but it is an exercise they will undertake often. Not thinking about it isn’t an option and trying to forget long enough to sleep through the night is all many of them strive for.

Too many of us think of the war veteran as a grizzled old man who fought a long past war we were taught about in high school history class. A war that’s outcome has been documented and studied by scholars leaving us with a sanitized compilation of facts, figures, and the occasional war hero.

There is war going on right now. A war, that at times, seems to be background noise and footnotes to our daily lives. This war hasn’t called upon us civilians to ration anything, to change or make sacrifices in our lives. But it has called upon some. It called upon my friend Jon, and like many others he answered. They answered, they served, and we must not forget any of them. We must not forget the sacrifices they have made; we must not forget those who have died, and we most certainly must not forget those who live.

Those who served and lived carry a burden we will never fully appreciate or understand. But we can honor them. We can support them. We can simply be there for them when they return to society. A society and idea they defended and tried to spread to those who don’t know, have never known freedom.

What we can’t do, what we shouldn’t do is expect them to return from an environment as hostile and unforgiving as war and slide seamlessly back into society. Our society is far removed from what they’ve experienced and endured and these young men/women, these veterans, need us to understand, need us to be there for them when they are ready for us to be there for them.

Serving one’s country during a time of war creates an inner debt that will never be paid in full. Honor those who have served, honor those who serve. They have given so much and ask so little.

Thank you, veterans.

Sometimes ideas are better left ideas.

Now all you drag alongs victimized by bad ideas be advised that all the blame for an idea gone wrong doesn’t fall solely on the individual who brought forth the idea. Those who unquestionably go along with the idea and fail to foresee the various errors or consequences associated with the idea share some of the blame…some.

The following account is mostly true and somewhat accurate, as sort of remembered by an unquestioning drag along victim of an idea. Only the name of the perpetrator of the ill-conceived idea has been changed to protect her from further scorn, ridicule and threats of bodily harm.

“I’ve always wanted to hike the Mickelson Trail,” mused Wilhelmina. “You know, you get a sticker when you complete the entire hike…oh, how wonderful it would be to have that sticker.” A simple statement. That is the first red flag to be aware of in the quest against being an innocent or ignorant victim of bad ideas. A simple statement such as this is often the messenger of a bad idea. In this situation it is perfectly acceptable and encouraged to go against the saying, “Don’t kill the messenger.”

For those who may not know, the Mickelson Trail is a 109-mile trail that follows an old railway grade through the Black Hills from Edgemont to Deadwood. The trail is marked with mile markers and has several trailheads that break the trail into segments of varying distances. “The first segment is only 16.2 miles. We can do that can’t we?” Wilhelmina pondered aloud within earshot of the ignorant and soon to be blister footed.

Always one for a challenge, always one for a hike, and always one to overlook the makings of a bad idea until it’s too late, I took the bait and proclaimed with certainty, “Sure…l6.2 miles is nothing,” I heard myself saying before myself could evaluate what I was saying.

So it was said, so it was agreed upon, so it goes. High noon, a balmy, cloudless, 92 degree day, perfect for hiking if you’re a two humped camel or one that was brought up relying on two humped camels as a major mode of transportation.

Days like this are rote with warnings, red flags and other divine signs suggesting you abort the ill-conceived idea and proceed to a barstool perch where a more thorough investigation into the matter can be ascertained. I’ve spent the better part of my life blissfully ignoring warnings, red flags and divine signs. A genetic malady with no known cure that comes in handy for someone that needs quasi-interesting, quasi-entertaining things to write about.

So, with all signs ignored we shuffled on towards the gates of hell, conveniently located on the western edge of Edgemont next to the Cheyenne River, a museum, and a Coke machine. Like moths to a flame, limping, battered, sun stroked moths, we gimped into Edgemont and fell in a stiff, sore, blistered heap in the slim shadow of Mickelson Trail mile marker 0.

“The coveted Mickelson Trail sticker is a few miles closer,” Wilhelmina thought to herself lying in bed that night with the scent of Silvadene wafting from the sun backed shins of her husband. Her husband, oh let’s call him Steve, lies in the fetal position quietly recalling a laundry list of past ideas he’s succumbed to. Too dehydrated to muster a tear, Steve fades into a fitful sleep tormented by mile markers and stickers.

Today about 42 people have a temporary hitch in their giddy up. Forty-two people gimping around appearing to make a poor attempt at an impersonation of John Wayne’s walk. John Wayne in a full diaper possibly. Forgive me, Duke.

