Rambling Josh

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.

Something Blue

Wed, 20 Aug 2025 06:00:00 -0600

Something borrowed, something blue, something old, and something new. On September 19th, 1975, my aunt and uncle, Debbie and Doug Nelson got married. I was only 3 years old, so I don’t remember the event, but due to the miracle of photography, I’ve seen the day various times throughout the years while flipping through our stacks of family photo albums.

A few years back, I was out at Doug and Deb’s farm, talk turned to weddings and such, and I told Doug I always loved the suit he was wearing in their wedding picture. Pastel blue jacket, baby blue shirt with a wide swath of ruffles running from collar to crotch, and a bowtie that would dwarf a 1970s Caprice Classic hood ornament. A glorious ensemble.

A week or so after my visit I received a package in the mail…the suit. Doug’s mom had kept it all these years, and it was just as dapper as I remembered. The pants had run off and got lost some time between the 1970s and the 2020s, pants will do that, but the rest, complete with cufflinks and bowtie in their original boxes, were all there.

The mailman wasn’t halfway down our driveway before I was standing there in the suit with a smile as big as the bowtie. A perfect fit. So it goes.

My sister Amanda and Reid Arnold got hitched on August 9th, 2025, and I thought this old borrowed blue suit would be a fitting symbol of enduring love for this new union. So, after the wedding ceremony, and a few hours into the reception, I retreated to our hotel room to slip on a bit of the past in celebration of Mr. and Mrs. Arnold’s future.

Something I hadn’t anticipated was that the presence of the suit also served to dust off fond memories that led to enjoyable conversations with Doug and Deb and many that stood by them that day back in 1975.

I know I will carry fond memories of August 9th, 2025, with me for as long as I am able to have memories. One often doesn’t know when something is going to hit them in the feelers, and when I saw my sister walking towards the altar flanked by our parents my feelers took a hit. Thankfully the waterproof mascara held up.

A few months back my sister asked if I would be willing to write a little something to say at their wedding. Writing something to say was easy, saying that something was not. My sister is one of those people that maintains their ability to speak while their tears and emotions run amok. I am envious of those people. Emotions and tears run roughshod over me, transforming me into a blubbering mime. I hate mimes.

The first time I saw my sister and Reid together was at The 109 Club in Lignite a few years back. As the hour got late, my sister leaned her head on Reids shoulder, and I saw a look of complete serenity wash over her face. It was then that I knew that something borrowed, something blue, something old, and something new was surely to be.

All the best to you, Mr. and Mrs. Arnold, and welcome to the family Reid.

Legally Lingering

Wed, 06 Aug 2025 06:00:00 -0600

A few weeks back my wife and I ventured westward to give musician Sierra Ferrell a listen at the KettleHouse Amphitheater in Bonner, Montana. As is often the case, when you go to a concert of this sort, there is bound to be an opening act…some good…some not so much.

Musical taste, like many tastes, is quite subjective. Basically, we like what we like, and although we can say why we liked or didn’t like something, I’m not so sure we really know why. Much of it can probably be attributed to the nature/nurture cocktail we find ourselves being marinated in during our formative years.

The Brudi Brothers opened for Sierra Ferrell, and I tried to nurture a liking for their music, but by their second song I found myself heading for an extended nature break and a fresh cocktail to marinate my mind in, hoping that both would take about as long as the setlist they had planned for the evening. Subjectively, Dawn liked them. So it goes.

There is something about Sierra Ferrell’s music, and Sierra herself, that appeals to a wide range of people, and this eclectic gathering of humanity dramatically illustrated that you can wear whatever you want to a concert. We’re all a bit odd in our own ways, but at this concert there seemed to be a disproportionate number of people that were disproportionately odd fluttering about.

Good music…tremendous people watching.

The concert was Saturday night, so we stayed at a cabin by Seeley Lake on Friday night. I chose Seeley Lake as a destination because it is where one of my favorite authors wrote one of my favorite books. Norman Maclean and his father built a summer cabin at Seeley Lake in the early 1920s, and Norman, born in 1902, got his first book “A River Runs Through It” published in 1976.

I wanted to see the places, the trees, the mountains, and the rivers that Maclean saw. For whatever reason, I wanted to be where he had been. Why do we seek to see these places, to be in these places? Places where lives were lived and stories were written.

