Rambling Josh

With another summer shot in the backside the kids are preparing to drag theirs to school this week. Neither of them is all that excited about getting penned up in the big house for the next 9 months and I can’t say I blame them. No more staying up until you fall asleep and sleeping until you wake up.

There are schedules, rules, alarm clocks, bells, whistles, and the occasional tornado siren (it’s just a drill) that are assembled at the ready and demanding your undivided attention. Have you ever given anything your undivided attention? I know I have, but never on purpose.

The growl and unmistakable sound of a dog collars jingle jangle coming up behind you while you’re running or riding bike is cause for undivided attention. Suddenly trying to remember the third verse of “Forever In Blue Jeans” doesn’t seem so pressing when you have sharp teeth and a less than sunny disposition to contend with.

During my time sauntering the hallowed halls of Burke Central there were some teachers that were better than others at gaining or grabbing your undivided attention. My sixth grade teacher, Mr. Christenson, was a great teacher and one that you learned in short order demanded your undivided attention.

Of course free will being free will you could opt not to give it but you had better be good at feigning it or you would experience a gentle uplifting of your short hairs that would bring your undivided attention front and center. Unlike the dog there was no jingle jangle to warn you of the impeding attention getter just that eerie classroom silence that you become aware of much to late.

Mr. Savelkoul was another teacher that didn’t have to ask for your undivided attention he just grabbed it, figuratively and occasionally literally. When you’re a runty 90 pound seventh grader looking up at a not so runty German man with hands that could and did dismantle many shop projects that didn’t meet his approval your attention does not divide.

And on the first day of shop class when he matter-of-factly states, with more than a hint of satisfaction, “We’re all alone down here and accidents do happen” your attention not only does not divide it multiplies.

Now that attention getters, not so idle threats of physical pain, and good old fashioned terror tactics are not socially acceptable in our schools I’m not sure what a teacher has to do for undivided attention. Especially when kids nowadays have a laundry list of gadgets and what not that are constantly dividing or completely capturing their attention.

It’s much easier for a kid today to sneak some music or other form of entertainment into the classroom than it was for us. There was no sneaking a boom box or ghetto blaster (lots of ghettos in upstate ND) the size of a Shetland pony into a classroom. Secretly watch a movie during class? That wasn’t going to happen.

You would need that Shetland hooked up to a rickshaw cart to drag the 1200 pound television and 200 pound VCR into the classroom (beta max if you were really hoity toity). There were a few teachers that may not have noticed, or simply ignored, the electronics toting pony with the 26 extension cords trailing behind it but I had no room in my locker for oats, carrots, a curry brush, and road apple disposal.

This past May after the last day of school my son said, “Dad I’ll do better next year.” If he starts slipping Mr. Christenson is going to have to head south to provide some tutoring and the occasional attention getter. My daughter is a short timer now with only two years left before she gets booted out into the cold cruel real world or the warm fuzzy college campus. Choose wisely.

Enjoy the school year, and remember, there is a direct correlation between undivided attention devoted to your teacher and improved test scores, clearer complexion, and pleasant breathe.

NEWS FLASH: Latest Statistics Reveal “Parenting Gig Not for Faint of Heart.” Roughly 327% of parents interviewed stated in various ways and words that parenthood is similar to dodging bolts of lightning while treading water in shark infested waters with your pockets stuffed with raw meat. Similar, but more difficult, more dangerous, and more frightening.

Last week my children and my father-in-law were involved in rollover accident while returning to Rapid City after a few days of fishing and fun with Grandpa on the other side of the state. Everyone got banged up to varying degrees but are, for the most part, okay and on the mend. It could have been much worse but everyone was wearing their seatbelts. My son buckled up a few minutes before the accident.

I was roaming around in the Badlands, out of cell phone range, when the accident occurred. My good friend Paul came and found me and let me know that there had been an accident and provided what little information he had at the time. Being the optimistic sort I immediately assumed the best case scenario and relied heavily on the “bad things happen to other people” mind set.

As I drove out of the Badlands and the reception from civilization gradually bumped the bars upward on my cell phone I listened to the several messages that had been left while I was briefly removed from contact. In short order I realized that something serious had indeed happened to our family. Nothing prepares a parent to deal with this sort of thing and even after learning that everyone was okay my mind ran circles around itself.