The hitch has been temporary in the past but as I get more experienced in life I’ve noticed some of my temporary aches and pains are becoming more permanent. I guess one should expect a little discomfort after perching themselves on a bicycle seat for 412 miles.

The 2011 edition of the Highway 212 Gut Check, a 412-mile endurance race across South Dakota to raise funds and awareness for the Crohn’s & Colitis Foundation of America, is in the books. The event continues to grow year after year with about 42 riders competing this year and raising around $7000 for the CCFA. The exact amount raised hasn’t been tallied yet as I haven’t been able to sit long enough to figure it out.

Actually, I’m not nearly as bad off as those who make the entire journey solo. Myself, Jay Stevens and Tim Chrest leapfrogged across the state covering the 412 miles in about 32 hours. We took turns riding 20-mile sections of Highway 212, so basically it would be like riding back and forth between Lignite and Bowbells 20 times.

With three of us on the team, you ride your 20 miles and then wait a few hours for the other two riders to complete their leg. So, for those of you who have been itching to give the Gut Check a go, just ride from Lignite to Bowbells, eat, take a nap, and ride back to Lignite a few hours later. Repeat about six times and you’re ready to be part of a three-person leapfrog team. Just for clarification purposes I mean ride a bike, no mopeds or other beasts of burden.

Of the 42 riders who rolled away from the SD/WY border to venture towards the SD/MN border only five didn’t make it. Two were injured in crashes, one got sick, and two just didn’t want to ride any further. Thankfully the two who crashed ended up being okay. Well, as okay as anyone who would attempt to ride a bicycle 412 miles in under 48 hours can be.

The best time was turned in by a cyclist from St. Paul, MN who covered the 412 miles in 19 hours and 25 minutes with an average speed of over 20 mph. Amazing. It takes a lot of training and dedication to accomplish a feat like that. Much more training and dedication than I could ever muster. Of course, he’s not married and has no kids, so what else does he have to do?

Wait a minute, one of my teammates isn’t married and doesn’t have any kids either…he better pick up the pace a little next year. I know there many diseases and causes out there worthy of our time, money, and efforts but this disease affects someone I care about which is why it is the recipient of my time, money, and effort. Thanks much to all who donated and participated in this event.

See you next year.

For more information visit: www.gutcheck212.com

Have you heard the one about the guy who took a job in North Dakota, quit his job and sold the family’s house in South Dakota, then decided not to move to North Dakota and had to find a new job and new house in South Dakota?

Funny story…well more of a saga fueled by a few ill-timed events and more than enough natural disaster.

If all would have went as planned my family and I would have renounced our South Dakota citizenship by now and be residents of Minot, ND. But as life will have it, more so than not, all did not go as planned and I have filed for an extension on my South Dakota work visa. Things could be worse; they can always be worse. We could own a house submerged in the flood waters of the Souris River.

If the flood would have held off for another few weeks, that’s exactly what would have happened as all the houses we were considering for purchase were filled to varying depths with the murky flood waters. We feel for those who own those homes and the thousands of others affected by the flood and are very much aware our circumstances and situation pale in comparison.

Sure, I spent about $1,000 on a U-Haul to take our sofa and stuff on what will turn out to be a 800 mile joy ride. And yeah, we had to come up with $6,000 when we closed on a house we hadn’t lived in three years. Things could be worse. I’ll just keep muttering that to myself.

When I was 11 years old we went to the Black Hills for a fun-filled family vacation and after being in the Hills for a few days I told my parents I was going to live there some day. I guess I need to quit messing with my 11-year-old prophecy and accept the Black Hills as our home.

It was on that same family vacation that a lake in the Black Hills just about became my final resting place. When your father has discovered you’ve lost the keys to the locked van you should stop enjoying your swim and help look for the keys. Not only because it may knock a few notches off your dad’s mad meter but when you go to put your shoes on to help look, you might find the lost keys in your shoe right where you left them.

We can laugh about that now, but when I held up the keys in triumph and yelled out, “Here they are!” there was no giddiness pervading from my father as he snatched the sneaker scented keys from my water pruned fingers.

So, when my kids are older, they can sit around and laugh about the time their dad took a job in North Dakota, quit his job and sold the family’s house in South Dakota, then decided not to move to North Dakota, and had to find a new job and new house in South Dakota. When their children ask them why their dad would do such a thing, they will be forced to explain this was not an isolated incident and they may be genetically predisposed to similar erratic behavior.

With that they will all solemnly shake their heads and mutter, “Things could be worse…they could always be worse.”

