Rambling Josh

I just returned from a four day athletic training conference in Atlanta, and I can confidently say that I don’t care if I ever visit there again. It’s nothing personal, everybody I met there was quite friendly, there was just too many of them. When you grow up in a town of hundreds a city of millions is a bit much.

The first thing I have to consciously not do when I visit a big city is not stare directly at everyone I meet as if I might know them. Just one of many small town habits, like waving and saying “Hi,” that apparently make those in the big city nervous or irritated. Nervous and irritated is the last emotions I wanted to evoke in some of the not so peachy Georgians I ran across.

The constant noise and flow of people, cars, and cement sucks the life out of you. So I was more than happy to get back to the trees, hills, and grass of South Dakota in time to spend father’s day with my wife and kids.

For those of you expecting fathers or those that plan to be fathers sometime in the future here’s a little heads up. Fathers Day is not a day for you to do whatever you want; it’s a day for you to do whatever your kids think you want to do. This just so happens to bear a striking resemblance to what they want to do.

This if fine with me because soon enough they probably won’t care what I’m doing as long as it doesn’t involve them sparring any of their precious teenage time. I may have made it out of the Eastern Time zone unscathed but I suspect the teenage time zone might leave me a little battered.

I know this because as the oldest I had the opportunity observe this horrendous behavior in my younger siblings. Thankfully my superior level of maturity blossomed early and I never caused my Dad any grief. Except for that one time….no wait that was Jarvis, or maybe…no that was Amanda, oh now I remember…nope that was Gabe.

The three formally mentioned defendants and myself are fortunate to have such a wonderful father. Even though we couldn’t all be there with our Dad on Fathers Day, he’s in our thoughts on this and everyday. When I open my crayon cards on Fathers Day my only wish is that my children love me as much as I love my Dad.

Hope all you Dad’s of Upstate ND had a wonderful Fathers Day. That might make a lovely swim suit calendar, “Dad’s of Upstate ND.”

Dad I know your legs haven’t seen sun since the Nixon administration so you’ve got some work to do. Just get yourself a pair of “Daisy Dukes” to wear when you mow the lawn four times a day and you’ll be bronzed in no time.

Happy Father’s Day “Mr. August.”

Life is full of choices and turning points, some are big some are small, some are temporary some are permanent. Standing in the bathroom the other morning getting ready for the day I was faced with a choice that was a turning point in my life.

This wasn’t a turning point that you plan for like senior citizen discounts or high school graduation. No, this one I didn’t see coming at all. It was going to be a hot sunny day and I was going to be outside for the majority of it so I had some choices to make. Shorts or pants, shoes or sandals, t-shirt or tank top, sunscreen or hair gel….Sunscreen or hair gel!

The choice between sunscreen and hair care products is one that I didn’t see coming, but here it was rearing its scantily clad head. A turning point. Which one do I NEED was the question at hand or head I guess you could say? Do I continue to support the troops or do I give in and protect the invading scalp?

When I dropped the kids off at school that morning, and gave them their usual hug and bidding of “have fun and learn something,” Jackson asked what that smell was in my hair. “Coppertone” I replied, with a tinge of defeat in my voice. Jackson said, “I like it, it smells like we’re going to the pool.”

His response made me smile. Now if he were older and had fully developed his genetic predisposition to sarcasm he may have responded a little differently. Something like, “Why because your ears and nose are stealing all the hair from your head?” or some other ego bruising, but humorous, response.

Kids are great when they’re at the ages where nothing their father does or is embarrasses them or seems odd in any way. The rabbit fur hat you wear in winter is still entertaining, they still accept hugs and kisses in front of their friends, and your head slathered in Coppertone reminds them of the pool. I better enjoy all this before they discover that I might be a bit strange.

Actually I anticipate that it’ll be just as enjoyable when I am a complete embarrassment to them. I believe that is our right as parents in exchange for changing diapers and putting up with these little people as they try and figure out who they are. Seems fair to me.