Even after I saw my children, spoke with them, and had confirmation that they were going to be okay I couldn’t stop the “what if” thoughts from entering and shaking me up. What if they hadn’t been wearing seatbelts, what if the cuts had been deeper, what if, what if, what if. The “what if” thoughts come and go and when they come they bring along emotions and feelings that are overwhelming and indistinguishable from reality.

I’m sure in time the edge of the “what ifs” will dull and they won’t cut as deep but I doubt they will ever completely subside. I suspect all involved will be changed to varying degrees for a very long time. My children lost some childhood innocents that day and were put in a very serious situation without the availability of the usual safety net provided by their mother and father.

We can’t always be there for our children but if we teach them the simple things through our words and our actions, such as the importance of a seatbelt, our protective reach can extend to wherever life takes them.

I don’t like to think about what would have happened if my wife and I hadn’t been so diligent throughout the years in expressing the importance of always buckling up to our children. I don’t like to think about it but I do and it’s not pleasant.

Buckle up so those that care about you can cry with you not for you.

In London England the 30th Olympic Games are in full swing with athletes from all over the globe competing in a wide variety of this, that, and another thing. Olympic athletes always amaze me. Not just for their talent and skill but more so for the extreme dedication they have made to their sport or event of choice. Copious hours, day in and day out, year after year they bust their hump striving for perfection, striving to be the best they can be.

Practicing, working, and hoping that their best comes through during these few summer days during the Olympic Games. The Olympic motto Citius, Altius, Fortius was proposed by Pierre de Coubetin when the International Olympic Committee was created in 1894. For those of you that are a bit rusty on you Latin it means “Faster, Higher, Stronger.”

Bill Bowerman, the legendary track and field coach at Oregon State University and inventor of the Nike kicks we like to swaddle or feet in once said that “Faster, Higher, Stronger” did not necessarily mean that you should just strive to run faster, jump higher, and be stronger than your opponent but to ultimately strive to always push yourself to run faster, jump higher, and be as strong as you can be.

As is the case in many areas of life, not just sports, we cannot control nor should we fret about the prowess of our opponent or fellow competitors but rather concern ourselves only with controlling that which is within our reach to control. These “controllables” amount to a pretty short list but if you can focus on that short list you will most likely be successful in being the best you can be. Sometimes the best you can be ends up besting everyone and you stroll home a hero with a gold medal hanging around your neck and get to gaze at yourself on a Wheaties box every morning at breakfast.

Even though many of these Olympic athletes will go home without the weight of a medal swaying from the nape of their neck they had the opportunity, they gave it their all, and they will forever be an Olympian which is more than many can ever post on their Facebook page.

Could you dedicate the prime of your life to being an Olympic badminton player? I taught badminton when I was in graduate school but I don’t think anyone in my class ever had aspirations of whacking a birdie for the U. S. of A. Maybe some of them had the potential but I lacked the trained eye of an Olympic badminton scout and they fell through the cracks.

I knew very little about the game and had a hard time saying “shuttle cock” without smirking so when I went to my advisor and told him I wasn’t sure if I was the man to teach the class he dug around his cluttered office, tossed me a book on badminton and said, “Read up…class starts next week.” I couldn’t control the fact that 30 college students had signed up for the course, some actually expecting to learn something, but I could control how much I knew about it, and how well I could teach it so I quit whining and did the best I could do.

So as you watch the summer Olympics you will see for some “the best they could do” earned them a medal and for others their best earned them a pat on the back and a picture of themselves in front of the guards at Buckingham Palace.

Until next time…control what you can control, do what you can do, and infallibly the rest will take care of itself…if you’re in the neighborhood swing by for a rousing game of badminton. Loser mows the yard and gives foot rubs…in that order.

By the time you read this column my son, Jackson, will be a few days into his rookie year of the wild and wooly teenage world. 13 years old…do you remember your thirteenth year on earth? I remember I was going through a black clothing phase and received a black muscle shirt and black pants. The muscle shirt was necessary for the proper displaying of my bulging assortment of arm muscles which bared a striking resemblance to my arm bones.

As was the case most every year my birthday coincided with the North Dakota State Fair and I set out to rock the midway in my new duds. I believe it was around 170 degrees that day at the fair which as you know is the perfect time to wear all black. Nothing has a greater cooling effect than a black 100% cotton muscle shirt and matching pants. Other than the hallucinations it may have been the least productive fair day I had ever been associated with.

