Rambling Josh

Welcome to August everyone. The month that creeps up on us like ill-fitting underwear. As we stand there picking, pulling, and tugging in search of comfort we wonder where the summer has gone and commence to plot and plan how we might squeeze all we had planned to do in June and July into the few tattered weeks remaining before the kids head back to school and that old routine revs up yet again.

Summer has a way of getting away from us, always has, and I suspect it always will. Seems as though it was just yesterday that winter seemed safely behind and I braved the jumbled mess of bicycles, balls, bats and garden hoses in the garden shed to dig out the deck furniture. The sheds not sound proof so the neighbor kids got a bit of a vocabulary building lesson while they bounced around on their trampoline.

I recall that during that fit of rage I vowed to clean that shed out this summer. I still have a few weeks to make good on that vow but the shed rage has since been soothed so it can wait. Besides, there’s a family of rabbits living under the shed and I’d hate to disturb whatever it is rabbits do under garden sheds.

There are more pressing issues that need to be addressed before the close of summer. The Burke Central All-School Reunion being one such matter that is in need of some last minute preparation. Teeth to whiten, buns to firm, wrinkles to wrangle, stories of success to concoct, so much to do so little time.

Registration for the reunion is open until August 7th so mosey on over to the reunion Facebook page and get registered. If you’re a Facebook holdout feel free to send me an email and we’ll get you registered. If you don’t have email stop by my house, we’ll have coffee, chit-chat a bit, get you registered, and clean out my garden shed.

Some other matters to ponder prior to your arrival at the reunion are that there will be luminaries available for purchase at the reunion. A great way to commemorate the memory of a friend or classmate or to finally say something witty and inspirational. Ten bucks each, you decorate them the way you want and we will have all of them lit in front of the school on Saturday night (probably won’t be the only thing “lit” in front of the school on Saturday night).

We are also on the prowl for any and all band geeks that would like to put their embouchure to the test and blurt out the school songs for the program at the school on Saturday night. A director would be helpful as well. Also, if you have a classic car or motorcycle that you would like to enter in the “parked” parade let me know.

Golf, softball, visiting…so much to prepare for. The reunion is also a good time to renew your 109 Club membership. Jason and Marsha Hysjulien are the new proprietors and are doing a bang-up job keeping the populace fed and fueled.

See you soon.

On July 16th, 2015 our son, Jackson, will click over one more notch on the odometer and celebrate his “Sweet Golden Birthday…Golden Sweet Birthday…” or something to that effect. Jackson has been a bundle of nerves for the past few weeks in anticipation of this momentously grand, golden, and sweet event (please read this sentence with thick and heavy sarcasm for proper conveyance of reality).

I didn’t think it possible, but the boy may be surpassing me in “laidbackness”. Which is troubling since my father proclaimed when I was teenager that, “If you were any more laid back you would soil yourself” or something along those lines…perhaps with a bit more colorful language thrown in for effect. Let the record reflect that this is a blatant exaggeration on behalf of my father as I have not soiled myself since college…or thereabouts…and it had nearly nothing to do with being laid back.

I’m not entirely sure where it began, but it appears that the outward expression of this laid back gene is intensifying with each generation. This does not bode well for my potential great-grandchildren (several…several years from now) who apparently will spend their lives shrugging and grunting indiscriminately from their hammock homes. I have to admit there is some allure to that life, but it doesn’t pay well and Depends are not cheap…so I’ve heard.

Do any of you remember your “golden” birthday? How about “Sweet 16”? Were they as shiny, sweet, and life changing as you had hoped or was it just another birthday? Just another day celebrating the completion of one more year free of suffering an unfortunate hotdog eating incident or zigging when you should have zagged…while eating a hotdog. Hotdogs are dangerous.

My wife asked Jackson what he wanted to do for his special day and got the same response we get for most questions asked of him, “don’t care”, “don’t know” or when the formation of syllables and other grammatical structure is just too much to deal with, “mmaahhmmah”. Sometimes he may get dramatic and throw in a discrete shoulder shrug to accompany his response. The shoulder shrug lets us know that he REALLY, “doesn’t care”, “doesn’t know”, or “mmaahhmmah”.

