Rambling Josh

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.

As you are most likely aware, the Winter Olympics are in full swing. Young folks from all over the world have gathered in China to flip, spin, twirl, and glide on sticks and steel. To have every move of their gravity defying acts critically picked apart by judges, commentators, and the average bump on a couch.

We quickly become unimpressed with moves that were once thought miraculously unattainable. Triple flip? 80mph on glare ice? Ho-hum, that’s so last Olympics. Show me something that has a better than average chance of snapping you off at the knees and rendering you unconscious or I’m switching the channel back to CSI Burke County.

I suppose to always be striving for, expecting, or wanting more is how many of us human types are programed. There has always been those that looked out across the ocean and thought, “I wonder what’s out there?” and went and found out. Of course, there is also those that looked out across the ocean, thought the same thing, shrugged, refilled their coconut shell and slid back into the nearest hammock.

And being human, while enjoying the gentle sway of the hammock, most likely gazed out at the ocean and criticized the rowing technique of the ones disappearing over the horizon towards the unknown.

Several times while watching the Olympics the past few days, I’ve heard the commentators say, “If they land this move it will be the first time someone has done so in Olympic history.” This statement almost guarantees that whatever move that is, will be commonplace in the next Olympic games.

This isn’t a bad thing. There has to be a first, there has to be someone to step forward and flip the seemingly impossible into the realm of the possible. Once something moves into the realm of the possible there is no going back. It’s a one-way street that inevitably leads toward the launching pad to even more possibilities. Possibilities once thought impossible, or most likely, never even thought of.

I never thought I’d willingly eat brussel sprouts, but it turns out that a 6-parts bacon to 1-part brussel sprout ratio made that a possibility.

The Olympic games definitely lives up to their motto; Citius, Altius, Fortius. If your Latin is a little rusty, these words mean; Faster, Higher, Stronger. On the International Olympic Committee webpage, it states that this motto, first adopted in 1894, was amended in 2021. The new motto is “Citius, Altius, Fortius – Communiter” or “Faster, Higher, Stronger – Together”

Not that they needed, or sought, my approval, but I like the change. When one of us strives to be faster, to go higher, to be stronger, others are sure to follow. Some will always be content to judge and commentate. To disappointedly say, “That was a beautiful routine. BUT, their right nostril was a bit flared on the landing. That’ll be a 5-point deduction.” So it goes.

I feel that in many of the events for the Winter Olympics it’s easy to overlook or forget that the competitors are human, very young humans. Buried head to toe in clothing and equipment, we don’t get to see much of the facial expressions or body language that we rely on to connect us with others.

This is probably what makes the stories and such that are shared about the athletes so impactful. Us humans like human stories. The majority of us can’t do any of the things they are doing, but we can strive to do “our thing” better. Crocheting, cooking, walking, talking, working, writing, mowing, fishing, parenting, sliding across the hood of your car Duke Boy’s style…whatever your thing may be.

Citius, Altius, Fortius – Communiter.

At the beginning of each semester, during the first day of each of my classes, a day that generally falls under the topic of “Course Introduction” in the syllabus, I ask my students “To Be” a few things when they come to class. To be present…to be curious…to be humble…and to be kind.

As we all know, first impressions are important. If our first impression of something or someone is not a good one, it takes a lot to shift that impression in a positive direction. The same is true for the first day of class. We have 16-weeks together, and I want students to leave that first day of class looking forward to coming to the next day and all the weeks to follow.

Of course, when you’re dealing with 30 young adults, and each of those 30 young adults rolls into class each day harboring the various ups and downs of young adult life, what you want is rarely what you get. As the saying goes, “You get what you get, and you don’t throw a fit.”

Early on in my career I used to throw a fit, or at least get a bit miffed, when what I wanted from the students wasn’t what I got. I’d take it personal when a student skipped class, or was in class in body, but obviously elsewhere in mind. Somewhere along the way I got over myself. So it goes.

I got over feeling like I had to be the “sage on the stage” and became perfectly content with being the “guide on the side”. Or as educator and author Stephen Brookfield put it, “a helper of learning”. Not telling students a bunch of stuff I think they should know, but helping them to maybe see how some of that stuff might be useful for them to know. To maybe understand how it might be useful in their life or the lives of those they care about. Maybe.

This involves much more asking than telling. Asking “why” something might be important to them, asking “what” is important to them. A much more interesting process than enduring a 16-week sentence of listening to some middle-aged knucklehead tell you the “why” and “what”.

So, I ask my students to be present, to be curious, to be humble, and to be kind. And I ask them what being present, curious, humble, and kind means to them, what it might look like in the context of the course and life in general? I think being present is the tough one, the one that takes the most conscious effort for them.

