Rambling Josh

April has come around once again and our world here on the top side of the lower 48 has begun its transformation from the white and gray of winter to the vast color collage of spring. The dark angular figures that have looked like cracks in the winter horizon are beginning to bud and will soon fill out and provide the shade we’ll soon be seeking. Although we optimistically look forward to spring we will continue to warily look over our shoulder for another shot of winter until sometime around Independence Day.

What we need now are some April showers to come in and clean up the remnants of winter. Gently obliterate those last few dirty piles of snow, wash the grit of the road, and perk the grass up a bit.

In the sports world it’s time to kick open the gym doors and head outside to spectate or participate in your sport or sports of choice. Baseball and track top the list for my preferred warm weather endeavors. Nothing better than a baseball game or track meet on a nice warm spring day and nothing worse on a miserably cold, windy, rainy, snowy spring day.

While high school and college teams have been playing for a few weeks now this week brings us opening day for major league baseball. I think I was 5 years old when I fell in love with the game of baseball and it has been a constant in my life ever since. I played football, ran track, and attempted basketball but baseball was the only game that I enjoyed practice as much as the games and still do. It’s just a great game and I feel fortunate to have had the privilege of playing it for so long.

It’s also a very frustrating game. A player batting over .300 is considered to be a very good hitter. A player batting .300 has managed to be successful 30% of their at bats and met with failure the other 70% of their trips to the plate. I think this demonstrates the difficulty of the game and also why optimism is a necessary trait amongst baseball players. A juvenile sense of humor is also helpful.

The founders of the game had great foresight when they settled on using dugouts for the players to hang out in when they weren’t trying to avoid failure on the baseball field. In other sports the players are in full view of the spectators and have to appear intent and interested in the game at all times whereas in baseball the dugout is a home away from home. Horsing around is expected and encouraged in the friendly confines of the dugout.

Allow me to provide an example of the intellectual goings on in a dugout. In college, before they really began enforcing the ban on chewing tobacco, it was perfectly admissible for a teammate to spit a mouthful of tobacco juice on your cleats. If they were able to do so without hitting your shoe laces you could not retaliate until a later date but if after inspection it was agreed upon by the spitee and the spitter that your laces had indeed been soiled with tobacco juice you (the spitee) were entitled to freely soil the spitters cleat with your own mouthful of tobacco juice.

In the dugout conversations of all sort are ongoing, unrecognizable chatter is occurring, some are wearing rally caps, some are sneaking off to the concessions stand for a hotdog, most are participating in some form of screwing around, spit and seeds are flowing at a constant rate, there’s no clock, and you just might stroll out of that environment up to the plate swing your bat and make solid contact and all will be right with the world for a brief moment as you circle the bases and return to where everyone has stopped all the above to congratulate you and welcome you back to the dugout.

There’s a phrase we use in baseball when someone is having a particularly good day. When they’re hitting everything the pitcher throws and fielding everything that comes their way you might hear someone yell out, “hey havin’ a day!” We all know the peaks and valleys of the game and yelling out “hey havin’ a day” to someone is just recognition of one of those peak days that are so elusive on the baseball field. You know when you’re “havin’ a day” and that’s what keeps you coming back, that’s what keeps you from dwelling on the failures that inevitably outweigh the successes in the game.

As spring tentatively settles in go on and have yourself a day.

As fate, demons, or sadistic leprechauns would have it, in the past few weeks two events have intertwined that could prove to put a damper on my life expectancy. I will be pleasantly surprised if at the conclusion of the year 2012 I am upright with full use of both arms and nothing more than the usual yearly mental decline. Unscathed, uninjured, and undead have recently become my post dated belated New Years resolutions.

No I haven’t decided to pursue a career as a tour bus driver in Iraq; my sixteen year old daughter got her learners permit and my twelve year old son completed hunter’s safety. The volatile combination of automobiles and firearms, two American institutions, thrust into one father’s life at the same time. Play times over.

My daughter was having a problem with test anxiety when it came to the learners permit test but the third time was a charm, for her not for me, and she came out smiling holding her shiny new permit in one hand and my life in the other. Don’t get me wrong, I was happy for her, but teaching my teenage daughter the rules of the road from the passenger seat of a moving car with other moving cars in close proximity seemed more than little dangerous for all involved.