The Maclean cabin sits dwarfed amid a grove of massive Larch trees, the oldest and grandest of the grove being “Gus”, which is 153 feet tall and estimated to be around 1,000 years old. Dawn and I walked under the canopy of these trees that many have walked under for many years to get a closer look at the cabin.

The cabin is still in use, and still owned by the Maclean family, some of whom were occupying it as we lurked about the Larches while day faded to dusk. Perhaps the family is accustomed to weirdo’s making pilgrimages to the place that a book was written 50-years ago by a guy that has been dead for 35 years?

I was a respectful weirdo and didn’t move any closer to the cabin than the public lakeside path allowed, and as we stood there, legally lingering and leering, someone emerged from the cabin. Perhaps to come and ask a weirdo if they would like to come in and look around…sit in Norman’s chair…stretch out in his bed…shuffle around in his old slippers…write with his favorite pen? No…they walked down to the waters edge and were either taking a picture of the setting sun or looking for a cell signal to call the authorities.

I came and I saw, and now I know the rest of the story. “Good day.”

Becoming Literature

Wed, 23 Jul 2025 12:49:18 -0600

I don’t hate snakes. When I’m out camping or hiking I don’t go stark raving mad at the sight of a snake and remain raving until the snake has been bludgeoned into a sufficiently slitherless state. Not hating something doesn’t necessarily imply fondness.

I understand that snakes, like jazz music, are an important part of the ecosystem, I would just prefer that snakes, and jazz music, not share whatever ecosystem I am in. Given the choice, I’d prefer a snake encounter over a jazz encounter, as snake encounters are generally over as quickly as they began and tend to leave me in a heightened state of mental and physical arousal.

In contrast, a jazz encounter seemingly has no end, nor a discernable beginning, and tends to leave me feeling as I would imagine I would feel if I were a sack of potatoes. A pile of roughed up russets in an itchy sack with a fedora on one end and pale puffy feet void of any compulsion to tap a toe at the other.

My wife and I broke our 1967 Aristocrat camper free from its driveway moorings for its first excursion of the summer. 358 days in the driveway and 7 in a campground is the tally thus far this season for the camper. So it goes.

A day getting the camper ready to go camping, seven days of living in a campground with vault toilets 15 miles away from a perfectly good house, and a day undoing all that was done upon returning. Why do people do this, and more importantly, why can I not avert my eyes from the abys of a vault toilet before closing the lid on a deposit? Humans are strange…and devoid of adequate fiber intake.

I pondered why people willingly drag themselves and a large portion of their stuff out into the woods? I pondered this while swaying in a hammock enjoying a stogie and a cocktail by a babbling creek under a canopy of pine trees on a Tuesday at two o’clock in the afternoon.

As Norman Maclean wrote in A River Runs Through It, “Life every now and then becomes literature…as if life had been made and not happened.”

Perhaps we need to drag ourselves and a large portion of our stuff out into the woods to become literature, to make a story rather than let the same story happen again and again in our perfectly good house? Our perfectly good house with nary a snake in sight or jazz in sound.

My wife and I enjoy camping and hope to convert a few more driveway days into campground days for our camper before the campground gates close on the season and bring this year’s story writing opportunities to a close.

Summer is fleeting in this part of the world…soak it in.

Rambling About

Wed, 02 Jul 2025 06:00:00 -0600

June was here just a minute ago, and then we turned around and went to Houston for a graduation, headed to upstate North Dakota to celebrate my Aunt Susie’s 60th at the Bowbells pool, ventured to Grandin, North Dakota, for a Chrest family gathering at Uncle Tim’s and Auntie Holly’s…and “poof”…June was gone.

I’m fond of calling her Auntie Holly, especially when I’m a bit deep in my cups, as we’re about the same age. She may not garner as much entertainment from it as I do. So it goes.

A good time was had by all at Susie’s Hawaiian party. The Bowbells City Park and pool have been the gathering spot for many birthdays and celebrations in our family over the years, so it was nice to share that space and that time with family and friends for the day.

It’s been over 25-years since the last time I was at the Bowbells pool, and although the renovations and heated pool are nice, I missed seeing blue-lipped goose bumped kids lying on the hot cement quivering uncontrollably as they attempt to bring their body temperature back up to a sensible level.

