Rambling Josh

As you dawdle about in full holiday hustle mode diligently checking the “To Do’s and To Get’s” off your lengthy list of loved ones wants, needs, and must haves keep in mind that the best gift of all is the gift of time. Maybe that’s why we buy gifts, so people will be forced to spend time with us in order to receive, open, and act like they adore whatever it is you’ve presented them with. Buying time.

The amount of time you spent thoughtfully looking for a gift, wrapping the gift, transporting the gift, and presenting the gift should be accurately recorded on the “To and From” tag so the gift recipient is well aware of how much time you are owed from them. In fact, the gift recipient is not allowed to open the gift until the time you have bought has elapsed. During the time you bought fair and square the gift recipient must commit their full undivided attention to you.

The use of any and all electronic devices during this time is strictly prohibited unless an exception is agreed upon by the gifter. This prohibition on electronic devices does not include anything medical in nature, such as pacemakers, hearing aids, respirators, defibrillators, so forth and so on. This clause on medical devices is necessary to prevent gifters from utilizing the process of buying time to bring about the demise of the giftee. This would be “killing time” which may be entirely justified in some cases but is generally frowned upon during the holidays.

I think if this “buying time” idea were to be instituted it would completely change the holiday shopping and gift giving experience. It may prompt you to hustle a bit when looking for gifts for that certain somebody. “Merry Christmas, you only owe me seven seconds so rip that sucker open so we can start the timer…of course I like you I just know how busy you are and all so I didn’t want to take up a bunch of your time. Oh, you have a gift for me as well? How nice. You traveled to Shanghai in a row boat to get my present? I owe you 3 years…you shouldn’t have…you really shouldn’t have.”

Yes I’m aware this buying time concept has a few glitches that need to be worked out before a full society wide launch. Is a pat on the back considered a gift? How about a nod of the head as you meet someone on the highway? Have comfort in knowing that if you don’t really care to spend time with someone most likely the feeling is mutual. Not everyone can like everyone can they? Nobody could possibly have time for that.

If “buying time” doesn’t strike your fancy or seems to complex, complicated, and fraught with pitfalls “time shares” may be of interest to you and yours. Not the overpriced, dingy, run down, time share in Topeka you invested in one night while experimenting with the moonshine still your mother-in-law won at the “No Shave November Quarterback Club Beardathon”.

Sharing time with friends and family is what the holidays are about. No gifts necessary. An extensive chin wag or a slight nod…like will be returned with like whether you like it or not. Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

Thank you to all the family and friends that helped make for an enjoyable surprise 60th birthday celebration for my Mom. Light Up Night in Lignite made for a perfect cover for this covert operation and added even more people and merriment to the mix.

To the delight of the wee one’s Santa was also in the house to take in a few last requests before he and the elves begin their final push towards Christmas. Mom and Santa had a brief discussion regarding a series of misunderstandings that occurred in the 1960s that prompted Mom’s removal from the “nice” list. They had a good laugh and both agreed that she should remain on the “naughty” list.

It’s hard for me to believe that Mom will be 60 on December 5th. She makes 60 seem so young. It provides me with hope and reassurance to know that I come from a family that demonstrates time and time again that it is possible to grow old without growing up.

I’m not saying they’re a bunch of irresponsible knuckleheads and nincompoops. They’ve just managed to maintain an infectious zeal for life and the ability to weather many a storm with their smiles and sense of humor firmly intact. There are many families made up of people like this and I am quite thankful I am a part of such a gang.

Through the years Mom has captured many families on film during photo shoots. She has stopped time for many people, events, and celebrations through her gift of photography. A gift she gives of so freely with obvious joy and endless creativity.

Whenever I look at pictures my Mom has taken I don’t just see the picture on the print I also see my Mom taking the picture. Our house isn’t simply filled with pictures of our children; it’s filled with pictures of our children smiling at their Grandma. Camera or not her grandchildren are generally all smiles when she’s around.

Her quick wit and sarcasm are always good for a laugh…even if her sarcasm cannon is pointed squarely at you. She can dish it out with the best of them and will be the first one to make fun of herself when she does something a bit left of right. I shudder to think what would have become of me if I had been raised by someone of a serious stuffy disposition. Norman Bates in the movie “Psycho” comes to mind.