When you place your body in such a situation it has a little powwow with the brain and they agree to not allow any thoughts or movements that are not in some way associated with the attainment of a cold beverage, shade, a fan, or air conditioning. If anything other than this short list of demands was sought after it was met with instant physical and mental anguish to help refocus on the necessities.

I was cautioned about my clothing choice of the day prior to being transported to the fairgrounds but my new teenage brain was on break and missed the finer points of the conversation which described in great detail the discomfort I was about to bring upon myself and my assortment of arm muscles.

My faith in evolution is vilified on a regular basis as I observe the growth and development of my children above and beyond the development their father was able to muster. I suppose now that they are both teenagers the evolutionary progress may slow a bit as there is no reason to progress forward when you already know everything about anything.

Those of you that have been scoring at home over the years are also aware that any and all of my son’s birthdays are quickly followed up by one of my birthdays…40 of them now to be exact. I hate numbers. They claim you need one every year so they keep coming year after year after year after year. By the time you read this column I will have reached the summit and had a brief look about. As I looked about some heartless fiend will have swiped my half full glass and replaced it with a leaky half empty one.

Statistically speaking I will most likely spend the next year or so trying to find a way to stop the leak. Throwing in the towel on this battle against aging is signified by the sudden urge to wear black socks with sandals and to hike my pants up to the point where I can reach over my shoulder to retrieve the AARP card from the wallet in my back pocket.

“Hi, my name is Josh and I am 40 years old.” Don’t cry for me…I will do it myself thank you very much.

Summer is typically the time of year when families, classmates, and other such groups decide it to be a good time to get together to celebrate their common bonds. Through the haze of a sunstroke and campfire smoke and all hopped up on smores we peer at those that have shared in our lives and can’t help but think of what used to be, where we’ve all been, and where we’re all going.

My family came from far and near to congregate in Lignite for the Chrest family reunion this past week. As far as I could tell everyone enjoyed the gathering or decided it was in their best interest to fain enjoyment and I even heard some scuttle of it becoming an annual event. Of course you always hear that sort of scuttle during the event when everyone’s caught up in the goings on of the moment with the other part of their lives on hold.

The part that continually vies for their attention, time, and energy. The part that pays the bills and keeps their immediate family life afloat and drifting ahead. The part that those that care about you want to hear about and have a genuine interest in. A few days a year doesn’t seem like much to ask but it does take effort and interest to have a family reunion. Typically an effort by a few and the interest of many is the formula that keeps these things going…keeps a family together.

I enjoy reunions and look forward to these types of gatherings. Gatherings where everyone knows just about everything there is to know about you and you them. There’s comfort in familiarity…comfort in family. We human types are tribal creatures and I enjoy the company of my tribe. They make me laugh…they’ve always made me laugh…and as they say, “laughter is the best medicine.” Whose they? Larry, Curly, or Mo? More like Rosalin, Joann, Mary, Beth, Tim, and Susan.

Laughter is much better medicine than the blackberry brandy Grandpa Ardell prescribed when I had a cough as a child. You ever seen a twelve year old gag on blackberry brandy? Made him laugh so I guess the medicine was more for him than me.

It seems as though every family has someone that without much effort serves as the glue that holds a family together. What amazes me is the effort it takes by many to regain or maintain that closeness when that one individual passes. I’m glad the Chrest family puts forth that effort and I look forward to our future gatherings.

As you partake or prepare for your gatherings, get togethers, reunions, and what have you this summer I wish you safe travels and lots of laughs…even if they’re at your expense. You’ll come away carrying some good memories and most likely few extra pounds. Low carb the Chrest family is not.

Happy Independence Day my friends. May your sparklers sparkle and your bottle rocket hit your brother square in the back.

The number of subcultures in our society is mind boggling and more than a little interesting. There are groups of people, large and small, that get together for activities, gatherings, and what have you on a regular basis that most of us are completely unaware of for various reasons. The main reason generally being that the particular activity of interest to that group is not of interest to you for various reasons. That main reason being that the activity is strange and the people that immerse themselves in it are even stranger.

I found myself in the middle of one such subculture awhile back when I attended a lecture at the local library on Fairburn agates. The lecturer was a gentleman that has written the most researched and informative book on the subject of Fairburn agates. You would be correct in assuming that the subject of Fairburn agates is not one that scientists and authors clamor to research and write about on a regular basis.

