Rambling Josh

Did you know that October 6th is “National Slam Your Bedroom Door Day?” It is also “Scream At Your Rotten Brothers Day”, “Punch Your Rotten Brothers Day”, “Kick Your Rotten Brothers Day”, and “Don’t Ever Listen To Your Rotten Brothers Day.”

It also happens to be my sister Amanda’s birthday. She began laying down the ground work for the establishment of these days back in 1978 when Mom and Dad brought her home from the hospital to begin the painful process of growing up with to Neanderthal older brothers. About six years later Mom and Dad helped crank it up another notch with the introduction of a little Neanderthal in training.

The “League of Sisters With Brothers” caught wind of the developing situation and tried to intervene on Amanda’s behalf but were unsuccessful. The three stooges thwarted their plan by moving in swiftly to administer snuggies to the concerned sisters. They were last seen pedaling their “My Little Pony” bikes south towards the hills, defeated, the tassels on their handle bars fluttering in the breeze and the waist band of their underwear rumpled at about shoulder height.

A favorite game amongst us three goons was to see who could get our sister to storm off to her bedroom and scream “I hate you” as her bedroom door crashed to a close. Jarvis was undoubtedly the master of this little slice of fun with an unbelievable success rate.

Amanda was well aware that Gabe and myself were easily distracted and would forget what we were doing relatively quickly, but Jarvis was focused. He was relentless. He wrote the book on, “Effective Little Sister Button Pushing.” Well actually he didn’t write it, he posed for the majority of the illustrations, and provided the bulk of the statistics.

But then something horrible happened one day. Amanda started to fight back, and she didn’t fight the same way we did. We relied purely on aggravation techniques like name calling, disfiguring Barbie dolls, and just basic pestering. She went right to the heart of the matter, actually a little lower, and relied on a series of well placed kicks. When your sister discovers the debilitating power of place kicking you suddenly become much more cordial when in close range.

You know when someone’s sister has made this discovery because all name calling by the brother is suddenly only performed while passing quickly atop their bicycle. She has won, and she smiles smugly as you peddle for all your worth glancing nervously over your shoulder. You soon learn that she won’t chase, no girls don’t do that, they just wait, and they never forget. Scary isn’t it. Gives me the willies just thinking about it.

I don’t get to see my sister much. For some reason she refuses to reside in the same state as her brothers, not sure why. If she did live here her neighbors would question why a grown man pedals his bike quickly by her house everyday calling her names. She would smile smugly as she laced up her steal toed boots, and say, “Oh that’s my brother, inviting me over for my birthday.”

This is gonna hurt.

Someone, I don’t know who, once said that bad things always happen in three’s (or fours). I shared that little law of the universe with my daughter Thursday morning to put her at ease about the previous days events.

Monday morning after I dropped the kids off at school I came back home and noticed that Sierra’s bike wasn’t where I parked it the night before. Not only was it not where I parked it, either it had rendered itself invisible or it had been stolen.

Later that day my cell phone rang while I was on my noon hour bike ride, it was the school nurse. Sierra had decided to stop a monkey ring from swinging by blocking it with her head, which left her with a sizeable bump and a mild concussion.

On the bright side I thought that maybe with the haze of the concussion clouding her memory I could convince her that she was a sixty year old midget named Mavis and never had a bicycle. I think it would have worked but her medalling little brother kept calling her by her real name.

Tuesday Mavis had an eye exam and found out that she needs glasses, which explained why she didn’t see the metal ring swinging towards her melon the day before.

Wednesday the phone rang at work and the school nurse was once again on the other end. Mavis reeling from her poor vision, stolen bike, and monkey ring mishap, tripped over someone’s foot on the playground and landed on her wrist. My professional opinion was that there could possibly be a fracture; my fatherly opinion was that x-rays, doctor visits, eye glasses, and a new bike are making for an expensive week.

Listening to my professional advice I opted for x-rays, which thankfully revealed a fracture free little hand. We left the doctors office and went in search of a bubble store. Mavis was concerned kids might stare if she showed up to school in a bubble and that it wouldn’t fit through the doors. Taking her concerns into consideration I compromised and opted for bubble wrap, a helmet, and protective goggles (prescription of course).