I am quite thankful for my Mom. Thankful for and proud of who she is and all that she does for her family, her friends, and her community. It was great to see so many familiar faces come out and lend their smiles to the portrait of Mom’s 60th sleigh ride around the sun.

Happy Birthday Mom…and many more.

Generally I’m fairly indifferent when it comes to my reaction to the various advertising photos used in stores to depict how wildly wonderful the product being peddled supposedly is. People, mostly beautiful well groomed people, grinning like idiots as they gaze, awestruck, at the latest device meant to distract us from the boring world passing us by.

The picture is supposed to make us think, “If I buy that thing I to can grin like an idiot and be seen as beautiful and well groomed by all the people I won’t have to interact with while I’m staring mindlessly at a piece of plastic that will be in a landfill in some third world country before the banana’s on my kitchen counter go bad.”

A picture is worth a thousand words, which is fortunate, because nobody wants to be forced to read a thousand words anymore. I like pictures, pictures transport us to places we may never go and back to places we would like to go again. The reaction of one person to a photo is most likely not going to be the same reaction shared by absolutely everyone so I’m not sure what process a photo ad goes through before the powers to be deem it display floor worthy.

I was forced to venture into BestBuy recently with a friend that was in search of a gadget of some sort. BestBuy and I have a sorted past which has left our relationship a bit rocky so I don’t frequent it’s dazzling, buzzing, blinking electronic world much. As my buddy discussed his product of interest with a sales associate I wandered around aimlessly in awe of how much absolute crap was being peddled in this store.

Then I saw it. The photo advertisement that said a thousand or so words to me…none of them good or printable in a paper my grandma is going to be reading. It was a picture of lovely well groomed family of four clad in L.L. Beanish type apparel sitting around a campfire with the family tent standing in the background. The mom and daughter each have fluffy white marshmallows on a stick poised over the fire, the dad is sitting back with a mug of hot coffee clasped between his hands, and the boy…the boy is in the middle holding an iPad.

He’s holding an iPad and the whole beautiful well groomed gang, ma, pa, and little sister, are grinning like idiots as they all stare at whatever gem of humanity is being displayed on the magical rectangle held in the boys clutches. It is a sad, sad sort of affairs when a crackling, dancing campfire in the wilderness is upstaged by an electronic device.

In an effort to soothe and distract me my mind played out a lovely scenario of what followed minutes after the camera captured the atrocity in front of me.

The fluffy white marshmallows teetering unattended and ignored by mom and little sister burst into flames. Little sister screams and begins wildly waving her flaming marshmallow around and it flies off the stick landing on the sleeve of the boys L.L. Bean fleece jacket. The fleece jacket, which was not properly inspected during manufacturing, is found to be highly flammable and the sleeve is immediately engulfed in a marshmallow fueled inferno.

The mother, whose marshmallow is also ablaze, jumps up to save her precious boy and her marshmallow flies off her stick and lands on the tent which begins to simmer at the same rate as the fleece. Dear old dad jumps up, spills his piping hot coffee on his crotch, keels over from the searing pain and lands on his son snuffing the fleece fire out and knocking the iPad into the fire rendering it a very high priced shrinky dink.

Lessons learned. Campfires get angry when their ignored, you should always be diligently wary of siblings with flaming marshmallows, and surprisingly the warranty they sold you doesn’t cover “that”…or most likely anything else that could conceivably go wrong with your purchase.

Keep your head on a swivel…the holiday season is upon us.

When Tuesday November 5th roles around there will be one more adult residing in our home. No it’s not the day a Russian mail order bride arrives…she’s on back order until after the holidays. Does a mail man actually deliver them? There’s not a lot of room in our mail man’s delivery truck. She’d have to ride on his lap. He could let her steer, run the blinkers, fart around with the radio, honk the horn, deliver a few letters. It would be a fine welcome to her new life in America. A much more suitable arrival for a new bride than a cardboard box with a few holes punched in it.

November 5th used to be our little girl’s birthday. Then one day I turned around for a second helping of Little Mermaid cake and next thing I know she’s gone and grown up on me. Our daughter, Sierra, not the Little Mermaid. I haven’t kept up with the Little Mermaid much. Last I heard she had fallen on tough times, had a fling with Shrek, and developed a taste for lobster.