I remember my 11th birthday, when mom mercifully gave into my pleas to drive all the way to Kenmare to the heated pool. It was an overcast day, and without hot cement and direct sunlight as a refuge at the Bowbells pool, I wouldn’t have had the motor control to open gifts, blow out candles or undo the perpetual knot in the drawstring of my polyester swim trunks.

I got a cowboy hat that year. A lovely high-crowned straw model complete with a massive feather hat band that looked as if you had stuck your head out the window of a fast-moving 1977 Ford Econoline and ran headlong into a flock of pheasants.

I also remember that that prized hat, that looked so dashing with the black satin western shirt with ivory snaps and tassels hanging from its velour yoke that my mom sewed me, got crushed on “The Bullet” at the Flaxton Fair. My hat and my flock of pheasants never fully recovered from that tassel twisting ride.

Speaking of tassel twisting, Uncle Tim and Auntie Holly were thoughtful enough to schedule the Chrest family gathering at their home in Grandin to coincide with a tremendous lightening show and 100-mile an hour winds. The wind blew, trees and granaries flew, and the power was out for a day or two…or three. As the news soon revealed, we were quite fortunate given the devastation and lives lost in other areas of North Dakota.

We love to travel and always enjoy family time hither and yon, but it always makes me smile to see the Black Hills fill the frame of the windshield upon our return. It’s nice to be back in my Mountain Time state of mind for a bit to rest up and reload for the next journey.

Safe travels wherever your summertime sojourns take you…“and at the end of the day, your feet should be dirty, your hair messy and your eyes sparkling.”

Little Ride

Wed, 18 Jun 2025 06:00:00 -0600

We ventured to Houston last week to attend our nephew’s graduation, enjoy some family time, and to put our antiperspirants to the ultimate test (they failed miserably). “Swelterland”, as I referred to Houston many moons ago in a Ramblings column of the same name, did not disappoint.

Like last year, when we attended our niece’s graduation in Houston, my wife flew and I dusted off my chauffer hat and hemorrhoid pillow and drove her dad, Bernie, and his brother, Tony, from their homes in Grenville, South Dakota, to Houston. How far is it from Grenville to Houston you ask? 1,200 miles…so it goes.

Tony ditched us for the return trip, as he and his daughter had an anniversary to attend in Chicago, so it was just Bernie and I for the other 1,200 miles.

Being the youngest of the trio by over three decades, and desiring to be three decades older one day, I gladly lashed myself to the helm for the journey. Hell, highwater, delirium or truck stop hotdog induced intestinal distress, our fate would be in my hands for the duration as I deftly thwarted any and all attempts of mutiny from the crew.

Bernie (“Bernardo” as his older brother Tony refers to him) performed admirably as co-pilot on the return trip, and relying on his 30 years as a track inspector, proffered an interesting masterclass on all things railroad related as we ventured north. He also served in the Vietnam War and spent 35 years in the Army Reserves, where he served in Iraq during the Gulf War, so I had the privilege of learning bits and pieces about his time in the military as well.

In 1960, Bernie was about 2-weeks from being drafted, so he decided to enlist so that he would have more of a choice as to what he would be assigned to do during his service in Vietnam. He wanted to be a helicopter pilot, but he contracted a bad ear infection during basic training that burst an eardrum and negatively impacted his hearing, so he was shifted from helicopter pilot training to helicopter crew chief training.

In his usual easygoing nature that he often expresses with, “That’s the way it goes”, he took the new assignment in stride. He utters the same phrase in explaining that his 90-day tour in Vietnam, turned into 10-months.

As he explained, he trained his replacement, but his replacement was shot and killed on his first mission, so Bernie had to stay and train another replacement, who was also killed on his first mission when the helicopter was shot down. When the third replacement arrived, Bernie trained him, but refused to let him go on a mission, understandably, Bernie wanted to go home.

As crew chief he was tasked with getting helicopters ready for missions and helping to get them patched up, cleaned, and repaired upon their return to base. Due to a shortage of helicopter pilot helmets, one such cleanup required Bernie to clean the helmet of helicopter pilot that had been shot and killed so that another pilot could use it.

