Rambling Josh

This Friday is amateur night at pubs and bars throughout the land. The celebration of St. Patrick’s Day gives everyone a license to be Irish for a day and hung over for another. A day when men can parade around in a skirt and play their bagpipes loud and proud. I can’t play the pipes but I enjoy the refreshing a breeze a skirt allows.

In our family March 17th is special for another reason, Grandpa Ardell’s birthday. “Big Grandpa” as my kids call him, will turn 75 this Friday, and he didn’t seem real impressed when I referred to 75 years as ¾ of a century. However long it’s been or however you refer to it I just feel fortunate to be sharing a portion of it.

Grandpa attended Clayton School in the Foothills District of Burke County. You may be surprised to hear that his 8th grade report card shows that he was a “B” student. You may not be surprised however to learn that his report card also had several check marks in the conduct section titled “Inclined to Mischief.”

I know this doesn’t surprise me. I’ve witnessed several of these “Inclined to Mischief” moments, most of which were aimed at making me laugh when I wasn’t supposed to. My brother and me were alter boys growing up, Mom’s early attempt to save our souls, and we knew better than to look out at Grandpa during the church service.

We knew better than to do a lot of things, but that doesn’t mean we didn’t. Grandpa was always ready for our inevitable glance in his direction and would leave us giggling for the remainder of church. You have to forgive Grandpa for not being real serious in church, he’s a convert. He always said that Grandma and he had a mixed marriage, he was Lutheran and she was Catholic.

Grandpa likes to make people laugh as much as he likes to laugh. Of course nobody laughs like Grandpa. I don’t know how many babies I’ve heard cry after being startled by one of his laughs and I personally have wet myself a time or two laughing along with him. But let’s not digress into my incontinence. He always has a joke to tell, it’s always funny, and it’s always one I’ve never heard. I often wonder where he gets his material. If laughing is good medicine Grandpa has put another 30 years onto all of our lives.

Growing up the farm was more entertaining than the circus. The food was better, the rides more dangerous, and the ring leader provided hands on experience in the art of ditch burning. It is no accident that Grandma is so knowledgeable in the area of first aid.

People need laughter in their lives; thankfully I have Grandpa Ardell in mine. Most of what determines who we are and how we act is genetic. Thankfully my genetics are “Inclined to Mischief.”

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It’s my Grandma Rose’s birthday today, March 1st, so if you see her out and about with the big guy wish her well on her day. The best way for Webster’s Dictionary to define the name “Grandma” would be to place a picture of Grandma Rose next to it. For those that question the definition they could also include directions to the farm and all of her grandchildren’s phone numbers.

She has quietly spoiled us all throughout the years with her kind heart and genuine interest in all that we do. She always makes us feel important, makes us feel loved, and makes us something to eat. Whenever you’re milling around the kitchen at the farm browsing for something to eat Grandma will simply ask, “What do you wish for?”

Do you know what? She means it. I don’t know how many ‘kitchen wishes’ I’ve been given in my lifetime at the farm, but they were all granted. The only way you could possibly go hungry at the farm is if Grandma’s not home and Grandpa’s been left in charge. You would just have to survive with Grandpa on what’s left of the fudge until Grandma got home.

Aside from curing hunger pains, Grandma has also proven her abilities in being able to heal the sick with just her presence. At least if the sick person was me when I was a child. My mom would call out to the farm to report that I was sick, just barely hanging on to life. Fever, stomach ache, head ache, bunions, you name it. Grandma would come to town to check on my condition.

Miraculously as soon as she walked through the door all my ailments would disappear. This miracle didn’t just happen once, no it happened as many times as I could get away with it. You know your loved when your grandchild can bring a fever on at will just to see you.

Feed the hungry, cure the sick; is there anything this red hatter can’t do?

The only time she has ever almost said something negative to me was when my wife was pregnant with Sierra and Grandma asked what names we had picked out. I told her that if it was girl we would name her Sierra and if the baby were a boy we would name him Xavier. Grandma just smiled and said, “Well I hope it’s a girl.” Maybe that’s where I get my tact from.

