Rambling Josh

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.

Yesterday I took my son, Jackson, to meet his fifth-grade teacher and today I took my daughter, Sierra, to freshmen orientation at Stevens High School. The last year of elementary school and the first year of high school for these Ellis kids.

As I stood at freshman orientation listening to the principal blather on about this, that, and another thing, I looked at my daughter sitting amongst her friends, amongst a sea of other kids, sitting amongst their friends and I thought, “How did this happen?…When did I get older…? How did my children grow up so fast?… I’m not mature enough to have kids this old.”

It seems like yesterday that I stood and watched them wave to me as they proceeded single file into their kindergarten classrooms like ducklings. Now I stand in amazement as they begin to stretch out their wings and edge closer and closer to testing the skies on their own. This stuff is hard on a sentimental old… ah older…fool such as I but it is a privilege to witness and an absolute joy to be a part of.

A favorite quote or lyric of mine from John Lennon seems to sum it up, “Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans.”

Thankfully I don’t make a lot of plans, so I haven’t been too distracted from being a part of the two young lives that have been bestowed upon my wife and me. I always say if you don’t have plans, you’re never disappointed by plans that didn’t go how you planned and you’re generally left to be pleasantly surprised by the plan that develops unplanned.

I would hazard a guess more than a few of us have been surprised by the unplanned. Some result in running into old friends and enjoying a few unplanned laughs and some result in marriage. I guess if you played your unplanned cards right both could happen the same night but enough of the unplanned biology lesson.

Despite their father, I would have to say my kids have turned out quite well and I’m glad neither of them seems too embarrassed to be seen with me yet. Maybe when my belt line encroaches on my armpits and I have to reach over my shoulder to grab my wallet they’ll start minding the distance between us in public a little more.

They just grow up so fast… physically anyway…some of us lag behind a little in the mentality department. The day I don’t think a fart is funny better be the day I lay my last rosebud out on the breeze for the loved ones gathered around me to enjoy. I want to leave them gasping and clambering for an open window…. give ‘em something to cry about… it’s the simple things that make life worth living.

Becoming a father seemed simple enough…all the screaming and carrying on made it seem a little less simple for my wife, but it sure made for good watching. As I said… some of us lag behind a little mentally which brings about physical discomfort when we say stuff that should have remained unsaid…so I’ve heard and said.

Speaking of fatherhood and such, I would like to extend a Happy Birthday wish to the finest meat cutter in Burke County. Like a good ribeye, he just gets better with a little age. Love you, Dad.

A beautician, a carpenter, a professor and a rocket scientist walk into a bar…. No joke, we were just thirsty and hoping to numb a little tenderness. The kind of tenderness reserved for those who tottered about on bicycle seat across the state of South Dakota. The Highway 212 Gut Check was this past weekend, and Lignite was represented well with Susan Dixon, Tim Chrest, Jay Stevens and myself completing our 414-mile leapfrog across South Dakota in a bit over 27 hours.

A wind out of the west had all 28 of this year’s participants smiling as we chit chatted and milled around the SD/WY border awaiting the high noon rollout for the SD/MN border. The miles between the borders may have caused smiles to fade on occasion but temporary discomfort generally yields to the permanent satisfaction brought about by accomplishment.

Our team had a great time and lots of laughs at one another’s expense. Fueled by scotcharoos and boiled raisin bars we finished in a very respectable time as well. I’m hoping that my elder relatives can keep their minds and bodies in sufficient working order so we can give it a go again next year. Well, the bodies anyway. The fact that I was able to talk them into this in the first place is proof that the mind is faltering.

As our favorite shop teacher would say, “Ignorance is bliss.” If only ignorance was bliss enough to erase the discomfort of a bicycle seat.

Some team highlights for this year have to be Susan setting out at around 1:30 a.m. to, “Maybe do 10 miles,” and rolling into Gettysburg at 3 a.m. with 26 miles behind her. Jay expertly maneuvering around a large rattlesnake warming itself on the highway in the darkness of night (which we decided not to tell Susan about until after her ride). Tim hammering the pedals faster than a one-armed sheet rocker and catching the same guy twice. I’m sure he will fill you in on my grueling 40 mile day and I’m sure most of it will be true.

Thank you to all who donated to the cause, it is greatly appreciated. They say you can pick your friends, but you can’t pick your relatives….whoever picked mine did a fine job.

See you next year.

The carnie folks have packed up their array of stuffed treasures and dismantled the rides, but your corndog coma may not subside for a few days yet.

I came to Lignite to help hold down the fort while Mom gallivanted around the state fair snapping photos of unsuspecting fairgoers. She had a badge, so it was legal. She also had a few assistants this year as my daughter accompanied her for pack mule services and Craig, a friend of mine from Watertown, SD, tried his hand at the state fair paparazzi gig.