On November 5th of this particular year Sierra will be 18 years old. It seems like only 10 years ago she was turning 8. Eighteen. We’ve got a busy day planned for the newest member of the adult world. A world that will take all of your childhood hopes and dreams, hoist them up nice and high and then ever so swiftly bring them smashing down. She’s got plenty of time to experience that so we’ll ease her into it.

We’ll start off with a nice adult breakfast of bran flakes, prune juice, and lactose free milk. Once breakfast has ran its course we’ll head down to the Marine recruiting station, give blood, buy a pack of Vantage Menthols, get a couple tattoos, register to vote, buy a lottery ticket, and head to Manitoba for a Labatt’s. The most vexing question is whether to go with a unicorn, a butterfly, or a dragon tattoo…with my face on each of course.

On the return trip from Manitoba she can swing into a pawn shop to start her gun, guitar, and gold chain collection. Then it’s off to the courthouse for jury duty and to change her name to something more exotic and worldly. Maybe Raksmei, Chankrisna, Yooralla, or Peg. Such a busy day.

An adult. My daughter an adult. Do children ever actually fully become an adult in the eyes of their parents? It seems as though to accomplish that I would have to completely forget about the piggy back rides to bed, the pushes on the swing, the way she yelled “Daddy” and ran into my arms when I picked her up after school, how she needed me to tie her shoes, braid her hair, and be her horsey.

I can’t forget those things. She hasn’t needed those things for some time now but I’ll keep holding onto them for her…for me.

Happy Birthday Sierra. Proud of the adult you’ve become. Being an adult’s not so bad if you can resist growing up.

He was born on October 10th, 1928 at Van Hook, ND and died June 1st 1987. To a few he was known as Fredrick, to some Fred, to most Fritz, but I called him Grandpa. Grandpa Fritz would have been 85 years old this year but his big kind heart gave all it could give and went silent when he was only 59.

I knew him for the first 15 years of my life and not a day has gone by in the twenty-six years he’s been gone that he hasn’t crossed my mind. He was a good man, a kind man, a quiet man that seemed to be happiest when he had a hammer or a Louie Lamoure book in his hand. Some of my fondest memories of him are the times I had sense enough to just shut my mouth and watch him in his woodshop.

Watching someone do what they were born to do is one of the great pleasures in life.

Even as a child I knew I was watching someone special, someone that had a gift and enjoyed nothing more than sharing that gift with others through the things he built. The things he built were built well, built with precision, built with patience, and always built with kindness.

Many of us are fortunate enough to still have some of the things he built for us. Things we can touch and they touch us back. The ease in which he worked with wood is what I remember most vividly. It was as if he was simply letting the wood become what it wanted to become, as if they were partners, and the tools were an extension of him. A hammer, a chainsaw, a drill, a chisel, a trowel…whatever the tool was when it was in his hands it became part of him and without struggle did exactly what it was supposed to do.

An artist is defined as somebody who does something skillfully and creatively. Grandpa Fritz was an artist and I call on him often when I’m doing woodwork to guide my hands and to calm my mind. He was who a lot of people called on quite often in Lignite when a problem needed to be solved. Apparently he managed to acquire a lot of wisdom and know how in his all too brief 59 years.

He was a veteran of the U.S. Army, a farmer, a silver miner, a roughneck, Lignite Chief of Police, Lignite Fire Chief, a school bus driver, school custodian, managed the bowling alley, and wasn’t too shabby of a bowler either. A busy man that was always there for the people in the town he called home.

His handy work can still be seen around Lignite. The next time you find yourself in the Lignite City Park seeking shelter from the sun or the rain under the picnic shelters you can thank Grandpa Fritz. After all these years he’s still got us covered.

Happy Birthday Grandpa…We miss you.

It was opening antelope season here in South Dakota this weekend so my father-in-law and his brother ventured west of the Missouri to try their luck and enlighten my son Jackson in the ways of the old Pollock hunter. After a successful inaugural deer season last year Jackson wanted to have a go at antelope hunting this year.

Jackson’s antelope tag was a mentor tag which meant that he could only hunt while in the company of a responsible unarmed adult. Finding someone that met all three of those stringent requirements proved difficult so we did the best we could and loaded four grownup types into the pickup with the hopes that between the four of us we could provide some semblance of mentorship to the lad.