As we were getting set to leave the parking lot of the DMV my concern was amplified another notch when I told my daughter to press the brake and shift into reverse. I heard the engine roar as she tugged on the shifter and pressed the peddle to the right of the one I had hoped. Briefly, a vision of the simpler and safer days of Ellis family automobile transportation flittered by with her safely secured in her car seat and me at the helm.

Thankfully, some genius, most likely a father that had to teach a daughter how to drive, incorporated the “must press brake to shift out of park” safety feature. This also is most likely the same fellow who decided the emergency brake should be in the middle within arm’s reach of the passenger (a.k.a. Dad). In the eight miles between our house and the DMV my hand never left the emergency brake and my buns never unclenched. Drivers ed teachers must have buns of steel.

During those eight miles my wife called to inquire about Sierra’s test results. I said, “She passed.” In those few words my wife sensed a “clenched” tone in my voice and asked, “Is she driving now?” I said, “Yes.” My wife said, “You sound nervous.” I said, “Yes.” She said, “I will wait and talk to you when you get home.” I said, “Yes.”

I won’t be nodding off in the passenger seat anytime soon but Sierra is doing a fine job of driving and the only damage to the car has been a noticeable warping in the passenger side floor boards and slight finger indentations around the emergency brake handle.

Sierra’s driving and Jackson can now legally get in touch with his inner Elmer Fudd. I’ve got a few months until hunting season then the clenching can commence in full force again. I’ll keep you posted on the death defying goings on and the promising underwear modeling career all the clenching created.

As Mark Twain once said, and many have said since, “Truth is stranger than fiction.” Those words crossed my mind when I first read about the “Piggy Back Bandit” in a newspaper article a few weeks ago. I have a disorder that makes me laugh at inappropriate times or at least what is deemed inappropriate by a statistical majority of the adult population.

When I first read the story about the Piggy Back Bandit I thought, after a less than mild chuckle, that this may be one of those inappropriate times and that there may be something more to the story. Something darker and more sinister that would make me regret chortling over the issue, but so far nothing dastardly has turned up so for now I feel vindicated of all counts of inappropriate laughter.

Oh I’m sure there are still those that feel this is a very serious matter; the same that feel most every matter is serious. I know who you are. I’ve seen you frown in my direction while I’m struggling to overcome my above mentioned disorder. Have you no compassion for the disordered?

For those who may have missed this little nugget of news allow me to fill you in on the exploits of the Piggy Back Bandit. First of all, I must inform you that Piggy Back Bandit is not the Christian name his parents picked out of their “10,007 Baby Names” book. If it were his given name it would be a simple case of a young man trying to live up to his name. But it’s not so this isn’t a simple case, it’s a strange case, stranger than fiction.

It seems Sherwin “Piggy Back Bandit” Shayegan has spent the last few years making impromptu visits to high school sporting events to solicit piggy back rides from high school athletes. The 28-year-old entrepreneur founded his “business” in Washington and then expanded east collecting piggy back rides and the ire of high school sports officials in Oregon, Montana, North Dakota, and Minnesota.

A Montana high school sports official was quoted as saying, “What’s disturbing to me is that he is jumping on our young athletes, he is 240 pounds, and he can hurt someone.” What’s disturbing to me is that that’s all he finds disturbing. So if Sherwin coupled a reduced calorie diet with a strenuous regime of daily calisthenics and lost 70 pounds his actions wouldn’t be disturbing? In the event I have the urge to pick up a new hobby I would like to know the optimum non-disturbing weight for a piggy back bandit.

Before you pass judgment on misunderstood and mildly misguided Sherwin know that he is not a free loading piggy back rider. His general mode of operation is to gain close access to the team, he prefers basketball, by taking on the role of water boy. Once the game is over and his water boy duties have been completed he asks for his hard earned wages in his favorite form of currency, the piggy back ride.

Have your free loading kids ever offered you anything in exchange for all the piggy back rides you’ve dished out to them over the years? I need to go get an oil change tomorrow so when the guy finishes up and hands me the bill I’m just going to tell him to hop on. We’ll settle up piggy back bandit style…if he’s under 240 pounds…otherwise it would be disturbing.