I still enjoy going to the farm whenever I’m home, and since I’m old enough to drive I don’t have to conjure up a fever to see my Grandma. We share a love of family history and we’ll spend hours looking through suit cases full of old pictures. I hold up pictures and ask questions, she recalls names, places, and events as if they could have happened yesterday.

Some day I imagine I’ll do the same with my grandchildren. When they hold up a picture of my Grandma Rose I’ll most likely develop a fever, a stomach ache, and a smile as I tell them about what a special women she is.

Happy Birthday Grandma. “What do you wish for?”

I believe I’ve uncovered yet another conspiracy.

Valentine’s Day was created by the chocolate industry in response to the popular New Year’s resolution of giving up chocolate. Due to fear of violent backlash from the giants of the chocolate industry this subject has been ignored for years.

The last person to investigate this matter was found unconscious with a mouthful of melted chocolate, but none on his hands. After regaining his senses, he claimed to have been offered 100 grand by three musketeers as hush money. He refused so their goon, O’Henry, snickered as he beat him mercilessly with a watchamacallit. Don’t be fooled by their sweet exterior, deep down most of them are nuts.

Speaking of nuts, I recently read a report that marriage leads to a longer life expectancy. About eight years longer than those who’ve never been married and about nine years longer than those who have been divorced. So, if your wife wasn’t pleased with your gift selection this Valentine’s Day you’ve got eight extra years to make up for it. Unless of course you really messed up, then you have nine less years.

I think basically what this study proved was that the old adages, “Misery loves company” and “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger” are both spot on. I’m kidding of course, hoo, that was funny wasn’t it honey. Honey? Hey, get back here with my nine years!

It all makes perfect sense to me. Do you know how many stupid, life shortening things we do to try and gain the attention of women? Impressing women is dangerous business. So, by marrying us they are basically helping to protect us from ourselves. Once we don’t have to impress anyone anymore, we can settle into a safer life of opening mayonnaise jars and killing spiders.

Disclaimer: I am not in any way saying you shouldn’t try and impress your wife. Impressing should not cease but shall take on other less likely to kill you forms.

Allow me to elaborate. Dangling from the side of a water tower with a can of spray paint could be replaced with mowing a heart into the front lawn. Whew…I gotta be careful I’ve got plans for the last nine years of my life.

Marriage is an investment in your life gentlemen. Obviously, the guy who tied weather balloons to a lawn chair to cruise the friendly skies a few years back didn’t have a loving, caring wife to tell him he was a moron and it was a stupid idea. Do you want to be that guy?

I mean it seems like a pretty good idea and maybe with proper… “What’s that dear?” Okay it was stupid.

What truly amazes me is that even with the stress and strain of trying to protect us from ourselves our wives still manage to have a longer life expectancy than us. Must be all those antioxidants in the chocolate.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

My brother, Jarvis’ birthday is coming up in a few weeks, so I thought my gift to him would be to tell a bunch of people what a pain in the butt he was growing up.

He was born on Friday the 13th which pretty much sums up the way things usually go for him. Since there are only 18 months between us, due to an apparent sale on fertility drugs at Berg’s Red Owl, we always got a lot of matching gifts growing up. The only difference in the toys we would get for Christmas was that Jarvis’ were usually broken. Mom and Dad would order us the exact same toy, possibly in hopes of eliminating one more thing for us to fight about, and as I played happily with mine, Jarvis would be whining about his not working.

Which upset me horribly prompting me to give him my toy…yeah right. The only thing it prompted me to do was parade around in front of him displaying how much joy and happiness one could get from playing with the “working” model. Do I feel bad for that now? No, not at all, I was well within my rights as an older brother.

There was one gift we both got that his worked better than mine, a scratch and sniff coloring book. He was scratching and sniffing away, yelling out, “strawberries,” “apples,” “bananas,” and each time I would look up puzzled. I scratched and sniffed like a cage full of monkeys…nothing. I figured my book was broken.

