Rambling Josh

The Black Hills Stock Show and Rodeo is in town for a few weeks which means I get the call to either work the rodeo or work whatever other sporting events are going on in town during that time. I got the “other” this time around, so Friday and Saturday I worked about 16 hours of high school basketball.

By “worked” I mean I sat and ate some popcorn and a licorice whip or two, read the paper and patiently waited for someone to get hurt. If you’re not the patient type and thrive on a constant threat of disaster and excitement in the workplace, athletic training probably isn’t the profession for you. A disaster in my workplace is getting halfway through a bag of popcorn and as you’re digging a kernel out of your teeth coming to the realization you forgot to wash your hands after evaluating a sweaty foot.

I mentioned my penchant for people watching a few weeks back and that is one of the requirements for enjoying life as an athletic trainer. Highest on my list of people to watch at sporting events has always been the coaches. Nothing better than watching a seemingly stable adult get lost in a temper tantrum when a call doesn’t go his/her way or when a player doesn’t do what he/she was coached to do. The only place you could enjoy more whining and cursing would be at a bingo palace just after someone (most likely Grandma Helen) yelps out, “Bingo!”

As an athletic trainer and a washed up athlete, I’ve spent a lot of time on the sidelines and in locker rooms privy to a front row seat to some wonderfully entertaining tirades. Entertaining but for some reason never motivational. I guess I’ve never been the type to garner motivation from a raging coach. Motivated? No. Fits of silent full body shake laughter and unwipeable smirks? Yes. Knute Rockne would have strangled me.

Throwing clip boards, kicking chairs, ripping off suit coats, cursing, stomping about…what a spectacle to behold. Some coaches are better at it than others and manage to tie everything together into an impressive seamless rant. No breaks or pauses just let it go. I understand where this outburst of emotion comes from. If you were to invest as much time and effort into a team as a head coach does you would probably find yourself in the same position a time or two. Coaches want the best out of their players for the sake of their players and the team. Someone once said, “Playing sports doesn’t build character it reveals it.” A coach works to get their players and team into a position to reveal their character.

I commend their dedication to their sport and their athletes and am thankful for the many good coaches I’ve played for and worked with. I commend you and thank you and yes, sometimes I laugh at you. You would laugh at you too if you could see that vein sticking out of your forehead as you stomp about yelling something in reference to a referee’s eyesight and insufficient intelligence.

What’s the take home message? Never accept a half-eaten bag of popcorn from an athletic trainer at a sporting event. Unless you like extra salt.

We humans come in all varieties of shapes, sizes, colors, facial features, and everything else that defines us from them and them from us. I am a people watcher, as I suspect many of us are, and enjoy sitting and observing the many comings and goings of us human types.

“Observing” or “watching” are the words that those on the observation or watching end of the people watching equation refer to the hobby. The observed or watched may refer to it in less kindly terms; staring, stalking, gawking, unnerving, unsettling. That’s a short list of the words the prosecution threw around.

As a seasoned people watcher, it is easy to identify those people who invite or enjoy the observation of others. These subjects are of less interest to me than those who obviously don’t care or are blissfully unaware there are others in their vicinity or their world who are gawking in their general direction and taking a passing interest in them.

Maybe growing up in a small town heightens one’s enjoyment or need to people watch. You generally don’t take a second glance at those who share your small town because you’ve seen them your whole life and you know most everything there is to know about them. Not much changes and not much is left to the imagination. We have the choice or option to know people as much or as little as we or they choose.

that is why I enjoy travelling. I can go to the big city and see people I’ve never seen before and most likely will never see again. Visually they are there and gone and it is unlikely a word will be passed between us. So much is left up to the imagination, and I have a vivid, strange imagination.

You can learn a lot about people by watching or at least we might think we can. “Don’t judge a book by its cover” is advice we have most likely heard on more occasions than we have the capacity to remember. As a people watcher I try and maintain a bipartisan position and attempt to withhold any major judgments in character.

