Rambling Josh

Our daughter asked me, “What about being a child do I miss the most?” Good question. I was fortunate enough to have a tremendously fulfilling childhood, full of love, support, kindness, surrounded by family, and the freedom to roam and ramble with friends from sunup to sundown. With friends, or solo. Sometimes a kid needs a good solo expedition.

I am also fortunate enough to have all those things in adulthood, but the childhood version of roaming and rambling with friends in and around Lignite is probably what I miss most. I enjoy roaming and rambling with friends in adulthood as well, but there’s a few more tethers attached to the adult version. Mostly physical tethers. You may walk into a roam and a ramble, but you’re going to limp home. So it goes.

Riding bike, playing ball, arguing, laughing, roughhousing, exploring, just doing whatever…whenever, with no thought of what to do next. That’s what I miss. “What to do next” just happened in its own time, and never took anything away from whatever was occupying us at the time. In the moment, present with friends, very little thought…just responding to one another’s whims. Us knuckleheads had no shortage of whims.

Reminds me of a passage from An Introduction to Zen Buddhism by D.T. Suzuki, “No amount of reading, no amount of teaching, no amount of contemplation will ever make one a Zen master.  Life itself must be grasped in the midst of its flow; to stop it for examination and analysis is to kill it, leaving a cold corpse to be embraced.”

Roaming and rambling fueled by the whimsy of a pack of feral knuckleheads in Toughskins jeans. Zen masters. Glorious.

All of us Zen masters forced out of our flow of life simultaneously, three times a day, when the siren by the fire hall sounded at noon, six, and nine. Begrudgingly, but dutifully, responding, like a pack of dogs to our mothers' command of, “Come home when the siren blows.” Scattering for lunch, supper, or worst of all, bedtime, and reconvening wherever…whenever. Until one day we didn’t.

I often wonder what day that was? The final time the siren scattered us? If I had known, I would have had my mom take a picture of us. The pack of feral knuckleheads in Toughskin jeans…Zen masters on the verge of being washed out of their childhood flow of life. If I had known, but none of us ever do.

When I close my eyes, I can sort of see us, but it’s like looking through a dusty windowpane. The figures are there, I can see them moving, I can hear them laughing and arguing, but I’m not sure who they are, and I’m afraid that wiping the windowpane will make the siren blow.

I’ll leave the knuckleheads be. I’ll let them be Zen masters for a little while longer. Let them wear out, rather than grow out, of their Toughskins.

What about being a child do you miss most?

Well for those of you without access to a calendar, smartphone, or contact with anyone other than your cat, it is a good spell into the month of October. I’m not saying that cats aren’t intelligent enough to know what month it is, it’s just that they would most likely choose not to mention it if they were capable of such. Aloof they are.

Fun word, “aloof”, defined as “not friendly or forthcoming, cool and distant.” I’ve been accused of being aloof from time to time by those that are unaware that I’m actually a cat, or those that are unaware that I actually don’t like them.

“Don’t like” may be a bit harsh, “don’t prefer” would probably be more accurate. Either way, my wife claims I’m not very convincing at feigning an interest in anything or anyone that falls into either of those categories. My wife’s claims are generally pretty accurate when it comes to her husband and his occasional aloofness, and unfettered fondness for a loaf of soft sourdough bread and firm Granny Smith apples. We all got our things.

There are many reasons for being aloof, for being “cool and distant”. Perhaps, I’m of the impression that you would prefer to stay a bit cool and distant from me, so I am preemptively cool and distant from you to save you the trouble of being cool and distant from me. Consider it a gift. I act like I don’t see you in the grocery store, your ice cream doesn’t melt, my sourdough bread stays soft, Granny Smith’s stay firm…a win for all involved. You are welcome.

On a side note, as of late, I have consumed an alarming amount of Granny Smith apple slices, topped with Italian dry salami and a shmear of goat cheese. The texture, and possibly the taste, is delectable to those of us dwelling in the world of congenital or COVID induced anosmia.

My anosmia is congenital, and as I’ve explained in past columns in this very paper, most likely was precipitated by my overexposure to the fumes emitted by a 1969 Plymouth Road Runner fueled with leaded gasoline while I was a delicate, fragile, blooming fetus.