You can go ahead and be one of those “cool” parents if you like, but I want to cause my kids to wince a little from time to time. Not from physical pain, but good old fashioned mental anguish. The anguish only a weird father can bring about when you are surrounded by your “cool” friends with the “cool” parents.

They can look away all they want but when they turn back I’ll still be there. Honking, waving, singing loudly to that “weird” music, and leaving a scent of Coppertone in my wake.

Enjoy your summer. Smells like we’re going to the pool.

I would like to commend Shelley Bartow and Jackie Jensen for their time and effort in getting the Northern Prairie Wellness Center up and running. I’m looking forward to visiting the new facility on my next trip to upstate North Dakota. Where else are going to find a room full of sweaty North Dakotans?

The Hostefest on “All You Can Eat” lutefisk night?

I tried lutefisk once and given the choice I would just as soon eat a sweat sock dipped in butter. Grandpa Ardell talked me into it, and I don’t think he was all that disappointed that he had to eat my share too. Just thinking about it gives me that watery eyed nauseous feeling.

That’s not the first time he’s talked me into doing something that made me nauseous. The cigar that turned me green, the oyster stew that turned my stomach, the pulling his finger…well that made me laugh too.

Now that all of you upstaters are getting whipped into shape I’ll expect to be receiving your entries into the bike race I’m organizing for August. Speaking of the “Gut Check”, the dates have been changed since the article about it, to August 18-20th. I’m sure your frantically checking your date book at this very moment. What could be a better way to spend a weekend than pedaling your bicycle 412 miles?

The Hostefest on “All You Can Eat” lutefisk night?

What would make someone attempt to ride a bike that far in such a short period of time? It’s different for everyone I suspect. Personally the wind rushing by as I peddle makes it harder to hear the voices in my head. It’s very therapeutic.

What would make someone live in the wind swept prairies of North Dakota? Same reason I suspect. I’m not implying that you’re all crazy. I’m only saying that when I tell “normal” stories of my life growing up in Lignite to people that have never had the privilege of visiting our neck of the woods they appear both frightened and entertained at the same time. What else could make someone look frightened and entertained at the same time?

The Hostefest on “All You Can Eat” lutefisk night?

Now I’ve never been to the Hostefest, so before I get a bunch of Norwegian accented hate mail, I want you to know that I intend on going some day. I’ve seen the line up of musical talent they have each year, and despite that, I’ll still go.

It’s almost bikini season so finish reading the paper, put down the bon bon’s, get your leg warmers on and head out to the Northern Prairie Wellness Center. Just like Grandpa Ardell told me before I gagged on that first and last bite of lutefisk, “It stinks a little but it’s good for you.” Good sound advice for working out, but it should never apply to food.

Take advantage of the opportunity being provided to you to improve your health and stay in shape. What do you need to stay in shape for?

The Hostefest on “All You Can Eat” lutefisk night, of course.

Cooking, dishes, laundry, cooking, dishes, laundry…..the three horsemen of my apocalypse are attempting to drain the life out of me. It’s not so bad when there’s two of you to share the joys of the big three, but with my wife away at college it’s all me, all the time. I had a handle on it for awhile, but the handles been growing increasingly absent.

The kids are showing less and less enthusiasm for the meals I prepare, and have began offering up their birthday money for pizza delivery. It’s not that I’m a bad cook, it’s just that I lack a little in the variety department. There are four or five meals I make really well, and really often.

This worked out just fine when my meals were dispersed randomly and less frequently amongst Dawn’s four star creations. Dawn would research and plan a weeks worth of meals, and grocery shop accordingly. I begin my planning when I open the cupboard at supper time, and grocery shop when the cereal is all gone, the breads moldy, and I can’t positively identify the leftovers.

Dawn loves to try new recipes. I love that the church serves supper every Wednesday night. Being a former alter boy I’m always given preferential treatment and the finest table. Dawn hangs new recipes on the fridge for me to try when she’s gone, but, well, you know, they seem so complicated. A bowl, a spoon, a box of cereal, a jug of milk, there is such beauty in the simple things.

