Rambling Josh

July 17th is my birthday. Hold the applause, all I did was not die for a whole year…again. No cause for celebration, balloon animals, silly hats, or clowns…especially clowns. It is just the day the record keeper of all things numerical raises its ugly head and with a slobbery sneer, dripping with sarcasm and cynicism, blathers on and on trying to convince me that I’m 41 years old. “You’re closer to 50 than you are to 30” he says in an attempt to make me slump into a melancholy stupor and ponder my life.

I don’t like him much but luckily as I get older it’s getting easier to turn a deaf ear his way. Not because I don’t care, not because I’ve accepted my advanced state of years, but because quite literally my hearing isn’t what it used to be. Teenage boys must speak in a frequency that scrambles as it reaches my ears. I’m about to hang a chalkboard around my sons neck and just have him write whatever it is I’ve had to have him repeat seven times. I assume it’s some form of the same English language I enjoy using but maybe their using Dutch in the school systems now. It’s been awhile since I’ve been in school things change.

So how was the first year of my fourth decade? Optimistically, I postponed my mid-life crisis until I hit 50. I’ve got a lengthy list of things I need to get done and 80 years just didn’t seem to be enough time to squeeze it all in.

The 40th year was a pretty good year. Way back in the early 1990s, during my first few years of college at Northern State University in Aberdeen, I was fortunate to have many wonderful instructors. Instructors that enjoyed what they did and inspired me to want to become like them. It was at that time that my younger self told himself that by the time he was 40 he was going to complete a doctoral degree. Fighting off my weakness for procrastination I was able to cross that goal off my list a few months ago.

Why didn’t my younger self tell himself he was going to be a billionaire by the time he was 40? The idiot never thought of that I guess. Maybe next time.

It’s hard not to find yourself pondering life when your birthday rolls around. It’s good to reflect but what’s done is done and life isn’t going to pause very long for you before it rolls on. Pause and ponder but don’t pout or the big bird of bad tidings will crap on your lip. You won’t get invited to any festivities of fun with that on your lip, your wife won’t kiss you, your kids will run their fingernails along their chalk boards and their friends will scoff at you in Dutch. Bad news on all fronts.

So 41 it is. It’s mirror image year for my son and I this year as he turns 14 on July 16th. I suppose we could hold each other up to the mirror and see reflections of what was and what’s to come but that would be depressing for all involved. Proficiat met je verjaardag Jackson…and many…many more.

What are your plans for the 4th of July? You don’t have to tell me if you don’t feel like it I was just asking to be polite. What am I doing? Well since you asked, we are going to the land of a lotta lakes (10,000 or so) to hang out at my sister and brother-in-laws house. Yes we were invited and yes they are going to be home. I think.

Amanda invited her siblings and parents some time ago but maybe she’s had second thoughts since extending the invite. When I say “some time ago” I really do mean some time ago. As in not much less than a year ago. That’s the way my sister rolls. She’s good at planning. That gene skipped me. I’ve been unplanned from the beginning.

I always say that if you have no plans then you’re never disappointed or at least you have no reason to be disappointed. Some of the best times I’ve had have managed to transpire out of nothing. Of course I’m easy to entertain and difficult to disappoint so my “good time” bar may be a bit lower than the lot of you.

I am thankful for people that like to plan and I am quite thankful that my sister invited all us yahoos to her home to share in some Independence Day festivities. What’s on tap for the Ellis-Undjhem family in Paul Bunyan land? You sure have a lot of questions but I’m glad you’re so interested in the goings on of my family.

Well let me tell you. The Yankees happen to be stopping off for a few games against the Twins so we’re all going to take in some major league baseball action at lovely Target Field. If you haven’t been to Target Field yet I highly recommend it. It’s a beautiful park and beats sitting under the big top at the Metrodome any day. Baseball was meant to be played out doors on real grass and Target Field is a great place to take in a ball game.

