Rambling Josh

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”.

A few weeks ago, Dawn and I headed north for a visit. As is generally the case, we didn’t have much of anything particular planned for our visit, just hang out with family. A plenty good enough agenda for us.

When you have two nephews as delightfully entertaining as Otto and Perry, “just hanging out” is much more active than passive. Those two crack me up, and I feel quite honored when they ask “Old Man Joshy Washy” to play whatever it is they have dreamed up to do for the next 30 seconds or 3 hours. One never knows exactly what it is you are getting into, but all that I get out of it is always worth it.

They are in that window of time where life is play, an endlessly curious search for fun and adventure. That window eventually closes to varying degrees for each of us, but we should fight the good fight to keep it wedged open at least a crack. If we let it close all the way, we risk it getting painted shut with the many somber, mind numbing, and less than fun layers life can bring.

Just a crack, that’s all that is necessary to allow for a little breeze to carry in the sounds of play, and little voices asking you to join them.

Another little voice that invited Dawn and I into his world for a bit on our visit north, was the equally entertaining Eli, my cousin Kris Petersen’s youngest son. Eli is a pistol, and when we went to Beth and Laverne’s farm to pick apples he kept us entertained. Entertained and on the move, as he turned and waved his hand with a gruff “follow me” to show us the various “sections” around the farm yard where he likes to seek adventure.

It reminded me of when I was kid on my Grandma and Grandpa Chrest’s farm, and the various “forts” we had scattered throughout the tree groves and coulees. And like Eli, by order of Grandpa and Grandma, there were places on the farm we weren’t supposed to play. It was of course for our own good, but kids aren’t much concerned about their own good. So it goes.

They’re concerned about very little but following their curiosities, and are well aware that “orders” from Grandpa and Grandma can be bent and easily straightened with little more than wide eye’s and a bowed head of apology.

Their apple tree had a bumper crop this year, and when aunt Beth offered to lift me up in the bucket of their John Deere tractor so I could pick the apples higher up on the tree, I couldn’t resist a ride (or lift) through memory lane.

Grandpa Ardell loved to give us a lift in his John Deere tractor any chance he got. His “window” remained forever open further than many. Picking apples, picking juneberries, or just because, he’d rev the motor to get your attention, wave his hand and say “hop in, the good ones are higher up”.

With a recycled margarine container hung around your neck with a piece of yarn, compliments of Grandma Rose, “so you can pick with both hands dear” you would be taken for a purposely herky-jerky ride to pick the “good ones”.

The “good ones”. They certainly were.

She decided it was time to make some changes in her life. Where to start? She decides to start this endeavor the same manner in which she starts most everything. It doesn’t occur to her that reliance on an old habit to make new changes may be counterproductive, but logic, reason, and general clarity of thought, are difficult for a drowning person to recognize and engage in.

Looking within oneself for an answer seems foreign for those that have relied on others to tell them what they want to hear for so long. Moving from one meaningless scene to the next on an escalator with a fistful of Pop Tarts. A convenient way to get from one point to another, but not very fulfilling and quite devoid of effort, forethought, substance and reflection.

Without an inkling of conscious thought, she reaches out to grasp what she’s been programed to believe will provide the answers she seeks. She reaches out to that which is always there, seldom more than an arm’s length away, never questioning, only answering. She enters, “How to make positive life changes?” and unfailingly answers are instantly provided. One should always be wary of instant answers to questions that have developed the need to be asked over a long period of time.

The output to the question she input offered up many directions in which she could possibly take her first steps towards the change she seeks. A compass that points in more than one direction isn’t a compass one should rely on for direction on such a journey, but it is the compass that she is accustomed to relying upon.

After a bit of swiping and scrolling, the whirling compass of external input suggests that physical activity is a good place to start when getting one’s life in order. It also suggests all the material goods one must have to conveniently, effectively, and most importantly, “stylishly” engage in one’s chosen brand of physical activity. Material goods that will announce to anyone within eye-shot who you appear to be, and what you are appearing to do to be who you appear to be.

Where would we be without such announcements? Forced to explain ourselves through actual actions, and possibly produce actual results? If actions and results don’t show up, the dog and pony show of appearances will entertain our crowd. People love dogs and ponies…until they step in their crap. So it goes.