As of this writing I’m not sure what his big day will entail. Historically, the kids get to pick a place to go out and eat for their birthday. So the day will most likely find us dining at the Japanese Steak House where my wife and I will have the pleasure of translating the boys menu related grunts and shrugs to a server that has a rudimentary grasp of the language our son is sort of communicating in.

Teenagers are interesting creatures that seem to exist in an alternate universe from their parents and any other adult that may have the audacity to try and help them.

Jackson is a good kid. A bright young man that is polite, friendly, and fully in possession of the ability to verbally communicate intelligently and completely when he so chooses. Stay golden, stay sweet, and, for the most part, go ahead and stay laid back.

Happy Golden Sweet Birthday Jackson….and many…many more.

I just spent four days in St. Louis at our National Athletic Trainers' Association yearly convention with about 10,000 other certified athletic trainers from around the globe. My travel companion and roommate for this excursion, and most every conference I’ve attended over the past 18 years, was my good friend and fellow athletic trainer, Paul.

The conference moves from city to city each year so Paul and I have had the opportunity to visit several major cities over the years and explore a small slice of each along the way. All this big city exploring is interesting and enjoyable but generally leaves us with the same thought at the conclusion of each conference, “Thank God I don’t live here!”

Rapid City is big enough and interesting enough for this small town boy. Enough of enough is enough and those big cities are too much. Too much cement, too many people, too much traffic, and from what Paul tells me, too much stink. As one who lacks a sense of smell, I always forget that a subway train full of people that have been simmering in the balmy Missouri humidity may just have a certain odor about them. A bouquet that I’m sure I contributed to as well.

Paul claims that New Orleans still holds the top spot for “Most Odorous City” but proclaimed that St. Louis rolled in at a decidedly “stanky” second. The fact that Paul is a cattle rancher, athletic trainer, and the father of four, leads me to trust that he knows stink, and is quite adept at “ranking” it (bad pun intended).

Even without access to the stink factor, I’m still quite grateful I don’t call one of these concrete and steel hives home. I like people watching, but I like the luxury of being able to do it passively, without worry, rather than as an active necessity to avoid being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’ve never really felt unsafe in a big city, but that may be out of sheer stupidity rather than the reality of the areas we’ve stumbled into…and thankfully out of.

My homecoming to Rapid City was made even more enjoyable when my entire family came to the airport to meet, greet, and shuttle me home. Sierra was home from Bozeman for a few days to remedy an acute case of homesickness (I think we cured it), Jackson pulled himself away from his teenage duties of hair care and texting, and my wife arrived with plans to try and catch a glimpse of the Northern Lights before we headed home from the airport.

Sitting at an approach along the highway, outside of the reaches of the light pollution from Rapid City, all four of us looked towards the northern horizon, searching for a glimmer of the Northern Lights. Although they didn’t show themselves, the night was clear and the stars and fire flies danced to the sound of crickets and a slight prairie breeze.

The crickets and prairie breeze were pleasant, but the sound that filled my heart with happiness was the sound of my children in the back seat visiting, laughing, and of course arguing…always arguing. Our family together. No push…no pull from all the directions life takes us…just together.

Happy Father’s Day to all you Dads. I’m sure many of your dads are lovely fellas and all but I’m particularly partial to mine. Not just because he’s a member of the duo responsible for my existence, although that may bias me some, there are other reasons. Reasons that are many and multiplying as we meander through life as father and son.

Father and son. I have a vivid memory of an official “Father Son” gathering we took part in back when I was a wee lad and he was a young dad. I was about 12, and all I knew going in was that it was billed as a “Father Son Banquet”, and that title alone peaked my enthusiasm in attending this special supper. I should have done a little more investigating into the exact agenda of the event before getting caught up in the jovial anticipation of attending such an exclusive gathering of us men type.

