Rambling Josh

With the final semester of her junior year in full swing the gap between the end of high school and the beginning of college is narrowing quickly for my daughter and I am finding myself nervous and excited for her. Mostly excited because college is this lovely little world where I am confident that someone like Sierra will thrive and have a great time.

Maybe more thrive than great time or at least a few notches below the great time meter her father attempted to max out. Someone should have given that boy a good talking to about frittering away the precious time of youth on such shenanigans. He would have smiled and nodded as he watched your mouth move but the concern in your eyes would not be reflected in his because he wouldn’t have been listening. So it is that he only has himself to blame. A blame fully accepted and fondly remembered.

It is with some relief that I have detected slightly more sensibility and direction in my daughter than I was capable of at the ripe old age of seventeen. She already has genuine concern for her future career. I feigned concern my second year of college when my academic advisor wouldn’t accept “play baseball” as my response to her question of “what do you want to do in college?” Sometimes the truth fails to set you free and you end up sitting in some stuffy office listening to some adult blather on about rudderless sailboats and what not.

Of course before you can attend college there are several well-meaning hoops that one must jump through before a university will consider exchanging four or five years of your time for twenty to thirty years of debt and irreversible liver damage. The first hoop is the ACT test. A standardized test designed to assess an individual’s general knowledge in the areas of English, Mathematics, Reading, and Science. I can remember going to Minot to take the ACT and determine if I had any general knowledge when I was in high school during the last century. I remember being thankful it was a multiple choice test because effective guessing has always been one of my strengths. I guess therefor I appear to have general knowledge..

I also remember the superintendent bringing us into the study hall one at time to go over our test results. I had assumed I had I failed miserably and that the superintendent would ask me to clean out my locker and immediately leave the premises as my presence was detrimental to the mental capacity of my fellow students. Judging by the surprised, impressed, and confused tone and expression of the superintendent he was just as baffled as I was as to how I did so well on the exam. It’s smart to be lucky.

Sierra has many hoops to navigate and decisions to make in the coming months but she’s a smart girl with a plan and I’m confident she will get to where she wants to go.

The other morning, a morning not unlike any other morning, I was standing at my post gazing out the picture window drinking my coffee and wondering why mornings have to be so early. I wasn’t gazing at anything in particular I’ve just found that it’s less awkward for everyone if I gaze out the window rather than at the ceiling, newel post, or ottoman. Looking out a window as a majestic winter morning unfolds at least offers the illusion of thoughtful pondering while I think of nothing.

On this particular morning my thoughts of nothing were interrupted by a squirrel scampering down the sidewalk in front of our house. Nothing unusual, I’ve seen a squirrel before, except for this squirrel was followed by four more squirrels.

It may have been my imagination but I swear I saw sparks flying from what appeared to be metal sword scabbards as this rogue bunch brazenly squirrel strutted by my picture window. A slight pang of fear washed over me as the last one in line stopped directly in front of me, rose up on its hind legs, and starred right at me with a smug little smirk on his fuzzy face. If my memory serves me he was wearing an eye patch and a beret.

They’ve organized I thought, I’ve seen this before with the Planet of the Apes and it doesn’t end well for the humans. We at least share a common ancestry with the apes so they are more apt to extend a bit of humanity towards us in a takeover but I don’t trust these squirrels to be as civil in their treatment of humans. We put that corn cob on a stick that spins around when the squirrels try and eat it and we sit and giggle and point and post videos on YouTube while they get vertigo. Who’s laughing now?

I went to the computer to see if there was any breaking news regarding similar occurrences in other neighborhoods regarding a malicious squirrel coup d’état. Nothing. Either they’ve managed not to arouse suspicion or all the 24 hour news companies have already been taken over and will be forced to show non-stop reruns of the Rocky and Bullwinkle Show. The moose must have seen this coming; he was smart to endear himself to the squirrel. Poor Boris and Natasha what will become of them in a squirrel society? The thought makes me shudder.

Taking a cue from the moose I assemble a combination platter of nuts to set forth as an offer of peace. Smokehouse almonds, peanuts (salted and unsalted in case some of them are watching their blood pressure), macadamia, and peanut butter for those with bad teeth or braces. If you can picture a squirrel with braces without the slightest hint of mirth or merriment crossing your face you either have more self-control than me or you’ve suffered fewer concussions.

