Rambling Josh

Some people believe the behavioral differences between boys and girls are a result of how they are raised rather than the gender they happen to have slid down the chute with. I’m not sure of the statistical split but I would have to believe the majority of those who believe nurture over nature probably have either no children or have never raised a boy and a girl in the same household.

It just so happens I have two children who were naturally born into separate genders and nurtured in the same household by the same parents. This fact has granted me a front row seat to the nature versus nurture battle and nurture appears to be taking a beating.

The experts who rally on the side of nurture claim we direct our children down gender specific behavioral paths of likes and dislikes through our treatment of them. I believe I could have dressed my son in culottes and blingy Barbie tank tops when he was in his early formative years, and he would still enjoy baseball and army surplus stores. On the flip side I’m pretty sure I could have dressed my daughter in flannel shirts with a Johnny Unitas haircut, and she still would have grown up to love shopping and reading Teen Vogue.

Males and females are naturally different, which is good for many reasons, and people who debate this point should have a couple kids so they’re too busy or enlightened to debate.

You show me a boy who doesn’t love a visit to an army surplus store then I’m not so sure you’re showing me a boy. When we were kids whenever we made it to the big city of Williston, we would beg to go to the army surplus store. I remember on one particular visit my brother and I begged our mom to buy us throwing knives.

What kind of mother would buy two boys who have a history of injuring one another throwing knives? A mother that had just spent eight hours at a Cub Scout Jamboree trying to keep track of a Ford Econoline van full boys and would agree to anything if they would all just shut up and leave her alone. My mother. You hand two boys throwing knives, the pestering stops and they disappear to do things mothers wouldn’t approve of. As a parent sometimes the risk is worth the reward.

So far in fatherhood I have observed the circle has remained unbroken, so I wasn’t at all surprised when my son inquired about throwing stars a few weeks ago. Not only was I not surprised but I was a little excited about the whole matter. So on a recent business trip to Omaha I stopped into the army surplus store I always visit when I’m in Omaha to do some browsing and find my son his first throwing star.

What do throwing stars have to do with army surplus? There are certain things the government likes to keep hush hush.

The barter system can be a useful means of which to exchange your services or goods for the services or goods of another in a manner that benefits both parties. That very system is the reason my wife and I found ourselves in New York City a few weeks ago. My brother-in-law, Mike offered to fly us to NYC in exchange for watching their children for a week this summer while he and my wife’s sister, Kim, take a trip to Europe.

Mike had airline tickets and a place to stay to barter in exchange for my time, which I tend to have an abundance of during the summer months, so it was a done deal. My wife and I had never been to NYC and enjoyed roaming about for a few days taking in a small slice of the Big Apple.

The highlight of the trip for Dawn was ice skating at Rockefeller Plaza. It was enjoyable and while we skated around a bride and groom fresh from the chapel were getting a few wedding pictures taken at center ice and another guy proposed to his girlfriend. A banner evening for cupid at Rockefeller Plaza.

Number one on my list of things to do in NYC was to visit Ellis Island where my great grandfather, Joseph Gins started his life in America in 1909 at the age of 15. It was a wonderful experience and being where he had been so many years before got me a little misty eyed. I couldn’t imagine leaving my home, family, and all I had ever known and heading out alone to the unknown at the age of 15, or any age for that matter.

There was a quote hanging on the wall at Ellis Island from an immigrant who said when she was leaving Germany her mother cried and said it was like putting her child in a coffin. Like my great grandfather, she never saw her mother again. The lengths a parent will go in the hopes of providing their child a better life are extraordinary.

I felt a very strong painful stirring of emotion after reading that quote and thinking of my own children and putting myself in that position. It took some strong people living in some bad situations to make that selfless sacrifice. I’m thankful my great-great-grandparents made that sacrifice and I often wonder what it must have been like in the weeks leading up to their son’s departure.

New York City has a lot to offer, and I am looking forward to another visit someday. What I found most amazing was while you walk through the city you travel through various countries. You’ll find yourself walking through the bustling fish markets in Chinatown, cross the street and the mood, sights and sounds instantly transport you to Italy.

The sights and possibly the smell of the fish market in Chinatown may have been a deciding factor in our choice of Italian dining. My sister-in-law’s stomach, queasy from the rancid omelet I bought her on Wall Street, had to work hard to keep its contents on the down low as we strolled by the sea world armageddon of the Chinatown fish markets. Those Pollocks are tough and she soldiered on through China to Italy.

It was a good trip, and although Mike and Kim’s children may disagree, a good barter.

My son’s hamster, Rascal, went to the big squeaky wheel in the sky a few days ago or wherever it is that non-denominational rodents go.

Rascal was about three years old which is about the maximum shelf life of a hamster. Shelf life is the appropriate term for Rascal as he lived in a glass cage atop my son’s bookshelf. In three years he made two escape attempts but only made it as far as the kitchen pantry both times where he was apprehended nibbling on a bag of potato chips. Both times he gave up without a fight and returned peacefully back to his cage. Someone other than me returned him peacefully to his cage.