The difference between empathy and sympathy is that empathy, is feeling with someone, whereas, sympathy is feeling for them. I feel both sympathy and empathy for my students, and young people in general, in regards to being present, because they have never known an “unconnected” life, a life that only took place in “real time” with those that happened to be sharing that time and place. Alan Lightman referred to this as a “disembodied existence” in his book “The Accidental Universe”.

Back in the pre-tech, pre-internet, pre-smartphone world, you had no choice but to be “embodied” in your existence, had no choice but to be with only those that you shared “there” with. Moments were reserved for only those at the moment. As the saying goes, “You had to be there.” Whether you liked it or not.

Being elsewhere in 1990, required more effort than it has since our lives became so “tech-full”. You had to physically remove yourself from a moment, perhaps implicitly or explicitly stating that, “You people and this moment are boring me, I’m leaving in search of those I find interesting.” Pulling out your phone for a scroll makes the same statement.

Sharing moments with those that aren’t at the moment is fine, but it is not the same, it is not the moment, and to check-out from the moment to share the moment with those not in the moment takes away from that moment. Just a moment?

We humans don’t have much but moments. Moments between birth and death. Be in those moments, sunny moments, cloudy moments, and all the day-to-day moments languishing somewhere in the middle. Be human with other humans in the moment.

Be present. Disclaimer: Results may vary. Choose your humans wisely.

Bacon, side pork, pork chops, ham, pork rinds, crayons, suede shoes…now a heart. A few days ago, a living beating heart was taken from a pig and transplanted into a human. A human, who, as of this writing, is alive and recovering with the rhythmic lub-dub of a genetically modified pig heart successfully transporting life blood to all the places life blood needs to go to sustain life.

Do pigs know no bounds in their giving to humanity? If they are aware of the basic rules of reciprocity, which I believe they most certainly are, they are going to be wanting something in return for this embarrassment of riches they have so seemingly selflessly bestowed upon us.

Perhaps as a gesture of appreciation and reverence to all things swine, many, many years ago we humans did offer an olive branch, and stopped using pig bladders as a football. That about evens the score.

Pigs have been biding their time, giving, giving, giving, but there is a big ask on the horizon. They have slowly infiltrated our senses. From a very young age the imperceptible wafting of eau de pig wafts around us as we wrap our little monkey grip around a Crayola and scribble the scribbles of youth.

Youth slowly being indoctrinated into associating the smell of pig with praise, gold stars, and the proud display of their creation upon the refrigerator of all places. Some kids cut straight to the chase and just eat the crayons. So it goes.

Like many of you, I’ve read George Orwell’s book Animal Farm. Just in case you’ve forgotten, it doesn’t turn out well for the humans. As the pigs first commandment expressed, “Four legs good, two legs bad.” No mention of pirates of the peg-leg sort. What’s a commandment without a few loopholes?

The self-appointed leader, Napoleon, seemed like a well-meaning swine. Looking after the best interest of his fellow animals, and he was great with kids, “As soon as they were weaned, Napoleon took them away from their mothers, saying that he would make himself responsible for their education.” What a swell swine.

Leaders are often necessary and sometimes useful, but it seems to me one should be cautious of those that actively seek to be leaders. Those that are not shy to express their oh so humble conviction that they have been “called” to serve. Who called them? Other pigs? Others that were also called to serve?

A pig in a suit is still a pig. I like coloring and eating bacon as much as the next person, but keep an eye on those seemingly selfless swine.

Would I sign up for a pig heart transplant if it was the difference between possible life and certain death? Certainly. I would like to get to know the owner of my future heart. Let Wilbur know what I intend to do with the extra years he would be bestowing upon me. I may even express the possibility of cutting back a bit on my bacon consumption. The possibility…

“All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others.”

The definition of the word buddy is “a close friend”. I’m generally the last to call it a night in our household. Making the nightly rounds, I quietly mosey around, shutting off lights, locking doors, and for the past 13-years, giving our Black Lab, Pre, a light touch as he lay sleeping, and saying, “Goodnight buddy. You’re a good dog.”

As happens with dogs, they age quickly, and for the last several months we’ve watched Pre move further and further away from truly living as he liked to live towards simply being alive. Glimpses of the Pre that grabbed ahold of our hearts so many years ago grew fewer and further between.

The Pre that seemed to smile biggest when he was running full tilt was merely a memory. He found so much joy in running. He certainly lived up to his name sake, Steve Prefontaine. All out, ears flapping and flowing, giving it all he had. We would hike 5-miles and he’d run 30, up and back on the trail, as if to say, “You coming? Wait until you see what’s up ahead! Come on! Come on!”

The last few months he’d still get excited for his morning and evening walks. He’d show a little of his old bounce as we left the house, but betrayed by once swift and strong hind legs that now swayed and buckled, that excitement gave way to exhaustion and misery in a few short blocks.