The event turned out to be a recruiting party for the priesthood. The atmosphere took a turn while we were shown a grainy black and white video of a day in the life of some boys in the seminary. I got nervous, panicky, and bit nauseous. I suddenly felt that there was a possibility that although I had come there with my dad I was going to be leaving in a bus full of boys bound for the priesthood.

As a twelve year old I didn’t know much, but I did know that I didn’t want to be a priest. I wanted to play shortstop for the Yankees, jump a motorcycle like Evel Knievel, and live in the mountains with a pet squirrel like Grizzly Adams. Bears scare me so I downsized to a squirrel. Besides it takes less fabric to sew costumes for a squirrel than a grizzly bear. You have to consider such things when you’re going to be out in the middle of nowhere relying on varmints for entertainment.

Were all of our dads in cahoots with the priesthood recruiters? How much did they stand to make for selling us out? Would mom notice if dad come home alone? How can people eat scalloped potatoes at a time like this?

The boys in the recruiting video all wore the same uniform and had Johnny Unitas haircuts. This too would be an issue. My mother had traumatized me as a young child by dressing me and my brother in matching homemade outfits and I was beginning to dabble in the thrilling world of the mullet. Exciting times.

I am grateful to my father for so many things. Not handing myself and a Ziploc bag containing my toothbrush and a spare pair of underwear over to the priesthood recruiters is one such thing. Maybe two pair of underwear, I had a bed wetting issue.

Mostly I am grateful for the unyielding love and support he has selflessly given my siblings and myself day in and day out. No matter the height of stupidity we ascend to he is there to cushion our fall back to reality with kind words and perhaps some money for the damages. Love you dad.

As of late I’ve found myself feeling a shift in the character I have played for many years in our family. My roster spot as the biggest, strongest, and most athletic male in the household is being aggressively challenged by some bushy headed 15 year-old rookie that I used to haul to bed piggy-back style. Witnessing the dramatic upward trajectory of his physical size and athletic ability over the past year has served as a not so subtle reminder that my upward trajectory has peaked and is now rapidly earth bound.

I can still lift more weight and run further than the bushy headed punk and I’m sure if my alpha status were challenged in a direct altercation I could hold my own but I can feel it slipping. Like a transmission in an old Studebaker that doesn’t quite grab in each gear. Stuff grinds, things pop, the seats are worn, and the exhaust lingers long after it’s limped on by.

This shift has been gradual but seems to have picked up speed a bit as of late. Things that used to require little effort on my behalf now take everything I have to attempt to keep up with the above mentioned punk. Before his spurt of growth towards manhood I could get away with about a 60% effort when throwing him batting practice. Now the percentages have shifted and I feel as though he only needs 60% effort to match my 100%. What does this mathematical shift mean? It means that my arm hurts, my low back is twitching, and my pride is aching.

The bushy-haired punk is a pretty good tennis player and the Studebaker is not. In my previous role as household dominate male action figure I could go to the tennis courts and lollygag about, smash a few shots here and there to show the punk how dangerous this dude could be. I was made aware a few days ago when playing tennis with the boy that this dude is not dangerous anymore. This dude has lost an “e”. I believe it was knocked off by one of the forearm smashes the rookie wacked my way.

He seemed to take delight in my inadequacy on the court. I wouldn’t say that he gloated but I’m pretty sure he wanted to. I could sense a pre-gloat in the air but he was empathetic enough to stifle it and turn it into something more sinister…patronizing. That thing you do when you are playing against someone that is slower and less talented. That thing I used to do to the kids when we played sports. That thing looks ugly from the other side.

This role adjustment has elicited an array of thoughts, feelings, and reflections on my part. Most of which has led me to the conclusion that there is absolutely nothing I can do about this mess I’ve gotten myself into by aging. This aging thing seemed like a good idea when I was his age, but somewhere along the way I took it to far. I’m painfully aware that my good ain’t so great anymore but I’m not sure where to go from here.

