Rambling Josh

Our daughter, Sierra, returned home for a visit this weekend. Her first time back from college, and the first we’ve seen of her, since we parted ways in Bozeman back in August. The first we’ve seen of her in person anyway. There have been numerous sightings of her via Facebook. Pictures of her hiking…pictures of her mountain biking…pictures of her white water rafting…pictures of her rock climbing. In essence, a pictorial montage of the poor girl trying to mask her homesickness.

To the casual observer the massive smile on that mask is fairly effective in portraying someone thoroughly enjoying college life, but a father is not a casual observer. A father see’s right through that massive smile. A fathers sees a girl desperately missing home. A father doesn’t see sweat and river water he sees sorrowful tears. A father…ah who am I trying to kid, the girl is having the time of her life…and she has good grades.

As long as those two can coincide I have no problems. The life of a college students is such a grueling affair who can blame them for letting off a little steam now and then with all that the Big Sky state has to offer. It’s a good thing I went to college in Aberdeen, South Dakota where the two biggest distractions from studying were watching it snow and shoveling snow.

I managed to squeeze a little fun out of my time in college (a little more than some a little less than someone…I’m sure) but good grades and good times did not coexist in a congenial manner for me. Fortunately for Sierra a relatively even split of genetics has made it possible for her to balance the two ends of this college equation. A relentless drive for academic success from me and an eye for all things fun, funny, and frivolous from her mother (historical accuracy is always at the mercy of the writer).

That’s why my wife stalked and wooed me 20 years ago in college. She needed someone serious and studious to balance out her penchant for partying so her children had half a chance of being productive citizens and resist the urge to become pixy dust spreaders on the Tilt-A-Whirl. Hard to believe it’s been 20 years since she set her diabolical plan into action.

Dawn and I went back to our old alma mater a few weeks ago for homecoming. She had an alumni gathering for the track and cross-country team to attend and I went along as her arm candy…as usual. It was fun to see some familiar faces that shared our time and place at Northern State. Twenty years of living had exerted itself to varying degrees on all of us. Some more fortunate than others.

Some hadn’t changed much at all and some you had to squint and use your imagination a little more extensively to see who you saw 20 years ago. I have a good imagination but it does have its limits. It was enjoyable to visit and catch up with all the goings on in some of their lives…some not so much. Some were able to jar your memory right quick on why you were never really chums 20 years ago.

If only our appearance was as resilient to the passage of time as our personality.

It’s possible that I’ve explored this topic in days gone by, I tend to block out painful experiences, but when they’re experienced again I find it therapeutic to write about them to rid myself of the demons. You people are much more economical and understanding than a shrink.

Somehow I always seem to draw the short straw when that fateful day arrives that it becomes necessary to introduce our children to the wonderful world of the Department of Motor Vehicles. My wife will fain rickets, the plague, scurvy or even dare use work as an excuse to get out of this parental purgatory. I guess it makes up for the whole child birthing thing. I witnessed that messy ordeal, and although it appeared to create a bit of discomfort for my wife, it didn’t take nearly as long as a trip to the DMV.

I made no less than three pilgrimages to this village of the disgruntled with my daughter a couple of years ago and found myself venturing down the very same trail of tears with my son a few days ago so he could have a go at securing a learners permit. My wife was kind enough to ease the pain a bit by rounding up the plethora of documentation required for this rite of passage in advance. You need less documentation to purchase an automatic weapon.

I’ve never bought an automatic weapon but I’m fairly certain the first question on the application is, “Will you be making a trip to the DMV sometime in the next 78 years” and if you answer “yes” your application is promptly denied and you are placed on a “probable terror suspect” list.

When my son and I walked into the DMV I immediately recognized all the poor souls behind the counter that were busy explaining to people, “I’m sorry that’s not the right documentation. Those were the right documents when you arrived but we changed our policies while you were standing in line.” My son looked at me and said, “Everyone working here looks so pale.” Pale and unflinching while the red faced and angry rummaged through their pile of documents to try and find the elusive proof that they are who they claim to be. Whoever they were when they came in is not who they are now…and may never be again.

The only people smiling are the teenagers, either because they are getting a license or because their parents are being reduced to tears by some pale stranger in a wrinkled government issued polo shirt. I suspect the latter. I’m certain that the phrase, “misery loves company” was born in the DMV…and will probably die there as well.