As usual, Sierra had a great time with Grandma and as a reward for her patience and pack muling my mom let her go on a photographic assignment with Craig to the KISS concert. Better him than me as I would rather eat a three-day-old secondhand Twinkie on a stick than go to a rock concert.

Craig likes that sort of music and informed me that Sierra had been properly baptized into rock concert land as she got beer spilled on her, got burned by a cigarette, and can now distinguish between cigarette smoke and a smoke that’s not as legal.

I’m not much for the state fair but I went one day to simmer in my own sweat with more strange people than I guessed would have lived in North Dakota. As the comedian Jeff Foxworthy says, “If you ever start feeling like you have the goofiest, craziest, most dysfunctional family in the world, all you have to do is go to a state fair. Because five minutes at the fair, you’ll be going, ‘you know, we’re alright. We are dang near royalty.’”

My dad is not much for the fair either, but he went as well and drank his usual $30 worth of Tubby’s lemonade and strolled around with Sierra while she was on her break from her photographic assistant duties. Sierra enjoyed her time with Grandpa as well and talked Aunt Amanda into going on a few rides after us elders turned her down. I used to like fair rides but now I can’t even take an underdog on a swing without feeling nauseous.

While Sierra was whooping it up at the North Dakota State Fair poor Jackson was stuck in Orlando doing what he could to have fun at Disney World. He was invited to go along with one of his best friends and their family and like the KISS concert… better them than me. The Flaxton Fair is about as big as I ever needed so unless Mickey and Minnie go on tour and wind up with Sherwin Linton at the Flaxton Fair you won’t see me in a photo with them.

Jackson gets back home this week and has called about once a day while he’s been gone to let us know what he’s up to. He even got to go to see his Yankees play while he was there so I’m sure his camera will be full of interesting eleven-year-old low angle photos. My wife got into the traveling spirit as well and took off for a week in Germany with her sister on Saturday.

So, the last few weeks we’re going to be all over the map, but like Grandpa Ardell always told me, “Travel while you can and see as much as you can because someday your body might quit on you.”

Smart man.

I am very happy to report that as of this past Saturday, I’ve successfully advanced my streak for not dying to 38 years. Thank you to all the birthday well wishes from the Facebook crew.

One of the downfalls of being on Facebook is that your birthday doesn’t slip quietly into the night. I spent this one as I have many of my birthdays–no, not inspecting the toilet at the 109 Club–but at a baseball game.

With a July birthday there is a very good chance you’ll either be playing or watching baseball and that’s fine with me. This year it was a little league all-star game and since I forgot to look busy, I ended up in the crow’s nest keeping book and running the scoreboard. It was a real test as I generally don’t like to pay that much attention for that long of time, but I managed.

Throughout my 30’s my son Jackson, whose birthday is the day before mine, has been numerically tied. When he turned 3, I turned 3+0, when he turned 4, turned 3+1, when he turned…well, I hope you get the picture by now.

So, this numerical linkage will continue until I hit 40 and start that slippery slide into what every 40-year-olds slip into. Orthopedic shoes, polyester pants, hospital gowns, a steady spiral of self-pity… and so forth and so on.

At that same time Jackson will start his slippery slide into his teenage years. Seeing how my daughter is 14 I have seen what teenagers slide into and I also keenly recollect what teenagers slide into as I myself was a teenager at one time or another in my life. Teenagers are weird and seem to hang great importance on trivial matters while being oblivious to what really matters. Of course, the parental view of what matters and what doesn’t is skewed by many years of having to pony up the cash for the trivial. Those shirts, shoes, video games, and what not that-were-to-die-for lay in a heap of materialistic items destined for the back of the closet and the underside of the bed.

I never wasted my parent’s financial resources when I was a lad. That “Fart Spray” was a life changing purchase and those acid washed jeans made me who I am today. Actually, those pants were so tight the only thing they made was my voice an octave higher and my feet swell. A single Canadian dime was the largest denomination of currency you could fit in those pockets.

The advancement of one’s age does create changes in the way birthdays are celebrated. My wife and daughter were out of town for a softball tournament so without the ladies to hold us back, us birthday boys celebrated in style. We lay in the hammock, each with our preferred beverage, and chit chatted about this and that while gazing at the stars above.

The perfect ending and beginning to another trip around the sun.

Well, the Three Stooges completed their lap around Ireland without incident, unless you count a blown tire and several bouts of car sickness as incidents.

As I’ve reported before the roads and driving in Ireland are an adventure. A nauseating, torturous adventure for those who tend to get car sick when crammed in the back seat of bobbing, weaving, swerving, stopping and starting automobile. Two of the stooges, Paul and Bubba, seemed to have an issue with this.