During my glorious carefree fun filled college days I claimed, on paper anyway, to be a biology major and I somehow managed to graduate with a bachelor of science degree in biology. A B.S. in Biology, the B.S. part is accurate and somewhat fitting as I had intended on becoming a forest ranger and spending my days moseying around the woods analyzing various forms of animal droppings. Now as an athletic trainer I mosey around gymnasiums and football fields waiting for athletes to drop. B.S. is in just as plentiful a supply at a sporting event as it is in the forest, it’s just being produced and expelled in a different format.

Sometimes what we set out to do or be isn’t what we end up doing or being. For instance, my brother had dreams of one day performing on Broadway. He would dance fervently around the house, dancing and dancing until he would collapse in an exhausted heap, his leotard soaked with sweat. Then one fateful day while dancing he slipped on a stray Lincoln Log rolled his ankle and was never the same. With his dreams of Broadway so cruelly and violently ripped away he sold his leotard and leg warmers and became a lineman.

Since both my brothers are lineman feel free to create a mental picture of whichever one you would find most entertaining dancing around in a leotard. I find them both entertaining and as their older brother I’m confident that I could convince both of them to slip into a leotard.

B.S. got me thinking about B.S. and the other words and phrases we use to express ourselves. For example “Son of a biscuit” is a phrase I refuse to use for various reasons. First of all, as a quasi biology major I do not recall ever studying the reproductive system of a biscuit which makes me question the validity and accuracy of the statement. Since I wasn’t the most attentive student it is entirely possible that I missed that chapter or was absent the day we went over the biscuit reproduction system and had biscuit dissection lab. If that is the case I apologize for my ignorance.

What would the son of a biscuit be? A crouton? An oyster cracker? Secondly, I don’t use that phrase because I believe if you’re going to curse, if you want to curse, if you need to curse then don’t dilly dally around with the low-fat diet version. Spit out a mouthful of the real McCoy. Always full flavored, always satisfying. When you smash your thumb with a hammer and, “Oooh snicker doodles!” just doesn’t cut it reach for the tried and true. This message approved and funded by Cursers of America. We swear by it.

Cursing is an art and like all art forms some people are better at it and more fluent in it than others. Like any great artist you need to know what to use, when to use it, and how much is necessary. That is where many go wrong and give cursing a bad name. I like salt but too much of it can make you cringe. The error those people are making is that they are not taking their audience into consideration. Like an artist who paints portraits of hamburgers and steaks to sell at the PETA convention they just don’t understand the wants and needs of their audience. Don’t understand or don’t care.

Properly used, cursing, can make you feel better, get your point across in fewer words, and provide some level of entertainment to those around you. Unless of course the curse is directed at those around you which of course is the beginning of an entirely different scenario that may find you with a fist in your curse emitter. If you’ve been wanting to give cursing a try start with muttering obscenities to test the waters. Start low and grow is what we teach here at the Cursers of America Academy of the Arts and What Not.

Speaking of B.S., cursing, and muttering obscenities, I hope you had a wonderful Valentine’s Day and the box of chocolates you got didn’t have too many of those chocolates filled with that nasty orange marshmallow substance.

I drew the taxi to Terry Peak straw this past weekend and as I was sitting in the ski lodge passing the time until 4:00, when the lifts shut down for the day and my son and his buddies are forced to stop snowboarding, I spied a sign. A sign I’ve paid a passing glance to in booze pedaling establishments once or twice over the years.

The sign’s intention is to assist those that may have forgotten their age or have been traveling abroad and need to be reminded of the legal drinking age in the United States and South Dakota. The sign said, “If you were born on or before January 29, 1991 enjoy an ice cold Pabst Blue Ribbon.” A simple sign, you’ve seen it, I’ve seen it, we’ve all seen it time and time again.

I worked as a bartender when I was in college and rotating the numbers on the sign was one of a multitude of exhausting duties required of me. Slicing lemons, putting pickle spears and olives on little swords, making sure there wasn’t too much lipstick on the clean beer glasses, and rotating numbers. Oh yeah, and making sure the televisions were all tuned to various sporting events. If no sports were on customers were forced to watch golf or NASCAR instead.

What caught my eye this particular time was the year, 1991. That was the year I graduated from Burke Central High School. Baby’s that were just making their messy and noisy entrance into this world that year can now legally make a messy and noisy exit from a bar. Using my rudimentary math skills and general knowledge of legal drinking age I deduced that 21 years ago I was a young man in tight pants, loafers, and a flowing mane strolling the halls of BCHS on the downhill side of my senior year.