I’m not even sure how I got here so how am I supposed to know where to go from here? This is a fine mess.

Continued…Ray hopped up as quickly as he went down and attempted to spin around and see who would do such a thing, but the rutabaga had hit him so hard in the right cheek that it gave him “dead leg” and he crumpled to the ground again. Flopping and writhing around in the sandbox, amongst toys in various stages of disrepair, trying to squeeze the pain out of his right cheek with both hands he noticed the rutabaga and said though gritted teeth, “What did you hit me with?”

“It’s a rutabaga dummy…Grandma puts it in that nasty stew she makes at Christmas.” I said, as I came up for a closer look. Close enough to where Ray could clearly see I was pompously gloating, but yet far enough away to dodge anything he might throw my way in his trademark retaliatory rage. “Why did you hit me with it you moron!” Ray yelled, as he picked up the offending projectile and attempted to return the favor.

A big brother is fully aware that objects thrown by little brothers in fits of rage rarely hit their intended target. The teeth clench, the muscles tighten, and accuracy and velocity both go to Helena in a hand basket. Hobbling on one leg with one hand rubbing your rear end doesn’t help either, so I had very little concern that anything he threw my way was going to find its mark. “Nice throw Nancy.” I chuckled. “Shut up! I’m gonna tell Mom!” Ray threatened. “You better not or I’ll fart in your mouth while you’re sleeping again,” I assured him. I could see Ray mulling that bitter pill over in his tiny little mind as he conceded defeat…for now.

A few months previously, in a possible attempt to save our souls, Mom had forced Ray and I to become altar boys at the Catholic Church we attended. Obviously our new vocation had not swayed our love of fighting in any way. Fighting was a great pleasure to us and it would take more than a threat of eternal damnation from some rickety old priest to break us of the practice. It took everything we had to stand side by side on the altar and act civilized for an entire hour every Sunday.

You could get away with trivial things here and there like an “accidental” bump while the other was holding a candle. Done correctly this little bump would send a searing hot cascade of wax splashing down across the tops of the torch bearers hands. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph that hurt but neither of us would ever give the other the satisfaction of knowing the agony they had managed to inflict…in front of God and everyone.

Ray cooled down a bit from the rutabaga bludgeoning after a bowl of Cocoa Puffs and an episode of Scooby Doo and asked, “Where’d you get that potato thingy?” “Rutabaga, not potato, you ignoramus” “Whatever. Where did you get it?” “Blanchard’s garden.” I matter-of-factly say, bored and coming down from the high of putting a hitch in Ray’s gittyup with a world class rutabaga toss. “Are there anymore?” Ray asks. “Of course, it’s a garden, there’s lots more. I usually just eat the peas and snag a few tomatoes to throw at the train and…” I trailed of knowing I had said too much.

Ray now had information that would be useful in getting me in trouble so I knew I had to bring him in on my garden heist gig so he wouldn’t have anything over me. I liked to work alone but I knew he had me in a tough spot and judging by the smug look on his stupid face he knew it too. To be continued…

Continued…The reason I know our house was a rutabagas toss from Blanchard’s house surely wasn’t because Blanchard had thrown a rutabaga our way. It is common knowledge that a twelve year old boy can spit further than an old man can throw a rutabaga. No, the reason I know is because I threw one of Blanchard’s rutabagas from his garden, behind his little blue house, to my brother Ray who was playing in the sand box behind our house.

I didn’t so much throw it “to” him as “at” him, but let’s not get caught up in details, just know that it was one heck of a toss. One of those tosses where you stand for a moment prior to launch feeling the weight of the rutabaga in your hand as you contemplate windage, distance, trajectory, and how angry that turd Ray’s going to be when that rutabaga hits him true and square.

That last thought is the one that focuses your senses, puts that extra spring in your crow hop and whip in your arm as you let it fly. When you let something fly from a good distance you have what seems like an eternity to shift your hopeful gaze back and forth between what you’ve thrown and who you’ve thrown it at. Once the projectile leaves your hand you become a mere observer, watching with anticipation as the distance between the two objects gradually decreases.

