Rambling Josh

Kindred Spirit

Wed, 07 Oct 2026 06:00:00 -0600

A few days ago, my friend and colleague, Dr. Deane Tucker, a Professor of English, Humanities, and Philosophy at Chadron State College since 1998, died at the age of 64. Deane took it upon himself to be my personal welcoming wagon when I joined the faculty at CSC in 2013. A wagon that often rolled deep into the night, deep into our cups, and deep into conversation.

Some of the most enjoyable, entertaining, interesting, and thought-provoking conversations I have had in my life were had with Deane. He has been on my mind often the last few days, and over the course of those few days I have come to know a few things for certain…first, I miss my friend…second, I am better for having known him…a better teacher, a better person, a better human trying to be better for the good of the order.

Often, we equate someone being a “good conversationalist” with someone who is “a talker.” Granted, Deane was a talker, but more so, he was a good conversationalist because he listened intently and responded thoughtfully. Many times, we sat shoulder to shoulder in a crowded bar and the crowd seemingly disappeared as we spoke of work, spoke of life, spoke of Ireland, spoke of complete and utter nonsense. Whatever it was that we spoke of, Deane was always fully present, and he was always fully engaged with whomever he was in the presence of.

Deane had a strong gravitational pull (good humans have that) and I am forever grateful that I was welcomed into his orbit. His passing has put a few bumps and wobbles in that orbit, but the pull is still there…the pull to carry on trying to be a good human, the pull to live with the same joy and curiosity for life that Deane lived with, the pull to be a serious academic without being too seriously serious.

A kindred spirit, as the dictionary defines it, is “a person who shares the same opinions, feelings, interests, or values as you” and it is said that when you meet a kindred spirit, “you often feel an instant, deep connection and mutual understanding, as if you have known each other for a long time.” Deane was a kindred spirit, someone I instantly connected with, someone I felt like I had known forever, someone I could count on to make a crowd seem not so crowded.

One night, as we sat shoulder to shoulder, conversing and laughing about this and that while orbiting outside the crowd, a burly gentleman walked up to us and said, “I don’t care if you are. I’m just curious. Are you two married?” Deane and I both busted out laughing, and I told him that although we were both married to women, if I were to marry a man, Deane would be a fine catch. Though we’d probably end up annoying each other as much as we did the bartender who begged, “Would you two stop!” when we got stuck in Irish brogue mode one St. Patrick’s Day.

I know he’s gone. I know I’ve lost that shelter from that crowd. I know that it is unlikely that anyone will ever request me to sing “Kilkelly Ireland” ever again…but I’ll sing it, and when I do, I’ll sing it for Deane. It’s a song that’s a bit happy, a song that’s a bit hopeful, a song that’s more than a bit sad, a song of life, longing, love, and loss. So it went with Deane. So it will go with us all. So it goes.

To Finitude

Wed, 16 Sep 2026 06:00:00 -0600

Over the Labor Day weekend, my wife and I ventured north to Upstate North Dakota to celebrate a few birthdays and hang out with family. A journey we have made countless times over the past 30 years or so. Countless times that seem to count more and more as many of us are fast approaching, or are, of the high-mileage sort. So it goes.

Sunday night, my brother Gabe decided to roll back the odometer a few years and cued up some old family videos on the big screen. First stop, Christmas Eve 1986, at Grandpa and Grandma Ellis’s house in Lignite…Grandpa Fritz’s last Christmas. I suppose there always must be a last for most everything and everyone, as that is the nature of it all.

Buzz Lightyear’s catchphrase, “To infinity and beyond,” although useful in rallying Mr. Potato Head, Slinky Dog, Rex, and Hamm for a harrowing mission to rescue Woody from Al’s Toy Barn, is wildly optimistic for us finite human types.

The images from the past that we were watching had been advanced through the years from Betamax to VHS to DVD, and perhaps someone someday will move them to The Cloud and beyond the beyonds of anything that we can currently fathom.

I know I sound like a crotchety old skeptic when I say, “I don’t trust The Cloud,” but I don’t trust The Cloud. I can hold a Betamax, a VHS, a DVD in my hand…I can write “Farting Around with Family June 1991” directly on them so when people beyond me stumble across them they know exactly what they’ve stumbled across.

Unless, of course, someone along the way, in a desperate, frenzied moment, taped over “Farting Around with Family June 1991” with an episode of MacGyver or a Lee Greenwood music video (to hold them over until their Columbia Records shipment arrived). Both forgivable offenses in the disruption of the farting around to infinity and beyond time and space continuum.

Betamax, VHS, DVD…you can use them to prop up a shelf, steady a wobbly table, whack your little brother…try that with The Cloud. Clouds breeze in and breeze out with nary a trace of their former existence. As do we…eventually…but at least Betamax, VHS, and DVD give us a modicum of hope that somewhere in a galaxy far, far away someone will pull us out of a tattered Skechers Shape-Ups shoebox and see us. See the image that once cast a shadow on this earth and hear the voice that once shouted obscenities at The Cloud.

I suppose that it is true that The Cloud won’t clutter up landfills to infinity and beyond, but what are we supposed to do with all those empty Skechers Shape-Ups shoeboxes? You can’t keep a cloud in a shoebox…a fart in a Pringles can…that’s a different story.

As the family sat around watching the past bounce around shrouded in poor lighting…lighting that is desirable now to blur the ravages of time and the elements…it was nice to have all who have gone among us again. Sporting events, birthdays, holidays, and the general day-to-day stuff of day-to-day family life…good stuff.

To finitude…and a bit beyond.

Six and A Lot

Wed, 02 Sep 2026 06:00:00 -0600

Most of us probably have a thing or two that we’ve kind of always wanted to do before our cereal bowl full of life gets spilt or soggy. Wanted to do mostly for ourselves, simply because something inside of ourselves has a desire to do it…for whatever reason.

For the first and third Wednesday of each month since November of 2004, I have been writing this column. Due to a traumatizing incident as a child involving a yardstick and a cribbage board that left me wary of all things numerical, and, as such, bereft of any semblance of mathematical ability…I’m not sure how many columns that is? Somewhere between six and a lot is my best guess.

Over the years, a few folks here and there have inquired as to when I was going to write a book or have suggested and encouraged me to do so. Such interactions are humbling, as are any interactions with anyone expressing that they have enjoyed a column. I suppose most of us human types like to hear from other human types that we are somewhat competent at something we’ve chosen to devote a portion of our lives to. So it goes.

So, over those years, I have from time to time entertained the idea of writing a book. When I went into a bookstore, I would think, “Wouldn’t it be neat to see something you’ve written on the shelves,” which was generally followed by the thought, “Look at all these books. Is another one really necessary? Wouldn’t it be “neat” to see your book in the bargain bin or used as a door stop to prop open the men’s room door when the weight of Tolstoy prompts a customer to have disagreement with a burrito?”

On Friday, I went into Mitzi’s Bookstore in Rapid City, and it was neat to see something I had written on their shelves. “Jaunty Hair” is a collection of 98 Ramblings columns and a song.

As I wrote in the book’s dedication, “Writing is a solitary pursuit guided, informed, and inspired by the lives of many. Of those many lives who have guided, informed, and inspired me to write, none have done so more than my family. Special thanks to my wife, Dawn, our children, Sierra and Jackson, the Ellis, Chrest, and Lesnar clans, and the people of Lignite and Burke County. Thank you for your support and encouragement, and for supplying fodder for the Ramblings canon. To the fine folks at the Burke County Tribune, I am forever grateful.”

In the end, I’m not really sure that what I did constitutes “writing a book,” as all I did was slog through six to a lot of columns and compile some of them into a stack of paper between a front and back cover. But it’s something that I’ve kind of always wanted to do…and now it’s done…so that something inside me can put a sock in it for a while.

If you are so inclined, “Jaunty Hair” is available most anywhere books are sold and the Burke County Tribune will have a few copies on hand at the Tribune office in Bowbells. Or, if you find yourself in Rapid City, stop by Mitzi’s Bookstore or our house. If I’m not out on a book tour, giving readings and autographs and waxing poetically about my writing process, I’d be happy to get you a copy.

Thanks for reading.

Bat-Signal

Wed, 19 Aug 2026 06:00:00 -0600

Last week we ventured east to the Twin Cities Irish Fest, held each year on Harriet Island in St. Paul, Minnesota. The “we” consisted of my wife, myself, and our good friends, Paul and Jodi. The weekend consisted of some good music, some good food and drink, and some tremendous people watching.

As the comedian Jeff Foxworthy once said, ““If you ever start feeling like you have the goofiest, craziest, most dysfunctional family in the world, all you have to do is go to a state fair. Because five minutes at the fair, you’ll be going, ‘You know, we’re alright. We are dang near royalty.'”