I was enjoying myself sitting at the bar in the ski lodge until that point. Who wants to be reminded that they are well before the “if you were born on or before” date? Not me. As my high school history and shop teacher, Mr. Savelkoul, always said, “Ignorance is bliss.” I was blissful until that sign threw 21 years at me and made me ponder this and that. Pondering this and that reminded me that I will be 40 in July and if the next 21 years go by as quickly as the last I’m going to be 60 sometime next week.

I feel a little nauseous. Mid-life crisis? Does mid-life mean half done or half to go? I can count on the half done part; at least until I forget it, but the half to go part is a crap shoot. I gotta stop with this line of thought; it’s not good for my complexion. Those of you more experienced in the matters of aging could maybe fill me in on how long I’m going to fret about all this number and age nonsense because it’s exhausting.

In my experience hiking, going downhill always means there’s going to eventually be an uphill so you enjoy the downhill because you know the uphill is going to be difficult and tiring. I’m not ready to enjoy the downhill yet so I guess I’ll turn around and walk back up to that knot head in the tight pants and loafers and tell him to enjoy life it goes by fast…and to get a hair cut.

Early one blustery South Dakota January morning the “Pre and Me Meat Co.” was founded and brought forth stuff made of meat. One meat, actually, brought forth in various delicious forms, smoked venison, dried venison, and venison summer sausage all were carefully hand crafted and Labrador approved.

This process of processing was much more time intensive than I imagined and I now understand why people would ere on the side of stinginess when it comes to sharing their homemade jerky and sausage. My right hand dog, Pre, took a keen interest in the art of turning this into that and was by my side every step of the way.

If he had thumbs and better penmanship I’m sure he would have been taking detailed notes. With the large volume of drool this meat work was producing I was concerned about Pre’s hydration and electrolyte levels so I kept him well supplied with Gatorade.

I have made jerky in the oven and in the dehydrator with success in the past but that seemed too easy and predictable so I thought I would take the “Pre and Me Meat Co.” to a new level and really impress our customers and attempt a few new methods. I read an article a few years back on making a smoker out of a garbage can and wanted to give it a try so I set out to do some net surfing to get the particulars on garbage can smoker construction.

To answer your first question, “Yes it was a brand new never been used to contain actual rubbish and what not metal garbage can.” To answer your second question, “I didn’t just go buy a smoker because I saved at least $7.00 by building one of my own.” The Pre of “Pre and Me Meat Co.” will be more than willing to answer any further questions you may have in regards to smoker construction, meat preparation, or canine thoughts and beliefs about UFO’s and Big Foot.

With my garbage can smoker materials list in hand I headed to the hardware store with visions various smoked animals dancing in my head. I apologize to any vegetarians that may be reading this but the vision was a most pleasant site and like a Pavlovian dog I began to salivate as I strolled through the hardware store. Uncontrollable salivation in the hardware store isn’t anything new but this time the reason had nothing to do with the latest and greatest model of table saw with laser alignment and free dado blade.

While searching for all the necessary components I did run across an actual factory made smoker that would only require me to open the box. I was in Wal-Mart at the time and in a weakened state, my general state when forced to venture into Wal-Mart, and of course it was on clearance but I fought of the urge to go with “Made in China” and stayed the course for “Made in my garage”.

Besides, I figured if it didn’t work out at least I would have a garbage can and Pre would have his fill of smoked meat. With some personal modifications to the plans I found on the internet the garbage can smoker worked. Men always make personal modifications to plans because otherwise it’s just following instructions and no man likes to have their creativity and undiscovered genius stifled by instructions.

So after fifteen hours of tending to the needs of drying and smoking meat my family can enjoy the tasty, and let us not forget healthy, products of the “Pre and Me Meat Co.” Be sure to tune in next week as we transform a Mini Winnie into a mobile smoker capable of the simultaneous production and transportation of various forms of smoked and dried meats.

Another holiday season came and went and took 2011 with it. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again…time goes by way too fast.

With the holidays being such a prominent presence in the ever-growing chapters of our life story, you can’t help but reminisce a bit when this time of year rolls around. When quietly pondering the past while staring at the unblinking truth of the present, you never know what emotion will win out. Happy, sad, or possibly a potent cocktail of the two swirled together like a big sticky half eaten candy cane.

