Rambling Josh

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.

Happy June to you. I hope your summer gets well spent, and come September, you have a stack of fond memories to add to your ever-expanding album of life. As someone that generally relies on deadlines to motivate their work, I am writing this column several weeks before it is to be published, because I plan to be out-and-about adding memories to my summer stack.

Part of what makes a relationship work is knowing each other’s needs and wants. Knowing them, sometimes providing them, and other times, selflessly encouraging their pursuit.

On May 23rd I crossed the pond to spend a few weeks in Ireland. I’m fortunate enough to have had the opportunity to make this trip twice before, several years ago, once with my wife, and once with two of my good friends, Paul and Bubba. This time around I’m flying solo the first week, and my good friend Paul is joining me the second week.

Did I “need” to go to Ireland again? Of course not, but tickets were cheap. Did I “want” to go to Ireland again? Dumb question. I’m never opposed to dumb questions. As a teacher, I’ve learned that one never knows where a dumb question might lead. A dumb question is better than no question. No question goes nowhere. A dumb question just might find you in Ireland. So it goes.

Way back in January I was clicking around on Google Flights, most likely wasting time while putting off doing something that needed to be done, and a wee leprechaun presented me eyes with very low airfare. I shared the bargain basement gift that the wee one had presented me with my wife, and off-handedly said, “How would you feel about going to Ireland in May?”

My wife enjoyed our trip to Ireland over 10-years ago, but it’s not the island destination of her choice. Less inclement weather that allows for layers of sunscreen, rather than water-resistant clothing, is much more to her liking. I know this of her, and I look forward to exploring her tropical “want” with her.

So how did she feel about going to Ireland in May? She said, “no thanks”, but selflessly encouraged me to take the kindly leprechaun up on the offer. So, at the time of this column’s publication, I should be somewhere in Ireland. I should be rambling around the Dingle Peninsula by day, and hoisting a pint with my toes tapping to Irish music by night.

I should be chilled and soaked to the bone with the soft rains of spring and the Atlantic spray. I should be warm and dry gazing at the turf fire burning in a pubhouse fireplace. I should be thankful. I should be missing my wife. I should be pondering my first 50-years on earth, and hoping for another 50 of equal enjoyment. I should be singing…

“Oh the summertime is coming

And the trees are sweetly blooming

And the wild mountain thyme

Grows around the blooming heather

Will ye go, Lassie go?”

For Christmas this past year, my daughter got me a gift that, in the words of cousin Eddy on National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation, “keeps on giving the whole year through.” Monday of each week I get a question from Sierra through a company called Storyworth that I write a response to. At the end of the year I’ll receive a book containing my responses to Sierra’s 52-questions from the past year.

I’ve enjoyed the opportunity to explore the various questions, and as Mother’s Day has recently rolled by, I thought I’d share a portion of my response to the question, “What was your Mom like when you were a child?”

What was my Mom like when I was a child?  She was much like she is today, creative, sarcastic, funny, witty, and caring.  This is going to sound like a humble brag, but when I was a child, often times when we were around family and my Mom’s friends, I would hear, “You are just like your Mom.”  A young boy doesn’t want to hear that he is like his Mom, he wants to hear that he is like his Dad, and it took me several years to realize how much of a compliment it was to be compared to my Mom.

My parents bought the grocery store in Lignite when I was about 16-years old, but prior to that, Dad worked in the oil field and Mom stayed home with us kids and took in a lot of sewing.  She was always at her sewing machine.  People from all around would bring her wedding and prom dresses for alterations or anything else that needed fixing, adjusting, or a creative touch.  When I was going through my Rhinestone Cowboy phase, she sewed me a black satin western shirt with ivory snaps and a yolk with tassels, that I proudly wore for my 2nd grade picture day.