It’s the whole time trade off that I can’t get past. Energy expended versus energy gained. In the wild a tiger won’t chase a yak all day long. The tiger knows that in order to survive it has to expend less energy chasing the yak than it can gain from eating the yak. Five years of biology classes and that’s all I remember. Oh, yeah, and that the buffalo’s hooves are good for aerating the soil.

What does this mean? Your lawn will be lush and green if you can train a buffalo to push your lawn mower. Also, that I don’t want to spend an hour preparing a meal that takes 10 minutes to eat. That’s an energy loss for me. Baked Alaska, energy loss, but, can of baked beans, energy gain. Not to mention the hours of entertainment provided after digestion. Fiber equals fun.

Then of course you have the other downfall of the intricate, fancy, shmansy meal, dishes. Dishes, dishes, dishes, don’t get me started on the dishes, because there’s still a clean plate we can share. Yes we do have a dishwasher, but I can’t put the dirty ones in there, when I’m using it rather than the cupboards to store the clean dishes.

I was complaining about dishes to someone a while back and they asked me, “Don’t you have a dishwasher?” to which I replied (Dawn loves this one), “Yes, but she’s away at college.” Funny huh? No, not funny? Okay honey, I’ll finish the dishes.

Sometimes when I’m in the kitchen whining about energy losses, and training buffalo, I think about how hard my wife is working to succeed in school, and the sacrifices she’s making being away from me and the kids. I’ve got the easy part. She’s got a yak to catch.

It seems to me that if you’re contemplating beginning a life of crime that April 1st would be a good day to give it a go and see if it’s really for you. Rob a bank, get caught, the judge asks if you have anything to say in your defense, you simply reply, “April Fools your honor.” The judge smiles, shakes his head, says, “You really got us on that one” slams the gavel down, “Case dismissed.”

I guess I should have taken that into consideration when I decided to start my short lived life of crime. But since gardens don’t sprout much in April, the “April Fools Defense” wouldn’t have gotten me very far.

Apparently dirt covered stolen carrots had more appeal than the clean, peeled ones Mom had in the fridge. Or somehow had better flavor than the ones we were “allowed” to pick from Grandpa Fritz’s garden. Whatever the reason, my younger brother Jarvis and myself did it, and we got caught.

The garden we chose as our first “hit” belonged to Blanchard Lein. Separating his garden from his house were some thick bushes that would provide good cover for our crime. Jarvis was loading up on carrots and I was enjoying some peas, when I saw someone coming down the path from the house.

It was Blanchard, and he didn’t look all that pleased to see us getting our recommended daily allowance of vegetables from his garden. I told Jarvis to run as I took off, but when I turned to see how close behind me he was I saw him standing there like a deer in the headlights in front of Blanchard. I could have kept running, but Jarvis knew where I lived, and would more than likely share that information with Blanchard, so I stopped and returned to the scene of the crime.

Jarvis was standing there with a handful of carrots behind his back, unaware that his tiny eight year old frame wasn’t concealing the bouquet of carrot tops behind him. Blanchard asked him what he had behind his back, to which Jarvis replied, “Nothing” as he dropped the bunch of carrots to the ground behind him. Maybe if he had been wearing bellbottoms he would have gotten away with that maneuver.

We were busted, caught green handed I guess you could say. Blanchard herded us off to his car, and since our house was only a rutabaga toss from his, in about five seconds we rolled into our driveway. We jumped out, made a dash for the house, ran upstairs, and hid under the blankets on Mom and Dad’s bed. They would never find us there.

We heard Blanchard filling Mom in on what her boys had been up to and telling her that if it were up to him we should spend a few hours in the county jail to teach us a lesson. Thankfully it wasn’t up to him, and after she somehow found us, Mom settled on making us apologize, and sent us to our room. I learned a valuable lesson that day. Always work alone.