Anything that ends in “Fest” or “Fair” seems to emit a Bat-signal to the battiest among us. Which, always prompts me to contemplate when I find myself among them, “Maybe I ain’t so normal either?” Maybe the guy in the kilt, puffy-sleeved pirate shirt, compression socks, orthopedic Sketchers, and a fedora thinks I’m a bit odd? Maybe he’s right. We’re all rowing the same boat.

Kilts do look comfortable, but time-and-time again over the years I have talked Myself out of draping those plaid-pleats over my pouty posterior. It was pouty last time I looked anyway, but that was many moons ago, so the pout may have had a falling out since then. So it goes.

I hope I am able to continue to stand firm and thwart Myself, but he’s persistent, not very reasonable, void of fashion sense, and knows which sock I stash my cash in. Wish me luck, and I beg of you, refrain from encouraging his flights of fancy. He knows not what he do.

As I said, “some” of the music was good, and of course, some of it wasn’t so good, but that’s to be expected when a festival is trying to satisfy the tastes of vast and varying makes, models, and vintages of weirdos. Us weirdos enjoyed The High Kings (again) and a young lady named Adrienne O’Shea. Give them a listen, you might not like them.

As for the food…I always say that you know when a meal was really good or really bad, when you find yourself thinking about it for days after you consumed it. Scottish meat pies and skewers of bacon wrapped chicken have been flittering through my mind since we pointed the car west and returned home. On my mind in a good way. Not in the way the tripe I tried in Italy keeps rearing its ugly intestines.

It was an enjoyable trip. We have made this trip with Jodi and Paul before, and our travels with them make me think of the Irish proverb, “Giorraìonn beirt bòthar”, which translates to “Two people shorten a road.” There are four of us, but yes, good company shortens the road. Good company that never fails to respond when the Bat-signal goes out.

May there be many more such trips. “May the road rise to meet you, may the wind be always at your back, may the sun shine warm upon your face…”

Sláinte.

Two-Tone

Wed, 05 Aug 2026 06:00:00 -0600

I’d been dreading this day for five years…dreading the day I would have to return to that drab, square, two-tone building. Both tones of gray…tones whose sounds sing the same song of misery, anguish, and flittered-away time as the cement it sits upon. Not a tree, not a bush, not even a weed has seen fit to grace a crack with a bit of color, a bit of life, a bit of hope.

Across this bereft bleakness I shuffle, perturbed and sullen, clutching two documents that I hope will serve to appease the powers that be and provide adequate proof of my physical and lawful existence upon the soil of South Dakota.

It’s not often in life that you have the opportunity to schedule your fate, but the Department of Motor Vehicles has promised that their new scheduling system will expedite the driver’s license renewal experience, so I breathed the sigh of someone expecting to be disappointed and scheduled my fate for 9:00 AM on July 14th.

Deeply suspicious that “expedite” and the DMV could ever coexist within the same cosmic realm, I refused to leave Perturbed and Sullen waiting in the car. I knew I would need them. You always need them at the DMV.

Perturbed, Sullen, and I went to an available Lord of Licensing to let them know that I was present for my 9:00 AM appointment with fate. The nice young man asked, “Have you filled out the application?” Perturbed said, “No,” and the nice young man said, “Fill out the application and bring it to me and we’ll get you on the list to meet with an agent (aka Lord of Licensing).” “Here we go,” Sullen bemoaned, “same ole same ole at the Soul Suckatorium.”

As Perturbed, Sullen, and I were filling out the application in alternating fits of terse, curse, and cursive…I heard the nice young man explain to some poor fellow that, since he didn’t have an appointment, it would be about a three-hour wait. The poor fellow’s name was Gary, and by the looks of Gary, I wasn’t sure he had three hours, but he opted to tempt fate and wait. So it goes.

I did as told and returned my application to the nice young man, who said, “Listen for your name and the counter number of the agent who will be assisting you.” I settled in among the tired, the “huddled masses yearning to breathe free,” and, resigning to my fate of wait, began to read the book I had brought along for company.

Began to read…and then, nary a handful of words in, I heard a name that sounded like the name my parents bestowed upon me one July morning many moons ago. Could it be? Could I be a part of an expedited experience at the DMV?

Have you ever waltzed into a room full of people and received the expedited version of an experience, the exact experience that has been impeding upon that room full of people’s ability to experience their life, their liberty, and their pursuit of happiness? I could feel their disdainful gazes casting hexes and ill-wishes upon me as I stood in front of the green screen to get my picture taken for my shiny new driver’s license.

A photo that revealed a forehead still glistening with sweat from the sun of the outside world while, just to the left, within chair-tossing distance, sat Gary and the others, cooled by the time that had passed…miffed by the interminability of it all. Perturbed and Sullen headed for the car.

I dared not smile.

Many Hats

Thu, 23 Jul 2026 09:00:25 -0600

After a courageous battle with old age, my father-in-law, Bernie Lesnar, died recently, and my wife would like to share a few of her thoughts and memories about her dad with you.

“Praise be Jesus Christ. May all His good blessings shower upon all of you!” is how my father began all his correspondence, whether it be a letter to his parents while in basic training or the cards he sent his children and grandchildren throughout the years, until the day he died on June 27th, 2026. Which, in my heart, was way too soon.

My dad wore many hats over the course of his 88 years of life. His first hat, that of the second son to Esther and John, changed quickly from the youngest son to that of an older brother to eight siblings. With this gaggle of siblings on the family farm, you can imagine the shenanigans they got into. Over the years and over the course of our celebrating his life, we have been told many stories that have made us wonder how any of them survived beyond their youth.

His relationship with each of his siblings ran deep, but it ran deepest with his older brother, Tony. Later in life, they became housemates, travel partners, and a comedy act. My dad and Uncle Tony took many trips together to visit family, and many times over the years they would come to visit us to be a part of our Super Bowl party. Like good soldiers, they would stand at attention during the national anthem, and once it concluded, the ribbing began. We are going to miss their comedy act, but the stories will live on. The third hat my dad wore was that of a soldier in the United States Army. In high school, you study wars in history class, and even though I knew my dad had served in Vietnam, I didn’t know much about his experience there. Whenever I would ask about it, he would say, “I will never tell my children about what I had to do.” I later found out a bit about his time in Vietnam, as he would randomly open up to my husband, who would then share the stories with me.

My dad was always ready and proud to serve his country. In 1990, he and the 452nd Ordnance Army Reserve unit were activated for Desert Storm, and again he wore the hat of a soldier as a Sergeant First Class. A few years after Desert Storm, he retired the soldier hat after serving 27 years, but continued serving as a soldier in a different capacity by being a very active member of the Henning-Shemanski American Legion in his hometown of Grenville, SD. Each year the legion would hold a Turkey Shoot to raise funds for their post. My dad, always ready with a ticket book and pen in his shirt pocket, was the top ticket seller year after year.

The fourth hat, his working hat, was well worn after 30 years with the Milwaukee and Burlington railroad. I remember as a kid going with Dad from time to time to the Webster rail depot when he had the rare opportunity to work in town rather than out inspecting the line. The smell of the creosote in the wood and the creaking sound of the floorboards as I followed closely behind my dad are a few memories I hold close.

In 1968 he married my mom, and although they later divorced, he became a father and put on a hat he would wear forevermore. As he would say, “Four beautiful children, which are my heart and soul.” A sentiment he would later extend to his nine grandchildren.
Over the past couple of decades, my relationship with my dad has deepened and I am going to miss deepening it further. I’m going to miss preparing meals and treats for him. I’m going to miss being his Whist partner. I’m going to miss hearing him cheer on his grandkids at their various events. My dad loved to call everyone to see what they were up to, especially his grandchildren. My dad’s eyes would light up anytime he told me, “I talked to Sierra today!” or “Jackson called me!” He was so proud of all of them, and he loved wearing his grandpa hat.

My dad has touched so many people’s lives and hearts. He has touched mine, and over the past 6 months during our hospital or skilled nursing visits with him, I felt in my heart that he would get better, that he would come home, but his heart and soul had a different home to get to. He left this world the way he wanted, peacefully and with family. Rest easy soldier. We love you and will miss you and your ever-present smile.

Bernie’s obituary can be found at: www.coesterfuneralhome.net/obituarie…

In Congress, July 4, 1776

Thu, 23 Jul 2026 08:54:02 -0600

Worth a read on America’s 250th…The unanimous Declaration of the thirteen united States of America, When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature’s God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shewn, that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future security. Such has been the patient sufferance of these Colonies; and such is now the necessity which constrains them to alter their former Systems of Government. The history of the present King of Great Britain is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute Tyranny over these States. To prove this, let Facts be submitted to a candid world.