I met the “unarmed” requirement but was doubtful that a game warden would believe I was in compliance with the other two requirements. My father-in-law and his brother are both in their 70s so they presumably had the “adult” portion covered. My buddy Paul came along and was forced into the “responsible” role which mainly involved explaining to Jackson why he couldn’t or shouldn’t shoot various animals and objects. Paul hunts a lot so it was good having him there to share his pearls of wisdom with boy. Also, since Jackson is at the age where he believes his father to have the intelligence of a sack of hammers you need some credible back up.

There is a reason they want the mentor to be unarmed. It cuts down on self-defense claims and it’s a full time job making sure the business end of a fourteen year olds rifle is pointed in a relatively safe direction relatively all the time and asking “is it loaded” and “is it on safe” six thousand times every thirty seconds.

I didn’t mind going along as the chauffer and gun barrel watcher instead of toting my own barking stick. The parts I like most about hunting are walking and making jerky out of the unlucky game. The shooting part and the results of a successful, or worse yet, quasi-successful shot I don’t care as much for.

Yes, I know they need to be hunted to control their population I fail to see the beauty in seeing a living breathing creature absorb the impact of hot lead. I hunt occasionally but have never felt the “thrill” of the hunt but if my son does then that’s fine. I’m happy that he at least confided that he “sort of felt bad” after shooting his deer last year. I would rather have that than see him cheering wildly at the sight of a dying animal he just shot…that would be troubling.

It was enjoyable riding around with the mentor gang and spending time with Jackson away from technology and what not. It’s good for kids to be subjected to the banter of adults in an enclosed space for an extended period of time with no hope of reprieve. Given time they may even step outside their little teenage world and fully engage in the banter and learn a little bit about life outside of the little box teenagers tend to put themselves into.

I believe it is also good for a kid to see firsthand that video games are not an accurate reflection of the consequences potentially brought about by firing a gun. Jackson has a little ways to go before I would feel comfortable sending him out for a hunt without a few mentors close at hand but he’s a good kid and seems to enjoy hunting.

As for me, well I think I’ll stick to rock hunting. Safe hunting everyone.

During one of our family car trips this past summer we stopped at a rest stop along the interstate so everyone could do whatever it is they had to do. I don’t ask questions I just pull over upon request as quickly as possible because kids being kids will generally wait until they are past the point of prolonged refrain when they get around to asking. My kids are older now so the buffer zone between the request the action has increased considerably but I’d rather not take any chances.

I noticed that apparently the health of our pets has become high priority at rest stops nowadays as most have a designated “Pet Exercise Area” for Rufus to get in a quick jazzercise session. Do pets know they are in an exercise area or is “Pet Exercise Area” a less graphic way of saying watch your step and check your shoes before hopping back into the sedan.

I was in a “Buffalo Exercise Area” once during a family trip to Medora in my grandparents Southwind motor home. I remember I had just received my free Time Magazine 35mm camera that I had gotten by simply signing my Mom up for Time Magazine. Not wanting Dad to feel left out we signed him up for a magazine as well…strictly for the articles.

When you’re 13 years old a trip becomes much more exciting when you have your very own camera dangling around your neck waiting to capture the majesty of a 13 year olds world. I think this may have been before the time when it became necessary to warn people about obvious things as I don’t recall a “Angry Buffalo Are Bad For Your Health” sign anywhere as I strolled out into the “Buffalo Exercise Area” to capture a Pulitzer prize winning photo.

I also don’t recall any of the grownup adult types in the motor home warning me about the obvious and it’s highly unlikely that I wasn’t listening. I’m not pointing fingers or making accusations but they all seemed fairly relieved and overly encouraging when I asked if I could get out and take some pictures of the buffalo.

So I strode out towards the buffalo herd, free Time Magazine 35mm in hand, to capture the essence of tatanka in its natural environment. Snapping a picture every few feet so that the forensic report accompanying my trampled, but not torn, tuff skin jeans would have sufficient photographic evidence to confirm my stupidity.