The rest of the week was incident free, and she is gradually getting used to me calling her “four eyes.” Just kidding don’t get yourself in a huff. I’m not sure if she completely bought into the concept that we need bad days to appreciate the good ones.

She did have some good news in the middle of her mess of a week. Out of the 300 students at her school Sierra was one of the 28 chosen by the teachers to be a student ambassador. Student ambassadors are designated students selected to work with the new students. They are selected because of their positive attitude, friendliness and kindness to others, and willingness to help others. Insert picture of proud bragging father here.

This past week was a testament to those attributes. Through all the bumps and tumbles Sierra remained positive and never once let it get the best of her. For that, I am proud of her.

Off to the bike shop.

Trees are a living organism, and the ones that were cut down to be a part of my log cabin seem to harbor a little resentment. Maybe they all don’t get along and don’t care to be saddle notched together providing warmth and protection to the vary person that chainsawed them into submission.

Or possibly since they are South Dakota trees they aren’t comfortable being placed in a Montana forest. I don’t know, but whatever it is they are a disgruntled bunch of timber. I guess you could say they have a chip on their shoulder, please forgive the lameness of that statement.

How do I know this? They are relentless in their quest to maim or injure all that come in contact with them. This past weekend my brother Gabe unwittingly put himself in harms way by agreeing to come to Montana and help myself and my good friend Paul put our cabin together.

Thankfully nobody sustained any serious injuries although there were NUMEROUS close calls. You know the kind of close calls that make your eyes wide and voice high followed by hysterical laughter. The laughter only antagonized the logs to be more creative in their attempts to render one of us unconscious.

I’m not sure why close encounters with the grim reaper made Gabe, Paul and myself laugh like idiots. Other than the fact that after three days without shaving, showering, or changing clothes we resembled three carnies training for some sort of midway log rolling game. Step right up folks, plenty of thrills, spills and stench.

I apologize to any carnie folk that I may have offended with that last statement. I’m sure your jobs aren’t all the glitz and glamour that we believe them to be and in no way do I believe myself to be qualified for the rigors of your profession. I tried living the dream but I never made it past the first round of interviews, it seems that my full set of teeth were a major disqualifier.

Anyway, back to the timbers of terror. Paul and myself have been working on this cabin for about 2 years and it is finally nearing completion. I’ve wanted a log cabin ever since I watched my first episode of “Grizzly Adams” about 25 years ago. The dream is slowly becoming reality now I just have to grow a beard, befriend a bear, and find a skunk named Joshua. Feel free to insert your own smart comment here.

I’m sure my parents are pleased that I chose to pursue the Grizzly Adams childhood dream over the Evil Kenievil option. Gabe seems to have pursued that one, either that or he mistook his snowmobile for a row boat.

His daredevil help was greatly appreciated by his not as young brother. Thankfully all we have to show for the trip to Montana is some sore muscles and a cabin. Oh yeah and lots of stories of harrowing deeds ending in hilarity.

On that note, when you ask Gabe about what happened in Montana please keep in mind that he will exaggerate anything that pokes fun at me. For instance, I do not scream like a girl when a log threatens my life.

We moved my wife to Vermillion South Dakota this past weekend. She finally pushed me too far so I told her to gather her things and get out. A man can only take so much, I mean I’ve been taking out the garbage since I was 8 years old.

Do you have any idea how many bags of garbage that is? Neither do I, I was hoping you could tell me. I’m sure it’s a lot. Why me? Is it because I have no sense of smell? Yeah that’s what I thought, pick on the handicap guy.

For those of you that may not know I was born with no sense of smell. It seems that my mother was exposed to the fumes emitted from a 1969 Plymouth Road Runner while she was pregnant with me. Plymouth has since addressed the problem and to my knowledge no other child has had to suffer as I have.

Back to me putting my foot down with my wife. Actually if I were to put my foot down she would more than likely put hers up.