As for the blown tire…. well, I was driving at the time but it wasn’t all my fault. Who builds stone walls right next to a highway and then lets so much vegetation grow on them that you can’t see the rocks in the rock wall?

I recall Bubba yelling from the back seat to pull over quick so he could take a picture of a castle. Being the obliging tour guide I pulled over quickly and apparently too far as a large sharp rock that had been holding up a rock wall for a few hundred years tore into the sidewall of the front tire.

So, Paul and I put on the spare while Bubba snapped award winning pictures of his precious castle. Paul didn’t mind the mishap and was delighted with the opportunity to take a break from the nausea rocket. Back in the nausea rocket to find a new tire we tottered along on the little spare donut for a bit and then shelled out 90 Euro for a new tire. The rental car insurance didn’t cover rock attacks. We saw a lot of Ireland but of all the lovely sights we saw nothing compares to the people we met along the way. We had many a wonderful “jaw wags” as they call it.

We spent the last night in Ireland the same as we spent the first, enjoying the Dublin nightlife. The plan was to enjoy it to the point of exhaustion so we could sleep most of the seven hours of confinement in the airplane ride back across the pond. At 3 a.m. we bought some Pringles and decided a rickshaw ride would be the best way back to our hotel.

The rickshaw puller was a spry young man, and we cheered him to pass other rickshaws as we made our way through the Dublin streets. A few blocks, a long up hill, and the burden of three guys and a can of Pringles wore on the poor guy, and his stride was reduced to shuffle as we approached our hotel. The charge was five Euro, but we gave him 15 and a half a can of Pringles for his trouble.

Riding in a rickshaw made me feel a little uncomfortable. There’s just something wrong about having some guy pull you around when you’ve got two perfectly good legs of your own. I offered to help and even offered to give him a ride but apparently that’s against the Rickshaw Code of Conduct. He probably would have gotten more than 15 Euro from us if the gypsy ladies outside the pub hadn’t guilted us into handing them over some change.

All in all, it was a great trip and we all agreed if we went again we would just pick one specific area and see a lot of a little rather than a little of a lot.

I highly recommend traveling to a foreign country, other than Canada or Wyoming, nothing makes you appreciate life in America more.

About halfway through our trip to Ireland last year, after several nights of sitting in pubs listening to Irish music, my wife wore down to the point of suggesting that I go back again sometime with my good friends, Paul and Bubba. So, like a dutiful husband I took her up on the suggestion and am sitting in Kenmare, Ireland writing this column.

Paul, Bubba and I, the Three Stooges, landed in Dublin on June 10 and will be conducting a clockwise spin around the island back to Dublin for our exit on June 19. Other than our first night in Dublin and the second night in Carrick-on-Suir we will be rolling plan free and just see where the narrow winding roads take us.

One of the reasons we chose this time to come to Ireland was that Paul and myself are, as Bubba says, “Clancy Brother Super Fans,” and the Clancy Brothers Music Festival took place on June 12 this year. I enjoy the Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem’s music more than any other music and was extremely excited to attend the festival. With the passing of Liam Clancy six months ago none of the Clancy Brothers or Tommy Makem are alive, but their children carry on their legacy quite well.

The concert on Saturday night was wonderful, but the singsong to follow in the pub across the street was one of the most enjoyable musical experiences I have ever had. A singsong in Ireland is an unorganized gathering where whoever wants to can belt out their favorite song. This particular singsong was a virtual Clancy Family Reunion that we were very fortunate to be a part of.

One by one our favorite songs were sung by a different member of the Clancy family, most of which are professional recording artists, with the entire pub joining in more often than not. This went on until a little after 3 a.m. when the pub owner finally said, “Have you no shame? It’s three in the morning… go home.”

The pubs close at 12:30 in Ireland but we were told we were in an “Irish Lockdown.” This basically means if you want to stay you can stay, but if you go you can’t come back in. We weren’t going anywhere.

There is a picture of the Clancy Brothers that was taken during a singsong in a bar in New York City during the groups hay day in the 60’s. In this particular picture the Clancy Brothers are sitting around a table in the middle of a packed house, and I always wondered what it would feel like to have been a part of that. Well, now I know, and to have the opportunity to share the experience with two of my best friends made it better than I ever imagined.

So, as I sit in Kenmare Ireland listening to the sound of Irish music drift up to my hotel room window from the pub across the street I am truly thankful. Thankful for the experience of last night’s singsong, thankful for good friends and the time to spend with them, and thankful for my wife and family. Without their support it would be impossible to undertake and enjoy such a trip.

That’s all for now…this is the Three Stooges on assignment in Ireland for the Burke County Tribune…signing off.

I was asked to speak at Memorial Day services for the Lignite and Portal American Legion posts this year, an honor I readily accepted, and would like to share that speech with all of you.

I hope you all had an enjoyable Memorial Day weekend and took the time to honor those who are no longer with us.