To make a short story long, Jackson missed passing the exam by one point. One lousy point. I suspect he did it on purpose as pay back for me not buying him a pony when he was six. Teenagers are spiteful that way. Maybe a pony’s not such a bad idea. I don’t think the DMV has any authority over the issuance of a pony riding license. We’ve got a spare bedroom and our dog could use a buddy.

Computers and the World Wide Web make our lives easier in many ways. For instance, I can pay bills without having to find an envelope, track down a stamp, write a check, stuff the envelope, lick the envelope (tasty), walk all the way to the end of the driveway, put the envelope in the mail box, raise the little flag, and walk all the way back to the house (it’s uphill).

That entire exhausting rigmarole takes an excruciating three minutes. Three and a half if I step in something unsavory on my way to or from the mailbox or get chased by the neighbor kid (he’s odd).

Oh no, none of that nonsense for me thank you very much. I’ll just flip open my laptop lid, realize the batteries dead, track down the cord, plug it in, wait for it to start up, find out the internet service isn’t working, reset the modem, try and find the 241 digit security code to reconnect to the modem, log onto the internet, curse at a few hundred popups, find the bill pay website, forget bill pay website username and password, answer 38 security questions to prove to me that I’m me, wait for email to reset password, reset password, login to bill pay site, attempt to login to bill pay site, login in after 17 failed attempts, and pay the bill.

That entire effortless convenience of modern technology takes a mere six hours. Six and a half if I have to call the police on the neighbor kid.

Since the smartphoneectomy I underwent over a month ago I’ve started to appreciate the joys of past inconveniences. I have a cell phone but it’s only good for calling and texting. Remember those dusty old relics? If you see me sitting and poking around on my phone nowadays you can rest assured that I’m not looking up fun facts on Google I just don’t want to talk to you. It’s not true…we can’t all be friends…no matter what Facebook says.

In class the other day I was chit chatting with my students about Facebook friends, because chit chatting is my job and the only thing my students and I have in common is access to and knowledge of Facebook. Through some intellectual fact gathering and statistical analysis we came to the conclusion that 400 Facebook friends is roughly equivalent to ½ an actual friend.

Some bored (or boring) statistician determined that over the past 10 to 15 years the average American has went from having 3 good friends to 1.5 good friends. We have all lost a friend-and-a-half somewhere along the way since the turn of the century. Either that or we still have three friends but they only like us half as much.

Is the half a friend a wee friend on the short side of tall or a friend who likes you half the time? The bored (or boring) statistician didn’t clarify those points as they generally aren’t much interested in things of interest.

Can your 1.5 friends take turns being the ½ a friend? “He borrowed my favorite sweater and stretched the neck hole out with his oversized head…I get to be the ½ friend for a few weeks.” “Oh, okay I’ll be the full friend…but only for a few weeks…he still hasn’t replaced the bag of pixy stix and wax lips he took from my pantry when he baby sat my cat last weekend.”

I’d like to think I have several full friends. I like to think a lot of things. Who’s your ½ friend?

Early on a recent August morning I awoke well before the sun had even thought about rising, earlier than I prefer to wake, closer to the time I prefer to go to sleep. I had remembered to set the timer on the coffee maker the night before so the only sound in the house was the odd assortment of groans and gurgles required to produce a pot of hot coffee. To those of us that drink coffee it is musical. Incidentally, the same noises are required of me to tie my shoes or any other task that requires bending at the waist.

I awoke early because the day that always seemed like one of those far off days had arrived and it was time. It was time to take our daughter and a few of her belongings that she had deemed “essential” to a college campus eight hours away.

Drive eight hours, unpack those essential belongings, carry them up 8 flights of stairs to a room half the size of the one in which those essential belongings had once adorned, and then leave our daughter to be educated. Leave her to sleep in a room where a father can’t peak in and take comfort in knowing that she is sleeping safe and sound as I have done most every night since the day we brought her home.

When I went out to load one last box of essential belongings into the pickup it was dark and the stars were bright and it made me think of the night we brought her home from the hospital. It seemed like yesterday that I was unloading the last of the essential belongings a new parent gets issued, when I paused and looked up at the stars and said to nobody and everybody, “I need some help.”

Somehow over 18 years has passed since that night, and somehow we managed to raise a girl that is above all things a good person. So early on an August morning I looked up at those same stars through the same eyes that see different now and said to nobody and everybody, “Keep her safe.”