The character I project on to those in my gawking gaze is most likely a result of my actually knowing someone who has similar gawkable features and mannerisms. Just because two people share similar, possibly unfortunate, tastes in clothing and hair style doesn’t mean they are of similar character. If a murderer was described as wearing Zubas, a muscle shirt, and had a permed mullet should we assume all in that category are murderers?

We could assume, however, those in that category most likely never entered into the institution of marriage where a wife would have quietly turned the offending Zubas and muscle shirts into rags useful in cleaning up after pets with gastrointestinal issues. We are interesting and curious things to observe. By “we” I mean “us” which includes me as I am sure I have committed my share of gawkable offenses and been at the gawking end of a gawker a time or two (see previous reference to Zubas, muscle shirts, and permed mullets).

As interesting as it is to hang out in a heavily populated gawker’s paradise, I wouldn’t want to live there. There is a certain comfort in small towns, comfort of familiarity, comfort knowing you know them and they know you.

Being amongst the familiar allows for a break in gawking and perhaps leaves a little time to turn the gawk inward, reflect on the reflection and rethink that wardrobe. If you have ever found yourself retrieving a piece of your clothing from the rag bin you need to be made aware it did not get there by accident and you have been the subject of public gawking.

Whether or not you care is another matter? Without stars there would be no star gazers. Shine on my friend.

In case you’ve been stranded in an automobile or languishing in a food coma since Christmas (possibly both), if you were on your way to a potluck with a backseat full of casseroles and cakes when you skidded off the road trying to reach a piece of wayward krumkake, I would like to remind you that it is January.

January…the Dakotas are beautiful this time of year. The snow, the wind, and enough days of below the donut temps to dash a young man’s dreams of basketball stardom. I’ll give him credit the, “I’m quitting basketball because I can’t take another winter wearing thin dress pants on a cold bus” was as good as any. As a caring and thoughtful older brother, I will not name names.

Thin dress pants in January in the Dakotas has been the foe of many a young boy and friend of the fathers of many a young girls in the company of those young boys.

January is when we start a new chapter or a new book if you really want to shake things up, forget the past and look delusionally towards the future.

Delusion that can only be fueled by cheap champagne, huffing silly string, and watching singers you don’t recognize sing songs you don’t know until the ball drops. During the “Dick Clark New Year’s Something or Other” I consistently didn’t know any of the stars and big wigs they paraded in front of the camera and my children grew tired of me asking, “Who’s that…why are they important… where is Dick Clark…that Ryan Seacrest fellow has thick hair…”

It is not my doing, it is the natural order of things for a parent, specifically the father, to know nothing about the musicians, stars, and big wigs their children find entertaining. I find I do not find them entertaining and most of the music makes my eyes twitch and my ears feel like they’re being penetrated by ice picks. Dull annoying ice picks that don’t really do any permanent harm but make you appreciate the work of mimes and silent clowns.

There’s so much of my children’s world that I don’t understand. The music, the television shows, the pants hanging low enough to make a plumber blush, the straight billed crooked hats, the constant head twitching to keep their swirly hair properly swirled. Teenagers are not to be understood they are to be observed and photographed. Photographed often so you have proof of their ridiculousness to hand over to your grandchildren when their parents are giving them a hard time about their appearance and behavior.

Resolutions? I resolve to be more tolerant of teenagers for they know not what they do. None of us did at that age…some of us don’t at this age.

I resolve to stop shaking my head in annoyance at the 27 inches of underwear being displayed by my future doctor, lawyer, senator, or son-in-law…that last one made me cringe a little. Instead, I will ogle, wink slyly and let them know how much I enjoy looking at young men’s underpants.

If I evade arrest long enough, I will be hailed a hero for getting young men to hitch their drawers. Larry King will come out of retirement to interview me, there will be a national holiday in my honor and “Hitch Your Drawers Day” will get all of us out of work the second Wednesday of January each and every year.