Walking seemed to her to be a good place to start her steps towards change. It’s something that can easily be mistaken by “her crowd” as a method of simply moving herself between two points. This is important, as it allows her to quit trying without ever having appeared as if she was trying. An easy out, in the event that the way in gets to be more than she’s willing to give to herself.

The walking path looked pleasant. At one point, the path forked, and for a moment, she stood and looked a bit left and a bit right. A moment of contemplation was not a moment she was accustomed to, so she reflexively looked to her device to direct her left or right. To tell her which way people that like to be told “which way” should point themselves to properly experience what everyone else has deemed a proper experience.

A squirrel had been storing its winter supply of nuts in a hollow limb that overhung the fork in the path below. A hollow limb that was providing the shade she needed to see the screen perched in her hand. The squirrel warned her that he’d misjudged the nut mass the hollow limb could safely maintain, but her senses were occupied.

As she turned left, or possibly right, she most likely glimpsed the reflection of the falling branch on her screen as she snapped a selfie to post for the validation she had grown accustomed to seeking. Validation in the form of comments rife with the usual platitudes, or a simple “thumbs up” from the more banal. She successfully captured and posted the moment. The branch frozen in its free fall. The squirrel with its little paws covering its eyes, unable to bear witness to the tragedy unfolding below.

In the end, the “others” shared the link that reported the tragedy that had befell her…their “friend”…then they scrolled on…

Finger Pistols Frank was the best horseshoe thrower in the county, just ask him. Each year during the Labor Day Weekend Family Fun Days Celebration, the local chapter of the Independent Order of Odd Fellows hosts a horseshoe tournament, and Finger Pistols Frank has been the champion shoe tosser for 19-years straight.

Second Fiddle Silas, as Frank liked to call him as he “pow…powed” him with double finger pistols, had rang in at runner-up for those very same 19-years straight. Silas was a kindly man, gentle, soft-spoken, a friend to all, and each year all gathered around the horseshoe pits in hopes that Silas would holster Frank’s finger pistols.

Frank had a special fedora that he only wore for the championship match each year. Affixed to the fedora were 19 gold horseshoe shaped pins that were each conspicuously emblazoned with the word “CHAMPION” and the year in which it was won.

The Independent Order of Odd Fellows didn’t issue the pins to the champion, Frank had them made special for himself at a local business, The Jewelry, Trophy & Bait Barn. They hated making them for him, but business is business. So it goes.

The fedora glistened and glinted in the afternoon sun with each turn of Franks head while he peacocked around the horseshoe pits. When he let go a good toss, a toss he knew was a ringer, which to the chagrin of all, happened more times than not, he would turn to Silas while the horseshoe was in midflight tip the bill of his fedora, wink, and fire his finger pistols to the clank of yet another solid ringer.

Silas had trained all year for this day. During his many hours of training he’d inadvertently discovered that the grease and salt from potato chips on the fingers of his throwing hand, covered with a thin leather glove gave him tremendously sensitive touch and a level of accuracy he’d never experienced in all his days of throwing shoes.

Silas had been putting up with Frank, and his finger pistols, for long enough, and he was determined to keep the gold horseshoe count on his stupid fedora at 19. This was his year.

The championship match was a back-and-forth battle, ringer after ringer fell upon the stake. Franks finger pistols were blazing, and everyone feared they’d have yet another year of listening to him prattle on at Olive’s Cafe each morning over coffee and rolls. The fact that people tolerated Frank and his early morning finger pistols for 19-years is a testament to those rolls.

Silas needed a ringer to win, he’d never been this close to victory, he could taste it. Actually, he could taste the potato chips he was eating to apply one last coat of magic to his fingers.

While Silas contemplated his final toss, Frank was parading around trying to get the chant of Second Fiddle Silas going, and planning his stop at The Jewelry, Trophy & Bait Barn first thing Tuesday morning to have pin number 20 made.

Amid all the distraction, Silas forgot to put his thin leather glove back on, and as he let go his final toss the grease from the potato chips caused him to lose his grip. The errant horseshoe twirled towards Frank. It made a metallic “clink” as it struck the pins on his fedora, and as he fell facedown, double finger pistols in the dirt, crushing the bill of his hat, the unmistakable “clank” of a ringer rang out. The crowd roared. Silas licked his fingers.

The Independent Order of Odd Fellows commissioned The Jewelry, Trophy & Bait Barn to make a plaque to place at the horseshoe pits to commemorate Frank. “Finger Pistols Frank, tolerated by many, liked by few, loved by his mother (so he claimed).”