The pilot had been shot in the forehead, just below the helmet, and 65 years later, Bernie said that occasionally the sights and smells he encountered during that cleanup will make their way back to him as clear as the day it happened. One never knows the things that people carry with them. Sometimes you just need to take them for a little ride…and listen.

As Socrates once said, “Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.”

Tony

Wed, 04 Jun 2025 06:00:00 -0600

Dawn and I spent Memorial Day weekend in Grenville, South Dakota, where her dad, Bernie, and several of her relatives reside. At last count, during the 2020 census, 48 souls were reported to be residents of Grenville. As many of those 48, present and accounted for, were old souls in 2020, five years’ time may have served to lower that count a bit.

Bernie’s guest room was spoken for, so we stayed with Dawn’s Uncle Tony, who lives on the homestead his uncle established many moons ago a few miles outside of town. Tony is Bernie’s brother, and at 88, the eldest of the nine Lesnar siblings, of whom eight are still above ground.

When I teach my Aging & Death and Lifespan Wellness courses, I often blab about the components of healthspan (Mind, Body, and Spirit) as “buckets” we can fill throughout life with adequate social connectivity, bolstering cognitive reserve, sufficient exercise, adequate nutrition, and appropriate emotional and stress navigation.

Buckets filled with the aim of helping us to live as fully as possible until we are as fully dead as possible. Barring of course the various uncontrollables that sometimes upend our buckets and lay us low such as disease, getting run over by a rogue heifer, or, more likely, just some bum genetics.

They say that successfully living life up to about 80 is largely dictated by lifestyle and that the years beyond that are largely dictated by genetics. My grandma Helen Ellis, who lived quite fully until 92, possessed the one genetic ace of spades that I was hoping to get dealt from my grandparents’ ancestral lineages, but, alas, I’m fairly certain the card I’ll eventually flip over is the 3 of hearts…triple bypass. So it goes.

With Tony, although the deck was cut right and he was dealt a pretty solid genetic hand, he is also a fine example of someone that is actively and mindfully filling his buckets and getting every last drop out of life. He’s very social, he keeps in regular contact with family members, he walks, lifts weights, gardens, is mindful of his diet, and keeps a very tidy house.

Regarding his weightlifting…we were watching the Minnesota Twins baseball game, and Tony would periodically grab the dumbbells by his recliner and knock off about 100 bicep curls and overhead presses. Smacking his biceps like a body builder prepping for a gun show, he told me that he had firmed his arms up by starting with 2lb dumbbells and working his way up to 5lb dumbbells. One of the few physical ailments that has found Tony is blurred vision in one eye, and upon inspection, he had in fact started with 5lbs and worked his way up to 8lbs.

I always enjoy the time I get to spend with Tony. He is curious about life, thoughtful and articulate in conversation, and possesses an ever-ready smile and a mischievous and lighthearted personality that I’m sure has served him well throughout his long life.

Tony’s farm sits among the sloughs, lakes, prairies, and farmlands of northeastern South Dakota, a landscape enveloped in gray and quiet throughout the long winter, has now opened up its vibrant color palette and is teaming with the many sounds of spring. All of which, even after 88 years of living, is not lost on Tony.

With obvious gratitude for life, he drinks it all in as we sit in the cool night air and listen to all the life around us and ponder the life in front of us.

Windowpane

Wed, 21 May 2025 06:00:00 -0600

A sound from long ago found its way into my head recently. I’m not sure why, I’m not sure how, but I can hear it. I can hear it like I heard it many years ago, even though many years ago I didn’t know I was listening to it. It was just there. It was just there like so many other things that are just there that we don’t know we are going to need or want later. So it goes.

The rattling of a pane of glass in the window of an old wooden door. A wooden door that sticks a little, so you have to lean into it a bit to get it to open. You have to put your scrawny 12-year-old shoulder into it as you turn the knob, and as your scrawny 12-year-old shoulder presses against the door, your ear is drawn close to the windowpane. The windowpane that rattles a bit. Not a lot, but enough to be heard 40 years later.

The reason I pressed my scrawny 12-year-old shoulder into that door as I turned the knob, the reason my ear was drawn close to that rattling windowpane that I hear now, was because my Grandpa Fritz’s woodshop was on the other side of that door. On the other side of that windowpane that announced your arrival with a bit of a rattle…not a lot, but enough to be heard 40 years later.