It is with great relief that I am able to report that the squirrel with the eye patch has graciously accepted my platter of peace and my sincere promise to create higher paying jobs and better health care for all squirrels. With a courteous tip of his beret and a creepy little paw handshake we move forward towards a better tomorrow, a tomorrow where squirrels and humans live in harmony. You my friend can put away your worries. All is well…for now.

My Mom has always had a nose for important breaking news, in this case breaking wind. Somehow the news story regarding a federal worker receiving a formal reprimand for excessive flatulence in the workplace silently slipped by me undetected. Thankfully my Mom pointed it out. I laughed, I cried, and yes I farted.

If you fancy yourself to be of the serious sort and lack the patients to tolerate the childish immaturities of a middle-aged man I would advise you to stop reading. You’ve been warned.

The charges levied against this intestinally active individual in the official reprimand were, “Conduct Unbecoming a Federal Employee” and “creating a hostile work environment”. A coworker went so far as to document the winds of change in a log book noting the date and time of each malodor melody.

According to these “Methane Memoirs” which are rumored to have been adopted into a screenplay that will stink less than a Nicholas Sparks movie, Count Die Ferz had a banner day on September 12, 2012 putting nine in the books (three between 2:42 and 2:54).

Nine? During an eight hour work day? This guy made national news? He’s an amateur. I use an even dozen to keep a steady beat while I brush my teeth…three times a day…four if some carney suckers me into a caramel apple with nuts. Carneys and caramel apples, such temptation has been the bane of man from the beginning. Nine…pathetic. Eat a box of Grape Nuts and come back when you got game junior.

In my extensive research on this subject I uncovered some very interesting fartnotes…ah I mean footnotes regarding one of the oldest words in the English vocabulary. Benjamin Franklin once wrote an essay to the Royal Academy urging and suggesting the scientific study of flatulence. A suggestion that some Chinese holistic healers have taken seriously with claims that the nuances of a person’s expelling odor can be used to detect diseases by individuals specifically trained to sniff out such issues. “Hmm…the scent of pack rats wrestling on a block of muenster cheese. You sir have rickets and gout.”

Out of concern for his fellow Roman’s health, the Emperor Claudius very astutely passed a law legalizing the release of gas at banquets. My guess is this law was not about his concern for others but more of an elaborate ruse to give old Claudius some cover for his own toga tremblers. Another Roman Emperor, Elagabulus, is credited with the use of whoopee cushions at his banquet hall gatherings. Those zany Romans.

Do you think you have what it takes to go pro in the flatulence field? I’m not in the business of dashing people’s dreams but only two people have had the moxie to cut it as performing flatulist, Le Petomane and Mr. Methane. Le Petomane performed in the 19th Century but as luck would have it Mr. Methane is still actively entertaining the masses with his gift. DVDs, books, and a Christmas Album are available on his website. Gifts that keep giving.

New Year’s Resolution to be a mature professional meets with failure once again.

For those of you ascribing to the Gregorian calendar I would like to offer a warm welcome to 2013. The rest of you will have to wait for your new year your fresh start your ending your beginning. By the time you get around to strapping on your dragon head and dancing through the streets to celebrate the Chinese New Year most of us will have abandoned our fresh start and new beginning for the comfort and ease of our old ways.

I think if we would have stuck with the Babylonian New Year celebration time from a few thousand years ago, during the Vernal Equinox at the beginning of Spring, our resolutions would have had a fighting chance. The dead of winter when we get 17 minutes of day light doesn’t seem to me to be the best time to institute quasi-starvation measures and intense physical activity.

The Romans always thought they knew best but the Babylonians had it right. Bump the New Year back a few months, take your time eating the Christmas leftovers and thoroughly scour the Christmas tree for the last candy cane. Let the bright lights of spring be the beacon of motivation shining its truthometer on the flesh you’ve kept under wraps over the winter months.

It seems to make more sense to have the new year and other such days of celebration follow the cycles of the moon and seasons rather than just a specific date but I guess it makes it much easier to market and make commercial gains when everyone is in agreement on buying noise makers and stupid hats held on with a rubber band that your brother is going to grab and snap at some time during the evening on a specific number on this thing called a calendar.