My only hope is that we are able to keep the true meaning of the day thriving without “Hitch Your Drawers” mattress and car sales cheapening the day. We don’t need another excuse to get six months same as cash, we need another excuse to celebrate all that is right and good in this world.

Hitch Your Drawers and Happy New Year.

This week’s column was written by my wife in memory of her Grandpa who passed away December 6, 2010. Ray Kwasniewski was a good man and will be missed.

This December to remember has come with the loss of another grandparent and lies upon us like the cool white blanket on the landscape of a December winter. The snapshot of memories this December was brought on with the passing of my grandpa, Raymond Kwasniewski. It may be just a glimpse of his footsteps through life, but it is always good to walk in someone else’s shoes, if only for a moment.

In his 88 years of life Grandpa’s footsteps took him many places and saw and accomplished many things.

One step in Grandpa’s shoes would have given you the opportunity to see him serve for our country in the U.S. Army during WWII. Grandpa was stationed in Italy and North Africa during which he received a Purple Heart. A step that was emotional for my dad, who served in the US Army during the Vietnam War, was in giving the folded American Flag to my grandma at the conclusion of the funeral because Grandpa was his other dad, a fishing buddy, and a good friend.

The next step in Grandpa’s shoes would have shown you how he was a man of ingenuity and tinkering. He was the handyman of the farm. In my teens, I was in awe of the skills my grandpa had in his “tool belt” and what he could accomplish with a gum wrapper and some elbow grease. Grandma spoke with pride when she told us how Grandpa was a plumber, a carpenter, a mechanic, a roofer, and a farmer.

Of course, Grandpa had other skills such as being able to pin a handful of grandkids underneath him and rise like that of a phoenix from the ashes with the other handful of grandkids clinging onto his back. He even knew where all of us grandkids had our tickle spots and showed no mercy and would keep tickling us even if you told him you were about to pee in your pants.

Grandpa had numerous loves in life. The main one was Grandma and his children. The love for Grandma was obvious, and I fondly remember many occasions where Grandpa would corner her in the kitchen to sneak a kiss or two even though she protested with laughter. He never shied away from this display of affection towards Grandma even if any of us grandkids were around and we didn’t mind.

Grandpa set a good example of loving and showing the love of your life just how much you still enjoy those little moments. That is why I love sneaking those kisses with my husband in the kitchen even if the kids are around. Of course, the kids respond with the usually “Euwww” and “Do have to kiss in front of us?” Why yes we do!

Fishing was a love as well. My grandpa and my dad would head out after they received the secrets from other avid fisherman around town as to where the hot spots were. It didn’t matter what time of day it was as long as the chores and work were done, the two fishermen would set out to see if they could catch the big one, or two, or 3, or…

Many nights and Sunday afternoons were spent playing another love of Grandpa’s - a good card game. Unlike my grandma Esther, he played fair. Grandpa also loved to “shoot the moon” with a wing and a prayer during card games. I think he had an in with the card gods because seven out of ten times, Grandpa would win with his, “I had nothing to go on, but this ten and ace of hearts” hand. I love playing cards because of Grandpa and Grandma’s love to play. Unfortunately, my husband, like the “bored” games he wrote about in one of his previous Ramblings, doesn’t share this love of cards. At least, our son loves a good card or “bored” game.

The love of meat and potatoes for dinner and for supper is added to the list of my grandpa’s loves. He was a true farmer. I recall one time on the farm, I helped with supper and for some reason we decided to spice it up a little and made a different side dish. With supper on the table, Grandpa searched the table and asked, “Where are the potatoes?”

When Grandma and I informed him we made a pasta salad instead, he rebuked, “You can’t have meat without potatoes.” From then on, whenever I made supper on the farm, I made sure there were potatoes for Grandpa.

As mentioned earlier, Grandpa was a farmer. With any farm, you have your challenges, but Grandpa and Grandma didn’t have much of a challenge with their garden. Year after year, they would have an abundance of vegetables. My husband and I have not been blessed with the great yield of vegetables especially those potatoes. Our potato growing skills are very limited and we would not make it as French Canadian/Norwegian/German/Welsh/Polish potato farmers, but at least we try.