If I would have been home alone, I would have just moved his wheel into the pantry for him to work off the potato chips after he had eaten his fill. I don’t touch hamsters on purpose. Besides Rascal tried to attack me twice when we first got him so I was always a little on edge around him.

I remember the incident well. He was knocking off a few laps on his wheel, and I was peering through the glass wall of his cage, analyzing his gait, when he suddenly hopped off the wheel and made a viscous lunge for me. Thankfully the glass held, thwarting his attack and saving my life. I can still see the maniacal look in his beady little eyes as he bounced off the glass wall, gathered himself and made another go at it.

What should have been a highly entertaining experience was quite terrifying. I mean, it should be funny when something runs at you and smacks into a glass wall making a satisfying “thunk” and it falls to the ground and tries it again with the same “thunk.” I would have been laughing hysterically if it had been anything but a hamster. Hamsters aren’t supposed to bum rush humans.

Anyway, that incident sort of put a strain on Rascal and my relationship. So, if he wanted to sneak out of his cage and make poor nutritional choices who was I to get in his way? With his passing I’ll let bygones be bygones and forgive Rascal. I’m sure it was all a big misunderstanding.

Jackson took Rascal’s passing pretty hard and shed a few tears for his fallen roommate and I was sad for Jackson because I know what it’s like to lose a pet. The first pet I cried for was our cocker spaniel, Rufus, that Mom ran over on her way to church. I guess Rufus wasn’t Catholic. Actually, he was fine until Mom backed up to see what happened and ran over him again. Oh, I’m just kidding…he was Catholic.

I think it’s good for kids to have pets, to have something that depends on them for food, water, and shelter. To have something be a part of your life and then die is a good learning experience. An experience I would rather they have with a crazed killer hamster than let’s say, me, for instance.

Rascal was a good pet and it’s sad to see his wheel sit in silence, but I believe my son is a better person for having known him, so I guess, “Thank you, Rascal” is in order.

My daughter wanted to stroll around downtown this weekend and visit a few antique shops, so she and I headed out for some father-daughter browsing. She didn’t ask me to wait in the car or walk a block behind her, so I assumed she wanted me to tag along.

I enjoy antique shops and generally take a leisurely stroll through the shops in downtown Rapid City every month or so. I don’t really go there to buy anything, I just enjoy looking at old stuff. Apparently, I’m not a minority in the “looking not buying” as not much merchandise seems to have changed hands in any of the antique shops in the last few years. As my daughter said, “These stores are more like museums than stores.”

As much as I enjoy antiquing, I always experience a twinge or two of sadness as I stroll about surrounded by things that once belonged to and were most likely treasured by someone else a long time ago. What was the story behind those that gave form and life to these clothes, gazed into this mirror, walked in these shoes?

I enjoy holding old hand tools and feeling the smooth well-worn wood handle in my hand as I wonder about the person who owned them and what they created with them. Did some kid use this bit brace to drill holes in a bunch of car tires on his grandpa’s farm? My brother Jarvis and I can’t be the only kids that did that? I have that very bit brace in my possession and I smile every time I look at it. My grandpa was a patient man.

The children’s toys always get to me too, but in a different way. I look at those mint condition toys, many of which I had as a child, and wonder what kind of sissy kid owned them. Those poor toys never got properly played with. My toys were mint condition for as long as it took me to construct an explosive or find a hammer. My brother and I were very hard on toys and generally beat up, blew up, or burned up most any toy in our possession.

I did feel a slight pang of guilt when I spied a Johnny West action figure in a glass case complete with all his 24 accessories, horse, two dogs (Flick and Flack), and his entourage. The whole gang was there, Jane, Jay and Josie West, Sam Cobra (the villain), and Chief Cherokee and his daughter, Princess Wildflower.

Why did I feel a bit guilty as I looked over this impressive set of toys? The Johnny West action figures were manufactured from 1965 to about 1975 and Uncle Tim had this same complete set when he was a kid. The complete set, in the condition my uncle left it, would probably be worth about $500 today. The complete set, in the condition my brother and I left it, is worthless. My uncle is a patient man.

Poor Johnny, Jane, Jay, and Josie. Their cowboy days were numbered the day Jarvis and Josh were introduced to the West gang. It all started with mean ole’ Sam Cobra stealin’ Chief Cherokee’s horse, which Princess Wildflower happened to be riding at the time. Well, we thought Sam stole the horse but we came to find out later, after we had popped an arm or two off in the name of frontier justice, that he and Princess Wildflower had been seeing each other on the sly.

Jarvis and I panicked and began pursuing all those who witnessed our mishandling of the Sam Cobra case to cover our tracks. They were in the wrong toy box at the wrong time. Somehow though the mint condition Johnny West gang in the glass display case all seem a little melancholy, like they missed out on something. They’re just begging to live a little. To have an arm, leg or head snapped off. To be de-accessorized and terrorized by two destructive kids who were sent to play because they couldn’t watch Hee Haw and Lawrence Welk quietly.

Johnny West… “Pfffft you was gone.”

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.