Back in October of 2008, we went to the human society “just to look”. Taking two kids to the human society “just to look”…so it goes. I really didn’t know if I wanted a dog, seemed like too much of a hassle, and I never really would describe myself as a dog person, but then I met Pre.

We had went to look at a Siberian Husky, it was a beautiful dog, but didn’t seem to be a good fit for our family. Then we looked at a Black Lab named “Electra”, the name definitely fit, but again, she didn’t seem to be a good fit for us.

While each of us went our own way, browsing around the barking maze of kennels, I saw this Black Lab sitting quietly in the back of his kennel. I walked up to the chain linked kennel, the dog and I looked at one another, he walked to the fence and leaned his head against it. I reached through the fence, scratched his head, he leaned back and fixed his gaze on me as if to say, “Ok. I approve of you.” I went in search of the family and said, “I found one.”

In reality, he found us. I still wouldn’t describe myself as a dog person, but I am a Pre person. He suited me, he suited our family, he gave each of us all he had for 13-years. He was a quiet confidante for our daughter, he loved to roughhouse with our son, he was an ever-ready early morning walking companion for my wife, he was my buddy…my close friend, and I miss him. We all miss him.

He wasn’t a “cuddly” dog, wasn’t needy of constant attention, he simply liked to quietly be around his people. We were so very fortunate to be his people. He asked very little of his people, but he gave so much. Even when it became a struggle for him to pull himself to his feet, he would do so, just to offer his greeting whenever one of us would come home.

Over the past few months I told him several times as he lay motionless on his bed, “You can go Pre, we’ll be okay.” But in the end, after years of asking very little of us, we knew this was a decision his people needed to make for him.

On Monday, December 13th, we laid him to rest on his favorite bed, wrapped in his favorite blanket, next to his buddy Norm, my friend Paul’s Yellow Lab, the only dog Pre ever seemed to enjoy the company of. Norm’s been gone a few years now, but every time Paul would stop by the house, Pre would perk up and excitedly look for his friend Norm. Now they are together again.

Before Pre, I was one of those, “it’s just a dog” cynics, but Pre gently and quietly showed me how wrong I was. Pre was far more than “just a dog”, he was family, and we miss him deeply. Loving is not without risk of hurt, but I’m sure the rewards for loving Pre will eventually outshine all this hurt and leave a gentle glow in our hearts for the remainder of each of our days.

As I make the nightly rounds, I see his collar on the mantle, his empty bed in the corner, the smudges from his nose on the picture window, and sometimes…sometimes I see him.

Goodnight buddy. You’re a good dog.

Once upon a time, April 11, 1969, to be exact, my Mom and Dad had their first date. As Mom tells it…

It was a hot one from the get go. My Grandma, Arlene Chrest, was at the kitchen window doing dishes, as Mom was at the Crosby hospital with Susan because she had a carbuncle on her neck. Grandma yelled, “That boy is here, but he never came to the door.” WHAT! Well it so happened that my Dad was doing one of his favorite chores, taking out the garbage and lighting it up in the burn barrel. Dad always liked a little splash of gasoline on his fires. Maybe too much gasoline? It splashed up his arm and around his neck, and when Donavon drove in the yard and stepped out of his Roadrunner, he heard someone yelling. Dad was rolling around on the ground trying to get his sweatshirt off that was on fire. Donavon took his Burke Central Panthers letterman’s jacket off, wrapped it around Dad, and put the fire out. We had come out of the house to see where “that boy” had went, and helped Donavon load Dad into the Roadrunner, and we sped away to the Crosby hospital. We met Mom somewhere along the road, on her way home from Crosby, so she turned around to head back with yet another patient at St Luke’s. Dads burns were bad enough to keep him in the hospital for a week, so on prom night, the following week, Donavon and I drove over to Crosby to see him. It sure was an exciting first date, like I said, it was a hot one.

We don’t know it at the time, a memory has not yet had time to form a narration, the pen has yet to be put to paper or the brush to canvas, but every love story has a beginning. A first strike against the anvil of time that sometimes sparks the forging and unfolding of something beautiful, something durable, something timeless.

This Saturday, December 18th, Mom and Dad will celebrate 50-years of their something beautiful, durable, and timeless. Something that has grown and glowed brighter throughout the years as the winds of change have swirled and whirled about. The North Dakota wind met it’s match with these two.

From that first-date to this, many North Dakota sunsets have settled into the horizon west of the place we call home. Like those sunsets, Mom and Dad’s love for one another has always made me pause. Pause in awe of the daily beauty of two people moving through life together. Together in love.

If you find yourself in Lignite this Saturday, swing by The 109 Club and lend your presence to the celebration scheduled to commence at 4:00. We don’t schedule ending times. Mom always said we weren’t smart enough to know when to call it night. So it goes.