Delicate, fragile, blooming fetus…weren’t we all. Now look at us. Haggard, callused, and wilting. So it goes.

We grow, get evicted from the womb, face fluorescent lighting and a bushy eyebrowed doctor, are whisked away by kindly nurses that held it all together with Aqua-Net and Virginia Slims. Thus begins life. A glorious miracle.

Aqua-Net and Virginia Slims aren’t welcomed in hospitals anymore, so it is unlikely that we will exit in the same reverential manner in which we entered. Out with the old, in with the new I suppose. Ahh to be new again. To look up and see the faces that smiled down and doted upon our simple existence. Those faces that expressed so much joy in return for so little. Those faces were beautiful.

When’s the last time someone was happy you burped? Was excited when you picked up a Cheerio and almost put it in your mouth? Cheered when you went to the bathroom in a toilet? I suppose, given time, this low bar of expectations will return, and I suppose, those faces will be beautiful too.

As many of you are aware, due to my endless lamenting and carrying on, we had to lay our 13-year old black lab, Pre, to rest this past December. He was a good dog, our families first, and as I stated many…many…many times since his passing, our last. “No, we don’t want another dog.”, I had confidently expressed to anyone that asked about the prospect of any future canine folk calling our house a home.

Apparently, the “we” was more “me”, and occasionally over the past few months, Dawn would show me a picture of some dog the humane society was peddling in the newspaper as the “Pet of the Week”. I would look at the picture and silently nod. Silently nod, week after week, month after month. Confident and firm in my resolve that “we don’t want another dog”.

Then one day, not long ago, I found myself showing Dawn a picture of some dog the humane society was peddling in the newspaper as the “Pet of the Week”. I not only found myself showing it to her, I heard myself say, “What do you think of this one?” Dawn didn’t silently nod, she excitedly blurted out, “Are we getting a dog!”

Then I heard myself say the same thing I said 13 years ago, “We can go look.” Myself was out of control, doing and saying things it had vowed not to do or say, while I stood by helplessly. So it goes. So it went. So, Wilson, is his name.

We didn’t go to look at Wilson, he wasn’t the “Pet of the Week”, but as I was told when we got Pre, “You don’t find them, they find you.” Wilson was a 10-month old stray, and is a German Shepard-Siberian Husky mix, a Gerberian Shepsky, I’m told. Whatever he is, he’s a good dog.

The second day we had him, I took him out to roam around with me in the Black Hills. It was nice to have a four-legged roaming companion again, and as I hiked, and watched him dart about the woods, I thought about the magnitude of the transition that had occurred so quickly in Wilson’s life.

I thought about all the other dogs that he had “did time” with at the humane society, dogs that were still there, dogs that may never find their human, never get to run through the woods, never get to chew up a firepit cover, dig up plants, and whatever else has occurred since I sat down to write this column.

Sometimes you think you know exactly what you don’t want. Sometimes it doesn’t matter what you don’t want. Sometimes, someone, or something, needs you to do that which you don’t want. I didn’t want a dog, we got Wilson. It seems we all needed what I didn’t want.

Perhaps, what I really didn’t want, was to have to say goodbye again? It’s not easy, but Pre trained us well. Welcome home Wilson.

When I was a kid I wanted to be many things. I wanted to be a cowboy like John Wayne, ride high in the saddle, walk with a swagger, outdraw, and out fight any hombre that had a hankerin' to test me.  Then one day I realized “The Duke”, Marion Morrison, wasn’t a real cowboy, swaggering everywhere you go is slow and silly, and I was too mild-mannered and even- keeled to get riled to the point of fisticuffs.

That slew of realizations, and Susie, the ill-tempered Shetland pony my brother and I bought for $200, laid my cowboy dreams to rest.  The horse and the cowboy clothes were traded for an official Evel Knievel bicycle and an Evel Knievel jumpsuit that my mom sewed me, and I set out to be a stuntman. 

Being a stuntman seemed heroic, but jumping burning piles of leaves by launching your bike off of a shoddily constructed ramps is not as glamorous as it sounds, so I shifted my ambitions to becoming the shortstop for the New York Yankees. They never called, but I did enjoy playing a couple of seasons with the Sherwood Yanks in the Saskatoon Men’s Baseball League. You can almost see the Bronx from Saskatoon…almost. 