Other than that I’m not sure what’s on my sister’s itinerary. Maybe she told me but I didn’t hear much after the Yankees and baseball game part. I could really care less if we didn’t do anything but sit around and chit chat for a few days. We don’t get to do that much anymore.

Everybody gets so busy with their lives. Time spent sharing in each other lives is a hot commodity that we can’t squander when the opportunity presents itself. My sister has provided the opportunity and for that I am grateful.

What I am most looking forward to, even more than the baseball game, is sitting around a fire all hopped up on smores listening to my family tell stories and laugh. We’ve all heard the stories before, we all know how they end, but we’ll laugh like it’s the first time because they are our stories. Every family has stories. I hope you spend your 4th of July sharing stories with the people that helped write them.

Happy 4th of July my friends.

Generally the way it works amongst us humans is that a mother and a father are standard issue to kick start our existence in this world. As for other worlds, I cannot say, because other than Saskatchewan I have not visited any other planets. If I do and if I find anything of interest I will promptly report my finding back to you. Until then, carry on.

These “standard issue” mothers and fathers come in very unstandardized shapes, personalities, and shoe sizes. Father’s Day is day set aside for us to shower our father with gifts, praise, and a fresh jug of cologne. It takes more than a standard issue man to be a father to be a dad. It takes someone special. Someone like my dad.

I’ve always known my dad was a good dad but now that I’m older I realize that he’s more than that, he’s a good man as well. A trustworthy, honest man, with a great big heart that works hard and can be counted on to do what’s right.

My dad was only 20 years old when I was born and he was who I wanted to be. Watching him play softball when I was kid was something that I enjoyed and remember even now. I wanted to run, throw, and hit like him. Actually, I wanted to run, throw, and hit for him and, being a good dad, he let me do just that.

Football, track, baseball…I could hear his voice above any crowd and it always made me want to do my very best. Not because he’d make me shovel coal until my hands bled if I played poorly but because I simply wanted to make him proud. Proud to be my dad because I was proud to be his son. Still am and always will be I imagine.

A father son relationship is such that words and feelings are often times replaced or expressed through activities or actions. No need for Hallmark when we have sports, lawn care, and varmint control as a means of which to say, “Dad you’re the best and I love you”. Words are just so…I don’t know…direct, mushy, and uncomfortable for all involved. A couple beers while discussing dandelion eradication and proper tire inflation is productive, useful, and caring.

As I advance in age I’ve noticed that the dad I grew up with possesses my vocal cords from time to time. Without warning I open my mouth and my dad’s voice comes out. This vocal cord possession oddly enough seems to occur most often when I’m “reasoning” with my thirteen year old son. I used to find it concerning but now I find comfort in knowing that when I’m at my wits end my dad will always find a way to come through.

Happy Father’s Day to all you dad’s out there bustin’ your hump so junior can have basketball shoes that cost more than your first car. Mine was a 1970 Pontiac Bonneville that came out on the losing end of an altercation with a snow blower…but that’s another story isn’t it dad.

If aging has become a bothersome burden relentlessly weighing on your bent back, arthritic joints, and ever weakening bladder fear not my feeble friends June 24th is fast approaching. If you fancy yourself a follower of Icelandic folklore, or have been pondering giving it a go, June is the perfect time to test the waters…or at least the morning dew.

If you are an early riser you may want to sleep in the morning of June 24th, unless of course you live next to an Icelandic sorority, unlikely but not unheard of. Icelandic folklore says that if you bathe in your birthday suit in the morning dew on the morning of June 24th you will keep aging at bay. I don’t know about aging but you will keep a lot of things at bay following this frolicsome folklore.

Except maybe law enforcement and curious dogs anxious to greet their new yard mates…those noses are cold and so are the vinyl seats in the back of the squad card. So they say. I’ve only been in the back of one cop car. It wasn’t on June 24th. It was a minor misunderstanding involving my misinterpretation of some kooky Canadian law. I had a nice chit chat with the Queen and all is well. Nice lady the Queen.