Then I thought he was some sort of prophet for awhile. We would walk in the house, and Jarvis would say, “We’re having lasagna.” Sure enough in the oven would be pan of lasagna. I was baffled and amazed how he knew that the glass of Mountain Dew I offered him wasn’t exactly Mountain Dew and refused to drink it.

What powers does this boy possess? Hmmm…the power of smell perhaps? Yeah, it took me awhile to uncover the mystery and realize I had absolutely no sense of smell. The broken scratch and sniff coloring book, the lasagna prophecy, the umm “Mountain Dew”, of course it all adds up now.

When you’ve never had something how are you supposed to know that it’s missing? I had a full head of hair at one time, so I know that’s missing. So did Jarvis, by the way, and since we’re now mature adults, I won’t make any jokes or smart comments about his hair. He’s had a good year in therapy and I would hate to see it go to waste.

Jarvis lives about 50 miles from me, so we get to see each other from time to time. We don’t fight and argue anymore, we leave that up to our kids now. Jarvis has learned to control his temper, a little; okay, not much. I must admit I do still enjoy seeing him in the throws of a good fit, nobody can lose it like Jarvis.

I guess as brothers so close in age, we weren’t really expected to get along growing up. I’m glad that changed.

My daughter did it again, she made me cry. No she hasn’t developed a liking for rap music, hasn’t become a member of PETA, and no she didn’t announce her plans to pursue a career as a mime.

I was in the kitchen making supper, minding my own business, when I heard her say, “Dad I’m stuck on this problem.” I knew she was working on her homework, but I didn’t know what subject. As I made my way over to help her there was only one thought rolling through my head, “Please don’t let it be math, please don’t let it be math….”

It was math, not only math, but word problems. Don’t get me wrong, I love words, I use words all the time, I’m using them right now. When you mix my beloved words with those sinister numbers the words suddenly turn on me. Like politicians and the truth they just don’t go together.

I tried to be strong in front of my daughter, hoping she wouldn’t notice the veins bulging from my forehead as I came face to face with my old nemesis. I’m not sure where this dislike stems from. Maybe I was attacked by an accountant when I was a child, probably a mime accountant with a dog named ‘Zero’. A mime accountant, listening to rap music, and condemning my soul for eating a cheeseburger, ooh, gives me the willies just thinking about it.

Whatever the cause, it’s always been there. Lurking around every corner, 20 percent off, 6.9 percent financing, a baker’s dozen, the twelve days of Christmas, penny for your thoughts, it takes two to tango, for the love of God make it stop.

For the truly sadistic there is a ‘game’ called roadside math. My cousin, who apparently is in cahoots with the numbers to kill me, sent me an email explaining the rules. I would explain it to you but half way through the rules I felt my eye’s begin to twitch, suffered a seizure, blacked out, and wet myself.

If I would have been in Noah’s position there would have been trouble at the first mention of all those ‘cubic’s.’ Noah’s Ark would have been Noah’s Drift Wood and a lot more than just the unicorns would have been left behind.

In the past when I have tried to help Sierra with her math homework it has never turned out very good. We start out civil, but it ends with me accusing her of hating me for putting me through such agony. This time was different. I handled it with calm and grace, not even a hint of madness.

I dialed the phone and politely handed it to my daughter. A few minutes later she smiled, hung up, and said that she understood it now, and told Jackson that Mom says “Hi.”

Dawn loves math, other than that she’s a very normal person. She got me through college algebra when we were dating. I knew it was true love when she refrained from choking me and calling me a slack jawed idiot during our study sessions.

Yes, love is blind and love hurts sometimes, but not as much as math.

My daughter did it again, she made me cry. No, she hasn’t developed a liking for rap music, hasn’t become a member of PETA, and no, she didn’t announce her plans to pursue a career as a mime.

I was in the kitchen making supper, minding my own business, when I heard her say, “Dad, I’m stuck on this problem.” I knew she was working on her homework, but I didn’t know what subject. As I made my way over to help her there was only one thought rolling through my head, “Please don’t let it be math, please don’t let it be math….”