Those are some of the snapshots we remembered this past week with the passing of my grandpa. Christmas will be a little tough this year, but Grandpa is with the soldiers, fisherman, and farmers above and we have another December to Remember.

When I was a sophomore in high school my parents bought the grocery store in Lignite. “Berg’s Red Owl” became “DJ’s Food Center” and for 22 years my parents put in endless hours of their time and energy to make their business a success. How many of you could work with your spouse for 22 years without an “incident” leaving you to explain yourself in front of a jury?

Like many other members of our family, I occasionally worked at the store to help out and to visit with customers. The latter being my area of expertise. Unlike my parents we could all come and go without worrying about the store and all its working parts.

We could enjoy a North Dakota lightning storm without worrying about a compressor getting knocked out, we could go away for the weekend and not worry about a freezer going down, we could go off to college with a trunk full of groceries and not worry who was going to work if we got sick.

The store wasn’t open 24 hours a day 7 days a week but be assured that owning it was a 24/7 gig and how my parents did it for so long is impressive. People would ask if I had plans of taking over the store one day and it was a thought that I briefly entertained when I first got married. Very briefly.

Being away from home at college for 4 or 5 years can dim the memory but a few days of working full-time at the store was always good for enlightening me with the fact that running that joint would be far from entertaining. If it had occurred DJs would not have stood for Dawn and Josh but most likely Drunken Josh, Dumb Josh, Drooling Josh or some other unflattering “D” words.

My Mom and Dad have always been my hero’s. Webster’s Dictionary defines a hero as “someone admired for their achievements and noble qualities.” Running a successful business for 22 years is an achievement but the noble way in which it was done is something very special. I admire them for what they did, and I admire them for being able to step away.

Be assured that this was not an easy decision that came about suddenly and without thought. They gave a lot of themselves to that place, and it is true that it did give back. It gave them a livelihood, it gave them a means to support a family, it gave them the opportunity to help a lot of people in need.

There was give and take but my parents giving a lot and the store taking a lot more is not a balanced equation. Now my parents are free to focus their “noble qualities” on other avenues, and I am confident that whatever direction they go they will arrive successfully and together. Together…that’s all that has ever mattered.

Thank you, Mom and Dad, for doing what you did for so long. You are my hero’s and I wish you all the best. Also, thank you to those in the community and surrounding area that supported the store with your loyal patronage.

The story you’re about to read is based on actual events. The names of the victims have been changed to honor their privacy, whereas the names of the perpetrators will be obvious and not changed to protect their stupidity. Thus begins, the Tale of Two Sweaters.

The first sweater, we’ll call him Hop Sing, made his way to America all the way from China. Upon reaching America, Hop Sing was shipped here and there until arriving on a clothing rack in Rapid City, SD. Being made of soft merino wool, a pleasing earth tone color, and 50% off, Hop Sing caught the eye of my lovely wife who purchased Hop Sing for me.

My wife claims I am “particular” about my clothing, so she rarely buys me clothes. Maybe I am mildly particular about what I wear but I could also argue maybe she just doesn’t have very good taste in men’s clothing. I “could” pose that argument, but I don’t because I’ve been married long enough to know that would be stupid.

This time around though she brought home a keeper and Hop Sing, having met all my particularities, was placed in my closet to be worn on a day wool wouldn’t make me hot and cranky. I wore Hop Sing several times and things were going well between us, but today when the buzzer went off in the laundry room things took a turn for the worse.

There in the dryer I found Hop Sing, less than half the sweater he used to be. Seeing medium-sized Hop Sing reduced to a toddler-sized dog sweater struck me funny for some odd reason. I pictured Mortimer Snerd, the ventriloquist dummy I got for Christmas when I was 12, sporting a new sweater and I laughed hard.

My wife had been the one who accidentally put Hop Sing in the dryer so I composed myself to present her my wool shrinkydink. She felt bad of course but was relieved I could laugh about it. My laughter was short lived, and I wish I could say that Hop Sing was the only victim on this day but that was not to be so.