A few years later the FBI mistook Blanchard for North Dakota tax evader Gordon Call and busted down his hotel room door to apprehend him while he was on vacation. Jarvis and myself felt bad for him, really we did.

Pass the carrots.

This Friday is amateur night at pubs and bars throughout the land. The celebration of St. Patrick’s Day gives everyone a license to be Irish for a day and hung over for another. A day when men can parade around in a skirt and play their bagpipes loud and proud. I can’t play the pipes but I enjoy the refreshing a breeze a skirt allows.

In our family March 17th is special for another reason, Grandpa Ardell’s birthday. “Big Grandpa” as my kids call him, will turn 75 this Friday, and he didn’t seem real impressed when I referred to 75 years as ¾ of a century. However long it’s been or however you refer to it I just feel fortunate to be sharing a portion of it.

Grandpa attended Clayton School in the Foothills District of Burke County. You may be surprised to hear that his 8th grade report card shows that he was a “B” student. You may not be surprised however to learn that his report card also had several check marks in the conduct section titled “Inclined to Mischief.”

I know this doesn’t surprise me. I’ve witnessed several of these “Inclined to Mischief” moments, most of which were aimed at making me laugh when I wasn’t supposed to. My brother and me were alter boys growing up, Mom’s early attempt to save our souls, and we knew better than to look out at Grandpa during the church service.

We knew better than to do a lot of things, but that doesn’t mean we didn’t. Grandpa was always ready for our inevitable glance in his direction and would leave us giggling for the remainder of church. You have to forgive Grandpa for not being real serious in church, he’s a convert. He always said that Grandma and he had a mixed marriage, he was Lutheran and she was Catholic.

Grandpa likes to make people laugh as much as he likes to laugh. Of course nobody laughs like Grandpa. I don’t know how many babies I’ve heard cry after being startled by one of his laughs and I personally have wet myself a time or two laughing along with him. But let’s not digress into my incontinence. He always has a joke to tell, it’s always funny, and it’s always one I’ve never heard. I often wonder where he gets his material. If laughing is good medicine Grandpa has put another 30 years onto all of our lives.

Growing up the farm was more entertaining than the circus. The food was better, the rides more dangerous, and the ring leader provided hands on experience in the art of ditch burning. It is no accident that Grandma is so knowledgeable in the area of first aid.

People need laughter in their lives; thankfully I have Grandpa Ardell in mine. Most of what determines who we are and how we act is genetic. Thankfully my genetics are “Inclined to Mischief.”

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It’s my Grandma Rose’s birthday today, March 1st, so if you see her out and about with the big guy wish her well on her day. The best way for Webster’s Dictionary to define the name “Grandma” would be to place a picture of Grandma Rose next to it. For those that question the definition they could also include directions to the farm and all of her grandchildren’s phone numbers.

She has quietly spoiled us all throughout the years with her kind heart and genuine interest in all that we do. She always makes us feel important, makes us feel loved, and makes us something to eat. Whenever you’re milling around the kitchen at the farm browsing for something to eat Grandma will simply ask, “What do you wish for?”

Do you know what? She means it. I don’t know how many ‘kitchen wishes’ I’ve been given in my lifetime at the farm, but they were all granted. The only way you could possibly go hungry at the farm is if Grandma’s not home and Grandpa’s been left in charge. You would just have to survive with Grandpa on what’s left of the fudge until Grandma got home.

Aside from curing hunger pains, Grandma has also proven her abilities in being able to heal the sick with just her presence. At least if the sick person was me when I was a child. My mom would call out to the farm to report that I was sick, just barely hanging on to life. Fever, stomach ache, head ache, bunions, you name it. Grandma would come to town to check on my condition.

Miraculously as soon as she walked through the door all my ailments would disappear. This miracle didn’t just happen once, no it happened as many times as I could get away with it. You know your loved when your grandchild can bring a fever on at will just to see you.

Feed the hungry, cure the sick; is there anything this red hatter can’t do?