When you make it your business to throw things at people you get good at your business. I knew the instant that rutabaga left my hand that it was a money shot. It just felt right. It wasn’t a matter of if it was going to hit Ray it was a matter of where. A head shot might render him unconscious, a blow to his bony little back might knock the wind out of him, both of which would be cause for bawling and potential tattling, but that was a chance I was willing to take.

The potential for collateral damage was accepted long before I let the rutabaga fly. Somethings are just worth the consequences. The head, the back, a glancing blow to the shoulder, all were possibilities, but the south side of Ray’s north facing Toughskins jeans was the target of choice. Every big brother worth his salt knows that a shot in the seat will produce the optimal balance between pain and anger. Painful enough to drop him where he stands while simultaneously producing enough anger to keep him from limping to mommy. The perfect scenario. He knew as well as I did that it would be a waste of time to limp to mom crying about taking a rutabaga in the bum. Mom would’ve laughed his bruised backside out of the house.

Ray stood there in the sandbox completely unaware of what was about to rain down on him. Under normal circumstances he probably would have detected something was amiss, he would have heard the smile stretch across my filthy garden looting face and the little grunt I let out when I launched the rogue rutabaga, but he was much too busy pounding some character into his Tonka trucks and Matchbox cars with a hammer to notice he was under attack.

Just as he raised the hammer up high above his head to give a particularly resilient dump truck a good whack the rutabaga found its mark. With a fresh smear of dirt on the right back pocket of his Toughskins he went down with a whimper amongst the carnage of crushed cars and dismembered G.I. Joe action figures. It got him good.

To be continued…

One shot at something as grand and glorious as life doesn’t seem fair but it’s all we get, it’s all we have, it’s all. One go around, one time, our time is never to be again. Some have more, some have less, we all get some but always want some more. Want more for us, want more for those that know us and make our time what it is. What’s not to want? A brief cosmic blink from dark to light to dark again. Through the ages many have, do, and will want more but want will come without and this world will move on as it always has, as it always will for many rises and falls to come. Some may have seen the beginning some may see the end. Neither is near us now so we see today, we remember yesterday, and hope for tomorrow. So fast, yet so slow. One without the other who would have known? Who could have known? Where have they gone? Why have they gone? Questions will remain but we will not. We will go. Not out of want but go just the same. Go and be gone and hope to remain through the memories of those that get to stay. Memories. How deep will memories of you flow? Thinly stir the surface and vanish without a trace or rip and tear the earth leaving a wake of remembrance stretching your life without life? Either is not up to us rather it is up to those that knew us and those that are to know them and know them and know them and…Where and with whom do we stop? When does our life truly cease to be relevant? Cease to make a sound amongst the living? When will our last light go out? Later rather than sooner one would hope or maybe one does not hope or concern themselves with such thoughts. Thoughts are silent in a world that is loud with life. One life, one time. Be loud with life and your echo may be heard…and heard…and heard…

Although names have lazily been changed, more shifted than changed, the story you’re contemplating donating five or ten minutes of your life to read (could be longer depending on your literacy level, cognitive function, and severity of narcolepsy) is mostly true and based on mostly factual events. Our memories of events from our youth are like that, mostly true and mostly factual.

Embellishments, exaggerations, and flat out lies creep into every event and every story about an event almost immediately, and over time, some of those embellishments become a permanent part of the story, some become the story. Over time, a good story, a funny story, will be told and retold because in general we like to laugh and to make people laugh. It feels good to laugh and it feels good to make others laugh. So, maybe this story will make you laugh, maybe it will remind you of stories from your youth, and maybe you’ll share it with someone you think might enjoy such a story. Stories are meant to be shared. Thank you for letting me share this story with you.