It was math, not only math, but word problems. Don’t get me wrong, I love words, I use words all the time, I’m using them right now. When you mix my beloved words with those sinister numbers the words suddenly turn on me. Like politicians and the truth, they get just don’t go together.

I tried to be strong in front of my daughter, hoping she wouldn’t notice the veins bulging from my forehead as I came face to face with my old nemesis. I’m not sure where this dislike stems from? Maybe I was attacked by an accountant when I was a child, probably a mime accountant with a dog named Zero. A mime accountant, listening to rap music, and condemning my soul for eating a bacon cheeseburger. Ooh, gives me the willies just thinking about it.

Whatever the cause, it’s always been there. Lurking around every corner, 20% off, 6.9% financing, a baker’s dozen, the twelve days of Christmas, penny for your thoughts, it takes two to tango, for the love of God make it stop.

For the truly sadistic there is a “game” called roadside math. My cousin, who apparently is in cahoots with the numbers to kill me, sent me an e-mail explaining the rules. I would explain it to you but halfway through the rules I felt my eyes begin to twitch, suffered a seizure, blacked out, and wet myself.

If I would have been in Noah’s position, there would have been trouble at the first mention of all those cubics. Noah’s Ark would have been Noah’s Driftwood and a lot more than just the unicorns would have been left behind.

In the past when I have tried to help Sierra with her math homework it has never turned out very good. We start out civil, but it ends with me accusing her of hating me for putting me through such agony. This time was different. I handled it with calm and grace, not even a hint of madness. I dialed the phone and politely handed it to my daughter. A few minutes later she smiled, hung up, and said she understood it now, and told Jackson that Mom says, “Hi.”

Dawn loves math, other than that she’s a very normal person. She got me through college algebra when we were dating. I knew it was true love when she refrained from choking me and calling me a slack jawed idiot during our study sessions.

Yes, love is blind and love hurts sometimes, but not as much as math.

2005 is gone. It’s now categorized, labeled, and filed away into the ‘Years Gone By’ vault. There it is already accumulating a fine dusting of memories which, in time, will build into a thick layer of nostalgia. Exactly how long it takes for a particular year to ripen into full blown vintage nostalgia I’m not sure.

I guess it may be different for everyone, depending on what went on in your world that particular year. So now that you’ve flipped the pages on another year, just what do you have to show for it? Besides, rug burns, indigestion, and blood shot eyes from the New Years Eve party. Not to mention a napkin with the phone number of that little honey that kissed you at midnight, “Phil, thanks for a wonderful time. Love Frankie”

Did you accomplish everything you set out to do this past year? Eat better? Eat less? Exercise more? Make lefsa? Eat lefsa? Quit smoking? Lose weight? Relax more? Stop being scared of clowns? Watch less TV? Stop making obscene phone calls? Lower your cholesterol? Raise your wife’s blood pressure? Win the Nobel peace prize? Compete in a triathlon? Cure baldness? Find a women that appreciates you for more than your chiseled good looks?

Yes? No? Maybe? Don’t want to talk about it without your lawyer present? Well I tell you what, you think it over and get back to me. I like to hear stories of people overcoming great odds and adversity to successfully complete their yearly ‘to do’ list.

Here’s a valuable tip for your yearly ‘to do’ list. Never share it with anyone that will hold you to it or remind you of it on a regular basis. This allows you to quietly dispose of it at the end of each year without ridicule or a need for lame excuses.

I came upon this little pearl of wisdom the hard way when I blabbed the ‘run a marathon’ portion of one of my ‘to do’ lists to everyone I knew. I cursed myself and that stupid ‘to do’ list the entire 26.2 miles.

Speaking of pearls of wisdom. I spent the past week in Lignite enjoying Christmas with family and friends. A few of those nights I became disorientated and somehow found myself in the 109 Club. I was under the impression that it was a club for people that planned to live to be 109 years old. If this is the case this clubs methods are very enjoyable compared to other methods I’ve read about in health journals.