Happy anniversary Mom and Dad. 50-years…looks good on you two.

I’m happy to report that the family has successfully rescued a pine tree from the cold and scary forest to live out the remainder of its days in the comfort of our living room. Lovingly adorned with festive lights, and a 25-year menagerie of ornaments, it will no longer be forced to live in constant fear of teenage squirrels carving their initials into its bark and necking among its boughs.

The tree is safe now, and we shall cherish its company forever…or until the first week or so of January. Whichever comes first.

Times when the whole family is able to be together can be hard to come by, but thankfully, this year it worked out. As the four of us drove through the Black Hills, I looked at the kids in the rearview mirror and wondered when the next time might be that we will all be together again?

I often took something as simple as the family being together in one vehicle for granted when the kids were little. All of us moving in the same direction, our plans linked, our time shared…seemed as if it would always be the way. Until it wasn’t. As Robert Frost wrote in his poem The Road Not Taken, “way leads on to way”. So it goes.

Of course, we all know that being together in one vehicle with young kids is not always enjoyable for adults blessed with the ability to hear. There are many moments you would just as soon not revisit in mind or body. Moments when driving became difficult due to the blood rushing to your clenched hands and jaw. Moments when the only thing keeping you from throwing yourself from the moving wagon of whine was the fear of scuffing your favorite shoes.

The kids aren’t kids anymore, the bickering is mostly nonexistent and generally in jest. They are adults trying to make their own way, and I am grateful for such. Grateful for their gains, but occasionally a bit melancholy for the losses. It is of course better to have had the time and lost it than to have never had it, so I am sure to savor the times we get together. Gratefully savor the time in the moment, so that moment is more likely to be available as way leads on to way.

So, for now, we’re together. The kids are decorating the tree, hanging ornaments from all the years past. Ornaments of varying shapes and themes that represent whatever it was that was “big” in their lives at that particular time. Cinderella, Spider-Man, sports, travel, Buzz Lightyear and beyond.

As their lives expand the time we get together contracts. That is the way of it for families. That is part of the deal. I’ll let Mr. Frost take this one home…

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

There are many things in life that we wind up classifying as “a 9-iron”, that is, they “looked good from about 100-yards out.” If you can’t hit a golf ball 100-yards with a 9-iron, feel free to dig in your bag for whichever club will get you there. Or, just pick up the ball, walk it to the green, and drop it in the cup. You paid the green fees, do as you wish.

I’m a fairly even keeled person, but golf makes me angry, and paying to do something that makes me angry doesn’t seem all that logical, so I don’t golf much. Like many, I have a dusty set of golf clubs safely tucked away in the rafters of the garage, a remnant of a delusional past when I thought that one day I’d be good enough at the game that it wouldn’t make me angry. I was wrong. So it goes.

They say that we get upset about things when our expectations about those things are not met. As I creep, or creak, up on 50-years of life on earth, I’ve slowly learned that it is more productive to divert my attention away from the source of my ire, and turn that attention inward to curiously examine the expectations I had going in. Were those expectations reasonable or not? More often than not, they were not.

From a distance, perhaps 100-yards or so, we can’t quite see things all that clearly. Our brains aversion to ambiguity prompts it to fill in the blanks and provide us with an illusion of clarity. An illusion that can often leave us a bit disillusioned when we move in for a closer look. It’s hard to see the rust, dents, and cracked glass from 100-yards out. If you desire glorious perfection, or the illusion of such, keep your distance.

I encounter this quite often with my students. They often come to college with the idea that glorious perfection in life will be found in a certain vocation. They graduate from high school, choose a major, slide their 9-iron back in the bag, and start moving towards who they think they want to be and what they think they want to do.

Looks good from 100-yards out, but somewhere along that march towards glorious perfection, imperfections become visible, and they become disillusioned with the illusion of who they thought they wanted to be, and what they thought they wanted to do. It happens to all of us at some point during the pursuit of something in life. Most any “something”.

It can happen when we pursue happiness, when we pursue love, when we pursue meaning, when we pursue the world’s best cheeseburger, so on and so forth, but as Viktor Frankl once said, “Success, like happiness, cannot be pursued, it must ensue.”

Conciliatory good news for the “glory bound and the beaten down”, as Canadian folk singer David Francey phrased it. For, despite the rust, dents, and cracked glass you realize upon arrival, something of use may ensue from the pursuit. Perhaps something better? Maybe not gloriously perfect, but more perfect for you.

Happy Thanksgiving. May an enjoyable gathering of family and friends ensue as a result of your pursuit of a gloriously delicious turkey and a fist full of lefsa. Ole Eastwood’s much celebrated adaptation of “A Fist Full of Dollars”.