Dawn recently got accepted into the Doctorate of Physical Therapy Program at the University of South Dakota in Vermillion. It is a 3 year program, the first two years are classes at Vermillion and then a year of clinicals which she can do in Rapid City.

Those of you with knowledge of South Dakota geography or access to a Rand McNally can see that Rapid City and Vermillion are not in close proximity to each other. About 400 miles separates them.

Now how many of you are thinking that you would like to send your spouse to live 400 miles away for a few years? Not me that’s for sure. I like to have my wife close all the time so I can hear her scoff and giggle every time I mess up. Have her right there so she can slap my hand when I’m trying to write a check for a life sized statue of Jimmy Buffet that plays Margarittiville when you pull his finger.

For all concerned parties we’re going to see how it goes with her being there and me being in Rapid City, raising the kids. That’s right, I will be solely responsible for the upbringing of two young impressionable little people. Don’t breathe a word of this to Oprah or Dr. Phil.

What could go wrong? I like them, they appear to like me, we’ll have a little competition to see who grows up first. The smart money is on Sierra. I’m not an oaf like the sitcom dad’s, I am perfectly capable of handling this. Actually Sierra once told me after watching an episode of the ‘Simpson’s’ that I was a much better dad than Homer.

“A much better dad than Homer.” Do you need a better vote of confidence than that? Other than crying herself to sleep at night while muttering prayers for our children Dawn seems okay with it too.

I’m very proud of my wife and I know she’ll make an exceptional physical therapist. I also know that this is going to be a challenge for all of us, but I’m confident that with the love and support of our family and friends we’ll get through just fine.

The countdown can start over again. My son, Jackson, celebrated his sixth birthday on Saturday, Spiderman was the theme. Everyday for the past few months he has informed us of the number of days until his birthday. Now that it’s past Dawn and myself have to find another upcoming special day to threaten to take away when he misbehaves.

His father, that would be me, also is said to have had a birthday this Sunday, but that may just be a viscous rumor. It is neat that Jackson’s birthday is the day before mine and I really like that it makes my birthday more of an afterthought. “Oh it’s Jackson’s birthday, isn’t yours tomorrow?” To which I reply, “Umm..yeah..want some more Spiderman cake.”

For some reason ever since I left my twenties behind my birthday kind of bothers me a little, a little more than I care to admit. Not that I want to stop revolving around to that day every year, no I like it here amongst the living, I just don’t like that escalating number attached to me.

I know it’s just a number, but me and numbers have never had a good relationship. We have a long painful history that I would rather not go into at this time. There’s two things that always make me cry, math and the Waltons. I don’t think there is an episode of the Waltons that doesn’t make me tear up like low carb dieters at a Little Debbie festival.

“It’s just a number…it’s just a number…” That’s my mantra for about a week after my birthday. Like Satchel Paige once said, “If you didn’t know how old you were how old would you be?” That’s a good question there Satch.

Let’s see, physically I still feel about 20, mentally I still act about 13. So with the tearful aid of math, that puts me at my prescribed number for this year, 33. Thirty-three, my daughter really helped me in the acceptance by asking if that makes me to old. When I asked her, “To old for what?” she ignored me and walked away. I tried to catch her but kids walk so fast nowadays.

She didn’t stop there though; while we were swimming she was nice enough to point out that I have a bald spot and a lot of grey hair. I tried dunking her but the lifeguard blew her whistle at me and said, “Aren’t you to old for that?”

Maybe I need to stop trying to ignore the birthday turd that floats through my river of life every year and embrace it with as much vigor as my children. A yearly theme party just like the kiddies. I want a Waltons cake, and everyone come dressed as there favorite Waltons character. I’ll be John Boy, since I don’t have the legs to be Mary Ellen or enough hair to be Zeb.

To old … not this year. Goodnight Jim Bob.

I hope the 4th of July celebrations left all of your digits intact, no eye patches, no roman candle flesh wounds. When I think back it amazes me that fireworks never left me with any permanent reminders of my hazardous behavior. Bottle rocket wars inparticular.