After my resume was reviewed a brief interview was conducted and I was granted a probationary club membership pending further investigation and back ground checks. The club president told me that with my pedigree I should have no problem becoming a full blown card caring member.

During the club meeting Uncle Buck informed me of these simple rules to live by: If you’re going to work, you work. If you’re going to church, you pray. If you’re going to the club, you drink. And my personal favorite, “Sometimes all you need is a little change in latitude.”

An occasional change in latitude may be all you need at the top of your ‘to do’ list to make 2006 not only memorable but reeking of nostalgia.

From my club to yours, Happy New Year.

The year 2005 is gone. It’s now categorized, labeled, and filed away into the “Years Gone By” vault. There it is already accumulating a fine dusting of memories which, in time, will build into a thick layer of nostalgia. Exactly how long it takes for a particular year to ripen into full blown vintage nostalgia I’m not sure.

I guess it may be different for everyone, depending on what went on in your world that particular year. So now that you’ve flipped the pages on another year, just what do you have to show for it? Besides rug burns, indigestion, and blood shot eyes from the New Year’s Eve party. Not to mention a napkin with the phone number of that little honey who kissed you at midnight, “Phil, thanks for a wonderful time. Love Frankie.”

Did you accomplish everything you set out to do this past year? Eat better? Eat less? Exercise more? Make lefse? Eat lefse? Quit smoking? Lose weight? Relax more? Stop being scared of clowns? Watch less TV? Stop making obscene phone calls? Lower your cholesterol? Raise your wife’s blood pressure? Win the Nobel peace prize? Compete in a triathlon? Cure baldness? Find a women who appreciates you for more than your chiseled good looks?

Yes? No? Maybe? Don’t want to talk about it without your lawyer present? Well, I tell you what, you think it over and get back to me. I like to hear stories of people overcoming great odds and adversity to successfully complete their yearly “to do” list.

Here’s a valuable tip for your yearly “to do” list. Never share it with anyone who will hold you to it or remind you of it on a regular basis. This allows you to quietly dispose of it at the end of each year without ridicule or a need for lame excuses. I came upon this little pearl of wisdom the hard way when I blabbed the “run a marathon” portion of one of my “to do” lists to everyone I knew. I cursed myself and that stupid “to do” list the entire 26.2 miles.

Speaking of pearls of wisdom. I spent the past week in Lignite enjoying Christmas with family and friends. A few of those nights I became disorientated and somehow found myself in The 109 Club. I was under the impression it was a club for people who planned to live to be 109 years old. If this is the case, this club’s methods are very enjoyable compared to other methods I’ve read about in health journals.

After my resume was reviewed, a brief interview was conducted, and I was granted a probationary club membership pending further investigation and background checks. The club president told me with my pedigree I should have no problem becoming a full-blown card caring member.

During the club meeting Uncle Buck informed me of these simple rules to live by: If you’re going to work, you work. If you’re going to church, you pray. If you’re going to the club, you drink. And my personal favorite, “Sometimes all you need is a little change in latitude.”

An occasional change in latitude may be all you need at the top of your “to do” list to make 2006 not only memorable but reeking of nostalgia.

From my club to yours, Happy New Year.

Well, it happened. I was flipping through radio stations the other day, trying to avoid car and furniture super blow out sale advertisements, and happened upon a station playing a lot of pretty good music.

Music that, much to the dismay of my kids, I knew all the words to. Music that made me feel like I had a mullet again. Music that made me think about the 12,000-pound 1970 Pontiac Bonneville I used to drive that seated 15 comfortably. Music that lifted my spirits and brightened my day.

Then it happened. From out of nowhere the DJ’s voice cut through the last few notes of the song and uttered the words that hit me like a sack of cassette tapes. “You’re listening to all ‘oldies’ all the time, none of that ‘new modern,’ ‘not old’ music that ‘young’ people listen to, just ‘old’ stuff all the time.”

My eye’s got misty, my lip quivered as I yelled at the DJ, “Those are not oldies, those are songs that came out when I was a kid. It’s only been 20 years…” My voice trailed off “20 years?” Can’t be. Let’s see, it’s 2005 minus 1985, carry the two… 20 years! This wasn’t supposed to happen.