For those that don’t know a rock from a road apple or could care less about stumbling around a barren, treeless South Dakota landscape under a blazing sun in search of the rock in a pile of rocks the Fairburn agate is a banded agate that can only be found in southwestern South Dakota and northwestern Nebraska. I’m sure I’ve explained this before but some of you may have been absent, drowsy, or heavily medicated that day so I thought it best to review a bit.

So I decided to attend this lecture by the guru of the elusive Fairburn to see if the old chap had anything useful to say. I soon realized that everything he was saying I had read in his book so this offered me a brief pardon from having to actually listen and pay attention and allowed me to people watch while people were preoccupied.

My first observation was that there were a lot of strange people in the room, people that looked like they had spent so many hours looking at rocks that they had lost their marbles. Marbles are round and smooth so they roll away and get stuck in small hard to reach places and are generally irretrievable once lost. Many of them were clutching rocks they had brought from their personal collection for the guru to gaze upon. Did they bring their rocks everywhere? Why did everyone there seem to come by themselves…not counting their rock?

When you are observing a lot of strange people in a room and you are in the room it just might be that you are one of those strange people. The thought that I had briefly thought about grabbing my favorite rock to bring as a date to the lecture and introduce to the guru made me cringe a little. The fact that I had left it home somehow made me feel a marble or two heavier than those seated around me gentling cradling their prized rock as the lecturer read exerts from his book that he also conveniently had for sale in case anyone in attendance didn’t have one.

At the conclusion of this lecture we were allowed to take a gander at the many rocks the lecturer had brought with him. The guru had fashioned a brief case into a handy rock hauler/display case that held about 30 Fairburn agates. I looked at the brief case and thought, “This guys nuts” while several others inspected it and made promises to their rocks that they would make one just like it when they got home.

My second thought was, “While these wacko’s are setting up play dates for their rocks I could snag that entire case.” I was confident none of them would throw their rocks at me and even more confident that the rock landscaping in front of the library would provide the perfect distraction if any of them attempted to run me down.

If I ever become the Grand Poobah of the Fairburn Agate subculture my first order of business will be to mandate that all members must bring an actual person with them to gatherings. This mandate will be enforced through a 1:1 ratio law stating that a member must bring an equal number of rocks and people to gatherings. You come in packing a brief case full of rocks you better have arrived with a bus load of people. Section two of the 1:1 ratio law will state that for every conversation you have with a rock you must have a conversation of equal length with a person.

Well I better go. I promised my rock I would take it out for a twist cone and a dilly bar. Your assignment for next month is to locate and infiltrate a subculture…be careful out there.

With Father’s Day approaching I’m sure my children are fretting, arguing, and spending many a sleepless night trying to decide whether to get me the silver or black convertible and to go with leather or cloth seats. Whichever they choose it is my duty as their father to set aside any personal preferences and unquestionably adore the gift they have bestowed upon me.

The gift itself is minor and will soon be forgotten but your reaction will lurk forever in the recesses of your child’s subconscious. One day, many days from that day, your child, now a dysfunctional adult will, with the aid of a State assigned psychiatrist, drudge up that Father’s Day of days gone by and lay the blame of a life gone wrong squarely on your shoulders. The lack of personal hygiene, perpetually bad haircut, left eye stigmatism, inability to hold down a job or attract someone sane of the opposite sex, and the insatiable appetite for truck stop chicken fried steak all blamed on your reaction to a Father’s Day gift.

I honestly can’t recall any gift I have ever given my dear old Dad on Father’s Day and apparently his reaction was sincere and gracious enough as to not plunge me into a life of downtrodden self pity. Maybe I was an ungrateful little urchin that never put crayon to paper to profess my Dad as king of Dad Land?

I seem to recall a cordless drill or beard and mustache trimmer but the details are fuzzy. Or it could have been a carton of Vantage Menthol cigarettes as those were a sociably acceptable gift at the time. Cigarettes…a gift from the heart to your lungs. It also used to be common practice and acceptable for me to hop on my blue Coast King bicycle with the yellow mag wheels to fetch my Dad a pack of smokes from Berg’s Red Owl.