Remnants of all the things I wanted to be when I was a kid are still a part of my life.  I occasionally semi-swagger about in quasi-cowboy clothes when called upon to provide sports medicine coverage for a rodeo. Put on snug Wranglers and second-hand cowboy boots and see how you walk.

The Yankees?  They had their chance, and they opted to go with some hack named Jeter. I hear his career turned out okay, but his dreams of playing in Saskatoon never materialized. So it goes.

Bicycles have remained a part of my life. I don’t jump burning leaf piles anymore (though it’s not out of the question), but coasting “no hands” down a hill with my arms out wide and my eyes shut still makes me smile. I have fond memories of many of the bikes that have been a part of my life.

The Evel Knievel motorcycle replica bike that I had when I was 6-years old that carried me over many glorious jumps and equally glorious crashes. The western themed banana bike with ape-hanger handle bars that my 8-year old legs spurred for 30 miles in the Stanley St. Jude’s Bike-a-Thon. The blue and gold Coast King BMX bike with mag wheels, from the Kenmare Hardware Store, that was gratefully outfitted with boyhood saving padding on the top bar.

A few weeks ago, “Rosie” was added to the fleet of smile inducing bicycles I’ve had the pleasure of perching upon over the years. I’m generally not one to name inanimate objects, but I could imagine my Grandma Rose looking at the rosewood color of this bike and saying, “My, that’s a pretty color. You be careful on that.”

This ride is a full-suspension mountain bike that has had me laughing out loud while rolling down tree-lined switchback trails much faster than a 50-year old with a history of concussions probably should, so I need the constant reminder of “You be careful” along for the ride.

Bicycles aren’t everyone’s cup of tea, but for me they’ve always represented freedom of sorts. Freedom to explore, freedom to challenge yourself, freedom to switch off your brain and simply peddle, or slowly coast with your thoughts. Freedom to just be.

Such freedoms can be found in many flavors and forms. Enjoy your tea time.

Mystery solved. Back in May of 2021, I wrote “Sublet Piglet”, a column where I explored the possible reason or provocation behind a statement hand painted on the side of an old wood panel two-horse trailer that sits just off of South Dakota Highway 79, somewhere between Buffalo Gap and Hot Springs.

The statement of interest, painted in white on the faded wood panels, simply reads, “We Don’t Rent Pigs”. In that column, I explained that I had driven by that statement many times over the years, and many times, I had wondered what prompted or necessitated one to feel such a statement needed to be made known to all who may pass? Now I know.

How do I know? A book told me. So it goes.

For sale Augustus listed cattle and horses. As an afterthought he added, “Goats and Donkeys Neither Bought nor Sold, " since he had no patience with goats and Call even less with donkeys. Then, as another afterthought, he had added, “We Don’t Rent Pigs,” which occasioned yet another argument with Call. “Why, they’ll think we’re crazy here when they see that,” he said. “Nobody in their right mind would want to rent a pig. What would you do with a pig once you rented it?” “Why there’s plenty of useful tasks pigs can do,” Augustus said. “They could clean the snakes out of a cellar, if a man had a cellar. Or they can soak up mud puddles. Stick a few pigs in a mud puddle and pretty soon the puddle’s gone.” “Anyhow, Call, a sign’s a kind of a tease,” Augustus said. “It ought to make a man stop and consider just what it is he wants out of life in the next few days.” “If he thinks he wants to rent a pig he’s not a man I’d want for a customer,” Call said.

The Pulitzer Prize winning novel, Lonesome Dove, by Larry McMurtry, was published in 1985, and adapted into a TV mini series that aired in 1989, with Robert Duvall as Augustus McCrae and Tommy Lee Jones as Woodrow Call.

Have you ever known how good something was for many, many years, and then someone else “discovers” it for the first time and annoying blabs about it as if you had no clue about its existence? Well, I “discovered” Lonesome Dove recently, and have commenced to annoy all that have known just how good it is.

I knew of it, but for some reason had never bothered to read the novel or watch the mini series? I’ve done both now, in that order, and quite enjoyed each. If, like me, Lonesome Dove never fluttered into your circle of being, for whatever reason, I believe it to be a worthwhile use of time.