How often do you witness something that makes your eyebrows lunge for your hairline as your eyes involuntarily widen and your jaw slackens while whatever your preferred “what the ….” slowly spills out of your mouth soaked in bewilderment?

The engineer, pedaling the bicycle, appeared to be late teens early twenties, the caboose, also known as your garden variety little red wagon, was occupied by a downy haired child that I’m sure hadn’t possessed the ability to sit unassisted long enough to appreciate all the ways the ride he was occupying could get sideways…or upside down.

I was driving north on a busy traffic riddled street, they were bouncing and lurching south on the sidewalk. Although our passing was relatively quick, it was quite apparent that the engineer had cobbled together some sort of duct tape hitch connecting his bicycle seat post to the handle of the little red wagon.

I’ve ridden in little red wagons. Their steering responsiveness, loaded with two knuckleheads rolling down a hill bobsled style, is quite twitchy and highly unpredictable. The handle gives you the illusion of steering, your little brothers high-pitched scream from the “backseat” paints a more realistic picture.

I don’t recall the name of the elderly lady that lived in the stucco house at the bottom of the hill next to our house in Palermo in 1978? I believe the stucco was painted yellow? I believe she wasn’t very pleased that pieces of her house broke loose and landed in our wagon on impact…all three times. I believe they held a parade in Palermo when we moved to Lignite? We weren’t invited.

When I saw the guy on the bike (with no helmet) pulling a toddler (with no helmet) in a wagon (with questionable stability) my first thought was, “does his wife know of the contraption her husband has devised?” My second thought made more sense to me, “the mastermind engineer is the older brother of the unwittingly unsafe little one.”

The hands of an older brothers are notoriously questionable choices in which to place the health and wellbeing of a younger sibling within. Those hands may be attached to an able body, but the whole lot is at the mercy of a brain that holds anyone that can light a fart on fire in the highest possible regard.

I am an older brother, and it is no small feat to convert a fart to a flame. As the old song goes…poetry in motion. Not enough to read by, but poetry just the same.

My brother Gabe is twelve years younger than me, and I was given the responsibility of watching him quite often while growing up. “Watching” him. Maybe adults should be more specific?

I “watched” me put him in the baby carrier on mom’s bike when he was about two-years old to take him for a spin around town. He loved riding back there, and I loved giving him rides.

It wasn’t my fault…My friends were jumping their bikes on our favorite ramp up a steep approach. As was always the case, some were jumping, and some were marking the landings so those that were jumping could see what mark they had to beat. The mark “we” had to beat.

Clicking through the gears on moms Schwinn, my approach speed was magnificent, the launch angle was near perfect, but I failed to take into consideration the impact my cargo would have on our flight trajectory.

If you measure the success of a flight by a landing that includes both wheels and swiftly riding away to the applause of your friends, then our landing, some would say it closely resembled a crash, was not a success.

But, like Orville and Wilbur Wright, we flew. If only for a moment, the eldest and youngest Ellis boys took flight together, while, in unison, the eyebrows of a handful of neighborhood kids made a hasty lunge towards their hairlines. It was glorious…then it wasn’t. So it goes.

I’m fairly certain Gabe got his first concussion that day. Happy birthday brother.

I am always a bit hesitant to tell people what they should see, where they should go, or what they should do when I hear they are going somewhere that I have been. Mainly because I am aware that my sightseeing interests, much like many of my interests, just aren’t that interesting to a lot of people. So it goes.

I also resist the urge to direct another’s travels because it feels as though you’re giving them an assignment, and a completed assignment is never as gratifying as an accidental discovery or a quest fueled by self-interest, curiosity, and good old-fashioned serendipity.

It was self-interest and curiosity that first led me to McSorley’s Old Ale House in the East Village of Manhattan about ten years ago on a visit to the Big Apple. Opening for business in 1854, it lays claim to bragging rights as the oldest pub in New York City. As the writing on one of the window pains looking into this kaleidoscope of bygone times says, “We were here before you were born.” My math skills are embarrassingly minimal, but I’d say that’s a pretty sound statement.

On that maiden voyage to McSorley’s a decade ago, my brother-in-law, the only one in the group in possession of a smart phone, assumed navigation responsibilities. As I said, my interests are not always that interesting to others, so it took a fair bit of negotiating to convince my brother-in-law of the importance of this pilgrimage.