So we loaded up and headed west towards the future with thoughts of the past so thick it was hard to see sometimes. Thankfully by the time those thoughts were getting to me the sun was up and I had an excuse to hide my teary eyes behind sun glasses. It seemed to hit hardest when we got within 100 miles of Bozeman. In a last ditch attempt to drag Sierra’s childhood out a little longer I started to gradually let up on the accelerator and contemplated taking a wrong turn while she was napping.

It’s not wrong for a parent to entertain such selfish thoughts. You sort of get attached to these people when you spend 18 years completely entangled in their every moment. Apparently teenagers are not of this same mindset as it didn’t seem all that trying of an experience for Sierra to part ways with us. Perhaps it’s a built in mechanism to keep them from being content to live in our basements.

For a little girl that would cry when I didn’t get her pony tail straight she never shed a tear as she hugged us and ushered us to the parking lot. I am happy she wasn’t content to spend the rest of her life in our basement, and I am impressed with her strength, motivation, and drive to move onto the next chapter in her life. But come on…are just a few tears and a little blubbering as you bid ado to dear old dad too much to ask for? Kicked to the curb by college…so it goes.

Early on a recent August morning things changed. I’ll keep you posted.

About six Augusts ago our family started doing a “See Ya Later Summer” meal where we go out to eat and mourn the passing of yet another summer. We look back fondly as our Coppertone comrades jaunty steps gradually slow to a gasping shuffle. Summer moves amongst the wilted flowers and discarded popsicle sticks refusing to look back and acknowledge the slow steady advance of its old nemesis, Fall.

Our “See Ya Later Summer” meal used to be pizza at a picnic table by the kids favorite playground but the kids don’t have much use for playgrounds anymore so we upgraded to one of those “sit down” type restaurants this year…so it goes.

The agenda for the “See Ya Later Summer” meal doesn’t vary much from year-to-year. I ask what the fondest memory of the past summer was, what they enjoyed most…so forth and so on. They are teenagers so usually I have to settle for the usual teenage response to such parental prodding’s, “I don’t know”.

This year I made a more future focused addition to the agenda and asked them what they hoped to accomplish between this “See Ya Later Summer” meal and the next. This elicited the same thoughtful response of, “I don’t know.” Sierra eventually offered up that she hopes to successfully complete her freshman year of college (good idea) and Jackson said, sarcastically I hope, “get loaded and have a good time.” One for two isn’t bad.

The answers they give aren’t as important to me as getting them to simply think about the questions. At least it makes me feel better to “think” that I’ve made them reflect on the past and ponder the future.

Change is the natural order of things when you have children. They’re never content to just stay kids. They grow up…I grow old…beats the alternative I assume. Last week we did our yearly measurements of the kids and Jackson managed to grow up about a 1/8 inch taller than his father. We stood back to back and when my wife announced the results Jackson turned, chest bumped me, and exclaimed, “New alpha male Pops!”

I returned a chest bump of my own and applied a quick choke hold to demonstrate the fact that alpha male status has little to do with height…then I went to lift weights to prepare for the young pups next attack. Like Falls inevitable advance on Summer the boy’s gaining on me and seems pretty happy about the entire turn of events. A little too happy for my taste.

After I reviewed the stats my wife recorded regarding our height I came to the conclusion that he didn’t catch me we sort of met going in opposite directions. I claimed to be 5'10" when I went to college back in 1991 and scaled that back to a more realistic 5'9" after a particularly detestable woman working at the Department of Motor Vehicle snidely question my claim of 5'10".

I know better than to mess with DMV so I decided to forgo any mention of her facial hair and left an inch shorter than when I entered. But now it appears that somewhere along the way I’ve misplaced another inch as my wife listed me closer to 5'8" in the alpha male showdown with Junior. I know people shrink as they age but I had always assumed that applied to “other” people.

I’ll be in my hammock if you need me…if I’m still tall enough to get in it.

My name is Josh and I have been cell phone free for three days. I quit cold turkey, as quitters sometimes say to emphasis their iron will and strange disdain for tepid poultry. I prefer cold turkey, especially during these dog days of summer when creating hot turkey would turn your home into a sweat lodge. Besides any turkey left to linger into August is most likely some sort of degenerate wayward bird not worth the gravy you lace it with.

The shunning of the smart alec phone is in no way a show of my iron will, although I am able to fully commit to things stranger and more difficult than unhinging myself from the tether that has tied me to the new world order of communication, connectivity, and Google for so long. Without the all-knowing Google at my beckon call I have been forced to simply wonder and ponder how many different dogs played Lassie and other such questions that perpetually haunt humanity.