Whenever something needed to be done, Mom was, and still is, quick to volunteer her time and talents.  Cub Scout leader, little league coach, catechism teacher, school field trip chaperone…she always stepped forward when something we were involved in had a gap that needed to be filled.  Us kids could always count on her to come through with a last-minute Valentines box or costume for school, whenever we “forgot about it” until the night before we needed it.  Watching her creative process in action was always amazing to me.  Something from nothing would always appear, and that something was always something to be proud of.  I remember often getting the question from classmates and teachers, “Where did you get that?” and I’d respond with a smile, “My Mom made it.”    She made so much for so many and I never once heard her ask for or express any expectation of anything in return.  She was and still is one of the most selfless people I know.

The autonomy Mom granted us in every and all situations amazes me.  Never telling us what to think, or who we should be, but allowing us to think for ourselves and to set out to discover that self.  Allowing us to fail and to try again, and to fail again.  The only thing I feel that she purposely told us to be was humble, and even that was not done through words.  She never said, “Be humble.”  Rather, it was done through her pointing out when we were bragging or lacking in sportsmanship, and making us “feel” that that sort of behavior wasn’t right. 

For example, when I was in the 8th grade playing a JV football game in Sherwood, I tackled a kid on the other team, that was smaller than myself, harder than was probably necessary several times throughout the game.  Tackled him hard, and possibly strutted around a bit?  I also scored several touchdowns that game, but after the game as I came up to Mom smiling, quite proud of myself, she simply said, “Did it make you feel good to tackle that little kid like that?”  That is how she taught us humility.  A single question to make us ponder our behavior.  I remember thinking, “Well it did, until you put it that way.”

So, what was my Mom like when I was a child?  She was everything I needed her to be.  She taught me empathy by being empathetic.  She taught me humility by being humble.  She was and is a friend to many, a great conversationalist that can talk to anyone about anything, but at the same time seems to not be needy of such things.  She takes them as they come, when they come, and is fully present and engaged in that moment, but is also just as comfortable in quiet creative solitude.

This is what she was and is, and I am quite proud of her.

On the afternoon of April 30th, we got word that our brother-in-law Chad had died peacefully with my sister Amanda and his family by his side, in the house they had made a home. This day, marked the end of the highs and the lows, the pain and the suffering, and all the unknowns that accompanied two-years of cancer treatment. An end for one, a continuation of such for those left behind. Chad’s wife, his daughter, his family, his friends…into an unknown.

A brother-in-law is a brother with a few extra “dashes”, and like the brothers we are raised with, there are varying levels of commonalities and personal interests amongst us all. These commonalities and interests often serve as a catalyst for closeness. Like attracts like. So it goes.

Such is the case that the commonalities and interests between Chad and myself were few, but I knew he loved my sister. Perhaps that commonality is enough? What I knew of Chad is sometimes all one needs to know about their brother-in-law, or just a good man in general. I knew he was a fiercely devoted husband and father that worked hard to build a good life for his family.

So when I think of Chad, which I’ve done often over the past few months, I think of those commonalities and interests. I think of his encyclopedic knowledge of classic country music, that was faster than a Google search. I think of the way his entire body would shake as he smiled, and silently laughed. I think of these things, I think of a life that was well lived, but one we all wish would have had more time.

More time around the campfire. More time to have and to hold his wife, and his daughter. More time to live the life he loved.

To live and to love is to experience the loss of people we care for, it’s part of the deal, part of being human. Death is an unavoidable aspect of life, and whether that death arrived unexpectedly or fell within a medically prognosed time-frame, it takes life and leaves grief. It leaves a gap in the lives of those that go on living, a gap whose depth and breadth will fluctuate through time. Fluctuate, but never fade completely.

When Dawn and I got word of Chad’s passing, Dawn said, “Would you like to go for a walk?” So, together we walked, hand in hand, with heavy hearts and tears in our eyes. Tears for his passing, tears for my sister, for our niece, for our family and his.