There are many words of wisdom, humor, tragedy, love, loss…all the things that paint our worlds. Everyday things. Of those many words of wisdom, one of my favorites comes from Captain Augustus McCrae, “If you want one thing too badly, it’s likely to turn out to be a disappointment. The only healthy way to live life is to learn to like all the little everyday things…like a sip of good whiskey in the evening, a soft bed, a glass of buttermilk, or a feisty gentleman like myself.”

Everyday things…enjoy.

With the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally in full swing, it’s been a noisy week here in the Black Hills, and all the extra people moving about has traffic at a road rage inducing level for even the most mild-mannered motorists. Not to name names, but me for one.

I have nothing against folks cut from a common cloth getting together and enjoying the comradery of their commonalities, but when that common cloth stretches and lies heavy over such a large area it’s bound to be a source of irritation for those just trying to go about their day in the place they live and work.

Most of those that roll in this week are good people out to have a good time, but there’s always a few turds floating around that like to smear their stink everywhere they go. So it goes.

When you live in a scenic area, people will come, I’ve accepted that, and I’m happy to share the Black Hills and Badlands. I hope some that come en masse during Rally Week have the opportunity to come back for a visit when the mass isn’t as massive, and get to experience the scenic with a thick slathering of solitude on top. That’s the Black Hills and Badlands at their best.

I used to roll out to our cabin in Montana when Rally Week rolled in, let the motorcycles have the run of the Black Hills for a few days, but since the cabin was reduced to ashes a few years back, I don’t have that option available to me anymore. Oh well, this shall pass, and as usual, stacks of half-priced t-shirts will be left in its wake.

In the midst of the steady rumble that has been in the air this week, an article rolled into my inbox that proclaimed, “New Study Confirms the Value of Solitude”. As often seems to happen when I read about such studies, the words “no crap” spilled out. Except I pronounced crap different, just as my Mom taught me.

Isn’t it nice to have researchers confirm things we already know? Just when I was about to abandon all pursuits of solitude as a valueless waste of time, these researchers come forth with a message of hope for solitude and all who seek it. Thank you for saving me from turning my back on solitude in pursuit of hustle, and perhaps bustle, and for stopping me from yelling “VROOM…VROOM” as I peddle my bicycle through the woods.

The thought that solitude is good for us human types is not a recent discovery. In his book, Reveries of the Solitude Walker, the 17th century philosopher, Jean-Jacques Rousseau wrote, “we must embrace nature, seek solitude, and let both our feet and our minds wander.”

No, it’s not a recent discovery, but it’s worth may have become more evident in our thoughts now that we have so much more “stuff” cluttering those thoughts than old Jean-Jacques could have ever dreamed of. Or any of us “elders” could have dreamed of as we adjusted the rabbit-ears and turned a knob between both channels on our televisions not so many moons ago.

I don’t prescribe much to my students, no one listens to old people anyway, but I do tell them to unplug and move. Move with nothing but their thoughts. Move without input from the magic rectangles of distraction that have robbed them of hearing themselves clearer and engaging with life deeper.

The magic of solitude and being present with the present. Research claims it’s good for you? Google it.

Welcome to August. The first days of which bring to mind all of the things that you had planned on doing this summer. Back in March, April, and May, when summer seemed to be this vast empty slate that you were going to joyously fill with all the things your ideal summer would be filled with. Things you think about now, with the gaze of September fixing itself on your dwindling time in the sun, and say with a sigh, “Maybe next summer?”

Maybe next summer the camper will spend more time in a campground? Maybe the boat will get soaked from the bottom up with lake water, more so than the top down with rain? Maybe the bike tires will roll further, the hiking boots will hike higher, the roads will be drove, the horseshoes tossed, the clubs swung, the sites seen, the family and friends visited…maybe?

I don’t have a boat, but I see a lot of them waiting patiently in driveways. Many of which will have a “For Sale” sign hung on them this fall by someone who had plans to be on the water more than their plans allowed. The story that plays out in our head when we buy such things rarely matches reality. It’s easy to get caught up in a good story.

Spring ideas of an ideal summer succumbing to fall? So it goes.

At least the kids will be locked up in school a few hours a day irritating other adults. Gleefully engaged in the task of ensuring that the teachers patience fades faster than their tans.