Dad hasn’t smoked for over 20 years now so the gift choices for him have dwindled a little. I guess I could buy him a carton and see if he’s still got the Father’s Day gift opening poker face down. “Wow…cigarettes…I absolutely love it…What? Smoke them? Oh I couldn’t…there a gift I want to keep them forever.”

I did a little Father’s Day research just as I did for Mother’s Day and uncovered some very interesting facts, figures, and what not. It seems that although there are a smaller number of phone calls made on Father’s Day than Mother’s Day the percentage of collect calls is much higher on Father’s Day. Father’s Day, the busiest day of the year for collect calls, somehow this doesn’t surprise me.

I found the traditional Father’s Day celebratory activities of Germany to be of particular interest. On Herrentag (gentlemen’s day) groups of men go hiking while pulling little wagons filled with wine, beer, and food. “Get out of the wagon sonny Papa needs room for ice and booze. Quit whining…the further we hike the lighter the wagon will get.” Sadly the domestication of the male homosapien has managed to infiltrate Deutschland as well and many fathers now forgo the traditional booze wagon hike and spend the day with their families opening gifts that they gave the kids the money to buy.

Maybe I’ll buy my Dad a Radio Flyer this year and we’ll swing by the 109 Club for supplies for a walk about and a proper celebration of our German heritage. Great Grandpa Kraft would be proud.

Happy Mother’s Day to all you mothers. We had a wonderful Mother’s Day gathering at our house in Rapid City this year. Several mothers were present and accounted for, my wife, my mom, and my two sister-in-laws spent the day being showered with praise and adornment from children and husbands. It was an especially special Mother’s Day for my sister-in-law, Marki, as it was her first.

Mother’s Day is celebrated in most countries in some form or another on various days of the year but got its start in the United States. Here in the United States the second Sunday in May was designated as Mother’s Day in 1914 after a five or six year effort led by a Ms. Anna Jarvis. It seems that Anna’s delight in her successful effort to get this special day in the books was short lived.

Nine years after Mother’s Day became officially recognized Anna became fed up with its commercialization and proceeded to spend a lot of time (the rest of her life to be exact) and money (all of it to be exact) fighting what she saw as the “abuse” of the celebration. You would not have bumped into her in the greeting card isle of the supermarket as she criticized those that rely on the sappy prose of Hallmark as being lazy oafs lacking the fortitude to write a personal note of adoring gratitude to their mothers.

The fortitude and determination Anna Jarvis utilized to push for and gain the acceptance and recognition of Mother’s Day was redirected into stopping what she had started. She was arrested for disturbing the peace during a Mother’s Day celebration in 1948 and said she regretted ever starting Mother’s Day. If the flowers and cards of that era were upsetting to her can you imagine the disdain and angst she would harbor nowadays when the Sunday paper landed on her step chocked full of sale ads advertising everything a mother never knew she wanted or needed.

Poor Anna had no idea she was laying the tracks for yet another opportunity for the train of commercialization to roll in and tell people that their mothers would like nothing more than a weed whacker, all-season radial tires, a salad shooter, a dozen tulips, and new golf cleats? She got that train rolling and it’s not going to stop as long as there are people making money off of it.

Not so surprising is the fact that Anna never married and never had any children. It would have been a tough gig being the child of the women who made it her life’s mission to completely obliterate Mother’s Day and having to endure heated speeches regarding the evils of macaroni necklaces, boxes of chocolate, and the greeting card industry.

I’m generally not a slave to the material world revolving around all of these special days and feel that simple and sincere always trumps extravagance and excess. So although Anna may have been a bit overzealous in her attempts to put an end to the monster she created I have to say that I’m not in disagreement with her disdain for the commercialization carnival that roles in with each Mother’s Day.

There is no one right way to celebrate and honor your wife and mother on Mother’s day. How you do it isn’t as important as that you do it. We all had a great time and I think our Mother’s Day celebration was a success. Either that or the lady’s were just too polite to tell us otherwise. Anyhow…Happy Mother’s Day.

My youngest brother, with a lot of help from his wife, became a father on April 17th with the birth of their son Otto. What pearls of wisdom does a seasoned battle scarred vet in the fatherhood vocation have to share with his little brother? What have I learned in the 16 years since I first slipped on the fatherhood galoshes and started slogging my way through the muddled path of parenthood? Good question…maybe in another 16 years I’ll have a good answer.