40 years later…the woodshop, the door, the windowpane, and my grandpa are no more, but the sounds have found me again. The sound of the saws, the sound of the hammer, the sound of sandpaper…the distinct sound of silence from my Grandpa Fritz. A welcoming silence. A silence that I would try so very hard to quietly ease into despite the glass pane announcing my arrival.

I didn’t know it then, but I see it now, my Grandpa Fritz was the first person to teach me the beauty and necessity of solitude and that it was permissible to be silent in the company of others…permissible to just be. Grandpa’s woodshop was a place that I knew I could just be, before I even knew that sometimes I needed to just be.

A welcoming silence. He never looked annoyed that I had entered his sanctum, he would just glance up from whatever it was he was creating, and in that glance, when his silent “welcome” washed over his kind eyes and to his warm smile, I knew…I felt…without a word…that it was okay for me to just sit…to just be.

The sound of a rattling windowpane in an old wooden door. A wooden door that sticks a little. Lean into it.

Renewal

Wed, 07 May 2025 06:00:00 -0600

My cousin Jamie, who has been blogging for about the same period of time that I’ve been writing this column (check him out at Thingelstad.com), recently posted a blog regarding his hosting of an “IndieWeb Carnival”. My first thought was, “What’s an IndieWeb Carnival?” followed closely by my second thought, “What does IndieWeb mean?”

Google informed me that IndieWeb is “a community and movement that focuses on empowering individuals to control their online presence and data by building and maintaining their own websites, rather than relying on large, centralized social networks. It emphasizes open standards and protocols for social interaction, allowing users to interact with others on their own sites.”

Google also informed me that an IndieWeb Carnival is “a monthly, hosted blogging event where participants write and share their thoughts on a chosen topic or theme on their own blogs.”

Jamie, the host of this particular blogging event, chose “Renewal” as the topic or theme for his carnival and the questions he posed to his carnival goers were, “Do you have a story of renewal to share? Is there a need for renewal that you see and a way to make that happen? How do you approach renewal?”

While contemplating the theme of renewal, the story of Sisyphus, a figure of Greek mythology who was condemned to repeat forever the same meaningless task of pushing a boulder up a mountain, only to see it roll down again just as it nears the top, came to mind.

What does the myth of Sisyphus have to do with renewal?

Each time Sisyphus neared the top and felt the boulder start to slip from it’s upward progress, I see him giving into the inevitable, stepping aside, watching with amusement as the boulder rocked, rolled and bounced back down the hill, looking around at the world from his vantage point on the high ground, filling his lungs, and exhaling with purpose and renewal as he heads back down the hill through the settling dust the descending boulder has kicked up to begin again…and again…and again…

It is what we all do in some way, shape, or form most every day of the days we get. We get to push our various boulders up our various hills, we get to watch them roll back down, we get to move, we get to ponder, we get to love, we get to laugh, we get to live, we get to lose…we get to do it all until we are at a loss. At a loss of mind, at a loss of body, at a loss of spirit, at a loss of life. So it goes.

Renewal of mind, renewal of body, renewal of spirit…before all is lost. “Pneuma”, the ancient Greek word for “spirit”, can be translated as “wind” or “breath”, and just as we cannot see the wind that moves the trees, others often cannot see the spirit, the meaning, the purpose that moves us. Our “why” may appear to be meaningless toil to others, but if it moves you, it moves you. Afterall, how much choice do we have in what it is that moves us?

To move and to be moved effectively, we must allow for sufficient renewal. We must take a moment to look around at the world we get to be in. We must breathe in and out with purpose and renewal of mind, body, and spirit and then lean into our boulder yet again, because it is our boulder and it is ours to move for as long we can move it. Sometimes we get a little flat. Sometimes that old guitar just needs a new set of strings to renew an old song.

“Do you have a story of renewal to share? Is there a need for renewal that you see and a way to make that happen? How do you approach renewal?”

Enjoy the carnival.