The second sweater, we’ll call him Paddy, was born, raised, and hand-knitted on the Aran Islands of Ireland, which would be why Paddy is an Aran sweater and 100% Irish wool. Paddy’s trip to America was much different and much more personal than Hop Sing’s. I went to Ireland with a “particular” style of Aran sweater in mind and in a little shop in Doolin, Ireland, Paddy and I met. I personally transported him back to America and placed him in my closet to be worn on a day wool wouldn’t make me hot and cranky.

On our first night on the town we ended up in a cigar bar and Paddy soaked up some smoke so following the label I handwashed him. The label also said to lie flat to dry but the lady in the shop in Ireland where I bought Paddy said to place it in a pillowcase and dry on low for about 20 minutes. Never listen to a lady whose entire livelihood hinges on Americans buying lots of sweaters.

When I pulled Paddy out of the soaking wet pillowcase he was fit for a leprechaun. Seeing Hop Sing in this state made me laugh, but seeing Paddy like this was too much for one man to bear. I mean, sure I liked Hop Sing, but I didn’t go all the way to China to get him and I didn’t meet the sheep and the lady that produced him.

Paddy was special, we had traveled the world together. My skinny 11-year-old son could see that little Paddy had put me in a somber state and offered to wear him for his Christmas concert next month. That managed to cheer me up a little.

Dejected over what had transpired I was drinking a Guinness in memory of medium-sized Paddy when a Google search of “how to unshrink a wool sweater” provided a beacon of hope. I’ll keep you posted on Paddy’s road to recovery.

Although there is a language barrier, some water, and a large land mass between Chinese and Irish sheep they’re not so different. When your wool is wet do as the sheep do…lie flat to dry.

What exactly is so fun about “fun size” candy? We had a bucket full of fun size candy bars to hand out to assorted fun size humans for Halloween this year and I didn’t notice any increase in my fun-o-meter when I sampled them. Maybe I’m eating them wrong.

Last year we ran out and I had to rummage around for treat replacements for fear of getting egged if I didn’t ante up some sort of offering to the little beggars. As a result a few kids went home with a hearty can of Campbell’s soup crushing candy at the bottom of their sack. I should keep a few emergency rutabagas around to drop in their bags like Doc Stevens did to us when we beat on his door on Halloween, dirt and all.

My wife asked why I didn’t just shut the porch light off when the candy bowl went dry? I wasn’t aware that was an option; besides there were two fairies, a ninja, and cowboy beating on the door and I panicked.

We had a beautiful night for Halloween this year, so our whole family patrolled the neighborhood to shake down strangers for candy or whatever else they were pawning off. We even dressed up the dog in a football uniform, and he scored a couple treats.

Since we were all out and about, I decided to go with the self-service method of treat distribution, it saves on the doorbell. The bowl was empty when we got back so either 50 kids stopped by or one brazen trick-or-treater with low blood sugar and a big sack was prowling the streets.

I’m sure there is a brief moment of suspicion when approaching an unmanned bowl of candy on a doorstep, but the sugar fairy sings a sweet song that a kid can’t resist. Since it takes roughly 50 fun size candy bars to equal a full sized one who can blame a kid for dumping the whole bowl in their sack. We probably didn’t have many visitors anyway after word got around about last year’s cream of celery debacle.

Kids remember who gives out the good stuff…so do I. There’s a lady down the street from us who gives out one of my favorites, full size licorice ropes…the candy you can beat your little brother with.

Last year I gave her my best forlorn “I might not make it through the night if I don’t get a licorice rope” look and she threw a pity rope my way. It was cold out last year so it took a good hour to get to the end of my rope. This year my daughter, Sierra, gave me hers because she has braces. So I figure that particular licorice rope ran me about $6,000.

I hope you all had a wonderful Halloween and your face hurts from smiling so much from all the fun you had with your “fun size” candy bars. I doubt you had as much fun as we had with those rutabagas…I heard you can eat those things too.