While I was in Lignite for Christmas I had to go out to Grandpa and Grandma Chrests’ farm to pick up a few odds and ends leftover from the almost move. Grandpa passed away a few years ago and Grandma moved to town so nobody lives at the farm anymore, but I still like to visit when I’m home.

Why visit a place where nobody lives anymore?

Sometimes you can’t remember the words to a song until you hear the music play. The farm plays the music that helps me remember some of my song. To a stranger that house may appear empty, but when I walk through it, I see layer after layer of the past unfold all around me. A past, happy and full of love and laughter.

Laughter is a constant presence in the music the farm plays for me which makes me happy but a little sad. Happy I have the memories, sad those times are gone; happy I’ve had so many wonderful people in my life, sad that some of them are gone; happy I was able to spend so much time at the farm as a child. I feel the same way and hear more of the same music when I walk by Grandpa and Grandma Ellis’ old house in Lignite.

As a child Christmas Eve was spent at Grandpa and Grandma Ellis’ and Christmas was spent out at the farm. Both families are big, loud and full of it, so there was a not so dull roar in each household as family after family shuffled in and out of the cold for their yearly helping of food, presents and laughter.

So when I was out retrieving my stuff from the almost move I could see all the cars in the driveway, all the relatives staking out their usual spot in the house, Grandpa’s laugh rising over the roar, the rickety card table where us cousins ate quickly so we could begin prodding the adults to get to the present opening.

The Chrest family gets together at the Senior Citizens Center in Lignite for Christmas now and although it’s a different place, it’s got that same familiar roar. What I wouldn’t give to hear Grandpa’s laugh rise above it one more time. I’ll put that on my list for Santa next year.

We need places and events that play our music, so we don’t forget our songs. The holidays are played out for another year but feel free to sing your song whenever the mood or that big sticky half eaten candy cane strikes you.

Happy New Year.

For my wife’s 40th birthday, which could have occurred this year or possibly sometime within the next ten or so years, I got her four tickets to watch her 49ers take on the Steelers this Monday night. After weeks of deliberation, she decided to fill the other three seats with myself and the kids to make a fun-filled family vacation of it.

So, on Thursday we descended into the San Francisco airport, promptly rented a car, and headed for the hills of Yosemite National Park for the first leg of our clockwise California vacation loop. With El Capitan and Half Dome crossed off the list, we made our way to Sequoia National Park.

I have always wanted to see those giant trees I have seen in pictures with my own two eyes and Mother Nature did not disappoint. Pictures do not come close to conveying the grandeur of these magnificent giants of the forest that sprouted through the earth almost 3000 years ago. If those behemoths could talk, imagine all they have witnessed from their mountain top vantage point.

The mountains of California are like the Black Hills on steroids.

From the mountains we headed towards the coast and the rolling waves of the Pacific. To get out of the mountains required navigating switch backs so tight I caught a glimpse of myself coming or going several times. Myself gave me the bird once when I forgot to dim my headlights. All the mountain road zigging and zagging was also threatening to present a grizzly reminder of all that my daughter had consumed that day.

The kids have really enjoyed the beach, and the weather has been great. “Unseasonably warm” we’ve heard several locals exclaim. An “unseasonably warm” winter day in California bares a strikingly similar resemblance to the average summer day in the Dakotas. Just substitute the mosquitoes with sea gulls and the cows with tourists.

The last few days we’ve been meandering in a northerly direction via California Highway 1, back towards San Francisco. Thus far it has been a very enjoyable trip and as we speak, or as I write, we are in Santa Cruz at the Coastview Inn. It’s hard to forget the name of the place as the establishments sign is directly outside our window providing a wonderful night light.

The ocean is right across the street, and I can see where people could find its continuous rhythmic sounds an enjoyable neighbor. Actually, the beach is right across the street and with any luck it will stay between us and the ocean. Tomorrow we’ll load up and make the final push for the big city on the bay and prepare for some Monday Night Football, cable cars, Alcatraz, and Rice-A-Roni. Not necessarily in that order.

If you watched the game Monday night, I was the guy with “Go Niners” shaved into my back hair and “Go Steelers” on the flip side. With the way opposing fans have been mistreated as of late you gotta stay bipartisan.

What has become most obvious to me on this trip is that my children are hardly children anymore and we need to take more family vacations before adulthood starts to lay claim to their time.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year everyone. See you next year.