Over the Fourth of July weekend a rare event occurred. An event so physically and psychologically damaging that many involved may never achieve a full recovery.

Since most involved have never been accused of being physically or psychologically normal to begin with, a full recovery would still leave half a deck. Half a deck, no kings, no queens, a bunch of jokers and one Batman.

The Ellis family reunion was summed up pretty well in the shirts my sister, Amanda designed for the event “What a Blast.” Literally and figuratively, we had a blast and if you didn’t, there were so many people there that no one probably noticed anyway.

It had been a long time since Fritz and Helen’s children had all been able to get together and enjoy, or at least tolerate, the company of each other’s families. It seems that enjoying and/or tolerating one another is something we all used to do a lot more of, and I hope this is the start of a more regular get-together for the Ellis clan.

I enjoyed sitting there and hearing all the voices and laughs that were part of my childhood. I felt like a kid again hearing my aunt, Carol’s snort and seeing her spit a mouth full of water out laughing at her brother, Ronald. These people know how to laugh, full on and often, and if you can’t handle that laugh being pointed in your direction from time to time you’re either a new in-law or possibly adopted from much more serious ancestry.

Serious isn’t bad but we’ll do all we can to laugh it into submission.

Family reunions are important for many reasons. They provide reassurance to your wife she’s not the only women that has to put up with people like you. This is a wonderful time to form an in-law support group. Just be sure to have your group meeting out of bottle rocket range. We can’t help ourselves.

Family reunions are also a good time to learn that when the neat glowing liquid inside of those plastic glow sticks is squirted directly into the eyes, it will result in about an hour of searing pain. Who knew? My son knows now, but I mean before that.

It’s all fun and games until you lose an eye or two. Then it’s still fun and games but your horseshoe and skeet shooting ability declines a bit. Speaking of skeet shooting… Family reunions are a good time to become aware of your wife’s ability to effectively handle a shotgun. If she can hit a clay pigeon, she can hit you. Let that thought soak in a little.

I am truly thankful for my family and proud to be a part of the Ellis clan. Seeing all of us in one spot it was hard to believe it all started with just two people. Two people can cause a lot of problems if they’re not careful.

Thank you, Aunt Debbie and Uncle Doug for turning your farm into a KOA for a few days. Next time when selecting a reunion location we will base our decision on sewer system capabilities.

Next time?

My wife and I accomplished 15 years of marriage last week. A feat that has taken us far and wide, up and down, this way and that, and sometimes a little sideways but always together or at least a phone call away in the event of an emergency.

What has my man brain learned about the institution of marriage and the woman I suckered into sharing it with me after 15 years? If I learn twice as much in the next 15 years as I did in the first 15, our 30th wedding anniversary will be the day I explain that I can count all I’ve learned on the fingers of one hand. That is, of course, if in the next 15 years I lose four of the fingers on that hand while attempting to give a quarter to Leroy the chimp at the North Dakota State Fair.

That would leave one very fortunate and slightly disfigured finger for me to wave about as I prophesize to our 30th anniversary guests about my knowledge of marriage and women that are your wife. The chainsaw ice sculpture that claimed the fingers on my other hand wouldn’t even begin to drip in the June heat before the extent of my wisdom had been surpassed.

Grab a pen and paper lads…Marriage is a lot of work and women are a complete mystery. Not bad work but work that you want to keep at until you get it right or at least less wrong than right. And who doesn’t like a good mystery? A mystery, that just when you think you’ve got it figured out you are made aware of an entire chapter that had previously been missing.

For as long as you pursue solving that mystery new chapters will continually appear and you will continually make wrong assumptions in regards to the mystery. Gives you plenty to ponder while you’re mowing the yard, swaying in your hammock, or walking the dog. All equally great activities for mulling over the mystery of the woman you share your life with. Men like to mull and ponder even if it produces no useful answers, the act of mulling and pondering is an enjoyable pastime.

When people hear it’s your anniversary the inevitable question is always, “What did you get your wife?” If the question is posed by a man, he is looking for ideas for his own anniversary or hoping the gift you gave was worse than the one he gave so he can scamper home with evidence he hopes will convince his wife she should be glad she got a bug zapper.

If, on the other hand, the question is posed by the wife-type either you or her husband is going to end up at the business end of the “what a stupid gift” stick. So, in the spirit of brotherhood and self-preservation I refuse to answer the woman wielding the “what a stupid gift” stick.