With the voodoo magic encased in his Black Berry (remember those?) he reluctantly led us to McSorley’s and allowed for the consumption of a round of their famous light or dark ale (the only two choices) before scuttling us through the swinging doors to resume the scheduled tour.

I enjoyed the visit, was grateful to my brother-in-law for indulging me, but wanted to go back someday and just be in that space a little longer. Be where the likes of Abraham Lincoln, John F. Kennedy, Harry Houdini, Tommy Makem, Frank McCourt, and many…many more historical, musical, and literary notables tipped a pint or two amongst the regulars at the worn wooden tables around the potbelly stove.

I was able to get back to McSorley’s a couple of times during my recent 10-day ramble about the city. Once with Sierra and her boyfriend, and again a few days later with Dawn and Jackson. Often times with places like this I am hesitant to return for fear that the initial lure and luster will begin to pale, but thankfully that fear drifted away and was completely lost among the sawdust strewn upon the foot worn wooden floor.

McSorley’s walls hold a treasure trove historical photos and documents, but more importantly, they contain the laughter, song, and voices of an unimaginable number of people. People seeking the company of others, or simply the company of a pint while they read, think, and contemplate whatever is in need of contemplation.

So yes, McSorley’s is on my “must see” list for New York City, or to be more accurate, my “must experience” list. We saw a lot on our trip to the city, but we experienced McSorley’s, and as we pushed through the swinging doors, and the sawdust turned to sidewalk, I was grateful for the experience and for the people I got to experience it with.

The bookend of summer is upon us. Happy August. The Olympics are in full swing in Tokyo, and over the past few days track and field events have begun to take center stage. As always, it is enjoyable to watch the plethora of other events that athletes have dedicated their lives to perfecting, but for me, track and field is the favorite.

For the most part, I find Facebook to be a useful tool to keep up on all the goings on in the lives of family and friends near and far, and as I watch the fleet of foot fly around the track in Tokyo, I am reminded of a post made by a friend back in May.

My friend, and my former high school track coach, Ray Sayler, announced his retirement from coaching Burke Central track and cross-country, and I would like to thank him for all he has done over the many…many…many years for many…many…many young athletes.

Each of the athletes we see competing at any level did not get to where they are on their own. Behind each of them is a bleacher full of supporting characters that have played a part in their story. Parents, friends, family, teammates, and coaches.

Ray was my coach. He taught me the value of setting lofty goals and not wavering from the pursuit of those goals. He taught me that the attainment of the goals I set was secondary in importance to the effort I put into the pursuit of it. Attainment is nice, but the effort, the dedication, the process…that’s where one learns a bit about themselves.

As Robert Pirsig wrote in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, “To live life only for some future goal is shallow. It’s the sides of the mountain that sustain life, not the top.”

Thank you Ray for dedicating so much of your time to those of us on the side of our mountain, often not knowing where the top was our could be. Thank you for seeing what we could not see in ourselves and nudging us towards being better. Better athletes, but more importantly, better people.

One of Ray’s coaching techniques that I carry with me to this day is his willingness to listen to young people explain what they want to do, and while knowing full well that they are going to fail miserably attempting what they want to do, but allowing them to proceed.

On more than one occasion, I was that young person explaining to Ray my ill-conceived plan. One master plan that is as fresh in my mind today as it was in 1991 is, “I hate the 400 meter dash, I think I should run the 800.” Without pause, Ray said, “Okay, you can run the 800 at the next track meet in Stanley.”

Ray said, “All you have to do is run a 56 second first lap, and a 66 second second lap and you’ll qualify for the State Track Meet.” I thought, “That sounds much more leisurely and enjoyable than the 400.” As Ray fully knew, I thought wrong. So it goes.

As I made my first lap the timekeeper yelled out “56”, right on track. About 100 meters later, someone invisible, but very large, jumped on my back. Ray, as he always did, sprinted across the infield with clipboard in hand, trotted backwards at a speed I was having a hard time matching running forward, and yelled, “Run!” I weakly responded, “I am.”

The second lap was not a 66. I crossed the finish line, wobbled to our team camp and slipped into a coma. When I regained consciousness, I looked up to see Ray standing over me…smirking…“You want to run the 800 again?” Lesson learned.

Thank you Ray…for your time, effort, and dedication.