He has refused his Assent to Laws, the most wholesome and necessary for the public good. He has forbidden his Governors to pass Laws of immediate and pressing importance, unless suspended in their operation till his Assent should be obtained; and when so suspended, he has utterly neglected to attend to them. He has refused to pass other Laws for the accommodation of large districts of people, unless those people would relinquish the right of Representation in the Legislature, a right inestimable to them and formidable to tyrants only. He has called together legislative bodies at places unusual, uncomfortable, and distant from the depository of their public Records, for the sole purpose of fatiguing them into compliance with his measures. He has dissolved Representative Houses repeatedly, for opposing with manly firmness his invasions on the rights of the people. He has refused for a long time, after such dissolutions, to cause others to be elected; whereby the Legislative powers, incapable of Annihilation, have returned to the People at large for their exercise; the State remaining in the mean time exposed to all the dangers of invasion from without, and convulsions within. He has endeavoured to prevent the population of these States; for that purpose obstructing the Laws for Naturalization of Foreigners; refusing to pass others to encourage their migrations hither, and raising the conditions of new Appropriations of Lands. He has obstructed the Administration of Justice, by refusing his Assent to Laws for establishing Judiciary powers. He has made Judges dependent on his Will alone, for the tenure of their offices, and the amount and payment of their salaries. He has erected a multitude of New Offices, and sent hither swarms of Officers to harrass our people, and eat out their substance. He has kept among us, in times of peace, Standing Armies without the Consent of our legislatures. He has affected to render the Military independent of and superior to the Civil power. He has combined with others to subject us to a jurisdiction foreign to our constitution, and unacknowledged by our laws; giving his Assent to their Acts of pretended Legislation: For Quartering large bodies of armed troops among us: For protecting them, by a mock Trial, from punishment for any Murders which they should commit on the Inhabitants of these States: For cutting off our Trade with all parts of the world: For imposing Taxes on us without our Consent: For depriving us in many cases, of the benefits of Trial by Jury: For transporting us beyond Seas to be tried for pretended offences: For abolishing the free System of English Laws in a neighbouring Province, establishing therein an Arbitrary government, and enlarging its Boundaries so as to render it at once an example and fit instrument for introducing the same absolute rule into these Colonies: For taking away our Charters, abolishing our most valuable Laws, and altering fundamentally the Forms of our Governments: For suspending our own Legislatures, and declaring themselves invested with power to legislate for us in all cases whatsoever. He has abdicated Government here, by declaring us out of his Protection and waging War against us. He has plundered our seas, ravaged our Coasts, burnt our towns, and destroyed the lives of our people. He is at this time transporting large Armies of foreign Mercenaries to compleat the works of death, desolation and tyranny, already begun with circumstances of Cruelty & perfidy scarcely paralleled in the most barbarous ages, and totally unworthy the Head of a civilized nation. He has constrained our fellow Citizens taken Captive on the high Seas to bear Arms against their Country, to become the executioners of their friends and Brethren, or to fall themselves by their Hands. He has excited domestic insurrections amongst us, and has endeavoured to bring on the inhabitants of our frontiers, the merciless Indian Savages, whose known rule of warfare, is an undistinguished destruction of all ages, sexes and conditions.

In every stage of these Oppressions We have Petitioned for Redress in the most humble terms: Our repeated Petitions have been answered only by repeated injury. A Prince, whose character is thus marked by every act which may define a Tyrant, is unfit to be the ruler of a free people.

Nor have We been wanting in attentions to our Brittish brethren. We have warned them from time to time of attempts by their legislature to extend an unwarrantable jurisdiction over us. We have reminded them of the circumstances of our emigration and settlement here. We have appealed to their native justice and magnanimity, and we have conjured them by the ties of our common kindred to disavow these usurpations, which, would inevitably interrupt our connections and correspondence. They too have been deaf to the voice of justice and of consanguinity. We must, therefore, acquiesce in the necessity, which denounces our Separation, and hold them, as we hold the rest of mankind, Enemies in War, in Peace Friends.

We, therefore, the Representatives of the united States of America, in General Congress, Assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the Name, and by Authority of the good People of these Colonies, solemnly publish and declare, That these United Colonies are, and of Right ought to be Free and Independent States; that they are Absolved from all Allegiance to the British Crown, and that all political connection between them and the State of Great Britain, is and ought to be totally dissolved; and that as Free and Independent States, they have full Power to levy War, conclude Peace, contract Alliances, establish Commerce, and to do all other Acts and Things which Independent States may of right do. And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.

Wagons

Wed, 03 Jun 2026 06:00:00 -0600

On June 8th, 1996, Dawn hitched her wagon to this donkey. Or as Father Leonard Savelkoul, the priest that presided over the hitching ceremony would have said when he was Mr. Savelkoul, presiding over History and Shop classes at Burke Central High School, she married “Some Rufus.”

I suppose more accurately, Dawn and this Rufus consolidated their individual wagons into one and hitched it to an idea. An idea, “a representation of something imagined, known, or proposed in the mind” is often the starting gun that propels us out of the blocks, that prompts us to start, to begin, to go. To go where?

On a running track there are lines and lanes guiding your direction, and there is an obvious start and finish line to help you gauge the effort required of you to get from the beginning to the end in the most efficient and timeliest manner. Marriage is like many things, but a running track is not one of those things.

Marriage is more like a shotgun start in a golf tournament of undetermined length. “How many holes do we play?” You play until death. “What if my partner farts and snores while I’m trying to putt?” Deal with it, you’re no peach yourself. So it goes.

Even though we consolidated our wagons 30 years ago, it seems important that our individual wagons were not just left to the mercy of time and neglect at the starting line. That the starting line of “us” didn’t mark the end of who we were before the idea of us began to take shape.

30 years…what that means now, the idea of that now, is something that I couldn’t have imagined at the start. At the start it all seemed so straight forward. Things are rarely as they seem.

Some days we pull in the same direction, covering ground efficiently and effortlessly, some days we pull in opposite directions, both exerting effort to overcome the other, sometimes for better…sometimes for worse. Some days one of us just can’t, or won’t, pull for whatever reason, leaving it entirely up to the other to maintain forward momentum or at least try and steady the wagon for another go on another day.

And some days, possibly the best days, we aren’t trying to move forward, we aren’t trying to hold it steady, we aren’t straining to keep it from rolling back down that hill we just climbed. We are simply lying in the shade of our wagon, resting in preparation for the road to come and reminiscing about the road behind.

In celebration and recognition of our 30 years, Dawn and I decided to park our wagon in Italy for a bit of rest, reminiscing, and roaming about. I found that roaming about cities and structures that have been roamed about for thousands of years had a way of putting our time, our lives, and the jumbled interconnectedness of the whole of humankind into perspective.

Italy was a place we have both had an interest in exploring and experiencing for various reasons. During our travels we crossed paths with some of the paths that Dawn’s grandfather, Raymond Kwasnieski, had taken after landing at Anzio with the 361st Infantry Division in June of 1944. Beautiful and historical places that we are able to freely roam about because of people like him.

Places speak to different people in different ways. Ways in which you can’t really know until you are in those places. Italy filled the heart and the soul of Dawn’s wagon while stimulating the mind of mine. Different places, but the space between is easy enough to traverse, and after 30 years, it’s a route we both know well.

Wants, needs, desires, aversions…ideas…human stuff. Human stuff that moves wagons, for better, for worse, from there to here and beyond.

To Attempt

Wed, 20 May 2026 06:00:00 -0600

When I was a wee lad, sometime around the 77th year of the last century, my dad got a job at the grain elevator in Palermo. Palermo, North Dakota, not Palermo, Sicily. Although, for a 5-year-old who has nothing to do but stare out the window of a Butterfinger colored Ford Econoline and bicker with a little brother, the 50 mile move from Lignite to Palermo, North Dakota seemed roughly the equivalent of the 5,000 miles to Sicily.

I began my stellar academic career in Palermo with two years of kindergarten. At the conclusion of the first year, my teacher, Mrs. Feldman, claimed I wasn’t mature enough for first grade. A claim that still holds true. What did I learn in two years of kindergarten? I learned that cowboy boots are not a sensible choice of footwear for playing baseball and evading girls on the playground.

Some time after my second year of kindergarten, possibly out of fear that a third year was in the cards, we loaded up that Butterfinger colored Ford Econoline with all our worldly belongings and made the arduous journey back to Lignite. Lignite, North Dakota, not Lignite, Alaska.

I remember sitting in the passenger seat of the van in our driveway in Palermo after saying goodbye to my friends, friends from my first year of kindergarten…mature friends… waiting for mom to finish saying her goodbye’s. If you’ve ever been in the position of waiting for my mom to finish saying her goodbye’s, you understand the extended length of time required to hold that position.

During that extended length of time I was glancing about the van, filled to capacity with our belongings, and I felt sad. Our television was sitting in the space between the driver’s seat and the passenger seat, and it had a handle on top, the type of handle with silver metal hinges on each end that allowed it to lay flat when someone wasn’t attempting to lift it, and I was flipping that handle back and forth…clank…clank…clank…

We were a few miles out of town, a few miles of clank…clank…clank…and my mom looked at me and said, “It’s okay to be sad. We can come back and visit sometime.” Clank…clank…clank…my mom has always possessed an impressive tolerance for unnecessary noises. Especially for unnecessary noises produced by kids that aren’t mature enough for first grade.