My Grandpa, after reading the paper, eating a bakers dozen of Grandma’s world famous rolls, and drinking a pot coffee must have noticed that I had gotten closer to the herd than a sane boy should be and blew the horn in the motor home in attempt to get my attention. It got my attention and the attention of the buffalo that were enjoying their day out on the range. Even as a 13 year old I knew that it probably wasn’t healthy to get the attention of a buffalo herd.

I also knew from listening to my grandparent’s 8-track collection that you couldn’t roller skate in a buffalo herd and hoped the same wasn’t true for running. About two steps into my retreat I firmly planted my foot in something soft, ankle deep, and aromatic. A buffalo giggled, Grandpa gagged, and the Southwind headed north with a hand-me-down Converse dangling from the luggage rack.

As a married man married to a woman there are a few phrases spoken in my general direction, by the previously alluded to wife, that almost always elicit an internal cringe and an external expressionless stare. An expressionless stare that will hold for as long it takes the phrase to rattle around in my head and create an entire made for T.V. movie with a bad beginning spiraling into a dismal ending.

The movie begins with my wife striking up a conversation with a female coworker where they learn that they both love Hallmark holiday movies, Dwight Yoakam, tiramisu, and Audrey Hepburn. As misfortune would have it this female coworker is married to a man who by some stretch of the imaginations of females hopped up on thoughts of tiramisu being served to them on Dwight Yoakam’s guitar should be my new best friend.

Scene two is my wife walking into our bedroom as I’m curled up in my favorite beanbag unwinding in my salmon colored velour jumpsuit, sipping a Zima, smoking my pipe, and writing poetry on triscuits with ez cheese. She eats verse three, washes it down with a swallow of Zima, and says, “I was chatting with Elvira at work today and it turns out we have absolutely everything in common. You’ll have to meet her husband you two would get along great.”

“You’ll have to meet her husband…” The camera zooms in to reveal a blanket of blankness rolling down my face, a partially chewed triscuit sits anxiously in my mouth waiting for me to regain facial control, as my mind races in slow motion.

Early on in our marriage you would have heard me say, “Sure, sounds good.” It’s not early on in our marriage anymore and now you will hear me grunt, “Hm” as the ez cheese runs amuck from my clenched hand. Actually it’s been quite some time since my wife has suggested that myself and one of her friend’s husbands would be inseparable buddies.

Yes, I do believe she’s given up on the possibility of fixing me up with a bosom buddy or perhaps she’s realized that if she wants to keep her friend it might be best to keep her friends husband quarantined from me.

It’s not that I don’t like people. People are good. I have friends that are people. Not lots of them but enough for me. If one of my friends should have an unfortunate carnival ride accident or get kicked into permanent submission by an angry bovine then I will entertain the prospect of bringing a new buddy on board but as of now they need not apply. There’s no room in this cartoon for another character but I’ll keep your resume on file for future openings.

What questions would you ask during an interview of a potential buddy? Before I asked any questions I would make one simple request…make me laugh. Make me laugh so hard that I regret not wearing dark pants. If you can accomplish that one task I’ll freshen up and we’ll begin the interview.

”What are your thoughts on clowns and mimes?”, “Do you prefer to act your age or your shoe size?”, “What songs do you sing in the shower?”, “Do you consider flatulence a form of entertainment?”, “If you could pick one trick to teach an old dog what would it be?” In conclusion, have you come to this interview of your own free will with complete absents of coercion from well-meaning females resembling our wives?

Thank you for your time…I’ll be in touch.

Despite a continuous onslaught from a cantankerous South Dakota wind the seventh edition of the Highway 212 Gut Check has been peddled to completion. Actually, if you want to get nitpicky, the 412 miles was peddled to completion by some and peddled to various “I’ve had enough” points by others.

The “Hell and Back” division, 824 miles of peddle power bliss, was won by Jason Harms of Ortonville, MN with a new record of 54 hours and 34 minutes. After riding across the state and back again Jason and his wife hung out at the border and greeted each finisher with cheers, beers, brats, burgers, and friendly hospitality.

The solo division was a battle for the first 16 hours between two riders. Then at three in the morning, after nodding off on his bike several times and fighting thick fog, one rider decided to take a cat nap and was passed in the night as he slumbered.

Forgoing sleep and ignoring bodily discomfort in areas where bodily discomfort generally demands immediate attention, Pete Ellis, of White Bear Lake, MN rolled across the finish line in 25 hours and 20 minutes. Very impressive accomplishment with the wind conditions as they were.