It has been a quiet three days with no intrusive pings, dings, or rattles vying for my immediate and constant attention. The side effects of the iPhonectomy have been minimal thus far. Very little discomfort, no uncontrollable bowel issues or persistent longing for screen tapping. There have been a few phantom vibrations in my pants pocket but my doctor has assured me they are unrelated to prolonged cell phone exposure…the nurse giggled…I blushed…so it goes.

The reason behind this cold turkey episode was that one of the perks of my job was that my employer supplied me with a cell phone so they could be sure to have access to me whenever and wherever my person may be at any given time. That particular employer is no longer employing me as I have moved on to what I hope to be greener, lusher, and much more intellectually stimulating pastures. As is the nature of pastures cell phones are not standard issue. They spook the cattle.

No, I’m not going to work on a ranch, Wranglers make me talk funny and flip-flops create anxiety amongst hens which negatively effects their egg production. Chadron State College was kind enough to bring me on board and hand me the keys to a classroom full of unsuspecting and highly impressionable college students. No cell phone required.

So far being off the iLeash has been quite pleasant and has stirred a yearning for the way things were prior to all the iClutter that has inundated our lives. I admit that many of these devices bring quite a measure of convenience to our day-to-day lives but waiting for the next available customer service representative one more time may put me over the edge.

The only thing that keeps my dander down when I’m forced to call these gurus of the gadgetry is to mentally chant the mantra “I’m not them”. When I hang up it’s over for me but for them it’s the beginning of another problem solving fun fest with a shiny new knucklehead. One after another…day in and day out.

Enjoy what’s left of the summer. In a few weeks your kids will be someone else’s problem.

Me and video games have always had a strained relationship. Mainly because I stink at each and every one of them…always have and I suspect always will. Generally I’m not inclined to fits of rage or anger but video games never fail to get my Underoos in a bunch. Buck Rogers if you must know.

My brother and I, like many children in 1982, found an Atari 2600 under the Christmas tree. We were ecstatic, our very own video game, something else to add to the long list of things for us to fight about. And fight we did. As if it wasn’t bad enough that I stunk at each and every game I had to put up with an irritating little brother beating me and telling me that I stunk.

As you Atari aficionados are aware the Atari came with a “Joy Stick” that the smiling, happy player used to control the objects on the screen. One stick…one button…how hard could it be? If only the objects on the screen would have done what I wanted them to do when I wanted them to do it. Someone at the Atari factory failed to put the “joy” in my stick. When I was “playing” I looked like an angry epileptic chimp trying to get the lid off a jar of homemade pickles.

Such fun, such happiness, such delight, such joy…for my brother and anyone else that played me anyway. For me it was agony. Joyless, frustrating, agony. I feel it welling up now 30 years later just thinking about it. Why wouldn’t Donkey Kong jump the barrel? Why did the Pit Fall guy always..always..always fall into the alligator infested pit? Why did those ghosts in Pac-Man out maneuver me every single time? Why oh why?

There have been many video game consoles that have come out since the Atari 2600. My son has an Xbox 360 that he seems to be able to operate without much problem. I have heard the telltale sounds of video game rage coming from his room from time to time but it’s short lived and he seems to move on with the game quickly once the fit has passed.

He’s talked me into playing a game with him a few times and yes I still stink. I still stink, still get frustrated, and still feel like crushing the controller into tiny little pieces each and every time some zombie gets me before I get them.

Gone is the one stick, one button layout of the previously mentioned “Joyless Stick”. The controllers now have more buttons than I have fingers, which seems unfair from the get go and, for your information, I have a full set of 10 digits despite taking high school shop. I watch my son’s fingers flutter with ease around the controller as the zombie killer on the screen expertly moves here and there making zombies wish they had never been born…or dead…I don’t know anymore.

Then it’s my turn. My son’s barking directions…right flipper, “X” button, left trigger…the zombies are closing in. I assume their closing in. I haven’t had a chance to actually look up at the screen as the 63 buttons are giving me and my 10 fingers about as much sensory input as a man in my condition can hope to handle. I’m not sure exactly what that condition is but I know I’ve had it since Christmas 1982 and it could turn out to be fatal…for everyone but the zombies.

Happy 15th Birthday to my son Jackson. May your day be shiny and bright like the braces we got you instead of a dirt bike, a llama or a chimp.