To somewhat lessen the likelihood of us man-types buying undesirable gifts for anniversaries some kind soul put together a traditional wedding gift list that provides direction for the directionless for each and every year of marriage. The list informed me that the 15th year of marriage should include a gift of crystal.

I thought of having a girl named Crystal pop out of a cake, but she had been injured playing Twister at a bachelor party the week before and Emerald was the only one available. So instead, I went shopping for crystal. I’ve never shopped for crystal before, but I can tell you there is nothing manly about it. I couldn’t even bring myself to ask the store personnel where their crystal was.

“Can I help you sir?” “Just sort of looking for that clear stuff that looks like glass but is called something else and the list says we should give it to our wife when we’ve been married for 15 years.” “You mean crystal?” “Maybe that….Could you not say that so loud?”

They kindly led the way, and I picked something simple and somewhat useful…to remind her of me.

Twenty years ago, the class of 1991 walked across the stage to accept their high school diplomas to bring a chapter in their lives to a close and begin the next. The chapter that came to a close was a fairly predictable chapter that contained relatively the same plot for everyone involved with a few minor differences here and there.

With the class motto, “With yesterday’s knowledge we challenge tomorrow, for tomorrow we lead and today we follow,” we headed out the door of the friendly confines of Burke Central High School blissfully unaware of what lie ahead. As our history and shop teacher, Leonard Savelkoul, always said, “Ignorance is bliss.”

One day during class when several of us were expressing how we couldn’t wait to get out of this place Mr. Savelkoul told us there would come a day when “this place” is exactly where you will wish you could be because life outside of these walls isn’t all rainbows and puppies. As usual most of us blew this off as crazy old teacher talk. As usual Mr. Savelkoul was right.

The words of some other crazy old person also stick in mind. I don’t remember who said it, but I remember right after graduation he came up to me in the post-graduation congratulatory hand shaking, hug, sniffle, and cry lineup and said, “Congratulations, now you’re one of us.” I laughed when he said it but felt a definite “thud” deep inside. I think the thud was the rainbow collapsing on the puppy.

Where did we get our class motto? I have no idea. I know we didn’t Google “class mottos” because in 1991 Googling was not an option. Heck the internet wasn’t an option in 1991. As a matter of fact, I think you could be arrested for “Googling” in 1991. No internet, cell phones the size of toaster ovens and while some were still fighting the switch from 8-track to cassette we were on the verge of making the switch from cassette to compact disk.

As far as class mottos go, it’s got a pretty good message. I’m sure in our infinite teenage wisdom that was why we settled on it. I remember it took up a lot of space on the curtain behind the stage and whoever had to make the tinfoil covered letters probably would have been pleased to have a shorter motto. It would have been easier to project the motto onto the curtain with PowerPoint I suppose but in 1991 you could get suspended from school for “power pointing.”

So instead, the letters were all carefully stenciled, cut out, covered in foil, and then tossed in the dumpster behind the school. With a thud they landed in a heap under the fading rainbow while the puppy raised a leg to mark the beginning of our lives as “one of them.” One of them expected to go forth and be a productive member of society.

For the most part I think we were able to accomplish that task. Although that task may not have been as glamorous as we had imagined 20 years ago, I think the class of 1991 has done alright as “one of them” and even managed to enjoy a few rainbows and puppies along the way.

Many professions have internships, apprenticeships, or something similar, as part of the requirements to work in that particular profession.

Generally, it is a specific time frame you have to spend working under the supervision of someone in your chosen field. In the field of teaching an individual does several of these internships and then the last big test is the student teaching.

I think the most important reason for these internships is to give students an inside look at the profession they think they want to embark on. Some professions seem interesting, cool, and even enjoyable when viewed from the outside but become anything but when you find yourself knee deep in the stuff they didn’t teach you about in college.

There have been studies that have shown that certain college majors see an increase in enrollment when television shows about that profession become popular. Criminal justice and forensic science majors saw an increase when all the CSI type shows became popular. I’m not sure if “Welcome Back Kotter” had the same effect on the teaching profession. I know Hawkeye and the gang on M.A.S.H made emergency surgery seem like a hoot.

If television can make a profession look cool, students will come and we all know television can make just about any profession seem cool and filled with nonstop fun and adventure. Cool and filled with nonstop fun and adventure? When’s the last time you heard someone describe their job in those words? Besides your accountant.

I chaperoned a field trip for my son’s fifth grade class a few weeks ago and volunteered to help in his classroom last week while they worked on a special project. The project involved fire, so I guess the teacher wanted as many so-called adults around as possible to spritz water on any flaming students. There were a few students I would have liked to have thrown a blanket over and given a few whacks in a fire snuffing demonstration.