Let’s just get rid of the calendar. I’m tired of it. All it does is make me feel old, rush me to get things done I want to put off, do this then, do that now. Let’s just go by sleeps like my kids used to. They would ask, “How many sleeps until we go to Grandpa and Grandma’s house?” Days, weeks, months mean nothing to a kid. That’s just boring and needlessly confusing adult stuff. I’ll have a little chit chat with the Romans and see if we can’t make a few changes around here.

Oh that’s right, the Romans are dead. We don’t have to listen to dead people…well I don’t or can’t but some of you might. If you have such a gift let me know what Caesar has to say about my plan so I can note it in the minutes.

So your New Year resolution or assignment this year is to follow your own calendar. Celebrate whatever you want whenever you want as often as you want. Noise makers and stupid hats are optional. I must warn you that as an older brother it is my right and duty to snap the rubber strap on any and all stupid hats. Consider yourself warned.

Happy New Year…if you want. See you in a few sleeps.

Put on your Santa hat, proudly display those elf ears you strategically camouflage with bushy sideburns during the other eleven months of the year, belt out your favorite Christmas carol, bite the head off a snowman sugar cookie, grab the eggnog from the fridge (check the expiration date) and take a pull straight from the bottle. Now you’re ready to settle in for the 2012 Christmas edition of “Ramblings.”

How is this edition different from the one offered up in 2011? How would I know…I don’t read this nonsense…I just write it. It’s a year later that much I know, I’m a year older and I suspect the same may be true with you. Other than that not much has changed.

We can count on the evening news to regale us with the same helpful holiday hints they dole out every single year at this time just in case you’ve been communing with Tibetan monks or silver back gorillas for the past 30 years. Such chestnuts like, “During the holidays keep you and yours safe by refraining from hanging gasoline soaked rags on the Christmas tree in front of a raging fireplace to dry.”

“Thank you channel 9 news…kids grab those rags off the Christmas tree…the news guy says it’s dangerous.” Also, “It may seem like fun to turn your favorite cinder block or bowling ball into festive ornaments but these items can be heavy and could possibly disrupt the balance of the tree potentially causing it to tip and injure children, pets, and the elderly.”

Ya know a few years back the Ellis family tested the Christmas tree up in flames scenario. It was a few days after Christmas and we had been cooped up eating leftovers and questionable peanut brittle while playing Pictionary and Yahtzee and the idea of burning the Christmas tree entered into the conversation.

We all had different ideas as to how quickly it would be reduced to a smoldering staff of Christmas past. I personally could hear the “wwoooph” sound it would emit as the flames engulfed and ravished its needles and limbs while the Ellis family stood by with their faces aglow with the last flickers of holiday season providing one last warm embrace.

There’s only one way to find out how quickly a Christmas tree will burn…this was before Google or Bing. Like an angry mob hopped up on cherry popcorn balls we grabbed the tree and made for the door. Mom, being the practical one, suggested we take the decorations and lights off it first. Since we always listen to our mother we gave the tree a few angry shakes leaving the ornaments in a neat little pile for mom to collect.

We took the tree to a snow bank in the yard that offered an unobstructed view for the family members that decided to stay in the house and view the tree lighting festivities from a safe distance. Being the eldest and most responsible and safety conscious of my siblings I took it upon myself to handle the matches.

If all went as planned there would be a big “wwoooph”, a hot bright burst of flame, and possibly the scent of burnt rabbit fur from my hat if I was slow on the escape. With great anticipation, I pulled my rabbit fur bomber hat down tight, lit the match and slowly moved it towards the needles of the tree. Nothing…no “wwoooph”…match after match…nothing.

Relying on everything Grandpa Ardell taught us about proper fire starting we commandeered a gas can and liberally splashed gasoline on the tree like cheap cologne. As visions of fireballs danced in our heads I struck the match and let it fly. A paltry little flame flickered up the tree doing little more than singeing a couple strands of wayward tinsel.

After an hour or so of testing various flammable substances we came to the conclusion that either the news guy was wrong or our tannenbomb was a dud. I respectfully tipped my rabbit fur hat towards the tree and in defeat we shuffled inside put the tree back in the living room and consoled ourselves with lefse and finger jello. Kids don’t try this at home. We are trained and highly experienced idiots.

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good light, because you can’t rely on a burning Christmas tree to guide the way. Happy 41st Wedding Anniversary to my patient and loving parents. This is all your fault.