It was our dog’s third birthday the other day. Well, we really don’t know when his actual birthday is, so we just use the day we got him at the Humane Society as his birthday. All we know is that he was a stray picked up by animal control and brought to the Humane Society when he was roughly six months old.

He doesn’t like to talk about his past much, labs are like that, so I respect his privacy and figure he’ll tell me when he’s good and ready, things like that take time. Some night when he’s had one too many shots of Captain Labrador, he’s twenty-one now, he’ll lose his grip on that bitter ball of past resentments and it’ll all come out.

So what did we get Pre for his third birthday?

We brought him home from the pound three years ago, that should be enough I would think. That and two cans of dog food a day, all the water he can drink, a floor to sleep on, a yard to do his business in, and two kids who adore him. I think he’s done pretty well for himself.

I remember the day we got him. We went to the Humane Society just to look. Taking two kids to the Humane Society “just to look”…yeah, I should have seen it coming. I really didn’t know if I wanted a dog, seemed like too much of a hassle, and I never really would describe myself as a dog person, but then I met Pre. I’m still not one of the “those” dog people, I’m a Pre person, he suits me. Someone once told me you don’t find a dog, they find you and I can’t imagine our family without Pre now.

I also can’t imagine what it would be like if the kids did everything they said they would do if we got a dog. Walk him, brush him, feed him, pick up after him, “Oh, we’ll do all of that Dad, every single day, and you won’t even have to tell us twelve times to do it.” Can’t imagine.

Awhile back the kids conspired with their mother to “suggest” we get another dog, so Pre had someone to chit chat with about things us humans just don’t understand. I told them we could get another dog, but we’d have to get rid of Pre first. We only have one dog bed, one dog dish, one leash, so it seems to me we can only have one dog. They retreated but I’m always on guard for another barrage or any side trips to the Human Society “just to look.”

I was the one that wanted a dog least. Maybe that’s why he seems to have taken to me the most. I heard him explaining it to the neighbor’s dog, “The two kids and that lady were a pushover but it took a little work to soften up the balding one that blames all the farts on me.”

He softened me up more than I care to admit. Now if he’d only learn to make a pot a coffee in the morning and tell me when my clothes don’t match before I go to work.

I enjoy traveling and I especially enjoy traveling to or through places and spaces that people generally refer to as “the middle of nowhere.”

Places and spaces are how you see them and one person’s nowhere is bound to be another’s somewhere. Here in the Dakotas to get from somewhere to somewhere you’re most likely going to have to travel through nowhere. I feel a tinge of sadness for travelers who don’t have this luxury and are always stuck in the middle of somewhere.

I’ve visited with people several times after they’ve completed their maiden voyage across South Dakota from Sioux Falls to Rapid City and most have the same thing to say about the journey, “Man, there is nothing out there.” I say that too, but whereas I say it with a bit of reverence, they say it with a tone of disgust, like it’s a bad thing.

What exactly do they want or need out there? A couple hundred mimes, clowns and jugglers lining the shoulder to entertain them the entire way? Must we always have “something” to occupy our attention and distract us from the apparent horribleness of “nothing?”

I enjoy settling in for a long drive through the middle of nowhere, and often times will forget to turn on the radio and completely ignore the mimes, clowns, and jugglers for a couple hundred miles. A mind left to wander can lead you anywhere when you’re in the middle of nowhere. Try it once, you won’t be bored, might be a little frightened and confused, but frightened and confused make the miles fly by.

Perhaps it’s not for everyone, and maybe your shrink doesn’t recommend you letting your mind wander for fear of it not returning. DISCLAIMER: This is not an advice column so I cannot be held liable for any issues that arise as a result of you, the reader attempting anything I suggest. Furthermore, no mimes, clowns, or jugglers were harmed during the writing of this column. A Shetland pony sprained an ankle but that was a completely unrelated incident.