It was a breezy day, and as the clouds moved hurriedly from west to east, occasionally the sun would find a gap and I’d feel its warmth on my face. A warmth, like my wife’s hand in mine, I was grateful to feel. Grateful I had this time, but regretful that Chad’s time to experience the sun on his face and his wife’s hand in his had passed.

As we navigate this gap in our life, as we wait for the sun to shine again, as we oscillate between grieving our loss and being grateful for the time we shared with the one we’ve lost, life goes on. The life Chad was a part of goes on, and, along with it, so will he.

Growing up in a small town you become quite accustomed to seeing flyers for benefits being held for individuals and families that are going through a rough patch in their lives due to an illness. As a kid, you generally don’t think much of it, because as a kid you most likely lack the experience with such things, and the capacity to fully understand the impact illness can have on a family.

You see the picture of the individual or family, in much better times on the flyer, but you don’t fully grasp the far-reaching impact the illness is having on the family. As we age, as we experience life, as we experience illness, we can relate, and we become empathetic to the plight of others.

Still, as an adult, the full gravity of the benefit flyer’s I’ve seen never fully weighed on me until I saw one with my sister, Amanda, and my brother-in-law, Chad, on it. A picture of them in much better times, healthy, strong, and smiling.

For those that aren’t aware, the Chad & Amanda Undhjem Benefit will be held on April 24th, from 11AM-3PM, at the Lignite Community Center. There will be a spaghetti dinner and silent auction to help raise funds to lighten the financial burden Chad and Amanda have incurred while Chad has been undergoing cancer treatment for the past two-years.

If you would like to donate a silent auction item, please drop it off at one of the following locations; Lignite Oil, City of Lignite Office, 109 Steakhouse, or Burke Divide.

For those that are unable to attend this event, an account has been set up for donations at Dacotah Bank in Bowbells (Dacotah Bank, PO Box 9, Bowbells ND 58721). Please make donations payable to the Chad Undhjem Benefit.

Growing up in a small town, you often don’t appreciate the fact that the people of that small town are extended family. Like any family, there are some you get along with better than others. Some who seem to relish in irritating you, and some that you, knowingly or unknowingly, manage to irritate as well. So it goes.

Like family, when hard times find there way to one of us, differences are set aside, and a bit of the burden is selflessly shouldered by the masses. Thank you to everyone that has helped to lighten the load a bit for my sister and my brother-in-law. Whether it be financially, through donations, or emotionally, through words of kindness, love, and support. It all helps, and it is all greatly appreciated.

Happy Spring. Hope you are enjoying, or at a minimum, adequately enduring, all that spring brings to your world. I had a fairly productive garage/pub spring cleaning, so the Gashole is now officially open for the 2022 season.

The “Gashole” is a pub that I built in our garage a few years back. It’s actually spelled with two s’s, but I’d hate to offend thine eyes of those fond of being offended. The second “s” is reserved for bar patrons, and the perpetually immature.

When someone says they have a bar in their garage, I would imagine it brings forth a variety of images in each of our individual mind’s eyes? Unless, of course, it’s an individual of the entirely unimaginative sort, then…well, I can’t imagine. Perhaps they were poked in the mind’s eye as a child, and never fully recovered?

I suppose an activated imagination, and a wide-open mind’s eye, is dependent upon the topic presented to the individual? We all have things that lull our imaginations into a stupor and leave our mind’s eye glazed and droopy. Math, politics, and board games are cognitive kryptonite to me, perhaps talk of garage bars is yours? Poor soul.

Actually, “talk” of garage bars isn’t all that thrilling, it’s the sharing of them with family, friends, and other categories of some humans, that put the “tick” into garage bar talk.

So far this season, traffic has been light in the Gashole. Just the regulars, myself and Mort. Mortimer J. Snerd, as the IRS knows him. Mort’s a dummy, but he’s a good listener, and possess a constant welcoming (albeit troubling) grin. He’d probably tell you the same about me, if the string that moved his lower jaw was still fully functionable.

So, he sits, slack-jawed and silent, smelling of cigar smoke and saw dust. So it goes.