For those of us residing in the northern neck of the hemisphere, June has more daylight hours than any other month, so soak it up there’s only about 200 shopping days until Christmas. Farmer tan season is short…git em’ while it’s hot. I’ve never fancied myself much of a farmer but I’ve sported my fair share of farmer tans.

Baseball tan would be more accurate. Brown arms, brown neck, and one white hand. A farmer tan and baseball tan have a lot in common; one’s earned working in a field the other playing on a field. It’s a little known fact that Michael Jackson wore one white glove as a tribute to all the hard working baseball players. A little known fact that even your genius buddy Google doesn’t know so you’ll just have to trust me.

When I was a kid I don’t remember my mom slathering us with sunblock every time there was a chance sunlight would touch our skin. I do remember a painful scrubbing during a failed attempt to get us somewhat presentable for a dentist appointment one summer. It took some convincing (a.k.a. screaming) to make her believe that the “dirt” on my neck was in fact a tan. Another little known fact…it’s possible to remove a tan with an S.O.S. pad and a little motherly elbow grease.

How did we survive without hourly slatherings of sunblock and an ever present water bottle? It’s a wonder we didn’t burn up and turn to dust. Nowadays we’re surrounded by pasty, overhydrated kids with squeaky clean necks. Sissies. I remember wobbling down the driveway on my Coast King bicycle in a sun stroked stupor in search of the first water source available.

I always wondered why the morning dew tasted funky every June 24th.

Survey says! Nine out of ten Moms’ prefer a phone call on Mother’s Day. Prefer a phone call as opposed to what? Prefer a phone call over a personal visit? “Hey Mom just called to let you know that I’m going to be coming home for Mother’s Day.” “Oh, well that would be nice dear but a phone call is more than enough. I mean with the shape of the economy and the sequester and all maybe it would be more fiscally responsible for you to just call.” “Uh…you don’t want me to come see you for Mother’s Day?” “No that’s not what I’m saying at all dear. I just don’t want to be a bother and you were just here 29 months ago for a lovely visit and I just got this new phone and you sound so nice so far away.”

Not wanting to disappoint my Mom I got her exactly what nine out of ten Moms’ prefer and added one more call to the bustling Mother’s Day phone lines. The telephone call volume on Mother’s Day is higher than any other day of the year. All those Mother’s Day wishes zooming around the planet just imagine the variety of conversations going on between Mom’s and their children.

Once the salutatory, “Happy Mother’s Day” is out of the way it would be interesting to hear how many different directions the conversations splinter into. The weather, current events, bunions, spear hunting, bingo, incontinence, bikini wax…the topics are limitless I’m sure.

What you talked about isn’t all that important. It’s the simple act of communicating with someone near and dear to you that is important. Taking the time to fill each other in on the goings on in your everyday lives. Everyday lives that were closely entwined under one roof for at least the first 18 years of your life.

Generally during that time frame we’re busy growing up and Mom is busy working, washing, cooking, and cleaning so the majority of conversation’s are you being talked at by an overwhelmed and underappreciated Mom.

When I complain to my Mom about something the kids have done to irritate me she just smiles and gives me that, “serves you right moron” look. I would describe my childhood as idyllic and my Mom as a sort of entertainment director and ringmaster of the entire four ring circus. She is a humorous, witty, creative, patient person that somehow managed to fight off the urge to smother me and my brother’s with a pillow in our sleep. My sister would have cheered her on.

We were grade “A” knuckle heads…okay…are grade “A” knuckle heads that won the Mom lottery. Despite our never ending dimwittedness and blatant disregard for sensible normal behavior our Mom rarely lost her temper with us. When someone rarely loses their temper it’s always startling when they do.

I can still see my Mom’s angry face inches from mine speaking through tightly clenched teeth in an attempt to keep everyone in the Ben Franklin Store in Stanley from hearing her curse at the boy that has just rammed the grocery cart into the back of her heals for the 17th time.

Happy Mother’s Day Mom. I love you and am thankful to have you in my life each and every day. You done good. Thanks for taking my call Sunday.