The only time she has ever almost said something negative to me was when my wife was pregnant with Sierra and Grandma asked what names we had picked out. I told her that if it was girl we would name her Sierra and if the baby were a boy we would name him Xavier. Grandma just smiled and said, “Well I hope it’s a girl.” Maybe that’s where I get my tact from.

I still enjoy going to the farm whenever I’m home, and since I’m old enough to drive I don’t have to conjure up a fever to see my Grandma. We share a love of family history and we’ll spend hours looking through suit cases full of old pictures. I hold up pictures and ask questions, she recalls names, places, and events as if they could have happened yesterday.

Some day I imagine I’ll do the same with my grandchildren. When they hold up a picture of my Grandma Rose I’ll most likely develop a fever, a stomach ache, and a smile as I tell them about what a special women she is.

Happy Birthday Grandma. “What do you wish for?”

I believe I’ve uncovered yet another conspiracy. Valentines Day was created by the chocolate industry in response to the popular New Year’s resolution of giving up chocolate. Due to fear of violent back lash from the giants of the chocolate industry this subject has been ignored for years.

The last person to investigate this matter was found unconscious with a mouthful of melted chocolate, but none on his hands. After regaining his senses he claimed to have been offered 100 grand by three musketeers as hush money. He refused so their goon, O’Henry, snickered as he beat him mercilessly with a watchamacallit. Don’t be fooled by their sweet exterior, deep down most of them are nuts.

Speaking of nuts I recently read a report that marriage leads to a longer life expectency. About 8 years longer than those who’ve never been married and about 9 years longer than those that have been divorced. So if your wife wasn’t pleased with your gift selection this Valentines Day you’ve got 8 extra years to make up for it. Unless of course you really messed up, then you have 9 less years.

I think that basically what this study proved was that the old adages, “Misery loves company” and “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger” are both spot on. I’m kidding of course, hoo, that was funny wasn’t it honey. Honey? Hey, get back here with my nine years!

It all makes perfect sense to me. Do you know how many stupid, life shortening, things we do to try and gain the attention of women? Impressing women is dangerous business. So by marrying us they are basically helping to protect us from ourselves. Once we don’t have to impress anyone anymore we can settle into a ‘safer’ life of opening mayonnaise jars and killing spiders.

Disclaimer: I am not in anyway saying that you shouldn’t try and impress your wife. Impressing should not cease, but shall take on other less likely to kill you forms. Allow me to elaborate. Dangling from the side of a water tower with a can of spray paint could be replaced with mowing a heart into the front lawn. Whew…I gotta be careful I’ve got plans for the last nine years of my life.

Marriage is an investment in your life gentlemen. Obviously the guy that tied weather balloons to a lawn chair to cruise the friendly sky’s a few years back didn’t have a loving, caring wife to tell him he was a moron and it was a stupid idea. Do you want to be that guy? I mean it seams like a pretty good idea and maybe with proper….“What’s that dear?” Okay it was stupid.

What truly amazes me is that even with the stress and strain of trying to protect us from ourselves our wives still manage to have a longer life expectancy than us. Must be all of those anti-oxidants in the chocolate.

Happy Valentines Day.

My brother Jarvis’s birthday is coming up in a few weeks, so I thought my gift to him would be to tell a bunch of people what a pain in the butt he was growing up. He was born on Friday the 13th , which pretty much sums up the way things usually go for him. Since there is only 18 months between us, due to an apparent sale on fertility drugs at Berg’s Red Owl, we always got a lot of matching gifts growing up.

The only difference in the toys we would get for Christmas was that Jarvis’s were usually broken. Mom and Dad would order us the exact same toy, possibly in hopes of eliminating one more thing for us to fight about, and as I played happily with mine Jarvis’s would be whining about his not working.

Which upset me horribly prompting me to give him my toy….yeah right. The only thing it prompted me to do was parade around in front of him displaying how much joy and happiness one could get from playing with the ‘working’ model. Do I feel bad for that now? No, not at all, I was well within my rights as an older brother.