The Mud Butte Merger leapfrog team, consisting of riders Tim Chrest, Jay Stevens, Susan Dixon, myself, and crew Donavon and Joann Ellis, put up a good fight but were not able to ignore bodily discomfort and the relentless taunting of the wind. At mile marker 320 we gave into the temptation of the brats, burgers, and beer waiting at the finish line and called it quits.

Although our team didn’t finish the race we did raise more money for the Crohn’s and Collitis Foundation of America than any other riders or teams. Mud Butte Merger raised $3,350.33 of the $6,306.33 brought in by the event. Jay Stevens was once again the top fund raiser bringing in over $2200.00. It seems that our team was so busy raising money that we didn’t have enough time to train sufficiently for the race. Not an excuse…a reason.

We raised the most money and I would hazard a guess that we had the most fun as well. Laughing with each other, laughing at each other, always laughing. It seems that our team was so busy laughing that we didn’t have time to train sufficiently. Not an excuse…a reason.

I’m always a little nervous the weekend of the Gut Check. Since I’m the knucklehead that puts this event on I feel responsible for each of the participants and am always relieved when the weekend passes without any major incidences. Thankfully everyone stayed safe and other than a few aches and pains had nothing but good things to say about their experience.

Thank you to everyone that contributed to the success of this event in some manner. My mom is trying to put together a 413 member relay team. She plans to be the 413th member poised at the finish line camera in hand. If you’re interested she’s currently reviewing applications.

Gut Check 2014…see you there. www.GutCheck212.com

In June of 1943 a B-17 Flying Fortress with ten airmen aboard was flying from Pendleton, Oregon to Grand Island, Nebraska where it was to join other bombers and continue on to England to take part in World War II.

When the bomber and its crew failed to arrive in Grand Island they were declared missing and the Army conducted several unsuccessful searches in an attempt to locate them. In August of 1945 a couple of cowboys saw something shiny on a ridge in the Cloud Peak area of the Big Horn Mountains in Wyoming. They set out to investigate and discovered the wreckage of the B-17 and the deceased crew.

Those involved in the recovery effort believe that one of the crew may have survived the crash as he was found propped next to a rock with an open bible and his open billfold with family members’ pictures lying next to him.

In August of 1946, the Forest Service christened the unnamed mountain, Bomber Mountain, in honor of the fallen crew members. A plaque listing the men who died in the crash was placed near Lake Florence at the base of the ridge where the crash occurred. Much of the wreckage still remains strewn amongst the massive boulders on the ridge of Bomber Mountain and many people hike to the area every year to see the wreckage and pay their respects to the crew.

I first heard the story of Bomber Mountain several years ago and have wanted to hike up there and have a look around for quite some time. In August of 2013, myself and two of my best friends, Paul and Bubba, set out for Bomber Mountain. I’m really not sure what’s so intriguing about trying to locate the 67 year old wreckage of a bomber but I’m glad I’ve got a couple friends that were willing to take part in the adventure with me.

To reach Bomber Mountain one must hoof it about 23 miles round trip at an altitude between 9,000 and 12,000 feet with about 30 pounds of what not strapped to your back. We were planning to spend two days on the trail so we divvied up the food, tent, and what not amongst us and set out from West Tensleep Campground with jovial anticipation.

It is a beautiful hike with a lot of high mountain scenery to soak in while you totter along as both a sightseer and a beast of your own burdens. Mile after mile, hour after hour of pondering the beauty of it all, exchanging insults with good friends, and contemplating whether the weight of an extra pair of underwear and a toothbrush are worth the added strain is good for the soul.

The first day was a relatively easy 8 mile hike to Misty Moon Lake where we eagerly dropped our packs, set up camp, and took an uplifting soak in 40 degree lake water. The second day was not so relatively easy and left all three of us in various degrees of discomfort.

To make a short story long…we were not able to locate the wreckage. We were in the right area but apparently went wrong when we went right instead of left. So it goes. I guess you could say that the mission was a failure but the journey was a success. Successful in bringing friends together and allowing us a little time to try and put the big picture on hold while we enjoy the company of people who know us better than they would like. Sometimes it takes a mountain.