At the beginning of April some halfwit loony wrote a column in this very newspaper blathering about the numerous outdoor pursuits being enjoyed in the balmy snowless landscape of the Black Hills area. Lawn mowing, baseball playing, sun bathing, and on and on and on, beautiful weather this…and you have so much snow in North Dakota that… and he just wouldn’t stop.

Cosmic justice has a way of seeking out the moronic and providing a swift kick to the undercarriage as a refresher on who’s on top of the organizational chart. You’ve seen the organizational chart with lines leading from one person to another representative of that particular organizations hierarchy from head to hiney.

Being perched atop that hierarchy doesn’t necessarily mean one knows their head from their hiney but it does generally mean that your shoes are cobbled from exotic animal remnants and your cuff links could be traded in for a semester or two of quality higher education. But I digress.

So shortly after the previously mentioned column that gushed relentlessly about our meteorological bliss was being used to line the bottom of your birdcage a little winter came our way. Oh not an Upstate North Dakota winter but snow anyway…and lots of it. In the month of April Rapid City received about 45 inches of snow. Generally we get about 40 inches of snow the entire winter.

Yes I am well aware no sympathy will be riding our way on the winds of the next Alberta Clipper that whips your wigs off in Burke County but I just wanted to let you know that karma did not fail to deliver a cold backhand to the above mentioned halfwit loony.

I would appreciate it if you kept quiet about my good weather brag fest though as they are looking for someone to blame for the unseasonable white washing we got. There are a lot of parents that got stuck with stir crazy kids during a few days of missed school and cancelled activities that would line up to choke the chump responsible for that mess.

Snow day…words that’ll make you kids face hurt from smiling. I don’t remember getting very many snow days during my formative years in public school on the frozen tundra. I remember one time they called off school because of minus 100 wind chills. That sounded cold so my brother and I decided to venture outside to see what all the fuss was about. I don’t remember our mom trying to dissuade us from going outside…I think she helped get our boots on and I think I heard the door lock behind us.

What I know is that minus 100 was cold. You had to take in short breaths to keep the searing cold from making you hack like a Marlboro man. This of course became a competition between dimwitted brothers. Who can breathe in the longest and hardest without being dropped to a knee by a coughing fit? Dumb? Yeah I suppose but pretty low on the hierarchy of our stupidity chart. Our stupidity knew no limits.

Happy May Day my friends.

The crepe paper and streamer stringing season is upon us and teenagers everywhere are preparing to navigate the high school prom rite of passage. A rite of passage that will leave indelible memories and a cornucopia of bunions, blisters, and calluses in its wake. The feet will begin to heal as soon as you slip off those not-so-sensible heels or plastic tux shoes but the memories are there for the long haul so plan accordingly.

This year my daughter Sierra gets her first go at the prom and has been marching around the house in her prom shoes the past week or so to get the hang of having her heals elevated to an unsafe level. As apples don’t fall far from trees I have photographic evidence of my son in my daughters heels as well. Disturbingly enough he moves quite gracefully in them.

My daughter and a bunch of her friends are going stag. Can you call it “going stag” if you’re going with a group? “Group of Stags”…sounds like a band name. Whatever you call it I’m sure they will have a great time and dear old dad’s ulcer will rest easy knowing his daughter is spending the evening with sensible young women rather than a senseless boy caught in the grips of spring fever. Boys are overrated and more than a little gassy, goofy, and obnoxious anyway so it’s best to leave them to their own devices.

As your reading this your mind has probably inadvertently drifted back to your prom experience or lack thereof. Just to clarify…I am in no way legally responsible for any ill effects or psychotic episodes your drifting mind has created.

I can remember standing on the top step of a rickety ladder trying to loop hundreds of yards of streamers over wire in the gym in an attempt to create the illusion of a ritzy glitzy gala. The top step that says in bold letters “THIS IS NOT A STEP DUMMY” trembled beneath my loafers and tight rolled jeans as I tottered high above the unforgiving gym floor.

