Rambling Josh

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.

What are you getting your Mom for Mothers Day? Don’t panic you still have plenty of time to construct a macaroni necklace. If you don’t cook the noodles she’ll get years of enjoyment out of it. While you’re pondering what gifts to bestow upon you Mommy, think back to all the grief, frustration, pain, and shear mental agony you may have caused this women in her lifetime.

Can’t think of any? Just ask your Mom, I’m sure she has a list somewhere. I mean the childbirth process itself should be enough for us to be forever in our Mother’s debt. I’ve been there, I’ve seen what goes on in that delivery room, it’s not pretty. Sweating, screaming, crying, and that was just me while my wife was squeezing my hand and glaring at me accusingly.

Here’s a little pearl of wisdom for any expecting fathers that intend on witnessing the birth of their child: Never show any sign, what so ever, that what you are witnessing in the delivery is somehow humorous or amusing to you. In short, don’t laugh. I would rather not discuss how I know this. The concussion was mild and I’m not pressing charges.

Mom’s do little things to get back at us that we aren’t aware of. Pictures of us in embarrassing or compromising situations are one sly method. As you mug for the camera in your sisters cheerleading outfit, thinking your being entertaining, your mom is behind the camera chuckling with revenge on her mind. Or possibly honoring the request of you and your brother’s miss guided thoughts that silk cowboy shirts with long tassels would be cool.

Matching clothes for siblings in general is the biggest secret revenge a mother will use. Sometimes they may ratchet the revenge up a notch and insist that the entire family match for a public event. These are things we don’t question or resist until we reach our teens. You know, the years when we are searching for self expression by dressing and acting exactly like our friends. Mom’s are behind this phenomenon also.

So I guess if you really want to make your mother happy on mother’s day, slip into that cheerleading uniform again, hand her a camera, and find a busy restaurant. Don’t worry, you won’t embarrass her, mothers lack the embarrassment gene. How else do you think they’ve been able to put up with us?

If you haven’t noticed, most of what I write in this column is based on factual experiences with a dash or two or three of fiction for entertainment purposes. Sometimes this line between fact and fiction is a little hazy. My point is that I want to point out the ‘fact’ that my wife, my mom, and my grandmas are wonderful women, deserving of all the laughter, love, and happiness life has to offer. Thank you all for who you are and all that you do.

Gotta go, macaroni’s on sale. Happy Mother’s Day.

Beings that I’m a hard working tax paying American; well a tax paying American anyway, I received my social security statement in the mail today. I know this because in big bold letters it says, “Your Social Security Statement: Prepared especially for Joshua C. Ellis” and right above that it says, “Prevent identity theft protect your Social Security number.”

I made a few quick checks to make sure that I was who this document implied I could possibly be. Scar on left cheek from flying bingo card…check. That was the last time I partied with Grandma Helen, crazy German. Several patch’s of hair missing from top of head…check. Never, I repeat, never, use banana scented shampoo before going to see the monkeys at the zoo.

I figured if anybody could tell me I was me it would be my lovely wife. To make it a little more difficult for her I put a ski mask on and a muumuu. Then as she slept I snuck into the bedroom, flipped on the light and screamed, “Who am I!” I had no idea she could kick so hard, and with such accuracy. During the ensuing scuffle the ski mask was violently removed from my head, along with some hair that my monkey friends apparently overlooked. With mild curiosity my wife gave me that strange look that I’m accustomed to, shook her head and exclaimed, “Josh, what are doing?”

There, I had my proof, I endangered my favorite muumuu to get it but sometimes you have to make sacrifices. So I limped back downstairs to continue reading this document made especially for me, Joshua C. Ellis.

As I was reading the friendly letter from the Social Security commissioner, something troubling appeared. Here’s the fun fact that Jo Anne B. Barnhart, the commissioner, had to share with me, “Without changes, by 2042 the Social Security Trust Fund will be exhausted.” With my minimal knowledge of arithmetic I crunched some numbers and found that I would be approximately 70 years old in the year 2042. Isn’t that just a shiny ray of happy news.

Coincidence? I think not. This reeks of conspiracy. Do you know who is behind this conspiracy? Your friendly neighborhood Wal-Mart. The Mecca of Materialism needs a renewable source of duffers to push carts at people and hand out smiley face stickers. I am taking a huge risk in exposing this matter, but someone has to stand up to those blue vested bullies. United we stand divided we hand out smiley face stickers.

If anything this is wonderful motivation for our children to get a good education and high paying jobs or flee the country. Because if they can’t afford to ship us to a trailer park in Florida, we’ll be living with them, and they’ll have to drive us to our smiley face sticker jobs.

In the mean time you may see me training for the year 2042 at DJ’s Food Center.