Disclaimer: The following information is strictly for entertainment purposes and should only be attempted by trained professionals or complete idiots.

We used to put a lot of effort into making an accurate bottle rocket launcher. Striving for one that would make your buddies cringe and put an extra coat on in anticipation of your precise fury of gunpowder charged Chinese newspaper on a stick.

The most popular material to construct a handheld bottle rocket launcher out of was 1 inch PVC pipe. Other diameters will due in a pinch, but experience has shown me that 1 inch will deliver your rocket accurately to its target at much higher success rate. A not so good choice is copper tubing or any type of metal pipe, unless of course you’re wearing a pair of oven mitts.

As for musical instruments a trumpet works pretty good, bugles are to short, harmonicas are excruciating, and the flute, well, it had better be your sisters. One major design flaw that I’ve seen reduce many kids arm hair to stubble is not closing off one end of the tube. Seems logical, but you can’t expect much from kids that shoot explosives at each other.

The truth is people rarely get hit in bottle rocket wars. Unless you’re my brother Jarvis. I remember it like it was yesterday; he had another kid in his sights and apparently has very poor peripheral vision, because he didn’t notice me frantically loading a bottle rocket 20 feet to his left.

The peripheral vision problem could be associated with the baseball that ‘someone’ hit him with or the hockey stick that ‘someone’ accidentally whacked him with. That ‘someone’ shall remain nameless pending further investigation into the ‘alleged’ events.

So there he was, I could hardly light the fuse I was so excited, but somehow I managed. Fuse is lit, bottle rocket slides down tube, bottle rocket comes out of tube, hits brother right in the face. Not only did it hit him, it exploded at the exact time it made contact with his cheek. What a shot! Hey where’s he going? I do believe he’s running home clutching his cheek to tell mom ‘someone’ shot him with a bottle rocket.

Concerned for his wellbeing I decide to test his hearing and reflexes by yelling and shooting another bottle rocket at him as he ran away. Both work fine as he avoids a second hit. If he would quit holding his cheek it would be easier to make out the pleasantries he’s yelling my way. Wait till mom finds out what I think he called me.

I’m not sure where we learned this behavior, but there is a gentleman and his lovely wife that celebrated their 54th wedding anniversary on July 3rd that might have something to do with it. The gentleman, not the lovely wife, she’s innocent, he’s not.

Happy anniversary Grandpa and Grandma.

What did all you proud Papa’s get for Fathers Day from your herd of sticky fingered yard apes? Ferrari? Private Jet? Tickets to see Jimmy Buffet? Personal masseuse?

Or maybe your just admiring the card your kids worked on for hours, mostly without fighting, that expresses their love for their Dad. That’s what I’m doing, I mean the other stuff was on my list, but somehow that list has been modified through the years. It’s sort of the same, except better.

A mini-van complete with in-flight meals and a little Buffet, or Muffet as the kids refer to him as, blaring from the CD player. Just the way I like it. As for the masseuse, well I rub my temples on occasion as I clench my jaw desperately searching for a way to end the sibling bickering that has been going on for about the last 900 miles. My favorite method is cranking up the radio, I call it volume intervention.

My Dad opted for the “stuff on the brakes method” which is also quite effective. Its hard to land a solid punch on your brother when the Ford Econoline your traveling in is going from 70mph to stop at a very rapid rate. A glimpse of your Dads face in the rearview mirror tells you that maybe sitting quietly is your best option at this time.

Eventually kids don’t need the rearview mirror as they develop the keen ability to sense a ‘Dad on the Edge’ just by his posture in the driver’s seat. Level one: erect posture. This tells you that you still have time to get a few shots in. Level two: abandons arm rest and grips the wheel with both hands. You’re getting close, at this point you need to decide how important winning the argument is. Level three: the wordless but very unamused glance back. This is your last chance, because level four is where the brakes get a little workout.

I figure I owe my Dad approximately 2,897 pairs of brake pads. So I went all out this Fathers Day. I sent the grandkids to stay with him for a week. Hey, it was his idea. My kids love going to Grandpa and Grandma’s. Being able to run around Lignite is a big treat since they aren’t able to stray to far from my watch here in Rapid City.