Settling into a new home is a process of taking what was once someone else’s and making it yours, by undoing and redoing all the work the previous somebody spent a lot of time and effort doing. Most likely the majority of those changes were thought to be permanent by that previous somebody but change has been the order of business for our house the past few weeks.

Changing this and that, painting anything and everything, your basic undo redo projects that have created a “honey do” list longer than my leg…foot and toe nails included. DIY gone wild. Do It Yourself has gotten out of hand or foot if that’s your preference. I’m not talking about our house, of course, no honey, I love, love, love everything you tell…ask me to do.

We spent Thanksgiving with my wife’s side of the family at her sister’s house and they have cable. We do not have cable and a request for it has shown up on the kids’ Christmas list every year. Going to a house that has cable reminds me of why I’m glad we don’t. There apparently are very few television shows nowadays with made-up characters living made-up lives.

Television is no longer an escape to Fantasy Island, with a Charlie’s Angel on each knee and the third fetching you an egg nog. It’s watching real people do real home improvement projects. As you air your complaints about the programming, you are shushed by your wife who is poised with a note pad making a list of things that will significantly subtract from your hiking, biking, and general doing nothing time.

There never used to be “Home Improvement” stores. There were hardware stores and lumber yards where men would go to visit, scratch, spit, swear, fart and buy 2x4’s and sacks of nails. You couldn’t buy lilac scented bath oil, fuzzy slippers, or anything else of that nature and if you asked you would be beaten with your new 2x4 and given a few whacks with your sack of nails. About the only items other than lumber and hardware you might find, would be a bottle of Coke and for a quarter and a few cranks a handful of stale cashews.

Those people on those home improvement shows do nice work but then they are people in the plural, and I am I in the singular. Many hands make light work and more interesting television I guess than one inept guy and one house. To be fair, my wife is an active member of our home improvement cast and can usually be found at the helm of a paintbrush.

I admit there is great satisfaction in successfully completing a DIY project. There’s also something to be said for being sent off to Disneyland while a group of professionals with nice hair and bubbly personalities whisk in and undo and redo your entire house in less time and with less profanity than it would have taken you to hang a curtain rod somewhat straight.

So, if you’re in the neighborhood swing on in and sit for a spell. We can visit, scratch, spit, swear, and fart as long as you can do it with a paintbrush in your hand.

There are times when the words “Thank You” seem inadequate and so little to say in return for so much. This is such a time.

No matter how much I ponder, and I ponder a lot, I can’t string together any of the words in our vast English language that could come close to expressing the depth of my family’s gratitude, appreciation, and thanks to the Williams family.

Back in July when the “Great Debacle” began, our family had sold our home in Rapid City and was in the process of moving to Minot during the worst possible time to move to Minot in the past 500 years…give or take. Our friends, Steve and Tammi Williams, told us we could stay with them until we got things figured out and found a place to call home in Minot, Rapid City, or anywhere here or there.

There are words and sentences we impulsively put out there sometimes that the passage of time has us lashing ourselves with regret each time we see and hear ourselves uttering the words. “You can stay with us” is one such sentence that has most likely frequently tormented the thoughts and dreams of each member of the Williams family the past few months.

They are good people and I hope after all is said and done, they will remain good friends.

All will be said and done this week as we finally close on our new home here in Rapid City. A safe distance away from the banks of the mighty Mouse River and the exorbitant real estate prices courtesy of the Bakken boom.

This week the Williams family can have their life back the way it was prior to the “You can stay with us” day they have rued for so long. After long last their home will be Ellis free and once the fumigators pay a visit, or two, they will hardly even know we were ever here.

Physically they will be free of the ties that have bound us all in this communal living experiment that taught us more about each other than we probably cared to know. Physically they will be free but mental freedom may only be found at the bottom of a bourbon bottle coupled with the drug regime of a sympathetic psychiatrist.

I know they don’t expect or want anything more than a “Thank You” from us and possibly a promise we will turn them down if God forbid a similar situation were to ever arise again and they are unable to keep from uttering “You can stay with us.”

Thank you Steve, Tammi, Maura, Hermione, Martha Mae, and Buckeye for opening your home to us. Thank you for providing stability for us and our children during an unstable time. Thank you for the laughter we’ve shared and the talks we’ve had when laughing and talking were what we needed most. Thank you for everything. Your act of kindness and selflessness will always be greatly appreciated, and you can stay with us anytime.

Still makes you cringe a little doesn’t it?