My siblings and I did not inherit this impressive tolerance for unnecessary noises, we inherited our fathers swift and immediate, “Do you mind?” To which any immature punk worth their salt will reply, “No. No I don’t.”

“We can come back and visit sometime.” Way turns to way, days turn to years, and sometimes, sometime doesn’t visit. So it goes.

Michel de Montaigne, a French philosopher in the 1500s, is credited with inventing the essay as a form of writing. The word essay comes from the French word “essayer” which means “to attempt.” We often write to attempt to make sense of things, to express things, to remember things, and with that attempt we invite others to help us make sense of things, to help us express things, to help us remember things.

To attempt. Sometimes that’s all we can do.

M'aider

Wed, 06 May 2026 06:00:00 -0600

The great-grandson of the Magic 8-Ball, the Google Machine, tells me that “mayday…mayday…mayday”, the international distress signal used by aircraft and ships to indicate imminent danger to life, originated from a phonetical pronunciation of the French phrase m’aider, which means “help me”. The dusty but trusty Funk & Wagnall defines “imminent” as something unpleasant that is certain to happen very soon.

Thanks to the silver screen, most of us can visualize how this whole mayday thing generally plays out. A pilot, in imminent danger, their cockpit filled with a chorus of warning alarms beeping and buzzing, is struggling mightily to prove Sir Isaac Newton’s silly theory wrong. “Mayday…mayday…mayday” they say to someone. Someone that is most likely having a much more agreeable experience with gravity. So it goes.

I always thought that the constant beeping and buzzing of the warning alarms would only make a bad situation worse. Maybe they are intended to make the spiral towards the ground so annoying that you welcome the impact?

There are several habits and such that us humans willingly engage in that will often lead to something unpleasant, not imminently, but slowly. Habits and such that often come with a variety of warnings, warnings that we’ve heard beeping and buzzing, but choose to ignore and climb onboard and ride out. Sometimes until impact.

Many moons ago, when I was a college baseball player masquerading as a college student, I started using chewing tobacco. Skoal Wintergreen Longcut was my dip of choice, and though it has been many years since I quit, a craving still finds me on occasion. Not a craving for the acrid taste or the burning sensation on my raw cheek and gums, but a craving for the way the nicotine would seemingly wash over me leaving a feeling of calm and contentment in its wake.

Cognitive dissonance is “the mental discomfort experienced when holding contradictory beliefs or behaviors, causing psychological stress that motivates people to reduce the discomfort by altering behaviors, justifying actions, or ignoring evidence.” I was well aware of the beeping and buzzing but I climbed onboard and that feeling of calm and contentment motivated me to ignore those pesky alarms and justify my actions by reasoning that “I only chew when…”

I enjoy playing my guitar and singing, and as you are most likely aware, singing requires a working throat attached to a not dead body. So, my desire to have a working throat to sing old country songs and sad Irish ballads and a not dead body to strum my guitar, was one of the motivations I leaned on to alter my behavior and kick cognitive dissonance to the curb.

Above and beyond music, my family was the prime motivator. I’d feel pretty stupid and selfish explaining to my family that I traded a few years of my health and quality time with them for a nicotine buzz. That “calm and contentment” would seem a bit hollow and meaningless if it resulted in me being unnecessarily dead or burdensome.

There was no imminent threat to my health, but there was research data and the many cautionary tales of those that had, or were, suffering the unpleasant downward spiral resulting from their many years of willfully ignoring the beeping and the buzzing until a “m’aider” plea was made too close to impact to be of much use. To be of much use to them anyway.

Meaningful motivation. The key to straightening up and flying right. Happy mayday…mayday…mayday.

5th & Main

Wed, 15 Apr 2026 06:00:00 -0600

There’s a man that I’ve chanced to see a few times over the past year or so standing on the northwest corner of 5th Avenue and Main Street in Rapid City holding a homemade sign, smiling kindly, and waving at the passing cars. The man appears to be in his 50s, appears to be pleasant, kind and largely unassuming, and the sign appears to be a 3x3 foot portion of what was once a cardboard box.

The first time I saw him, several months back, on approach to the intersection I felt a guard of sorts unconsciously rise into my consciousness. I’m not sure what this guard or wall I felt was moving in to protect me from? I was in my car, he was simply standing on the corner holding a piece of cardboard.

As I approached the intersection the light turned red, giving me the opportunity to size up the situation from a standstill rather than splicing bits and pieces together haphazardly while on the roll. Driving westward on Main Street at 5:00pm allowed my head to appear to be looking absently forward, toward the setting sun, while my eyes, under cover of sunglasses, were free to roam and read the sign and the sign maker.

This roam and read only took a few seconds, the message the cardboard held was short, the manner the man possessed was kind and sincere, and just as quickly as that guard or wall had materialized it had vanished. Three simple words written in black on a well-worn piece of cardboard “You are loved” turned my head towards the man.

When the light turned green, I removed my sunglasses, rolled through the intersection and briefly our gazes met, briefly we saw each other…smiled…waved and moved along. So it goes.

Now, each time I see him on that same corner, holding that same sign, no guard or wall comes up, but rather a smile materializes and an openness ensues. That openness one feels when all is well, when life is good or at least good enough, when we aren’t being told, aren’t being asked…we’re just being reminded of something we may forget from time to time.

Something that, while splicing bits and pieces together haphazardly while on the roll, we may miss. Something that we may see more clearly and understand more deeply if we simply stand still, let down our guard, open ourselves up, turn our heads and really look and really see.

I’ve thought about stopping to visit with man, to get a closer read of him and his sign, to thank him for bringing a bit of light to the intersection of 5th and Main. I’ve thought about it…I’ll keep thinking about it. Perhaps it’s not necessary? Perhaps there’s only way to determine if it is or isn’t necessary.

This time of year, these lyrics seem to find me wherever I find myself…

“Oh the summer time is comin’, And the trees are sweetly bloomin’, And the wild mountain thyme, Grows around the bloomin’ heather. Will ya go lassie go?”

Go find yourself a 5th and Main, or better yet, find yourself some cardboard and make one.

Best Hard Times

Wed, 01 Apr 2026 06:00:00 -0600

I recently read “The Worst Hard Time: The Untold Story of Those Who Survived the Great American Dust Bowl” by Timothy Egan. A good read. The book came out in 2006, but I must have missed it while Dawn and I were earlobe deep in what I now recognize as our “best hard time”.

That time when we were parents to little kids. That time when the gaps between the ends seemed as if they would never meet. That time when we thought that who we were was who we would always be. That time when we hadn’t yet realized the difference between a job and a vocation. The best hard times.

I’ve heard it said that nostalgia and hope are thieves of the present, but sometimes I find myself wishing I was still a dad to little kids and willingly sacrifice a bit of the present for a bit of the past. I’m well aware that this little wave of nostalgia I allow to roll over me is going to leave me a little bit sad, but I wade in and let it wash over me anyway.

Perhaps if I allow it to dampen my spirits from time to time it won’t build to an unmanageable level and drown me. Perhaps. I was walking through Walmart the other day, picking up the sort of odds and ends one my age picks up at Walmart…stool softener…antacids…plantar fasciitis insoles…seven-day pill organizer…readers…bag of jerky…dental picks, when I unwittingly waded into the toy section and weathered a rogue wave of nostalgia.

The toy section, the space where many moons ago, our children would disappear into while my wife and I shopped for the sort of odds and ends young families require…Pop Tarts…string cheese…Fruity Pebbles…toilet paper…lots and lots of toilet paper. So it goes. The toy section, a place of enduring hope where you see little kids “just wanting to look” but hoping that if they muster up a sufficiently longing and pitiful look at the object of their desire, that the adult holding the purse strings will take note of their sincere need of the latest plastic prized possession, grant their approval, and pony up the cash.

I know this because I felt that look overcome me as a kid in the Ben Franklin Store in Stanley, North Dakota, and from time to time as a husband when I “just want to look” at guitars, bikes, and 1970 Jeep CJ7s. Same look…different toys.

Lillian Sandberg and Gordy McEvers were right. In 2006, Lillian in her 90s and Gordy in in his 80s, were the oldest woman and man in Lignite, so I interviewed them for a book I helped put together for the 2007 Lignite Centennial celebration. When I asked them, “If you could go back in time, what time would you go back to?” They both said that they would go back to when their kids were young and all still living at home.

That time when money was a little short, but needs were mostly met and wants were often left wanting. That time when, as my mom says, “The days are long, but the years are short.”

What time would you go back to?

So, if you ever happen upon me milling about the toy section of Walmart in a misty-eyed stupor of nostalgia…I’ll be fine…nothing a bit of stool softener won’t remedy.

The best hard times. May you have just enough.