If I remember right (I seldom do) I was adamant that only girls hold the later while I risked life and mullet beautifying the gymnasium. Gassy, goofy, and obnoxious were not the qualities I was in search of for this particular job. Never in my life have I seen a female jokingly shake a ladder while someone is perilously perched on top of it. Never in my life have I seen a male pass up the chance to shake a ladder with a pal standing on the dummy step. So it goes.

The only time a male might pass on the opportunity to shake a ladder he’s supposed to be holding securely is when it’s his father dangling above him cursing at the storm window he’s attempting to free from 6 layers of paint. Oh it’ll cross our mind…more than once…but “thou shalt not shake thy father’s ladder” is a commandment that is in our best interest to obey.

Hold it steady and have a lovely prom season with or without gassy, goofy, and obnoxious.

Spring is in the air here at the base of the Black Hills. I wish I could say the same for you folks at the base of the foothills up yonder north of north where winter wore out its welcome months ago. At last report spring was set to roll into Lignite just in time for summer. That’s just as well, because any more than a month of summer has been known to cause fair skinned Norwegian’s to spontaneously combust. Poof…nothing left but the scent of lutefisk and smoldering all access passes to the Hostefest…Uff Da. So it goes.

I ate lutefisk on purpose once and have no intentions of doing it again. My grandpa said it was “poor man’s lobster” and seeing how I liked lobster and was poor I decided to give it a go. No amount of butter could stifle the gaging. That was over 25 years ago and my mouth still gets watery just thinking about it. Not the good watery produced when wanting to put food into your mouth but the bad watery that occurs when your stomach is greasing the hinges for a quick exit…Uff da.

I’m sure you northerners are happy to know that a mere 400 miles south of the 97 foot snow bank covering your patio furniture are people gallivanting around in crocs and culottes. Kind of makes you cranky I bet. Cranky enough to make you want to slug the penguins that have moved into your garage until the weather warms up a bit. I wonder if anyone’s ever slugged a penguin? There’s no way their stubby little flippers could block a right hook to the beak. “Dear PETA…I am kidding. I would never slug a penguin while I’m out seal clubbing.”

Let us pause for hate mail to be typed and spell checked. Okay…back to spring. Did I mention that my neighbor mowed his lawn the other day? Baseball practice is in full swing, I got a little sunburnt at a track meet last week, and my wife’s tulips are on the rise. If it makes you feel better the grass is brown and we are most likely headed into a drought so it’s not all sunshine and puppies in our neck of the woods. As is usually the case, good and bad generally frolic about hand in hand.

“It is what it is” might be the refrain you’ll here to such situations or any situation for that matter. I refrain from that refrain almost as stringently as I refrain from cladding my hooves in crocs. Nothing personal it’s just that the saying is senseless and crocs make my feet sweat and clash with my culottes. It’s not the only senseless saying; most sayings are senseless and simply serve as a way for us to keep a conversation going without actually having to say anything that contributes to the conversation.

Well I hope you all learned something today. Not from me but from someone more qualified to learn you good. For my family and friends to the north I am quite sure that nobody in the country appreciates summer as much as you. Both weeks of it…Uff da.

Toga’s are breezy. Breezy is good if you’re a Roman in Rome and your fan flappers are on their 15 minute grape and oil break. Breezy is not so good if you’re a North Dakotan in North Dakota and spring is on winter vacation. Such are the Ides of March in Upstate North Dakota. Unpredictable, volatile, frightening, and maybe even a little beautiful. The birthday crowd not the weather.

My Uncle Tim’s odometer ticked over to the half century mark this past weekend which was good a cause as any for a Caesar inspired celebration. Instead of daggers to the stomach Brutes, Cassius and the gang attempted to bring the emperor down with booze to the liver this time around. The Great Caesar wobbled and swayed under the relentless barrage but refused to fall. Hale Caesar!