My kids patted me on the back, told me it was okay, all of their friends’ parents are old too. I dried my eyes, and for the sake of my children, decided against jerking the wheel into oncoming traffic.

I’m thinking of introducing legislation that enforces the phrase “Your Generations Music” rather than “Oldies.” With the swiftness of our political system, “My Generations Music” will be considered “Classical” by the time it’s approved. I like the word classical. I won’t mind so much if my kids ship me off to the “classical” home where I can listen to “My Generations Music” real loud. Not because I want to, because I have to.

I was doing some Christmas shopping the other day and overheard some teenage girls having a scholarly discussion on how much they loved 80’s music. You know why they love it so much? Because they don’t have to listen to it, they have options. They have a two-decade buffer at their disposal. Enough about my ill-feelings towards being closer to 40 than 20.

I have been looking forward to this week for a long time because I’ll be home for Christmas, huh, sounds familiar. I haven’t been to Lignite since September, which is probably the longest I’ve ever been away from the friendly confines of the northland. It will be nice to settle in for a week or so and visit with friends and family.

Christmas at the farm of course is of highest priority for the venture north. The farm, being Grandpa Ardell and Grandma Rose’s house, where Christmas has been for as long as I can remember. Much of my childhood was spent at the farm so it holds more memories for me than just about any place. Good memories of good people laughing and enjoying one another’s company.

“Classical” memories.

Have a Merry Christmas. Chat with you next year.

First off, I would like to wish the greatest photographer in upstate North Dakota a very happy birthday. My lovely mother climbed up another rung on the rickety ladder of life this past Monday. Happy Birthday Mom.

As I’m writing this, my daughter is downstairs entertaining three of her friends. About a week ago she approached me about a sleepover. Her timing proved to be impeccable because I had recently taken a large dose of Nyquil to ward off the effects of a lingering cold.

With the fog of medication numbing my senses and sensibility, I agreed to allow her to invite four friends for a sleepover. Seeing how the Good Lord looks over idiots, one of her friends couldn’t make it. That left three.

In the brief time they have been here I have noticed they all appear to be aspiring auctioneers. They talk, a lot, and at the same time. They also seem to possess extraordinary lung capacity, allowing them to dispose of those silly little pauses in conversation that occur when you are forced to breathe.

Saving my son some mental, and more than likely physical abuse, I encouraged him to sleep over at a friend’s house. I figured that females have administered about as much damage as they can to my mental well-being, but he’s just a boy. He will have plenty of other opportunities to experience that special anguish females bless us with.

Speaking of blessings. We had a prayerful trip back from Vermillion the Sunday after Thanksgiving. It was 50 degrees and raining when we left at about 11:30, and by 12:30, it was 30 degrees, icy and snowing with a stout prairie wind. Traffic was slowed to about 50 m.p.h. and dropping on the interstate.

In a 150 mile stretch I counted about 20 cars in the ditch, six of which were rollovers. I noticed the rollovers were all SUV type vehicles, which is what I was driving. More than likely SUV vehicles driven a little too fast due to the four-wheel drive fueled confidence of their drivers.

I too probably would have been driving a little too fast if it weren’t for my two children in the back seat. Every time I saw a vehicle in the ditch or rolled over, I would glance in the rearview mirror at my passengers and slow down a little more.

That made me wonder how many times being a father has kept me from doing something stupid or dangerous or at least made me concentrate a little more while doing it. My kids will never know how many times they have saved me from myself. I have come to rely on their faces popping into my head as an early warning that what I’m about to do might not be such a good idea.

Thanks to the combination of heights, chainsaws, and questionable construction, I thought of them a lot while building our log cabin. Their images also seem to make regular appearances on my bike rides. It’s a wonderful little alarm system.

I think I’ll do a study to see if fathers suffer fewer injuries due to “stupid” or “not well planned” behaviors than those without children. The study will have to wait for now though; I’ve got a slumber party to chaperone.

Where’s the Nyquil?