Another thing you should be made aware of in the event that you find yourself traveling with me from somewhere to somewhere is that if I’m not driving, I’m most likely sleeping. This is most likely the fault of my parents (isn’t everything) as they used to put me to sleep when I was being a difficult child by stuffing me in the car and driving around until I fell asleep.

So, for that reason I am a terrible co-pilot and should not be relied upon by the driver for conversation or entertainment. The best I can do is keep you entertained with my slack jawed head bobbing and occasional full body twitch instigated by nightmares involving highways lined with mimes and clowns. Sometimes balloon animals bite.

The next time you find yourself in the middle of nowhere, allow yourself a deep sigh of relaxed contentment, because sooner or later, you’re going to find yourself stuck in the middle of somewhere again. Somewhere where everyone and everything is busy vying for your time and attention and a mind has no room to roam.

I recently took up a hobby that I thought was something I would never be interested in. No, not cross dressing, besides there’s too much photographic evidence for me to claim that as recent or something I would never be interested in. I could start wearing a kilt for that airy feeling of freedom, but I don’t want to be seen as a sellout.

Alright, shake any image you may have of me in a dress out of your head so we can get on with the new hobby story.

My new hobby is rock hunting, specifically Fairburn agate hunting. You wouldn’t think it would be that difficult to hunt a rock since they don’t move very quickly and don’t see particularly well, but Fairburn agates are an elusive lot. Fairburn agates are not just any old rock you would chuck at your brother; they are the official gemstone of South Dakota.

The official name for people who spend hours wandering around under the hot sun staring at the ground and continuously bending to pick up rocks and drop them in disgust is a rockhound. Some refer to them in the abbreviated version, “idiot.”

A friend of mine has been a rockhound for many years and I never understood the appeal. He came up from Missouri last month specifically to search for Fairburns, which can only be found in our neck of the woods, so I went out to keep him company while he roamed around. To be honest I was much more interested in the bottle of rum waiting for us back at camp than some old rock, but friendship is a give and take sort of deal so I endured one so as to enjoy the other.

After about five hours of roaming around on a balmy 108 degree day my friend found a small Fairburn agate about the size of a quarter and seemed pleased, so we returned to camp to rehydrate. He was either pleased with the find or tired of me coming up to him with a rock saying, “Is this one?” Either way we both got what we wanted.

Then one day I wanted to go hiking but didn’t want to just hike for the sake of hiking. I felt like hiking and looking for something. Somehow hiking around aimlessly looking at rocks seemed more appealing than just plain old hiking around aimlessly. So the dog and I set out aimless with a purpose.

We had set out aimlessly on many occasions so there was a palpable excitement in our mood as we set out fueled with purpose. I loaded up everything a man and a dog need to hunt down a rock; sensible shoes, peanut butter sandwiches, some Cheetos, a couple Cokes, a handful of grapes, and a few milkbones. Those rocks didn’t stand a chance.

About an hour after arriving at the rock hunting area of choice, I found a Fairburn agate the size of ¼ pound hamburger patty, before it’s cooked. This isn’t so hard. I wanted to make sure it was a Fairburn so I showed it to another rockhound who was wandering around and I thought I might have to fight the guy to get it back.

He ogled over it like it was the latest issue of Victoria Secret and said it was worth about $275. He was from Illinois and said he’d been traveling to that area to look for Fairburns every few years for the last ten or so years and had never found one. Which explained why he didn’t seem to appreciate my “funny” story about how this was my first time out here and I found a big one in less than an hour. He had that look like he just gave me the finger in his mind.

So now I’m hooked. For me it’s similar to golf, except now I’m supposed to be wandering around looking for something. I’m trying to get my wife and kids hooked as well but until you find that first Fairburn it just seems like a perfectly good waste of time. I’ve wasted time doing things far more unproductive than this.

If you’re ever in the area and want to wander aimlessly with a purpose, I’m your man. I can’t guarantee you a Fairburn, but I’ll share my Cheetos and let you look at my rock. For five bucks you can be in a photo with it.