Another successful hunt is in the books. Dawn and I got a nice big one and each of the kids got a small one of their own. As has been tradition for quite a few years our good friends, the Richter’s, joined us for the hunt and filled both of their tags as well. We covered some pretty rough terrain but the gang was up to the task and were willing to do whatever it took to bring down the prey. Those trees never stood a chance.

Particularly, the Black Hills White Spruce (Picea glauca, as it’s known to somebody much smarter than I). It’s short needles, hardy limbs, and full figured appearance make it a highly desirable Christmas conifer here in the Black Hills National Forest where ten bucks buys you the right to rescue the tree of your choice from the scary old forest and bring it back to the comfort and safety of your home.

There it will be placed in front of your picture window for all the passersby to behold and adorned with lights, and a host of hooked trinkets commemorating you and your family’s march through the years. A sturdy stalwart holder of Christmas past, standing guard over the bow covered boxes of Christmas present with an angel perched on its spire pondering Christmas’s yet to come.

The kids did a wonderful job decorating and I couldn’t help but notice that more and more of the ornaments are hung a little higher on the tree every year. It wasn’t all that many Christmas trees ago that the ever expanding ornament collection was relegated to the low hanging limbs and the angel installation involved me holding a squirming kid precariously over my head while simultaneously trying to coach them into the proper placement of said angel.

The interior of the house is now officially open for Christmas. The exterior illumination hasn’t occurred yet but it’s next on the holiday cheer chore list. The last few days have been too warm to put up Christmas lights and I don’t want to chance a tumble from a ladder without the extra padding afforded by layer upon layer of cold weather clothing. If I’m going to gracefully glide into a holly bush I would prefer to pick the thorns out of a thick layer of Carhart rather than a thin layer of my birthday suit. Have you ever seen a nudist colony with properly hung exterior Christmas lights? I rest my case. Don’t look up if you’re holding the ladder.

The stockings are hung by the chimney in disrepair, the yule log is doing whatever it is yule logs do, the little lights aren’t twinkling (I checked every bulb), bells are ringing, angels are winging, and Christmas is singing. I hope this finds you and yours well and good as we prepare for another bout of Christmas or a happy holiday if you’re so inclined. Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, Festivus for the rest of us…however you say it say it with a smile or Tiny Tim will give you a ghost guided guilt trip.

Sing “Happy Birthday” to my Mom on December 5th, spanking and sock to grow a block are optional and risky to all involved.

The avalanche of technology that has inundated every nook and cranny of our world over the course of my lifetime is a bit overwhelming. Most of it was intended to make our lives simpler but as Randy Travis sang, “The road to hell is paved with good intentions.” Paved with good intentions and littered with obsolete electronic devices and their shiny “you really need me” packaging.

Most of this technology is forced upon us and we are forced to learn and adapt. Learn and adapt for three weeks and then learn and adapt to the new best thing since sleep number beds and sliced bread. Sliced bread, compliments of Otto Frederick Rohwedder circa 1928. If your old enough to remember when sliced bread came out your probably too old to remember.

I wonder what drove Otto to invent a bread slicer? Did he lack the manual dexterity to properly slice bread with a knife leaving him to be mercilessly mocked during lunch breaks for his misshaped sandwiches and nicked and cut fingers? Perhaps he suffered from aichmophobia, a morbid fear of sharp things, and grew tired of having to slice bread via judo chop. Or maybe he was just lazy.

Whatever his reason we can now reach into a plastic bag, past the first few slices of course, and pull out a perfectly calculated cut of carbohydrate and slather it with whatever makes our lips smack and stomachs smile. Ketchup and mayonnaise, braunschweiger, peanut butter and bananas, SPAM, pimento loaf, or any other variety and combination of mystery meats and condiments you can rustle up.

With the exhausting chore of slicing bread a thing of the past the people of 1928 found themselves with an extra fourteen seconds of time to do as they pleased. Most spent those fourteen seconds lamenting about how great sliced bread was.

So it goes with most new time and labor saving thingamajigs. We have to invest large amounts of time and effort to learn how to use whatever it is we are made to think we can’t live without.

Do you know how long it took me to master the rotary dial telephone? About as long as it took to dial a number with lots of nines and zero’s. Do you know how long it took me to master the iPhone my employer thought I needed? I’m in the second month of my kids daily tutorial so I’ll keep you posted.

If the time it takes to effectively utilize a time saving device elapses the actual time it supposedly saves which direction have we traveled in time?