Back in the early days of baseball, amateur teams, teams that weren’t professional big city ball clubs, that played out in the country, small towns, or any such back and beyond baseball fields were said to play in the “Bush Leagues.” It was a descriptive phrase, or noun (all my English teachers pat yourself on the back you penetrated my skull), that simply meant anything other than professional level baseball teams.

This origin of the term wasn’t meant to be derogatory but soon shifted from a noun to an adjective (go ahead pat yourselves on the back again) and took on a new meaning, a derogatory meaning, that was used in and out of baseball as a reference to something or someone of low quality that is lacking professionalism (think Ponzi Scheme in the corporate world).

Nowadays, we use the term in baseball when other bush league synonyms (one more pat on the back) we would like to use might get us tossed out of a game for not being very lady like. More accurately, we yell the term (rather than “use” it) at an opposing player or more likely a coach for being an unsavory jerk (synonym). It goes without saying, but I’ll say it, you don’t want to be referred to as “Bush League” in baseball or any other arena of dealings with human folk.

I played for a coach in college one season (for some reason he didn’t last long) that loved to run a variety of trick plays. Plays that were designed to outwardly deceive opposing players and get them out in what many of my teammates and myself felt to be an unsavory manner. We hated running the plays as we didn’t think they were very sporting and knew that they were considered bush league.

We would often times accidently-on-purpose “missed” the coaches signal (mutiny on the bush league seas) to put one of his trick plays into action to save ourselves the embarrassment of having the insult of “bush league” hurled our way by the opposition and all goodly baseball folk from the bush to the big cities.

Winning by embarrassing another player through trickery is not winning in my book (I don’t actually have a book so don’t ask for it in your local bookstore). If you win or gain an advantage in this manner the baseball gods will surely frown upon you and karmic misfortune will most certainly track you down and bounce a baseball into your groin at the most inopportune moment (see “Bernie Madoff”). I don’t like to have baseball’s bounced into my groin and as far as I know there is no “opportune” moment for such a ghastly event to occur.

Coaches that employ bush league tactics and teach them to the players under their charge defend their less than sporting ways by claiming that winning is what matters most and you should try and win at all costs. These are not coaches I want my son to play for. I want my son, and all kids for that matter, to have the opportunity to play for coaches that teach respect for their opponents and respect for the game. Those are teachings that will foster character and sportsmanship. Useful and desirable attributes on and off the field.

Thankfully my son has had the opportunity to play for such coaches and will be better because of it…win or lose.

I have a bike that I ride thus I am a bike rider, or cyclist, not sure what the difference is other than bike rider sounds more passive than cyclist. Bike rider makes it sound like your just sitting there whereas cyclist sounds like you’re doing something. I guess both can be true on any given ride. Going downhill your generally along for the ride, smiling and squealing like a fool, going uphill your wheezing, sweating, cursing, snorting…you’re a cyclist.

Some feel the need to peddle on the downhill…they are called idiots. These are the same people that walk on escalators and habitually partake in other foolishly unnecessary exertions that perhaps provide them some sort of false sense of accomplishment. Poor souls don’t know what they’re missing.

Rapid City has a wonderful bike path that meanders through town along Rapid Creek. The path is a favorite for local bikers, walkers, runners, and general wanderers on walkabouts and such. I have found that the bike path is the most dangerous place to ride a bike in Rapid City. I would rather take my chances with the herds of rental RVs and other motorized forms of metal mayhem.

Dodging destruction on the highways and bi-ways is much safer than navigating the duffers, dogs, kids, squirrels, and most recently…basketballs on the bike path. What are the chances that you hit a rogue basketball so squarely that it completely stops your bicycles forward progress and drops you to the pavement faster than a narcoleptic pigeon?

I wasn’t in a hurry, I wasn’t riding too fast, I was abiding by bike path etiquette. I was coming up behind a young man in his early 20s that was apparently taking his basketball out for a stroll. He was walking and dribbling between his legs and as I approached him I said, “On your left.”

Apparently I startled him or broke his ball handling concentration and just as I was about to go around him he lost the handle on the basketball. A little to the left or a little to the right and all would have been well but I managed to hit the basketball dead solid perfect. I hit the ground and skidded a bit, leaving some of the hide from my hip and arm in my wake, eventually my skin provided sufficient braking and I came to a stop.