Friends, Roman’s, country boy’s…a good time was had by all. My Uncle Tim’s a good man and is well deserving of such a celebration in his honor. I was thankful my family and I were able to slide in between storms and be a part of the festivities. I haven’t had a good excuse to wear a toga since my college days.

Actually the last time I wore a toga I wound up with a wife. Let me rephrase that…I wound up with a girlfriend who eventually became my wife. Don’t want to wind up with a wife it’s hard to run in a toga. A mini skirt is a better choice for high speed zigging and zagging. I would assume.

To be exact, the last time I wore a toga was September 24, 1994. The final day of our college homecoming week, Gypsy Day’s, was at hand and me and buddies decided to rip the sheets off our beds and finish off the festivities Roman style. It seemed like a good plan since I hadn’t done laundry for 17 months and my sheets were somewhat cleaner than any clothes I could hope to wrangle from the depths of my closet. Somewhat.

That decision, that toga, that musky scent I was laying down, may very well have altered my destiny. Who knows where I’d be and what I’d be doing right now if my wife hadn’t been suckered in by the toga tempest. I hear my wife cursing that toga in her sleep some nights…most nights. I kept that toga and after 19 years I finally got to where it again. Yes, it’s been laundered sometime between 1994 and now.

If you’ve never wore a toga you should give it a go. They are quite liberating. Not so handy for holding loose change, swizzle sticks, or nun chucks but sometimes such sacrifices are worthwhile. I must say that Tim looked quite dashing and dapper in his drapery and made a fine emperor for the evening. He carried the chalice well.

Happy Birthday Uncle Tim and Happy St. Patrick’s Day, “May you live as long as you want and never want as long as you live.”

We have heard it said by many people many times, “There is a fine line between bravery and stupidity.” I met an individual this weekend that I have yet to decide on which side of that fine line he should reside. I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt and withhold my final judgment until my daughter and the rest of her driver’s education car mates complete their behind the wheel training. A driver’s education instructor is a saint with a clipboard, high blood pressure and a half spilt cup of coffee.

My daughter and her 29 driver’s education classmates each have to log 6 hours behind the wheel with the above mentioned lunatic seated in the passenger seat. Correct me if I’m wrong, there’s a pretty good chance I am, but that equals 180 hours of clenching, cursing, and cringing. This Sunday the instructor joy rode around Rapid City from 7:00 AM until 7:00 PM with six different teenagers for two hours at a time.

Why would anyone do this to themselves? I teared up a bit just thinking about the self-imposed torture the instructor endured. I flat out wailed when I found out he does three separate sessions of this course over the next 4 months…and all the classes are full. That’s 540 hours which would be one long 22 day drive if you strung them all together…this guy needs a hug and a snifter of rum. I’ll provide the rum if someone else will volunteer a hug.

Generally when you mention something like this there is always someone who pipes up and says, “Yeah but I bet he makes pretty good money doing it.” Pretty good money? He’ll need pretty good money to help him walk upright again after sitting in a car for 540 hours. You tell me what you feel is “pretty good money” then ride around town for twelve hours with teenage drivers and tell me again what “pretty good money” is. I bet we’ll see a drastic upward trend in the dollar amount and an adjustment of your definition of pretty good money.

I can remember driving around Lignite with our driver’s education instructor. There’s not all that much difference between the traffic in Lignite and the traffic in Rapid City. The only differences I can conclude are that in Lignite you don’t have to worry about running a red light, there’s no need to merge or exit, and blinkers are optional.

Probably the biggest difference is that most of us had been driving for 6 years prior to having to take drivers education to make it “legal”. Grandpa Ardell was an excellent instructor. His program included driving around the light pole in the yard at the farm with the riding lawn mower, advancing up to his Chevy Chevette, and then graduating to a tractor. I never graduated.

Somewhere tonight a full grown man cried himself to sleep only to startle himself awake reaching into the darkness for a steering wheel and frantically jabbing his foot into the bedding searching for a brake pedal. Is this man brave? Is this man stupid? I’m leaning towards brave, but then I’m stupid that way.