Blanchard’s house was a rutabagas toss from ours. More accurately, I suppose, our house was a rutabagas toss from his, as our parents didn’t plant rutabagas nor would they have thrown them towards Blanchard or his little blue house. Civilized, I suppose you could say “normal”, folks don’t do such things. I suppose it could be said that both my parents are civilized and mostly normal. The same can’t be said for all of their children.

The youngest, Arthur, only a year old at the time of these particular events, was still too young for judgments of character to be passed, but with the errant role models he was exposed to there was a pretty strong inclination as to the path he would follow. Rose, a stubbornly quiet six year old, was much too busy concerning herself with the life and times of her many dolls to pay any mind to the comings and goings of her two pain-in-the-Barbie butt older brothers or some little troll that willingly soiled himself. The poor girl, adrift in a sea of stupidity, stuck sharing her inner most thoughts and feelings with a spirited but misdirected Cabbage Patch doll and a ratty haired stiff legged Barbie.

Our given names were Charles and Ray, not to be confused with the musician Ray Charles, as neither of us were blind and we were both too dumb to play the piano. Ray couldn’t keep his hands out of his pants pockets long enough to learn how to tie his shoes so the piano was most definitely out of the question. The advent of velcro shoes was a godsend for Ray.

Our mother grew tired of repeatedly taking each of our names in vain and took to referring to us jointly, and accurately, as “fricken' idiots”. Maybe this allowed her to emotionally separate herself from our behavior, making herself believe that it wasn’t her flesh and blood, Charles and Ray, performing those idiotic acts of lewd depravity, it was those fricken' idiots. I was 12, Ray was 11, and my mother was right, we were fricken' idiots.

To be continued…

This past Saturday was one of the first days of the year to have that full on “summer” feel to it. A lazy feeling day that directed myself and our black lab to our back porch to seek out the optimal chair angle for appropriate sunlight absorption. While peering up at a cloudless sky, soaking in the warmth from a sun that seems to have just come back from an extended vacation, fleeting thoughts of all that I could, and possibly should, be doing eased on through.

The sun felt good. Felt better than what completing a laundry list of chores, tasks, and what have you could bring…laundry being one of them. Those clothes aren’t going to wash themselves but with weather like this who really needs clothes? Maybe the 80 year old couple bent over pulling weeds across the street or the 60ish lady next door that enjoys doing aerobics on her back porch. But who am I to judge?

Most of our “Sunday bests” aren’t what they once were. This fact would be easier to forget or ignore if it weren’t for the parade of youngins prancing around in the spring rut to remind us. At this moment there’s no prancing or fawning going on within sight of my back porch. The household teenagers have taken their spring song and dance elsewhere for the time being. Somewhere away from the judgmental and jealous stares of the has-beens and never-will-be-agains. The daughter’s off at college (so she says) and the boy is out golfing with friends (I hope “golfing” is still what they call actual golfing).

We had or moment in the sun and generally gravitate towards the shade now but today in the semi-seclusion of my back porch I sit comfortably with my shirt draped over the back of my chair, bare feet kicked up, and a cold beer resting comfortably and progressively lighter in my hand. My dermatologist would not approve as I’ve chosen to forgo the slathering of sunscreen she brow beats me about every time I see her.

My dermatologist, my doctor, my accountant, my banker…all these people we acquire as we advance in years, responsibilities, and various stages of physical deterioration. At this moment, right now, I don’t need any of them. My dog, my back porch, my lawn chair, the warm sun, and a slight breeze. That’s all I need at this moment. These moments are too easily swamped in the wake of what needs to get done so I’ll just sit this one out. Just sit and enjoy. Enjoy what I’ve found today for it may be lost tomorrow.

The dog has made his way to the shade by the door leading to the cool confines of the house and peers at me from time to time in a way that seems to suggest, “Haven’t you got anything better to do?” He’s just jealous. My fur coat is nearly half as thick as his…nearly. More or less in some regions. More south and receding to the northern snow cap. Another winter has passed (possibly), another spring is here, and another summer is coming. I believe I’ll have another.