As a parent of adult children, maybe I haven’t yet fully acclimated to not being the summertime director of recreation and head of transportation for young ones that need directing and transporting? Maybe when much of your time and plans become your own they can drift without notice more easily? I do miss being the dad to little ones, but I am also enjoying all that comes with being the dad to young adults.

In the book “A Brief History of Thought”, author Luc Ferry wrote that “when we live in terms of plans for the future and believe that our happiness depends upon their accomplishment, we forget that there is no other reality than the one in which we are living here and now.”

Here and now. Here and now the reality is that we have a day, an hour, a few minutes in August of 2022. I’ll take what I can get. Less than some, more than others.

All in all, it’s been a good summer. An ideal summer? Ideal enough.

I don’t know how they knew, but they can leave me alone, and they can keep their free insulated trunk organizer. My trunk doesn’t need their help, it’s organized just fine thank you very much. They can keep their discounts, their resources, their magazine, and whatever else they seem to think I need now.

Now that I’m 50. There, I said it.

I will give them credit, they are prompt. Promptly premature, like a vulture taking a peck while you’re still dragging your sun damaged wind burnt carcass towards the oasis in the distance. Maybe, like that vulture, they know (or think they know) that that oasis in the distance is a mirage? “Go ahead, keep crawling if you like, but you’re not going anywhere. Might as well slip on your socks and sandals and go organize your trunk.”

A few weeks prior to the half-century point from the day of my birth, a day that legend has it, was much harder on my mother than myself, I opened the mailbox to find a letter addressed to me. A letter in a gray envelope, the very same shade of gray that has taken over the paltry remanence of my once dark, voluminous, and luxurious head of hair. So it goes.

In the upper left corner of this somber gray envelope, in print large and bold enough for aged eyes to decipher, were the letters AARP. The American Association for Retired Persons sent me a card that read, “Welcome to the 50’s Club”. As if that wasn’t generous enough, accompanying the card was an offer for a “FREE Insulated Trunk Organizer”. Free, with my paid $16 one-year membership.

They offered a $63 5-year membership for those that are optimistic about their longevity on the other side of 50. A “limited time offer” that I will most likely be offered every other week from now until my demise.

Thanks, but no thanks. Other than the 109 Club, I’ve never been much for clubs. Clubs come with rules, regulations, policies, procedures, satin jackets or leather vests with your name stitched on them, and worst of all…meetings. I joined a 4-H Club when I was 12, but after a couple of gatherings, it was kindly suggested that Travis Chrest and myself not return. We obliged.

The 50’s club? Why would I want to hang around with a bunch of old people? People in elastic-waist pants sitting around on donut pillows blathering on endlessly about how organized their trunks are, complaining about the exorbitant price of celery, and exalting the comfort and fashion sense of white New Balance tennis shoes…with the Velcro closures.

Social connection is an important component of successful aging and overall life satisfaction, but the AARP can stick their “Welcome to the 50’s Club” card in their trunk. I don’t care if that oasis in the distance might be a mirage. I don’t trust vultures, I’ll keep crawling and find out for myself.

For those of you crawling with me, those of you in this ragtag group of pre-elders whose life of youthful exploits doesn’t yet seem like an unattainable lifetime ago, keep on keepin' on, and repeat after Toby, “I ain’t as good as I once was, but I’m as good once as I ever was.”

Carry on.

I hope you had an enjoyable Independence Day doing whatever it is you like to do on such days. Fittingly, I just returned from a trip to Philadelphia, the epicenter of our countries pursuit of independence that came to fruition in 1776.

I was in Philly attending the National Athletic Trainers' Association conference. To practice as a Certified Athletic Trainer, one is required to maintain a certain number of continuing education hours, which can be obtained by attending these conferences. Thrilling stuff.

Five days of educational sessions. Five days of listening to people talk about their research, talk about new developments in the treatment of injuries, talk…talk…talk. I need five days in solitary confinement to recover.

This was my first visit to the “City of Brotherly Love”, a place I have now been, and don’t feel a need to return. It was interesting to see some of the historical sites, the Liberty Bell, Independence Hall, Benjamin Franklins grave (I like cemeteries), and the various other “sites of interest.”

I visited the Rocky Statue and ran the stairs at the Philadelphia Museum of Art, so I’m ready to take on Creed, Clubber Lang, and whoever else needs taking on. Such as the homeless guy that threw a chicken bone at me. He missed…I smiled…he smiled…we good. City of brotherly love.