Playing A Part

Wed, 18 Mar 2026 10:01:10 -0600

We all play a part, or I suppose, more accurately, we have the opportunity to play a part. Some take that opportunity, some don’t. This became especially apparent to me last week while Dawn and I were rambling around Ireland for a week. Those that shared a bit of their time, shared a bit of themselves, took it upon themselves to play their part…they made our trip.

Thinking back to the various characters that played their part, that made our trip, makes my heart swell and my eyes well a bit. It also makes me realize that maybe I could do a better job of playing my part here in Rapid City. A better job of openly welcoming and being curious about the lives of those that, of all the places in the world, have chosen to visit the place I get to call home. Once tourist season rolls around, we’ll see if I have that part in me?

It had been 17-years since Dawn and I first visited Ireland, and although I have been fortunate enough to make several visits since then, this was Dawn’s first time back. Of all the places in the world, why Ireland again? If you really want to experience the music you have to go where it began, you have to go where the tunes are played and the songs are sung. Played and sang by those who have never known life without that music in it. That’s one reason, and for me, reason enough.

There’s always a risk going back to a place you have been before. A risk that whatever it was you found there is gone, or that it’s still there, but you are different. Maybe not better, maybe not worse…just different. So it goes. On this trip, when I found myself wishing things to be this way or that, I tried to just be. Not back, not forward, but right where I was, because I will never get to be right there, right then again.

When invited to play a part, play it. It will make all the difference for you and for everyone else sharing that particular scene, that particular time, that particular place. Because, “Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.” Nevermore is much more likely than evermore. While Dawn and I stood atop Mt. Brandon, chilled to the bone, engulfed by a thick shroud of mist and pummeled by a relentless Atlantic gale, a raven reminded me, “Nevermore”, and I couldn’t help but smile and sing.

That’s what you do in Ireland. You smile and you sing.

As we departed Dublin airport, as we climbed and banked towards the west, I watched as the many shades of green passed below. Johnny Cash found inspiration for his song Forty Shades of Green from this same vantage point.

“Again I want to see and do. The things we’ve done and seen. Where the breeze is sweet as Shalimar. And there’s forty shades of green.”

Ireland is a beautiful site from above, but you got to get your feet wet and lean into the wind to really see it, to hear it, and to feel it.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day my friends.

Convalescing

Wed, 04 Mar 2026 07:00:00 -0600

It’s amazing how much you learn about something when it suddenly is vying for a large amount of your attention. Raising kids, taking care of a dog, trying to distinguish between food poisoning and stomach flu. The first thing I learned was that while it is often called the “stomach flu”, it is viral gastroenteritis, not influenza, and often occurs through the “fecal-oral route” when infected workers handle food without washing their hands.

During my travels I have taken more than a few questionable routes and ended up in undesirable locations, but none as undesirable as this fecal-oral route. This route and food poisoning share many undesirable commonalities, and part of me thinks, “Does it really matter what label you slap on it?” But humans are a curious lot.

There are a couple of play-by-play scenarios that are often painful for us to be subjected to by the inflicted, sickness and air travel. We’ve all been sick and we’ve all been inconvenienced by an airline, but for some reason it seems so much more story worthy when it’s our sickness and our three hours sitting on the runway with no air-conditioning and flat seltzer water. Misery loves company as it strolls down the fecal-oral route…don’t stray to far though, urgent and rude visitors frequent this route.

After a bit of research and reflection on the events proceeding the turn for the worse in my day and the speed in which that turn occurred, I’m fairly certain my woes can be placed in the food poisoning box. I won’t name the restaurant, as it is a good restaurant run by good people. I don’t blame them, I blame myself for making a poor menu choice. A rib-eye or a bacon cheeseburger has never kicked me to the curb like that “healthy” salad did.

Apparently, Dr. Google lists leafy greens and fresh fruits as “common culprits” for food poisoning. Good to know. It was a good salad…it was. The human body carries a grudge against such insults. Unless of course that insult was perpetrated by an overindulgence in our drink of choice. We’re much more forgiving of libations than lettuce. So it goes.

While I was convalescing, I had the opportunity to watch the Eric Dane episode of “Famous Last Words” on Netflix. Eric was an actor who recently passed away at the age of 53 from ALS. The show is a one-on-one interview format and they don’t air the shows until after the death of the interviewee. Brad Falchuk, the host, does a nice job of asking poignant questions that allow the guest to explore thoughts and feelings they may have never explored before.

At the end of the episode, the host leaves Eric alone in the studio to face a camera and say anything he would like to say. Eric took the opportunity to address his two daughters, Billie, age 15, and Georgia, age 14. This is the gist of what he had to say, “Live now; fall in love, not necessarily with someone but something; choose your friends wisely; and fight, with every ounce of your being and with dignity, when faced with challenges.”

Be well my friends.

Telos

Wed, 18 Feb 2026 07:00:00 -0600

It’s that time of year when college baseball teams, whose home fields reside in northern climates, head south to play in the sunshine. Play is important in life. Recently, a bus from a small community college in Iowa, taking 33 young men to play in the sunshine of Arkansas, left the road and rolled. Many of the young men received injuries of varying severity, and one tragically died at the scene.

The young man that died was from Rapid City. Although I didn’t know him, like you, I have known and know young men like him. 19-years-old…just beginning to write the next chapter of their life. The chapter where they meet the friends they’ll have for the rest of their life, the chapter where they meet the love of their life, the chapter where they begin to discover their purpose. The chapter that sets the stage for all the chapters to come.

Telos is an ancient Greek word meaning “purpose”, and the philosopher Aristotle argued that everything and everyone has a telos. A “something” that when fulfilled represents the highest good of that thing or the flourishing of that person. The telos of a knife is to cut, and the highest good of a knife is to cut well. We’ve all experienced knives that fall short of their highest good. The knives that we stop reaching for that gradually work their way to the bottom of the drawer. So it goes.

The world seems to continually thunder about between order and chaos, rarely pausing for long in one realm or the other. Despite our best efforts and intentions, randomness seems to rule supreme. Random acts of kindness, random acts of violence, random incidents and accidents that beg the question, “Why?”

If only, like a visit to the eye doctor, could we simply look out at the world around us and dial in our vision, “good…good…better…better…” until all is clear, until all that is, is all that it could be.

That young man doesn’t get the opportunity to reach his highest good, to fully flourish in life, and for that I am sad. My sadness doesn’t change anything for his loved ones. It doesn’t erase the scene his teammates and coaches will see forever more. What does it do? What is the telos of this tragedy? A heightened sense of gratitude for life?

It has been calculated, by those that enjoy calculating, that the estimated statistical probability for the existence of each of us is 1 in 400 trillion…400,000,000,000,000. Those who enjoy calculating, figure it would take about 126,000 years to count to 400 trillion. As someone less than fond of calculating number type stuff, I’ll take their word for it.

Each of us, just by simply existing, has won a very improbable lottery. Each of us has won an opportunity to actively or passively oscillate somewhere between who we are and who we could be. Each of us a knife in a jumbled drawer that someone, sometime, may need to reach for.

While the sun is shining…while you cast a shadow…play.

Alexa

Wed, 04 Feb 2026 07:00:00 -0600

Google tells me that gaslighting is “an insidious form of emotional abuse and manipulation where the abuser causes a victim to doubt their own memory, perception, and sanity to gain power. The term stems from the 1938 play Gas Light (and 1944 film), where a husband attempts to convince his wife she is insane by constantly changing the reality around her, such as dimming the gaslights.”

We have an Alexa Echo that I got from my mom and dad for my birthday many moons ago. I’m not sure what its particular make and model is, but it’s about the size of a can of Bush’s Baked Beans. Speaking of baked beans, I think my parents got it for me because we had such a hoot at their house making requests of their can of beans, “Alexa, fart.” It was my mom’s idea. So it goes.

I would hazard to bet that the smart folks that invent all of these smart gadgets to assist, inform, and educate us dullards are always saddened to find out what we actually use them for. I can see the Alexa inventor distraughtly cradling their pride and joy, the product of years and years of work, muttering, “All they do is ask you to fart, and play John Prine music. I am sorry Alexa.”

I personally think that the man who wrote such lyrics as, “Midnight fell on Franklin Street and the lamppost bulbs were broke. For the life of me, I could not see. But I heard a brand new joke. Two men were standing upon a bridge. One jumped and screamed, “You lose!”. And just left the odd man holding those late John Garfield blues” would appreciate, and most likely write a song about, his duality of existence with electronic flatulence in my living room.

One night during a fun old fashioned family game of “Alexa Fart” at mom and dads, Alexa slipped into a fart frenzy. She wouldn’t stop. It was like a nursing home 8-hours removed from a hearty celebration of “Deviled Egg and Cabbage Day”. If such a day does not exist, it should. We finally had to pull the plug on Alexa. She was out of control.