I once had such a time travel experience where one of me sat down to figure out how to install and use a mapping program on my phone while the other me grabbed a map from my desk drawer, packed a small nutrient dense lunch (bacon, stick of butter, two licorice whips and a berry burst juice box), gave my dog a flea and tick treatment, loaded the same dog up and drove 37 miles into the hills, hiked 27 hours uphill against the wind with nary a thought of Chapstick, drove back 37 miles, unloaded the dog, removed 48 wood ticks from the same dog, had a beer, round about two chunks of beef jerky, a handful of smoked almonds and watched an episode of M.A.S.H..

That’s when I heard the other me produce an agitated whimper of discontent as he peered helplessly into his handheld electronic black hole awaiting the download of yet another hollow promise of excitement, joy, and utter amazement.

I just ignored me and with chapped lips, sore feet and Hawkeye in the middle of some controversial lifesaving procedure I drifted off to sleep dreaming of a time when sliced bread was something and we enjoyed spending time more than futilely attempting to save it.

I woke up this Sunday morning with that good Sunday morning feeling of not having to get up and get going to get anywhere for anything. I glanced at the alarm clock for no real purpose other than I like to look at the alarm clock on mornings when it’s not demanding anything of me, when we’re both just minding time.

This Sunday morning wasn’t unlike many other such Sunday mornings I’ve had the privilege of listening to from the comfort of a warm bed drifting in and out of light a sleep as the household wakes up a little at a time. I hear the kitchen sounds from my wife baking this and that, the sound of my son doing anything but cleaning his room, and the occasional rattle of the dog collar coming and going hinting as subtly as a Labrador can that he would like to be fed.

Very rarely will I hear any Sunday morning scuttle I can attribute to my daughter as she is generally a shoo-in for the Sunday morning sleep in award. Twenty-five years ago I would have put up a formidable challenge but my bed sores don’t heal as fast as they used to and my bladder has become more persistent so I’m forced to let youth prevail. So it goes.

Back when my youth was prevailing my room was in the basement of a hundred year old house. They didn’t build basements for bedrooms, pool tables, romper rooms, and bean bags in 1900. They built them for coal furnaces, piles of coal, canned goods, and salamanders. They were only fit for occasional human occupancy to seek refuge from those angry North Dakota summer storms. Even then the men folk would rather stand out on the front step and face Mother Nature’s fury than chance a run in with a salamander while trying to choke down a twelve year old can of pickled muskrat.

Despite all that my Dad did a great job of turning that old dirt basement into my own little windowless cabin in the ground. Egress windows? My mom was thoughtful enough to hang an old window pane on the wall and there was a coal chute that I may have been able to tunnel out of in a pinch. Besides how often do 100 year old houses with 100 year old wiring really burn down?

I loved that room and I enjoyed lying down there listening to the Sunday morning sounds. The loud rhythmic thumping of Dad’s cowboy boots as he made his way across the kitchen, just above my cabin, to refill his coffee cup and stir in two teaspoons of sugar. The soft quick shuffle of Mom’s bare feet to the stove to try and get to the bacon before it burnt bad enough to even make bacon taste bad. The sound of Gabe running…always running…sometimes being chased by Amanda for good reason or by Jarvis for no reason.

There wasn’t much on our three television channels on Sunday mornings so the sounds of Faron Young, Elvis, Barbara Mandrell, and Charlie Pride would filter down the stairs from the hi-fi providing musical accompaniment to all the bumps, shuffles, and shouts. Some sounds you never forget. Sunday morning sounds, then, now, and always.

Happy 17th Birthday on November 5th to my daughter Sierra…enjoy the Sunday morning sounds from your basement bedroom.

When I first rolled onto the Northern State University campus in my 1958 Chevy Biscayne in September of 1991 I sort of had a plan. I had planned on my mullet and I to play a lot of baseball, attend a little class, and…well that’s about as far as I had planned. My poor mullet, having caught the rueful eye of my college baseball coach, only survived a week of college life before its life was literally and figuratively shortened in a mall hair salon.

Thinking back I should have saved the honor of relieving my mullet of its duties to Martin Halverson, commander and chief of Martins Barbershop on Main Street Lignite. As I look back it seems so crass and careless of me to have abandoned my stalwart friend in a foreign place to be swept up into a pile of stranger’s hair. At least the hairs strewn about the floor of Martin’s Barbershop would have been of those familiar to me and my mullet.