The only unsolicited advice I’ve offered up to these two fine young people is that at all costs they are to avoid any and all books about parenting. There is no book on raising your child, there are books written by others about how they raised their children. Their children are not your children and you are not them so save your money and by something useful like a bottle of bourbon or a chimp that’s trained to change diapers.

Real parents don’t have time to write a book on parenting let alone read one. I made the mistake of seeking out the advice of a parenting book when I first became a father and my wife has never forgiven me. The parents that authored that particular book recommended that during the first six months it was perfectly fine to allow your child to sleep in your bed at night when they “occasionally” became fussy.

Guess how “occasionally” a baby becomes fussy once they figure out that they get to sleep in your bed when they become fussy? Also, the word “fussy” does not begin to convey the volume and effort a baby is capable of when they are miffed. The little tyrants will bawl their fool heads off at 3 o’clock in the morning for no apparent reason and with no regard for the fact that mommy and daddy have to get up early and go to work to pay for Juniors swimming lessons, his shiny new Johnny Jump Up, and a plethora of other such necessities.

Advice? Kids don’t need everything they claim they need and they will not suffer any permanent damage from not getting everything they claim they need. Also, your kids don’t need everything other parents claim they need and will not suffer any permanent damage from not getting everything other parents claim they need.

As parents you are the captain of the ship, the seas may be rough from time to time but never relinquish the wheel to the kids. You’ll never get it back and when the ship sinks you’ll still get the blame even if you were innocently and obliviously milling about the poop deck in your Birkenstocks and socks when the iceberg was struck.

When it comes to this parenting gig I have faith in my brother and my sister-in-law. They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree and they both come from pretty stable strong trees that have produced a lot of good apples. A fair share of nuts as well but good apples just the same.

The only advice I have that I am certain of is that no matter how much of tangled mess things seem these first few years of parenthood every once in awhile take a moment to soak it all in because it goes by fast. As our children grow and their worlds get bigger our part as parents gets smaller so enjoy this time when they need you for most everything. Let the needing begin.

As a self-imposed penance or a feeble attempt at righting a cosmic wrong for the sake of my karmic righteousness I took up the hobby of substitute teaching in the Rapid City school district this year. For the handsome sum of $65 I am called upon to show up at a moment’s notice to academically woo and dazzle the eager teenagers of Rapid City’s fine public schools.

If you are the type of individual that doesn’t enjoy flying by the seat of your pants (never really understood that phrase) and you experience acute bouts of nausea, nervousness, and nystagmus when faced with the unknown then substitute teaching may not be the optimal way for you to spend your free time. I’ll admit I was as nervous as long tail cat in room full of rocking chairs my first sub gig but came away from the experience ready and willing for another go round.

Momma always said substitute teaching was like a box of chocolates…you never know what you’re gonna get. When the students roll in and take their seats they could be likened to a box of chocolates only some of them are turds masquerading as sweet chocolates. As a former classroom turd the ruse of the unruly is shroud I am quite adept at seeing through.

I would like to think I was better than these amateurs when it came to pulling the wool over the teachers eye’s but I now know that sometimes it’s more productive for a teacher to ignore a knucklehead than to stall the groups forward academic progress by stopping to acknowledge and address the behavior. As long as the wool is pulled over my eye’s quietly and non-disruptedly I’ll let it slide for awhile. Since I may only have the student for an hour, like a grandparent, I can let them fill their pants and hand them back to the teacher for changing.

The first tipoff to trouble is an overly enthusiastic smile followed by, “Oooh we have a sub today!” That kid just made the list. It also makes it easier to accept the bad behavior knowing that on some level I deserve to be on the other end of it. I know it may be hard to believe but I wasn’t the most attentive student so when a kid is irritating me I think of the teachers I probably irritated and I hope the years have diminished their urge to choke me.

Knowing that a teacher quietly sat at their desk fantasizing about several shelves of heavy textbooks collapsing on my smirking teenage face really makes me feel bad about my behavior back then. I wasn’t doing myself or my fellow classmates any good by being a constant unabashed wisenheimer and for that I am truly sorry. Sorry for having so much fun at another’s expense is an odd sort of sorry.

So until I feel I have evened out the balance of the cosmic karma scale that tilts so unevenly from my turdly teenage behavior I will continue righting my wrongs and answering the call to substitute teach.