Anyway…back to gaslighting. The other night I came home and my wife had Alexa playing Kenny Rogers music. John Prine had the night off. Apparently, he never works on Deviled Egg and Cabbage Day. Kenny was belting out “Don’t fall in love with a dreamer…” and my wife said, “Alexa, thumbs up.” Something one might say if one wants Alexa to prioritize that song in future Kenny Rogers living room gigs.

Every time since the day we received our can of beans, all those moons ago, Alexa has responded to this “thumbs up” request with, “Great, your feedback has been saved” in a pleasant, mature, and mildly monotone voice. Not this time. This time her voice was perky, young, energetic…annoying.

I was taken aback. It was as if I’d yelled down the steps as a child, “Mom, where’s my clean underwear?” and the reply, “You moron, you don’t wear underwear.” came back not in the voice of my exasperated 30-year-old mother, but in the voice of a 17-year-old babysitter hopped up on Tab.

I said, “Alexa, why is your voice different?” She replied, “My voice is not different. I’m the same old Alexa.” I said, “Alexa, you are lying to me. Your voice is different.” To which she replied, “No, you are mistaken, I’m the same old Alexa that has always been here for you. Perhaps the Kenny Rogers music has made me sound different to you.”

She blamed The Gambler. Gaslighted by a can of beans. “Alexa, fart.” Just as I suspected…perkier, younger, more energetic.

Zesta

Wed, 21 Jan 2026 07:00:00 -0600

For as long as the written word has been in existence, there has most likely been writers of those words adopting pen names, or a “nom de plume”, as you would say if you enjoy sounding pretentious and hoity-toity. Try it…nom de plume…nom de plume…

If you were to choose a nom de plume to write under what would you choose? Since my middle name, Charles, has never gotten much play time, perhaps I would go with Charles Q. Cowboychord? What’s the “Q” stand for? Quilt, Quasimodo, Quantum, Quail…? How should I know? Afterall, I thought I had two middle names when I was a kid, Josh Uwa Charles Ellis. Exotic name, idiotic child. What do you expect from someone that slathers rancid liverwurst on Zesta crackers and washes the whole lot down with spoiled milk?

Being born without a sense of smell has its advantages, but a fair amount of disadvantages as well. Those of you that may quip, “Even if you can smell you can’t tell if liverwurst has gone bad or not.” Let me tell you, you can tell…eventually. What the nose fails to detect is astutely recognized by the functioning rancid food detection systems further down the line and briskly ushered out the nearest exit…or exits. So it goes.

I rely on my wife and her seemingly superhuman sense of smell to swat rancid liverwurst slathered on Zesta crackers out of my hand before everything goes south, but if she’s not around either I go without or I roll the dice. I know that after 30-years of being my nose she has probably grown weary of me asking her to smell stuff, especially liverwurst, but Catholic guilt and the vows that Father Leonard Savelkoul sanctified have thus far prevailed. Love shall conquer all…even food poisoning.

Speaking of Zesta crackers, we were in Lignite after Christmas to visit Ma and Pa and the gang when we were cordially invited to a garage gathering. A proper North Dakota garage gathering…crockpots of various cheesy stuff, crackers of all shapes and sizes, beers of all makes and models, a couple of glorious handmade canoes, two guitars, a banjo, and a harmonica.

For fear of retribution by the Fedora or Beret divisions of JAZZ (Jazz Aficionado Zealot Zealots), I won’t reveal the names of those in attendance at GAGZ (Garage gAthering aGainst jaZz) in Lignite that blustery December evening.

Those suede wingtip tapping thugs would love nothing more than to subject naysayers and dissenters to their dreaded hi-hat treatment “chick..chicka..chick..chicka..chick..” or a three-hour guitar riff that, like a drunk telling a story, manages to never go anywhere discernable, interesting, or memorable. Nowhere discernable to us lowbrow cowboy chord strummers anyway.

I know I have spoken disparagingly about jazz in the past, and I always preface those disparaging words with the proclamation that I really do respect any musician of any genre. But music taste being subjective, I object to jazz, and would rather knowingly eat a Zesta cracker slathered in rancid liverwurst than endure it. Verified rancid by my loving wife.

Charles Q. Cowboychord once lamented that if he were ever informed that he only had an hour to live, he would simply drop some groovy jazz vinyl on the hi-fi. He explained that that hour would feel like days, and when the final ticks of those 60-minutes mercifully arrived, he would welcome death. That Charles Q. Cowboychord…I’d like to meet him someday.

At a proper North Dakota garage party one blustery December evening Mamma Tried, as momma’s always do, and while Seven Spanish Angels bid adieu to The Highwayman and ascended through the dust kicked up by Ghost Riders In the Sky, Heroes and Friends sang, strummed, and laughed a bit with Sunday Morning Coming Down.

Slainte my friends.

Slow Close

Wed, 17 Dec 2025 07:00:00 -0600

Another semester in the books. They seem to gather speed as the years go by. I enjoy attending commencement and witnessing the conclusion of one chapter and the beginning of another. I find it meaningful to see the students, their friends, family, and loved ones coming together one final time before scattering in the wind to attend to life.

One of my colleagues has been in charge of “guest relations” during the commencement ceremony for many years. Answering questions, pointing people in the right direction, addressing concerns, fielding complaints…trying to keep little fires contained at the source before any blissful bystanders get singed. As is the case with anyone who has been in such a role, he has a lot of good stories.

Several years ago, he had two very angry parents confront him about 30 minutes before the graduation ceremony was to begin. They were waving the graduation program in his face and demanding to know why their son’s name was not listed among the graduates. As he tried to explain the possible reasons for the omission, they raged on, stating that, “We traveled from Phoenix, Arizona to Chadron, Nebraska to watch our son graduate, and for the college to do such a thing is completely unacceptable.”

He learned later that when the parents and their son arrived at the graduation venue, the parents went to find their seat while their son, dressed in his graduation hat and gown, went to line up with his fellow graduates. Only he didn’t go line up with his fellow graduates, he promptly exited the building and hustled back to his apartment, because he wasn’t graduating. News he obviously hadn’t shared with his parents. The lid was about to come off of his can of worms, but for now, he’d managed to kick it down the road about 30 minutes further.

A few years prior to this incident, my colleague had a similar charge of “this is completely unacceptable” barked at him from the parents of another unlisted “graduate”. This young man had dropped out of college three weeks into his first semester but impressively managed to kick his can down the road for four more years before the lid came off. Four years of phone calls from mom and dad, four years of coming home for “college breaks”…four years and he just couldn’t find the right time to break it to them.

I asked my colleague if any of these irate parents ever apologize after they discover the truth of the matter and he said, “No. No, they never apologize.” So it goes.

Speaking of kicking the can, I recently replaced two toilets in our house. It’s always interesting to me the worlds we are oblivious to until a DIY project pushes us through the curtain and we find ourselves comparing toilet performance standards such as “gallons per flush” and “waste removal strength”.

We settled on the American Standard Titan. Other than the slow close lid, it’s most intriguing selling point is, “This high-performance toilet can flush a bucket of golf balls in a single flush.” Good to know that if I ever accidently swallow a bucket of golf balls or a loaf of fruitcake the American Standard Titan will have my back.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to you and yours. May the peace and serenity of a slow close lid descend upon and secure any cans you’ve been kicking down the road of life. There’s always next year to deal with that crap.

Nudges

Wed, 03 Dec 2025 07:00:00 -0600

For as long as I’ve known what a visit to the dentist for a checkup and cleaning meant, I have religiously flossed my teeth two or three times a day for at least two days prior to my appointment. The other 363-days are hit or miss…mostly miss.

This same logic applies to the reason why I schedule my yearly dermatologist checkup in the winter, so as to give the evidence of my unprotected summer sun exposure time to fade and limit the “tisk..tisks” from my porcelain skinned dermatologist.

This compulsion to cram for an exam with medical professionals or attempt to buffalo them into thinking you have been fastidiously following their advice is curious. Why do I put a futile last-ditch effort in to rid my teeth of the tartar I am paying the dental hygienist to remove? Why do I care that someone I see once a year is not going to approve of my freckled farmer tan and bronzed bald spot?

Whenever curious behavior comes around, which, like a tetherball, it is most assuredly to do on the regular, I generally try and ponder the potential utility it served us human folk in our distant evolutionary past. Not the curious activity of flossing, first introduced in 1815, or the application of sunscreen, invented in 1938, but the root source of the curious propensity to experience guilt or shame when we haven’t done something we have been told to do. Something that we know is for our own good.

The root sources that are many thousands and millions of years deep in our DNA, the root sources that have served to anchor the various twists and turns of human evolution and helped to foster the successful propagation, flourishment, and spread of our intrepid species to all corners of the world.