Mort and I go way back, about 40-years I suppose. Our paths first crossed Christmas of 1982, when my parents entertained my dreams of becoming a ventriloquist. A dream that thanks to a rerun of episode 98 “The Dummy” of the television series The Twilight Zone, soon became a nightmare.

From that point on, Mort and my relationship was a bit tense and tempestuous. I’m pert near 50-years old, but I still have an occasional nightmare involving my pal Mort not being so pal like. The nightmares do seem to have subsided since I hired him on as the night watchman at the Gashole. We all need a purpose in life.

Mort’s factory issued rubber shoes were lost years ago, so I outfitted him with a pair of cowboy boots I wore when I was a wee toddler. He looks snazzy, and I figured that the “clip and clop” of cowboy boots would make it harder for him to sneak up on me. A win-win.

Swing by the Gashole sometime. Mort has put together quite a selection of Spring Specials. Snacks to please the palate and libation to loosen the lips.

The other day I was pondering all the stupid stuff I’ve done. Well, maybe not all, but some, I didn’t have all day. The things that could have possibly nudged my life in an entirely different direction if they had turned a bit this way or that. We all have moments like that, moments we made that could’ve just as easily broke us.

As Ernest Hemingway once wrote, “The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places.” Ernie knew a thing or two about getting broken. Tough customer. Perhaps a bit unhinged on occasion, but some occasions call for such.

It seemed that quite a large portion of the stuff that I piled into the “stupid” heap of the past, involved the various motorcycles we had growing up, and the one 3-wheeler. One 3-wheeler is one too many. Anyone that spent any time on a 3-wheeler as a kid has stories, and scars to verify those stories.

The scar usually starts at the back of the calf. The calf above the foot that you were accustomed to putting on the ground when you turned and slid on your motorcycle. The two-wheeled motorcycle that lacked that hungry third-wheel that hovered behind your foot, patiently waiting to chew up the pant leg on your Toughskins jeans and leave you in a whimpering heap in its wake.

Speaking of whimpering, occasionally Dad would get a hankering for soft-serve, and we’d load up and head to Ethels Drive-In (“Winzy’s” to you youngsters). The siren song of soft-serve is strong, strong enough to cloud Dads ability to recollect what taking us anywhere generally resulted in.

On one such trip, I remember my brother Jarvis falling asleep in the seat next to me on the drive over. When we arrived at Ethel’s he awoke, but couldn’t straighten his neck. To a child a kink in the neck can be a bit alarming, and he began to cry.

His sobbing, his head cocked to one side, the terrified look in his eye’s…hilarious. Mom shot me a look in an attempt to stifle the joy I was deriving from the situation, but I’m sure she was just as entertained. As a mother you are required to exercise some degree of decorum in such a situation. So it goes.

Another time, we stopped after a day of swimming in the Bowbells pool, or shivering to such an extent that it resembled swimming. Nothing felt better than lying flat on the hot cement surrounding that pool of ice water. The pool deck was always littered with purple lipped, red-eyed kids, convulsing and quivering uncontrollably, and occasionally jolting to the bite of the ever-present horseflies.

Even if your core temperature was perilously low, a post-swim stop at Ethel’s or Winzy’s was mandatory. I can still remember how it felt sitting in the back of the van, wrapped in your pool towel, being chilled to the core, but feeling the warm summer wind blowing across you through the open window.

There are only a few physical sensations from my childhood that I can still “feel”. That post-swim summer breeze, and my Grandma Rose’s hugs. She radiated pure love that still finds its way around me.

Sometimes, if the chill got to be too much, one might peel off their clammy cold swim trunks and attempt to wrestle into something dry. We all know it’s easier to slip into dry clothes when you are dry.

I was feeling the breeze, and allowing myself to air-dry in the back of our Ford Econoline, while we drove back to Lignite. Dad’s soft-serve glow was waning, Mom was bobbing in and out of consciousness, Jarvis was clutching his forehead, whining about yet another brain-freeze, and as a car approached to pass us, I had an idea.