When I came to a stop I heard, “Are you all right?” Am I alright? Good question. When my quick assessment of my physical condition checked out okay, other than a few abrasions, I became angry for some reason. I know it was an accident, I know that guy didn’t have any malicious intent when he set out to dribble his basketball down the bike path, but something snapped. Physically I was fine but mentally things were headed south.

When he asked if I was all right I responded, “No I’m not (insert favorite four letter word here) all right!” He should have just shut up at that point and let the crazy old man in tight shorts and funny shoes fret in private but he felt bad and said, “The ball got away from me.” To which the crazy old man in tight shorts and funny shoes replied, “No (insert other favorite four letter word here) the ball got away from you!”

The nice young man that had previously been minding his own business said, “I’m really sorry sir I can call someone for you if you need help.” The lunatic in lycra replied, “I’ve got my own (insert favorite four letter word here) phone!” At that point my anger, which I almost always have absolute control over, boiled over and I picked my bike up overhead like a rabid Yetti…yelled my favorite four letter word…and hurled my bike as far as I could. I was actually pretty impressed with the distance of my bike toss.

The polite young basketball dribbler took that crazed confusing act as his cue to leave the crazy old man in tight shorts and funny shoes alone to battle his demons. As he left he said, “I’m really sorry sir…my apologies.”

Young man, wherever you are, “My apologies.” Crazy snuck up and shanghaied my congeniality. Maybe I should stick to riding escalators. For all those who may be concerned…my bike is fine.

It’s the rainy season here in the Black Hills. That time of year when you can hear the grass growing. The rainy season always corresponds with baseball season, which is in full swing for my son and me. Most baseball players don’t mind the occasional rainout easing its way into the schedule. You don’t get to play ball but you get to watch it rain, both a pleasure in their own right.

If you’ve been in a bit of a slump, an affliction no ballplayer is immune to, a rainout always seems to put the body and mind at ease and get you back on track or at least make the slump more tolerable. I’ve been playing baseball for over 35 years and what I used to consider a slump has become so common place that it’s pert near the new norm.

As of late I’ve been thinking that maybe I should hang up the cleats but I’d miss those rainouts too much. I thought I’d at least play until my glove broke so I’d have that for an excuse, as lame as it may be, but that old piece of cowhide won’t give up the ghost. Curse my parents for spending more than they could afford back in 1990 on a glove that any cow would be proud to give their life for.

That’s another reason I’ve been pondering putting the game to rest, there are 14 guys on the baseball team I play on and my glove is older than 12 of them. Why did these kids go and get so young? Maybe when my face begins to resemble my glove I’ll stop the madness and take up bocce ball, yard darts, or some other old fart shuffle and toss type game. Old fart shuffle and toss…and fart and wheeze and hack…would probably more accurate.

Speaking of yard darts I think we’re coming up on about the 30th anniversary of that fateful day my father permanently banished the game from our family. I’d like to say that the banishment was a result of being a sore loser in a tightly contested match but I can’t say that for a couple of reason. First, my dad’s not a sore loser, secondly he wasn’t present when the “incident” occurred.

It was one of those wrong-place-wrong-time type of incidents. Wrong place for my sister wrong time for me to prove to my brother that I could throw a yard dart higher than him, which, for those of you scoring at home, I did.

I gave it chuck and we, my brother and I, watched it arc high into the North Dakota breeze until gravity turned it’s very steal, very sharp tip down towards dad’s beautifully manicured lawn. Only this time it didn’t find dad’s lush green lawn on its downward flight. It found my sister who was, as usual, minding her own business while her two knucklehead brothers were demonstrating their stupidity, as usual.

She never saw it coming. I saw it coming, but hoped a knuckleheads hope that that North Dakota breeze would alter the yard darts flight just enough so that we could continue being knuckleheads. That wind never liked me much.

I found out right quick that head wounds bleed…a lot. It was hard to keep direct pressure on the wound while my sister ran screaming to the house. My brother, who’s a bit squeamish at the sight of blood, was no help.

So there was Jarvis, fainted away face down where the yard dart was supposed to have landed, and me running behind my sister with my finger in the divot repeating the mantra Amanda had heard numerous times before, “Don’t tell mom…don’t tell mom…” She didn’t have to tell. The grisly scene was pretty self-explanatory.

Dad got home from work, snapped each yard dart in two, said some words that would make a sailor blush and that was that…the end of my aspiring yard dart career.

Summer’s upon us…be careful out there and enjoy the rainouts…they keep the yard darts grounded.