“Sites of interest” is highly subjective. I’m not sure any of us has much control of what it is we find interesting or desirable? Some “just do” and others “just don’t” for various reasons or no perceivable reason at all.

If we so choose, many of us are fortunate enough to have the capacity to develop an independent mind capable of individual pursuits of interests. Pursuits of interest that may benefit the individual or the collective, often times both.

While reading the many plaques and historical accounts scattered about Philadelphia, it is evident that those who strove to establish our countries independence and penned the outline for such, did so with great thought and contemplation, and with the collective good and the good of the individual in mind.

As Marcus Aurelius once wrote, “What is good for the hive is good for the bees.” Through great effort and personal risk, our founders got this American experiment rolling, leaving us in the hive to quibble about what it is that is “good”. A quibble that I’m sure will always be a part of our country, given that the subjective good of some is all too often confused for an objective good for all. So it goes.

On one of my walkabouts in Philadelphia, I came upon a monument in Washington Square where there is a tomb and an eternal flame to commemorate the unknown soldiers of the American Revolution. Engraved in the granite are the words, “Freedom is a light for which many men have died in darkness”.

Independence Day, independent thought, “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness”. Be a light, and remember, not all chicken bones are thrown in anger. Sometimes people just need another human to acknowledge they exist.

Lying on my back in the thick soft grass on the summit of Mount Brandon, Cnoc Breanainn in Irish, with my head propped up on my backpack, I watched the clouds and mountain mist drift over, around, and seemingly, through me. Other than the Raven that greeted me upon my arrival, there was somehow not another soul in sight or sound.

While the Dingle Peninsula below teemed with tourists, and the din and clatter of the world, I said to myself, to the mountain, to the sea, to the mist, to this time, and to life in general, “You are a lucky man.”

Lucky my legs can carry me to such places. Lucky my senses allow the submersion in, and the recollection of, these moments. Lucky my wife supports and encourages this rambling about in life, whether it be at one another’s side, or on one another’s mind. Lucky to have days that are my own to engage in life as I wish. Lucky.

Now that I’ve returned home, the sights, sounds, and experiences I had during my stay in Ireland seem so near, yet so far. So it goes. Home. After two-weeks of walking by day, and pints of Guinness and music by night, I was ready to come home. Home to my wife, to our house, to South Dakota, to the U.S. of A.

Some travelers come home from visits to other countries with thoughts of moving to those countries. Some come home with thoughts of how good we have it in this country. My thoughts are of the latter, rather than the former. We’ve got issues, every country does, but America is a pretty good place to call home.

For the first week of the trip I traveled solo, then my good friend Paul joined me for the second week. Why Ireland? Why that particular country three times in the past 12-years? It’s a big world with so much to see, but it’s the music that brought Paul and myself back.

The music that young and old know, share, and have an authentic enduring love for. The music that pub owners allow to continue deep into the night, long after they’ve locked the doors and pulled the shades.

There were a few nights Paul and I were lucky enough to find ourselves on the right side of those locked doors and drawn shades. Lucky enough to hear songs we fell in love with 20-years ago, sung by those that have known them a lifetime.

On these nights, if a lull in song occurred, I would sometimes ask someone, “What is your favorite song?” Or, “What song comes out of you most often?” Essentially, I was curious as to what song spills out unconsciously when it needs to, when they needed it to? As the Irish poet, Brendan Kennelly, wrote, “All songs are living ghosts. And long for a living voice.”

The response to these questions were never met with the mere title of a song, they were met with the song itself. Sometimes sung to all that had found themselves on the right side of the locked door and drawn shades, sometimes just to me, for me. A gift. Sometimes an Irish song, but just as often not.

A kindly gentleman in his 80s responded to my question by leaning towards me, closing his eyes, and softly singing just under the crowd, “Rows and flows of angel hair and ice cream castles in the air…” the song “Both Sides Now”, from Canada’s own, Joni Mitchell. Sung beautifully, straight from the heart. I can still hear him, and with any luck, I always will.

From the solitude atop Mount Brandon, chilled to the bone in the mountain mist, to a lively pub, warmed to the soul with song. A lucky man indeed.