Dude Wiped

Wed, 16 Apr 2025 06:00:00 -0600

One pair of Levi’s ¾ Bottle of olive oil Small sack of potatoes ½ a bag of cheese ¾ of a bag of Craisins ½ a tube of toothpaste Roughly 6 Dude Wipes Bottle of statin medication Big jug of protein supplement Container of creatine supplement Box fan One pair of black socks Three rolls of toilet paper Tattered brown leather belt About a ½ dozen eggs

I’ve worked at Chadron State College for 11 years, and since Chadron is roughly 100-miles from Rapid City, where my wife and I have lived for about 27 years, I do a bit of commuting during the school year. I don’t drive every day, generally I head out Monday morning and come back home on Thursday.

No, I don’t sleep in my office or my car while I’m in Chadron, I have an apartment across the street from campus. A swanky “studio” apartment. I believe “studio” is Latin for “small enough to fry eggs, do dishes, and brush your teeth without leaving the comfort of your bed.”

This past week I arrived at my apartment Monday morning to drop off my duffel bag before walking across the street to campus, and when I entered my apartment, it was not as I had left it the week before. The cupboard doors were open, the bedding was tossed aside, the mattress was askew…something was amiss, and some things were missing. Little by little the list above took shape. A list of things that were stolen from my apartment. I had been robbed.

It’s an odd thing to stand in your apartment, knowing that someone had been in there doing a bit of discount shopping. Perusing your stuff, while sipping on the ½ empty bottle of orange juice you left in your fridge…or perhaps ½ full…so it goes.

One of my coworkers was impressed that I knew exactly what was missing, and I explained that when you are the sole occupant of a “studio” space you tend to know exactly what items occupy that space with you. There is no blaming the dog for running off with your toothpaste and Craisins, things are always right where you left them. Until they’re not.

Until someone who looks a lot like your neighbor is caught on surveillance camera crawling through your window at 11:02PM the Sunday prior to your Monday morning arrival. When I called the police to report the thievery, an officer stopped by, looked around a bit, and asked me what was missing. I rattled off the grocery list of items and he said they were going to go visit with my neighbor to ask if he had seen anything.

Apparently, he had. A few hours later I was walking back to my apartment and the police had my neighbor in handcuffs. The linchpin? The Dude Wipes. When the police were visiting with him to determine if he had seen anything they noticed the Dude Wipes, and he got a bit shifty when asked about them, so they obtained a search warrant a broke the case of the Studio Shopper wide open.

The perpetrator wasn’t a disgruntled student, just some 21-year old dude that was in a tough spot and made a bad decision. Out my window and into jail in a little over 12 hours…I wish him well. I have yet to learn the fate of my stuff.

What is the street value of statins and cheese?

Pinewood

Wed, 02 Apr 2025 06:00:00 -0600

Happy Spring to you. Less than nine shopping months until Christmas.

Carol Olney, of Lignite, recently posted a picture on social media of a news story that she had clipped from the Burke County Tribune somewhere around 1982. Below the title “Lignite Scouts hold Pinewood Derby” is a photograph of Lignite Scout Troop 347 composed of Justin Young, Travis Chrest, Robbie Gilseth, Ryan Reistad, Grady Bakken, Chad Johnson, Jarvis Ellis, Blain Johnson, and myself.

Nine of us shaggy-haired knuckleheads, lined up and looking in every direction except at Leonard Savelkoul, the photographer. Seeing the picture and reading the article brought back memories that I hadn’t remembered for quite some time.

I remember my mom being the Den Leader, and I remember her occasionally “talking” to Scout Troop 347 through clenched teeth at our weekly after school gathering at the Legion Hall next to Martin’s Barbershop. I remembered that the Beach Boys had a song called “409” that had a bit of motor revving at the beginning of the song, and I remembered that my creative mother (the Den Leader with clenched teeth) had set up a record player, hidden from spectator view, to kick of the Pinewood Derby with that motor revving.

I remember that I was in charge of the record player, I remember that numbers thwarted me once again and I miscounted the number of record grooves to the start of the desired song and on my mom’s signal I dropped the needle at the wrong song. Quick 10-year-old thinking, I ripped the record player plug out of the wall and fled the scene…around the corner to where everyone else was.

I remember being so embarrassed by this, and I remember feeling terrible that I had messed up the grand Scout Troop 347 Pinewood Derby kickoff and that I had let my mom down. It’s strange the stuff we remember and the stuff that flitters by without wedging itself in our psyche.