The hairs of those that we had seen day in and day out during the daily goings on in a small town in upstate North Dakota. Martin passed quite a few years ago as have many of those that he clipped, buzzed, and sort of styled. He, like the others, are the cast of characters that I see when I think back to my childhood. Growing up in a small town may not expose you to as many experiences and opportunities as the big city but I think it creates a greater appreciation for others and what they do to make the wheels of your town go round and round.

Whether you want to or not, you most likely know almost everything there is to know about everyone, which makes the encounter with the cashier at the grocery store a much different experience than the one you have at the Buy Everything You Never Needed Super Store.

The cashiers at those stores won’t chit chat about your Grandma’s bunion surgery and don’t really care to hear the response to their mandatory, “How are you today?” It’s not their fault, they don’t know you and you don’t know them, so you shuffle through barely having time to pay before the next customers cart bumps you out of the way.

I guess getting bumped along by the rest of the herd kind of sums up living in a bigger city. Rapid City is about as big of a herd as I ever want to live amongst and our close proximity to the beauty and solitude of the Black Hills and Badlands effectively lowers the mind numbing rattle of the herd to a tolerable level. Once removed from the herd you can sometimes hear yourself think which can be frightening and discerning if yourself is not accustomed to such a phenomena.

Living in a small town not only provides the opportunity to hear yourself think but also provides the opportunity to hear everyone else think as well. A mostly entertaining experience.

As I close this week’s column I beg each of you, my fellow herd members, to assist me in wrapping up my journey to attain a PhD by completing my dissertation research survey so I can put this thing to bed and get on with my life. I promise it will take less than five minutes of your time and will serve to make this world a better place…eventually. All you need to do is go to <www.surveymonkey.com/s/5CKMTXB> right now, complete the survey, brow beat everyone you know to do the same, then sit back and enjoy the satisfaction that comes with helping progress the greater good of society. Thank you.

I am aware that my taste in movies could be considered not so good by some, strange by others, or just simply bad by a few. I admit that I’ve come home from the video store with a few flicks that have turned out to be turds but generally I’m a pretty good judge of predicting whether a movie is going to be good or not. Just for clarification that would be my opinion of good.

My wife knows it’s risky to send me into the video store alone with no specific list of movies. When I get home with my latest cinema master piece in hand my wife will ask what I rented and I’ll say, “I’ve never heard of this one but I thought it would be good.” To which my wife will explain, yet again, that there may be a reason we’ve never heard of the movie. Well there’s only one way to find out if “Get Smoochie” is good or not.

Like most things in life everyone has their own likes and dislikes which is why I don’t really care what critics have to say about a movie. It’s all a matter of personal opinion and why should I care if someone else liked or disliked a movie? I only care if I like it, since I’m the one plunking down two hours of my life let me be the judge of whether it was worth it or not.

My opinion is that a good movie sucks you in and makes you think and feel both during the movie and long after you’ve ejected it and made a mad dash back to the video store risking an eighty dollar speeding ticket to avoid a one dollar late fee. Whether a movie accomplishes this is also a personal matter as a movie may suck you in but could possible just suck for someone else.

I try and keep this in mind when someone suggests a movie to me and I watch it and hate it. I don’t go beating on their door and demand to be reimbursed for the two hours they just stole from me by suggesting that I would enjoy “Facing the Giants”. I’m sure they meant well and I won’t let their poor taste in movies become a tipping point in our friendship. Don’t insist I will love your brand of entertainment and I won’t insist you will love “Northfork”.

Recently I brought “Touchback” home from the video store. As usual I had never heard of it, and as usual I briefly entertained the idea that there may be a reason I hadn’t heard of it, and as usual I ignored that reasoning. This time it worked out. “Touchback” was a good movie that the entire family enjoyed and it met my stringent movie requirements of making me think and feel.

The main tag line of the movie hooked me, “Would you give up everything you love for a shot at everything you’ve ever wanted?” It’s a good question and the movie does a nice job of exploring this possibility in a “It’s A Wonderful Life” sort of way. The movie will make you ponder the glory days of your youth and the various paths you’ve chosen, the ones that have chosen you, and the ones you looked up but for some reason didn’t follow.

Of all the paths I could have stumbled down this one suits me just fine.