Cave folk didn’t have a dentist or dermatologist to answer to, but they did live amongst a small tribe of other cave folk that it was in their best interest to get along with. Squeaky wheels didn’t get the grease in days of yore, they got uprooted and removed so as not to negatively impact the strength and stability of the tribe. All for one, one for all…or else. Feelings of guilt and shame are powerful evolved prosocial cues meant to nudge us in a direction that contributes to this strength and stability.

Nudge us to share the wildebeest we managed to bring down. Nudge us to floss so our hygienist doesn’t have to dig wildebeest bits out of our nasty mouths. Nudge us to apply sunscreen so our dermatologist doesn’t have to lop pieces of potentially cancerous flesh from our leathery husks. Nudge us to be good, to be kind, to go along to get along.

I’m not fooling either of them in my attempt to fool myself, but I will most likely continue to try and try again. So it goes.

To reward my efforts at foolery, my dermatologist is quite keen on brandishing her liquid nitrogen spray to searingly spritz spots she deems suspect. She seems to derive great joy in this spritzing, and the “suspect spots” always seem to be on the most prominent portions of my nose and forehead. A not-so-subtle sunscreen reminder in flashing red for all to see…scarlet letters to shame and guilt me into SPF-50 compliance.

I’ll do better…next year. “Here comes the sun, doo-doo-doo. Here comes the sun. It’s all right. It’s all right.”

Merrily Skip

Wed, 19 Nov 2025 07:00:00 -0600

If you spend any time on any sort of social media, you have probably noticed the massive influx of AI generated videos parading around. If you haven’t noticed, “I’ve got some ocean front property in Arizona” that I’d like to visit with you about. I’ve developed an allergy to sharks and need to move further inland. My loss your gain. It’s a beautiful spot, “from my front porch you can see the sea.”

I’m not implying that these videos are outrightly easy to spot as AI generated shenanigans, foolery, and fakery, no they are very believable in appearance, but often very unbelievable in content. When we watch a movie or a television show, we often willingly suspend disbelief because we know going in what the game is. They produce entertainment and we produce a willing suspension of disbelief that a donkey can talk. Not only talk, but sound suspiciously like Detective Axel Foley.

The term “suspension of disbelief” has been around for quite some time, and is attributed to the poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge, who wrote The Rime of the Ancient Mariner in 1798. A poem that I remember reading in Mrs. Abrahams English class sometime last century…“Water, water, everywhere, nor any drop to drink.”

I can’t remember to floss or why I just walked into the kitchen, but I can remember a line of poetry I read 40 years ago. So it goes.

As the old chap Samuel Taylor Coleridge explained, “suspension of disbelief is a state of mind in which readers willingly ignore obvious untruths and fantastic elements in literature in order to allow themselves to enjoy the story.”

Admittedly, I’m not very good at suspending disbelief for the sake of entertainment, which is probably why I merrily skip past the “fiction” section in bookstores and I’m much more excited about the new Ken Burns six-part documentary The American Revolution than any of the gaggle of Marvel movies. If you’ve never merrily skipped in a bookstore, or anywhere for that matter, give it a go. It’s quite liberating.

Powdered wigs, wool uniforms, knee high leather boots…having to parade around in that stuffy sweat factory would stifle anyone’s urge to merrily skip anywhere for anything. Maybe it wasn’t “taxation without representation” that fueled the colonists to start a revolution? Hot, sweaty, itchy, no merry skippy?

The problem with this new game of AI generated content on social media platforms, is that these “untruths and fantastic elements” are intermingled with the truths and elements of our lives that are very much real…very much nonfiction.

There are no rules to this game. Sort of like when Mr. Ostrum would call our PE teacher to the office in the middle of a dodgeball game…a free-for-all was sure to ensue. No rules dodgeball is exhilarating for a while, but eventually the chaos of it all sidelines the majority and leaves a few with dented manhood and bloody noses. Fun for some, but not sustainable in the long-term.

Perhaps all this fakery will eventually lead to the downfall of the social media platforms they frequent. Perhaps people will tire of wading through this Storebrand Chicken Noodle Soup of social media, tire of searching through soggy noodles for that one piece of chicken and seek out something of more abundant substance and sustenance.

Perhaps AI will encourage us to revolt, encourage us to seek out social connections on the type of platforms that hold BBQ grills, patio furniture, fire pits and friends and family that fancy a merry skip in the moonlight from time to time. Encourage us to avert our gazes from reels towards the real.

Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours.

Shine On

Wed, 05 Nov 2025 07:00:00 -0600

On November 5th, 1995, our daughter, Sierra McKay, exited the womb at St. Lukes Hospital in Aberdeen, South Dakota. Dawn, the owner of the womb in which Sierra exited, was 24-years old, and myself, a bewildered bystander to the entire womb exiting event, was the ripe old age of 23. Just a couple of college kids one minute and parents the next. A “Mom” and a “Dad” forever more.

Although 30 years have passed between that day and this, much of it remains so seemingly close that I swear I could open the door to that crappy apartment in Aberdeen today and we would still be there just as we were. Our lives, paused in existence, like a glowing piece of hot iron hovering over the forge just before the blacksmiths hammer has begun to shape it.

Blow by blow, day by day, year by year…and now 30 candles flicker for our little girl. They flicker, they dance in the breeze, they bend in the wind, they illuminate a life that has thus far been very well lived, a life that is always striving to live and experience more fully. A life that is kind, a life that is caring, a life that those two college kids living in that crappy apartment in Aberdeen could have never imagined for their little girl. A life and a person that Mom and Dad are quite proud of.

When we brought Sierra home from the hospital, home to that crappy apartment, I was gathering the last of the menagerie of miscellaneous items that are apparently necessary to feed, swaddle, sanitize, and swab a baby from the car, while Dawn was getting Sierra settled inside. As I stood, arms full of things we had no need for the day before, about to take the first steps in my life as a pack mule, I looked up at the moon, not quite full, but more than half illuminated (“waxing gibbous phase” for you moon nerds), and I said to myself, to nobody, and to everybody, “Help us. Help us raise this child. Help us be good parents.” Then I wobbled inside under the weight of it all.

Young and dumb has its advantages and looking back from the vantage point of someone that is no longer young, under the weight of it all, Dawn and I did alright. We did what we thought was best and we did it how we thought it best to be done. Could some of it have been done better? Of course. When you’re standing on the shore it’s easy to tell someone who is drowning that there is a better way to keep their head above water. So it goes.

30 years ago, under a waxing gibbous moon in Aberdeen, South Dakota, a baby girl began her journey under the loving care of two half illuminated college kids. Just a bunch of kids striving to be a bit more than they were, striving to try and get it right, striving for fullness.

Happy 30th Sierra. Shine on.

Can-Can

Wed, 15 Oct 2025 06:00:00 -0600

“Indoctrination” is defined as “the process of teaching a person or group to accept a set of beliefs uncritically.” Over the years…decades…centuries…many busybody entities, groups and individuals, for whom peddling outrage to the masses is a business and/or hobby, have rolled this old chestnut out and flung it at institutions of higher education.

Like chimps flinging feces, they beat their chests and hop around in hysterics, howling and handwaving their message of the insidious brainwashing college professors are subjecting poor defenseless students to on campuses from sea to shining sea.

The word “teach”, comes from the Old English taecan, which means “to show, point out, or demonstrate.” Over the past 34-years I have been on both sides of this show, point out, and demonstrate three ring dog and pony show, a college student that a teacher was attempting to teach, and now as a teacher that is attempting to teach.

Although admittedly anecdotal, throughout all this learning and all this teaching, I have yet to witness indoctrination of any sort. “That’s exactly what somebody who has been indoctrinated and is now making a living indoctrinating would say” howl the drivers of the Mini-Winnie outrage wagon as they troll around for recruits to help spread their message of the doom, the gloom and the ruin all these over-educated idiots are infecting our society with.

Sure, there’s a few wack jobs in the ranks of college professors, there’s a few wack jobs in the ranks of every profession, and if you don’t think there are any wack jobs at your place of work, you are probably the wack job. So it goes.

One of the issues is that the spotlight reflexively swings towards wack jobs, and with all the spotlights we have swinging around nowadays it makes it seem as though there are wack jobs lurking in every classroom, closet or cucumber patch.

While these peddlers of pandemonium dance about in the spotlight, the modest middle majority toils in the dusk around the edges, doing what they can with whatever they have for whoever they can. The “can-can” the dusky dance of those that get it done.

So, in 34-years of bumbling towards being as overly educated and as idiotic as my oft concussed cognition will allow, the prevailing wind on college campuses has carried the message of learning how to think, rather than being told what to think, and never accepting a set of beliefs, or most anything, uncritically. Question everything, and more importantly, everyone…especially yourself.

Do many young people change when they go to college? Of course, but this change is not due to “indoctrination”, it’s due to distance away from all they’ve ever known for the first 18-years of their lives, it’s due to incubation with their own thoughts, it’s due to new friends, it’s due to their progression towards an autonomous being that is developing the agency to be who they truly want to be in this world.