Another trip to Lignite and back, and still no Bigfoot sighting to report. Bigfoot goes by many names; Yeti, Abomible Snowman, Sasquatch, Steroid Enhanced Baseball Player, but lets not get into the genealogy of our hairy friend, its just too confusing.

Personally I would prefer Yeti, it just has a gentler lilt to it, try it a few times…Yeti, Yeti…kind of roles of the tongue doesn’t it. The other names just sound so, hairy and scary, not to mention the fact that I’m sure they are well aware that their feet are a bit on the large size. It’s really not necessary for us to point it out continuously, I mean my hair may not be as thick and luxurious as it once was, but I wouldn’t care to be referred to as Thinhair, Shinyscalp, or any such descriptive names.

Abomible Snowman seems a little harsh to me, and I’m sure Frosty and pals don’t appreciate being linked to the missing link family. Snowmen have never been shy about being photographed; we all have a picture of ourselves posing with a snowman. Now if we could just get that shy Yeti to mug for the camera on occasion.

Sasquatch, sounds like something you might do after ingesting large amounts fruitcake and eggnog. Not that there’s anything wrong with fruitcake, I have one on my desk and it makes a wonderful paper weight. In fact I once foiled a bank robbery with a loaf of fruitcake, poor guy never saw it coming.

So Yeti it is. When we travel between Rapid City and Lignite we always go through the Killdeer mountain area, which as you know is a preferred hang out for the Yeti family. So I keep the camera ready and have provided each of the kids with one also, just in case I’m being distracted by driving or something like that. I think my wife is frightened by the prospect of seeing the Yeti because she always has her eyes closed and pretends to be asleep when we drive through Yeti Land.

As for myself I’m not real sure what I would do if I were to come face to face with the hairy one. It would probably involve several high pitched screams immediately followed by a spontaneous bowel movement, but I guess we’ll have to wait and see.

I did see a white horse along the road one night by Mandaree, and I’m convinced it was the Yeti in a horse costume. They are a sly bunch, but I distinctly saw the glimmer of what appeared to be a zipper running down the front of the ‘horse’. Also in approximately the same location on a different trip two ‘dogs’ were standing on the shoulder of the road. These I believe to be either Yeti children or Yeti midgets.

Yes, I know, all of this information is quite interesting, and I will surely keep you posted on my Yeti sightings. I have contacted the FBI and CIA and they have enthusiastically suggested I never contact them again. They’re such kidders.

I don’t know if I’m overly optimistic or just delusional, perhaps delusionally optimistic. That would be a good name for a troupe of river dancing mimes performing at the intermission of a monster truck rally. Have I ever told you that I dislike mimes, I just don’t buy into the whole invisible rope bit, that, and being stuck in an invisible box were all they learned before flunking out of Clown College.

Delusionally optimistic was me bringing my bicycle with to Lignite the first week of March. I had a week off for spring break so my son and I decided to head up to God’s country. My plans fell through for Cancun and Lignite was next on the list, so I called my travel agent and booked a week in sunny, windy, cold, snowing, muddy, rainy, cloudy, and scenic upstate ND. Security at the North Dakota / South Dakota border was tight and it took some time to convince them that despite my behavior I did not have mad cow disease.

As I got closer to Lignite I noticed more and more snow, and as I stepped out of the car in Lignite I noticed that not only was it snowy, but a bit on the breezy, chilly side also. Very conducive weather for bike riding, weather that shouldn’t have been a surprise to me, but somehow was. I guess the 65 degree weather I left in Rapid City contributed to my delusional optimism. That, and when I spoke to my brother, Gabe, the day before I left, he said, and I quote, “There’s hardly any snow left, it’s almost all gone.” I guess Gabe’s idea of ‘hardly any snow’ and mine are bit different. His ‘hardly any snow’ is that there isn’t enough to snowmobile; my ‘hardly any snow’ is having to scrounge to make one last dirt covered snowball. Then hitting my brother with it.

So my bike sat in the corner of the bedroom pouting the entire week, yes the bedroom, he’s my special boy, no garage for him. Besides all I could picture was me walking into the garage to find my brothers, um, my parent’s dog, Coors, using my bike as a giant chew toy. Makes me weepy just thinking about it. So in order to pay Coors back for what he ‘might’ have done, I made him run about 5 miles with me every other day while I was home. That oughta teach him. Should’ve pulled Mr. Hardly Any Snow off the couch and made him run too.

I had a great time visiting with friends and family. My son, Jackson, said it best when he told my mom, “The days go faster when I’m in Lignite.” Despite the speedy days we found time to go on a five hour tour around Burke County with Captain Ardell at the helm, Navigator Rose riding shotgun, and myself, my mom, and Jackson doing the rosary in the back seat. I enjoy learning about my family history, and I want to thank Grandpa and Grandma for taking me to ‘our’ historic sites.

Have a good Easter, and be leery of oddly shaped chocolate eggs. Especially if your brother hands it to you.