The kids called one night after getting home from a fun filled night at the Burke County Fair. After discussing the days events with Sierra I asked her what her brother was doing. She matter of factly informed me that he was playing with his new knife. New knife! He never had an old knife. Where’d he get a new knife, and just how his playing with it? Is he shaving the dog with it, playing pirate poker with Dad, holding up a liquor store? Sierra assured me that it was kind of like a butter knife, quite dull and harmless, she had one too. Oh well in that case.

Thanks for making sure that my kids are as spoiled as I was Dad. Thanks for being everything a Dad and Grandpa should be.

Why is that when you get a burger of some sort at any fast food restaurant it always looks like someone fell on it in the kitchen? I’ve never had the pleasure of working in a fast food restaurant but how hard can it be to place the burger and all its fixings between two pieces of bread in a quasi presentable manner?

I remember my first time in a fast food restaurant; I believe the year was 1982. I was ten years old and spending a few days with my cousin Jamie and aunt Rosalin in Minot. It took some coaxing to get my Mom to continue on into Minot past the Boys Ranch, but I promised I would change my ways and be nice to my brother and stop wearing her dresses. What did I care pant suits were becoming more in vogue anyway.

Anyway back to big city fast food in 1982. Rosalin took Jamie and myself to Hardees for lunch, I think her kitchen was haunted or something so we couldn’t eat there, no wait, that was a different house. We placed our order, stepped back, and in about 30 seconds some foil wrapped stuff came sliding down a stainless steel divider sent my some phantom hand from the back.

I couldn’t believe it! It was so, so, well, fast. I think it tasted good, I don’t know, the free race car that came with it was cool. I returned to Lignite with tales of free toys and phantom hands slinging foil wrapped food at an alarming speed. My friends were on the edge of their banana seats hanging on every word.

To this day that is how I like my fast food to arrive, yes the phantom hand from the kitchen. I don’t like to see who is preparing my food, I look up at the menu and quickly down at the cashier, blurring out the action unfolding behind them. If they’ve dropped it, kicked it, fell on it, mopped their brow with it, wore it as a yamika, I don’t care, I just would rather not know.

Let them chuckle gleefully from the kitchen, as I unwittingly eat their creation, I don’t care. My other rule of thumb at a fast food restaurant is to never lift the bun and look before eating. The same rule from above covers this; I just don’t want to know. Bite into something foreign, just swallow quickly, think happy thoughts, don’t make eye contact and continue eating.

I’ve started a grass roots effort to get legislation passed to put the “Phantom Hand Law” into affect. Every fast food restaurant would be mandated to have a nice velvet curtain obstructing the customers view from the food preparation area. If for some unknown reason you the customer would desire to see your food being prepared you would be required to sign a waiver declaring that you will not divulge any of the food prep area happenings to those of us that would rather not know.

Thank you and enjoy your dining experience.

Hope everyone had an enjoyable Memorial Day weekend. I also hope you took time on Monday to attend a Memorial Day service to honor our veterans and those currently serving in the military. Past and present military personnel and their families deserve our praise and support for the sacrifices they have made in their lives.

I’m pretty sure that when Memorial Day was put in the books they didn’t intend it to be a day of sales opportunities for furniture stores and car dealerships. Is there ever a day that there isn’t some HUGE sale going on at one of these places? I’ve never driven by a furniture store and seen the sign read, “No Sales Today, Everything Full Price” or “Payment Due In Full At Time Of Purchase.”

It seems to me that car dealerships have performed some sort of study that suggests that all consumers in the market for a new car suddenly develop a hearing problem. Their commercials, whether it be radio or television, surely rank just below 101 yipping Chihuahuas on the dangerous and annoying decibel scale. Disclaimer: No Chihuahuas were harmed during the research and development of this scale.

A terrier in Saskatchewan perks up his ears and says to his springer spaniel friend, “Is that those Chihuahuas again or is New Mexico Earl having another all cars must go blowout sale?” Or, “Well Edna I was going to buy a new Chevy but the Ford dealer is much louder so they must have a better sale going on.” More than likely an “Extreme Sale” of some sort.