Maybe not so much an idea, as an idea takes thought. Standing up in the back of the van, I pressed my pasty 8-year old air-drying cheeks against the big glass side window, and gave the passers by a bit of a vanilla shake. As I proudly smudged the glass, I glanced up and saw Dad looking at me in the rear-view mirror. “I don’t want to ever see you do that again” quickly cut a path through the breeze I had been enjoying.

Like the setting sun, my buns sank to the bristly indoor-outdoor carpet, and as I wiggled into my dry clothes, I heard Mom sleepily say, “Do what?”

Get some more sleep Mom, it’s going to be a long ride.

As we arrive at a point on the calendar where there could possibly be more winter behind us than in front, I was thinking of family vacations we took when I was a kid. I’m sure I’ve written about this before, but it is what is on my mind, so it is what I must write about.

When I was about 11-years old we took a family trip to the Black Hills of South Dakota in our 1978 Ford Econoline van. Mom made curtains for the van and Dad took out one of the back seats and put a mattress in its place. They turned it into a camper…sort of.

One of the first stops we made when we got to the Black Hills was Pactola Lake, where we picnicked and swam. I swam. My brother Jarvis, whose hands rarely strayed from their firm grasp of the edge of the Bowbells pool, was content to stay on dry land. Most likely because he knew that as his older brother I was required by law to splash, dunk, and generally torment him if he were to set foot into the lake.

I remember this stop well because I “misplaced” the van keys. I got the keys from Dad so I could go up to the van and change into my polyester swim trunks. I had been swimming for a few minutes when Dad asked me where the keys were? Good question?

The general response for an 11-year old when asked such a question is a vacant, yet wide-eyed expression, accompanied by a shrug of their boney shoulders. This wasn’t the response my Dad was hoping for. Understandably irritated, he began cursing his favorite curses, and stomping around the area in search of the keys…while I swam. I was on vacation.

Mom, looked out at me on vacation, and said, “You could help.” Dad also looked out at me, but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. His face said, “If my cowboy boots and jeans weren’t so tight and hard to get off, I’d come out there and we’d have more space in the van for the remainder of the trip.”

So, I put my vacation on hold, and began slogging towards the beach with one hand holding onto my polyester swim trunks, which now outweighed me. When I got out of the water, I went to put my shoes on and found the keys, right where I had put them. That seems to be where things always are. I triumphantly said, “Here they are!”

Dad, relieved, but not in a congratulatory mood, responded along the lines of, “You couldn’t remember putting them in your shoe? Why did you put them in your shoe?”…so forth and so on (feel free to liberally sprinkle those sentences with your favorite curse words for a more realistic portrayal).

I don’t really think he was asking me questions as much as he was trying to make sense of the senselessness of his eldest son. Who, vacantly, yet wide-eyed, gazed at him, shrugged his boney shoulders, and resumed his vacation.

We never locked the doors to anything in Lignite, so I wasn’t used to the whole key business. I wasn’t allowed to handle the keys for the remainder of the trip, or any trip to come…ever. So it goes.

From Pactola we headed for Mt. Rushmore. It was while hiking around the Mt. Rushmore area that I proclaimed to my parents, “I’m going to live here someday.” I guess when you know, you know? I’m sure Dad would have gladly made that prophecy a reality then and there.

Many years later, while talking about that trip, Mom said that they ran out of money while in the Black Hills and had to call Grandpa Ardell to have him wire them some cash for gas money for the trip home. Adult problems that us kids were oblivious to at the time.

We went on a few family vacations when I was a kid, and I give my Dad a lot of credit for taking us knuckleheads anywhere. We were a pain, but he did it. He did it with some cursing, some gritted teeth, some PBR, but mostly, he probably did it for Mom.

He’d do anything for her, and she was always a source of calm and comedy relief when the wheels on our bus were about to stop going round-and-round.