When I was a cub scout, a few years back, Memorial Day was a day I always looked forward to because it was the day we got to march with the soldiers. I can remember watching the veterans get ready for the Memorial Day march in the Legion Hall while us cub scouts attempted to fight the urge to poke one another with the American flags we were all given to carry as we marched. We didn’t fight it very hard and a few of us would always get our flags confiscated by our den mother, who just happened to be my mother.

Marching with the veterans in my cub scout uniform always made me feel proud and I would imagine myself as John Wayne fresh from the front lines. It’s hard for an eight-year-old with stubby legs to pull off the John Wayne swagger while trying to keep step with the veterans. Today I felt that same pride as I got the opportunity to march with the soldiers again.

Many of them are the very same veterans I marched with 30 years ago. Many of them I didn’t know had served in the military until my first Memorial Day march as a cub scout.

I knew these men as farmers, teachers, mechanics, oil field workers, and businessmen. To find out they were soldiers changed them forever in my eyes. I would look at them and try to imagine where they had been, what they had seen, what they had endured, and wonder how they could go from being John Wayne to a work-a-day citizen of Burke County.

Each and every time I encountered them, I would yearn to ask about their experience, about their war, but I never did. I never did because even to a curious eight-year-old it seemed to be a private matter and as a curious 37-year-old it still does.

I had plans to contact each veteran who is here and get their story to share with you today, but I doubted many of them would want this day to be about them. This day is a day to remember the men and women who served our country and are no longer with us.

Some left here young and full of life to serve our country and fight for the freedoms our flag represents and returned lifeless under the cover of that very same flag. They are who we are here for, they are not to be forgotten, the sacrifice they made cannot be forgotten. That is why these men and women, these soldiers, these veterans march every year. It is important we have this day of remembrance and take part in these services.

General George S. Patton once said, “It is foolish and wrong to mourn the men who died. Rather we should thank God that such men lived.”

I disagree with the General, which is easy to do given his current status. We mourn the death of a soldier because they were more than a soldier. They were a brother, a sister, a son, a daughter, a husband, a wife, a father, a mother, a friend.

That is who we mourn the loss of. Today is their day.

My buddy, Paul and I headed to Montana this weekend to fart around for a few days at the cabin. I say fart around because all the backbreaking, log hoisting labor that used to be a part of going to the cabin is complete.

Is the cabin completely done?

You’re never completely done with a wilderness cabin; it is a perpetual work in progress.

This particular weekend we spent a grueling hour or so hanging up curtains. Rustic red was the color I selected to add a splash of color to the log palate. My daughter and 63 other people already beat you to the “Broke Back Mountain” joke so laugh it up chuckles.

We managed to instill a little manliness in the process by turning sapling evergreens that we mercilessly ripped from their happy forest home into curtain rods, and I almost lost a thumb sawing tree limbs to make the rod holders. So, the cabin has curtains now. I like it because when I went up to the cabin by myself this winter, I felt like I was sitting in a fishbowl at night with Yetis, wild clowns, and who knows what else peering in the windows. My dog didn’t help matters by occasionally perking up and staring at the windows or door. It’s also nice in the morning not to have that pesky sun waking you from a rum instilled slumber.

Also, on the “to do” list for this trip to the cabin was constructing a lid for the gorilla box. The gorilla box is a wooden box about five feet long, three feet wide and three feet deep that I built to store tools and wild clowns in. To me it looks like a crate you would ship a gorilla in, so I named it the “gorilla box.” I’ve never ordered a gorilla but it would be handy to have one as the caretaker at the cabin when I’m not around.

As a conversation piece I plan to paint “GORILLA” on the side of the box with my name as the ship to address. When someone inquires about the whereabouts of the gorilla I will explain we had a disagreement shortly after he arrived about the type of friends he was inviting to the cabin and he now roams the mountains with a Yeti and a wild clown.

With the curtain hanging and gorilla box completed it was time to relax with a friendly game of hatchet throwing. I got two throwing hatchets a few years ago because lawn darts is too dangerous….just ask my sister. There’s something pleasing about throwing a hatchet and watching it turn end over end and then stick with a satisfying “thunk” in a tree.

It’s much less satisfying to watch the hatchet go end over end past the tree and continue end over end down the hillside. I tried to train the dog to fetch the errant hatchet throws but he seemed a little leery about the whole process. I bet the gorilla would have done it.

The hatchet throwing game made it about an hour and a half before both handles had been broken beyond duct tape repair. I contributed the hatchet handles breaking to divine intervention as it was getting dark and the evening beverage service was beginning to cloud judgment.

So, we retired to the campfire to belt out a few Irish songs and reminisce about the days when we had a gorilla to tidy up for us.

That’s all for the May edition of “This old cabin.” Bye now.