Everything is ‘extreme’ nowadays. I believe it all started with the X-Games, which did a wonderful job of making those types of sports commonplace. It’s hard to impress or shock anyone anymore no matter how many flips you can do on a skateboard. I’ve found that I can do a lot more tricks on a skateboard if I remove the wheels.

A few months ago I saw a advertisement for an ‘X-Treme Rodeo’ that was coming to town. I enjoy ‘regular’ rodeos so I thought I’d go and see what ‘X-Treme’ rodeo had to offer. I have been to a lot of rodeos and this rodeo seemed to be no different, nothing extreme here. No extremely big bulls with extremely big horns, just you normal run of the mill snot faced feisty bulls. No ill-tempered rocket propelled horses. No landmines in the arena, the barrels didn’t blow up during the barrel racing.

What made this rodeo X-Treme? Apparently a few fireworks during the opening ceremony and a hot tub full of drunks. I read up on the rules of labeling an event extreme and there it was in section 3 paragraph 5: An X-Treme event must have one or more of the following: Really loud announcer (off duty car salesman), fireworks, and a hot tub full of drunks.

I have nothing against a hot tub full of drunks enjoying a ringside seat to a rodeo, they were pretty entertaining. The only question I had was how were they able to sit in there enjoying their beverages for 2 hours and never have to get up and go to the bathroom. Now that’s X-Treme.

A few weeks ago it was teacher appreciation week, and I truly do appreciate all the teachers that made an attempt to educate me. This column of appreciation is a few weeks late, not unlike most of my school work was. For some reason nowadays whenever I run into one of my former teachers from Burke Central I feel an intense need to apologize. Not for any one particular act of moronity, more of a compilation of misbehavior. I’m sure my behavior isn’t any worse than thousands of other students.

It is a simple fact that there will always be a few knucklehead students. The problem arises when the parents turn a blind eye towards their child’s knuckleheadedness and don’t accept the fact that we can’t ‘make’ their perfect little angel into a rocket scientist. If a kid doesn’t want to learn the parents are not doing them any favors by placing blame solely on the teacher. Enough with that little rant.

My grades were never that big of a concern to me, my concern was entertainment. How could I make someone laugh, and more important than that, how could I make someone laugh so that they would get in trouble and not me. I believe ‘instigator’ was the term thrown around at parent teacher conferences. One of my teachers went so far as to tell my dear mother that, “I know he’s always up to something, but I can’t catch him.”

So from that point forward I set off on my academic career with a title and an objective. I wasn’t just another class clown; I was an instigator, a branded man, with the challenge of not getting caught, and well, it so happens I was pretty good at it. I hate to blame birth order, but I believe that by nature the eldest child is much better suited for a life of instigation.

Provoking your younger siblings to attempt things that you have learned, in your longer existence, should not be attempted. Ninety percent of my childhood was spent goading my younger siblings into situations that I would no doubt find entertaining. The other ten percent was spent searching for toys in cereal boxes, watching cartoons, and wetting the bed. Sometimes all at the same time.

In short always be suspicious of the eldest. If I were me I surely wouldn’t trust my suggestion to float on a leaf like the elf in the book. Definitely would turn a deaf ear when it’s suggested that you can snort Orange Crush through a straw without any ill effects. I would be suspicious of a chummy pat on the back when in close proximity to an electric fence. I would question why my shoes smelled of gasoline before getting to close to the burning pile of leaves. These are all just examples, just examples, nothing more.

There is a point to all this instigation, besides shear entertainment it’s very educational. As your parents question their decision to reproduce while chastising little brother for violently sputtering Orange Crush all over the cars interior, you are recording the outcome in your big brother “I Was Wondering What Would Happen If” book. I would let you read mine, but we are required to dispose of them when we have our first child so as to ensure another generation of instigation. A viscous but necessary cycle.

Anyway, back to teacher appreciation. Thank you all and I apologize for my classmates’ behavior, I tried to stop them, really I did.