I remember that my Grandpa Fritz helped my brother and I make our Pinewood Derby cars. Jarvis’s was a slim and sleek racer that fetched him the 1st place trophy, mine wasn’t so slim, sleek or fast.

I remember Grandpa Fritz asking me what I wanted to turn my official Pinewood Derby block of wood into. I asked him if we could make a pickup, and I remember him turning the block of wood over in his hands a bit while he pondered my request, and said, “We can do that.”

I knew he could. He could make most anything out of block of wood. As the great sculpture Michelangelo once said, “The sculpture is already complete within the marble block before I start my work. I just have to chisel away the superfluous material.”

Grandpa could see the pickup I requested in the block of wood, and together, we set it free. I still have that pickup, and when I saw the picture Carol posted, I dug it out of its parking spot in the trunk in our basement. Upon inspection, it is quite obvious what parts of it I set free and what parts my grandpa took the lead on.

The trunk in our basement holds a number of other odds and ends from many moons ago. Odds and ends that hold a lot of fond memories. What will happen to those odds and ends when my end comes? I’m the only one that holds the key to release the memories they hold, so odds are, they will meet their end shortly after I meet mine. So it goes.

I suppose that is the way of things, and I suppose that is as it should be. Locks without keys aren’t much good to anyone.

The pickup has a new parking spot now. A spot on my bookshelf, where I can see it, where I can turn it over in my hands and go wherever it takes me. “We can do that.”

Christmas/St. Patrick's Day

Wed, 19 Mar 2025 06:00:00 -0600

Please give a warm welcome to my daughter, Sierra, as the guest columnist for this week’s Ramblings.

After having to hear me complain about how women’s voices have been silenced for so long, my father gave me the yearly task of writing our family Christmas letter. Be careful what you say and who you say it to. I enjoy writing, and it is something that I have put off for far too long, sort of like this Christmas/St Patrick’s Day letter.

As you may know, I live in New York, and as you may know, there is a bit of distance between Brooklyn and Rapid City. Thankfully, I am able to keep in contact with my family and see what they are up to via social media. Which does the job, but it’s not the same as being all together in person.

Whenever I come home it feels like a new place, but at the same time, it’s still the home that I knew before I moved out, and that’s because of my family.

My dad always sits in the same place on the couch every day with a cup of coffee or a Manhattan (depending on the time of day) to indulge in whatever non-fiction book he has picked up. I always loved that he almost exclusively reads non-fiction because it shows how much he truly enjoys learning and seeing the different points of view from every walk of life. No matter who they are.

I believe this is what makes him such a valuable and well-rounded professor. He loves teaching as much as he loves learning. He taught me to look for the good in everyone, no matter how much I disagree with them. As some of you may know, I am still learning that, but he has 23 years on me, so give me time.

My mom is straight up one of the hardest workers I know. When she isn’t helping people get better through physical therapy, she is at home baking, cooking, taking care of her beautiful yard, or driving around in her Jeep.

She is a woman who is so naturally beautiful and knows how to take care of things and just does it. She is so independent, but cares deeply for those who are around her, you can see it in her eyes and how she talks to people. She truly cares. Her laugh is so loud that you can literally hear it throughout our entire home. It’s so genuine, you simply can’t be mad about it when it wakes you up after a night of drinking too much.

Jackson, my little brother, has become such a caring young man that it sometimes surprises me when he is so sweet to me. He isn’t (as) annoying anymore and is instead chill and fun to hang out with. He really is someone that I have enjoyed seeing grow up.

He is so kind, great with people, and lets me talk at him for hours when we see each other. I’d like to think he finds me entertaining even though he says the reason he doesn’t want to date is because girls always want to talk too much. I fear I have ruined dating for him.

Ok, I hope I did alright? I love my family, and I am proud to be a member of the Ellis clan. 2025 will be interesting, because every year is, and I wish you all the best. Each year is a year to discover new things about yourself, and more importantly, the people who are meant to be in your life.

For me, I must admit that I attempted and failed to put space between me and my family because it’s hard to be away from them. They’ve always supported me no matter what, and they are proud of me no matter what. So I guess now is the time that I tell everyone that I am moving to France to pursue a career as a professional mime.

Wishing you and all you love a wonderful year.