There was a student teacher in my son’s classroom during both of these cool, nonstop fun and adventure days in the life of an elementary school teacher. He seemed like a pretty sane guy, friendly, intelligent, and the kids loved him, but when I left after my chaperone stints I thought, “Is that guy out of his mind?” Even after months of student teaching in a room with 25 no-attention span, no off button fifth graders he still wants to be a teacher.

I would think teaching might be a profession where they would benefit from keeping prospective teachers out of the classroom until after they graduate and then springing the cool, nonstop fun and adventure on them like some cruel trap.

I chaperone and volunteer in my kids’ classrooms quite a bit and have never once left thinking, “Ya know, I think I want to be an elementary or middle school teacher…it seems so cool and full of nonstop fun and adventure.” No, I usually leave thankful I do what I do and don’t have to answer off-the-wall questions and respond to strange observations from strange little people. Like the observations expressed to me, “Boy your voice is deep.”

Maybe you learn not to respond because I’ve noticed the teachers usually only respond to pertinent questions…of which there are very few. But I felt rude not responding, so I said, “Ahh..thanks..someday yours might get deeper too..maybe.” Or “Wow you have hairy arms.”

A pertinent question deserves a pertinent response, “Yeah..ahh.. thanks, it keeps me warm. Someday your arms might be hairy too, little girl.”

The town of Kincaid came to be on the prairies of North Dakota in the summer of 1899 for the same reason many towns came to be late in the 19th century in this part of the world. The steam engines that rumbled along the tracks pushing further into the northwest needed water every ten miles or so, and the location that was to be Kincaid was in fact ten miles or so to the west and ten miles or so to the east of the next town.

As was common in those times of westward expansion, the railroad, like a proud new parent, generally named the towns it was responsible for the creation of along its iron family tree. Kincaid was named after Charles James Kincaid, an important and wealthy executive of the Northwest Railroad Company of Chicago, IL. Important, as a result of his wealth, and wealthy as a result of his father.

Charles’ father, Arthur, and his twin brothers, Leo and Lester, had the fortune; some would say dumb luck, of being part of the expansion of the Northwest Railroad Company. Their dumb luck was that each of the three brothers had bought adjacent 2,000-acre parcels of land west of Chicago with plans of filling the land with cattle and becoming great cattle barons. Actually, it was Arthur who bought the land and had the grand idea of becoming a cattle baron, Leo and Lester never really ever had any grand ideas.

Leo and Lester were born six years before Arthur, but Arthur never met either of them until he was 10 years old. Their mother, Willamina dropped Leo and Lester off at the “Illinois State School for the Moronic and Feebleminded,” shortly after her husband, Eldridge, went out for a walk and apparently forgot how to get home. Eldridge’s running off didn’t come as much of a surprise to Willamina for she knew how hard it was on Eldridge, a man of good strong German stock, to face up to the fact he had fathered two imbeciles.

What Eldridge didn’t know was that Willamina was about four months pregnant at the time of his extended walk. He also was unaware that he wasn’t the father of the son he didn’t know his wife was pregnant with, so it’s probably just as well that he kept on walking.

It would have been hard for Willamina to explain why the baby appeared to be of slightly darker complexion, similar to that of the man who did such a nice job painting their house about four months previous, while she and Eldridge were of obvious lily white descent.

Luther came highly recommended as a dandy painter by several of Willamina’s friends she played bridge with every Wednesday afternoon. Willamina knew it must be true because Mrs. Fallon hired Luther to paint her house three times last year, and Mrs. Jeffrey’s insisted Luther paint her fence every single month, with weekly touch ups in between. That Luther could paint all day.

So, Willamina unable to handle the demands of the twins and a new baby all on her own made the heart wrenching decision to leave the upbringing of Leo and Lester to the state of Illinois. That turned out to be more than enough for one state to handle. Trying to educate Leo and Lester proved to be as futile as members of the 7th Cavalry applying lip balm during the Battle of the Little Bighorn. It just didn’t matter. They weren’t stupid, they were crazy and preferred it that way.

The employees of the Illinois State School for the Moronic and Feebleminded never celebrated the 16th birthday of any of those in their care with as much jubilation and outright joy as Leo and Lester’s. At the age of 16 they could be released with the Illinois State School for the Moronic and Feebleminded stamp of approval that they were indeed fit to enter society. Whether they were fit for society or society was fit for them remains of question, either way they were going home.

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious and the result of an overactive imagination. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.