There was one gift that we both got that his worked better than mine, a scratch and sniff coloring book. He was scratching and sniffing away, yelling out, “strawberries”, “apples”, “bananas”, and each time I would look up puzzled. I scratched and sniffed like a cage full of monkeys….nothing. I figured my book was broken.

Then I thought he was some sort of prophet for awhile. We would walk in the house, and Jarvis would say, “We’re having lasagna.” Sure enough in the oven would be pan of lasagna. I was baffled and amazed how he new that the glass of ‘Mt Dew’ I offered him wasn’t exactly ‘Mt Dew’ and refused to drink it.

What powers does this boy possess? Hmmm…the power of smell perhaps? Yeah it took me awhile to uncover the mystery and realize that I had absolutely no sense of smell. The broken scratch and sniff coloring book, the lasagna prophecy, the umm ‘Mt Dew’, of course it all adds up now.

When you’ve never had something how are you supposed to know that it’s missing? I had a full head of hair at one time, so I know that’s missing. So did Jarvis, by the way, and since we’re now mature adults I won’t make any jokes or smart comments about his hair. He’s had a good year in therapy and I would hate to see it go to waste.

Jarvis lives about 50 miles from me, so we get to see each other from time to time. We don’t fight and argue anymore, we leave that up to our kid’s now. Jarvis has learned to control his temper, a little, okay, not much. I must admit that I do still enjoy seeing him in the throws of a good fit, nobody can loose it like Jarvis.

I guess as brothers so close in age, we weren’t really expected to get along growing up. I’m glad that changed.

My daughter did it again, she made me cry. No she hasn’t developed a liking for rap music, hasn’t become a member of PETA, and no she didn’t announce her plans to pursue a career as a mime.

I was in the kitchen making supper, minding my own business, when I heard her say, “Dad I’m stuck on this problem.” I knew she was working on her homework, but I didn’t know what subject. As I made my way over to help her there was only one thought rolling through my head, “Please don’t let it be math, please don’t let it be math….”

It was math, not only math, but word problems. Don’t get me wrong, I love words, I use words all the time, I’m using them right now. When you mix my beloved words with those sinister numbers the words suddenly turn on me. Like politicians and the truth they just don’t go together.

I tried to be strong in front of my daughter, hoping she wouldn’t notice the veins bulging from my forehead as I came face to face with my old nemesis. I’m not sure where this dislike stems from. Maybe I was attacked by an accountant when I was a child, probably a mime accountant with a dog named ‘Zero’. A mime accountant, listening to rap music, and condemning my soul for eating a cheeseburger, ooh, gives me the willies just thinking about it.

Whatever the cause, it’s always been there. Lurking around every corner, 20 percent off, 6.9 percent financing, a baker’s dozen, the twelve days of Christmas, penny for your thoughts, it takes two to tango, for the love of God make it stop.

For the truly sadistic there is a ‘game’ called roadside math. My cousin, who apparently is in cahoots with the numbers to kill me, sent me an email explaining the rules. I would explain it to you but half way through the rules I felt my eye’s begin to twitch, suffered a seizure, blacked out, and wet myself.

If I would have been in Noah’s position there would have been trouble at the first mention of all those ‘cubic’s.’ Noah’s Ark would have been Noah’s Drift Wood and a lot more than just the unicorns would have been left behind.

In the past when I have tried to help Sierra with her math homework it has never turned out very good. We start out civil, but it ends with me accusing her of hating me for putting me through such agony. This time was different. I handled it with calm and grace, not even a hint of madness.

I dialed the phone and politely handed it to my daughter. A few minutes later she smiled, hung up, and said that she understood it now, and told Jackson that Mom says “Hi.”

Dawn loves math, other than that she’s a very normal person. She got me through college algebra when we were dating. I knew it was true love when she refrained from choking me and calling me a slack jawed idiot during our study sessions.

Yes, love is blind and love hurts sometimes, but not as much as math.