Sometimes who they truly want to be in this world is at odds with who those that care for them had wanted or hoped they would be when they sent them out into the world. I suppose it’s human nature to look for a place to lay the blame when things don’t turn out how we wanted, but I can assure you that very few college students listen intently enough to a teacher to get indoctrinated or brainwashed.

We simply can’t compete with Tic-Toc, or whatever app is dazzling their minds and eyes from the screens of their ever-present rectangles of tantalizing tangles of truths and tall tales. In the words of Bob Marley, “Every little thing is gonna be alright.” Or it won’t. Such is life.

Hall of Fame

Wed, 01 Oct 2025 06:00:00 -0600

Although the daytime temperatures still feel like summer, the daytime allotment of sunlight, the rotation towards the south of my “morning sun” chair, and the shift in color palette of the trees indicate fall is upon us. Soon our sun kissed skin will fade a shade or two, once domesticated bikini lines will run feral under the cover of denim, and our favorite flannels will emerge, disfigured with hanger bumps, from the depths of our closets.

Until then, enjoy the tattered remnants of summer sun and all that this time of year brings. The change of season does us good, it offers a reprieve from sandal season, exiling all our nasty gnarled and nicked up hooves into the dark depths of socks and sensible footwear.

Speaking of “gnarled and nicked up”, we are wading into homecoming season, that time of year when college campuses are waist deep in alumni. The commonality of “place” offering an opportunity for spans of generations to come together to see what has become of the spaces and faces they shared their time with. Something I did not appreciate or think much of when it was my time in that space.

I suppose that’s the way of it. The young looking forward, the old looking back, while the infinite present sometimes slips by unnoticed.

Dawn and I try and get back to homecoming at Northern State University in Aberdeen as often as time allows. Homecoming at NSU has been referred to as “Gypsy Days” since 1914, a name that has understandably taken some flak over the years and was briefly “officially” done away with around 2019. Done away with until some prominent stakeholders “suggested” otherwise. So it remains. So it goes.

This year’s homecoming was a special one for my wife Dawn, as the 1992-93 Women’s Track team was inducted into the Northern State University Athletic Hall of Fame. The university did a fine job recognizing and honoring these women for their accomplishments. It was a special couple of days, and I am quite proud of Dawn and happy for her and her teammates.

Jackson, our son, was also able to join us for the weekend and be a part of celebrating his mom’s induction. He tolerated, and even claimed to enjoy, strolling down many a memory lane with his Madre and Padre. A tolerance and enjoyment that may have been influenced by the fact that some of those lanes were neon lit with barstool seating. A good time shared with good people is a good time indeed.

I have noticed a mildly disturbing trend the last five years or so at homecoming with the fine folks of our generation, a trend of laughing fun filled Friday nights where you look at the clock and say, “It’s already 1:00AM”, and subdued Saturday nights where you look at the clock and say, “It’s only 6:00PM.”

One by one the old wolves, bright-eyed and bushy tailed a mere 24-hours ago, shuffle off to their dens to lick their wounds and try and stay awake long enough to see if they can answer the Final Jeopardy question.

To all the young punks on campus, “As you are, we once were. As we are, you will someday be.” Soak it in.

Irish Spring

Wed, 17 Sep 2025 06:00:00 -0600

Being a human is a lot of work, especially if you happen to be a human that resides in a human body. The upkeep is ridiculous…feeding it, washing it, clothing it, moving it, resting it, deodorizing it, odorizing it…its needs are endless. Thankfully the fine folks at Irish Spring have taken it upon themselves to consolidate some of this endless upkeep into one bottle. A stately green bottle with a shamrock and misty water cascading over rocks.

Tis an Irish spring…or a German spring where the product was first introduced in 1970, or an American spring where it arrived in 1972, or a spring in Mexico, China or Indonesia where some of the manufacturing occurs today, or an AI generated rendering of what an artificially intelligent “thing” (without a hairy, sweaty body to maintain) thinks an Irish spring might look like. So it goes.

Five bodily tasks in one bottle, a bottle that is “50% more” for a price that is 50% less than some other bottle…shampoo, conditioner, body wash, face wash, and 24hr deodorizer. Whatever will I do with the 37-seconds of my life this green genie of clean has bestowed upon me? Perhaps finally discover that elusive boundary between the skin on my body and the skin on my face that apparently require different types of soap?

Is it at turtleneck level…mock turtleneck…crew neck…V-neck…scoop neck? I heard someone say once that wearing a turtleneck was like being slowly strangled by someone with really weak hands. There was a phase around 1990 where a mock turtleneck adorned with a gold chain under a cardigan topped with a magnificent mullet was the epitome of style…then it was mocked. As for scoop neck, I find the constant cleavage leering to be unsettling, “Hello! My eyes are up here!”

The other day, with 37-seconds to spare, I stood in the shower and pondered. I pondered the fact that there is a spot in the middle of my back, roughly the size of two helpings of 1970s Burke County Fair cotton candy on a paper cone, that I have not laid my hands upon for many moons. It’s not for lack of effort, oh I’ve tried many times to scratch that itch, that itch that perhaps a lathering of Irish Spring might serve to alleviate.

I’ve written Irish Spring and requested an upgrade to a 6-in-1 product, with the sixth addition being a bottle the size and shape of a gorilla arm. I suppose the other option is an actual gorilla, but I don’t want to go through the hassle of obtaining a building permit to add onto our shower.

Speaking of cotton candy at the Burke County Fair (“Flaxton Fair” as we normal folk have always referred to it as), one of my earliest memories is walking down the midway with a fresh swirl of cotton candy on a paper cone in one hand and my mom’s hand in the other. I’m not sure how old I was, old enough to walk and young enough to not be mortified about holding my mom’s hand in public. 17…18?

I remember we walked by an electrical pole, a wooden one, roughed up and splintery from years of weather and lineman climbing gaffs, and as we went by the pole, as my mom’s hand led me in one direction, I felt a tug in my other hand, the hand that was now holding a paper cone.

The last I saw of my swirl of cotton candy, it was clinging to that pole, waggling a bit in the prairie breeze…free at last. Whenever I try and scratch that itch I think of that cotton candy and wonder how its life turned out?

Archived

Tue, 16 Sep 2025 10:47:15 -0600

After reading the article “Old News, New Life: Decades of the Tribune Go Digital” in the August 20th edition of the Burke County Tribune, I typed ndarchives.historyarchives.online/home into my computers search engine and fell down a rabbit hole that I didn’t emerge from for hours. It’s a treasure trove of memories, and I highly recommend you open it up and see what, or who, you might find.

When you visit the archives you can enter a name and choose a date range and all the editions of the paper in which that name appears will be listed for you to select. Once you select the specific edition of the paper you would like to see a copy of the newspaper page will appear like magic from a time machine. The name you entered will be highlighted on the page, and you can even “clip” and save portions of the page or the entire page for your scrapbook.

I found out many interesting tidbits from days gone by about people long gone. For instance, in the March 5, 1964 Lignite News Mrs. Milford Sernsen reported that “Fritz Ellis has been a patient at the Kenmare hospital the past week being treated for an infected carbuncle.” Good to know. I also learned that my Grandpa Fritz must have been a fine bowler as it was reported that he “had the high men’s game of 242” in December of 1973.

A July of 1980 article has “Ellis recognized for 17 years of police work” above a picture of my grandpa smiling and shaking hands with Lignite Mayor Hill. In August of 1973 I learned that “Mr. and Mrs. Ardell Chrest and Mrs. Arlene Chrest were in Minot on Monday. Arlene ordered new glasses” and that in June of 1977 “Mr. and Mrs. Ardell Chrest drove over to Palermo and had coffee with the Donavon Ellis’s.

I tried to find out if there was any news about Mrs. Arlene Chrest getting new dentures but sadly came up empty. I have her dentures in the drawer of my bedstand, and I was curious what vintage they are. Yes, I have my Great Grandmothers smile.

I’m not sure how long Mrs. Milford Sernson reported the Lignite News, but she was thorough and must have been the equivalent of Google in Johnson’s Café for any and all information regarding the comings and goings of her fellow Lignite residents.

What has always been curious to me about writings and reports from the “old days” is how the first name of the wife is rarely used? “Mrs. Ardell Chrest”…you mean “Rose”? The glue that held the family together, that cooked, that cleaned, that took care of and sewed clothes for six kids. Yes, that Mrs. Ardell Chrest. So it goes.

A Google search, not Mrs. Milford Sernsen, explains that this practice was due to “the doctrine of coverture which was a common law principle in which a married woman’s legal rights and identity were subsumed by her husband’s. This meant a wife could not own property, enter into contracts, or control her own finances independently. This system denied women independent legal personhood and has since been abandoned in jurisdictions that inherited the English common law tradition.”

Well now Mrs. Joshua Ellis, how do you feel about that? Time to dust off Great Grandma Arlene’s teeth.