Rambling Josh

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?

The dishes are done, the floors are washed, the laundry is done and put away, the carpets are vacuumed, the toilets are scrubbed, the sinks have been descummed, the kids have showered, and I shaved.

Did I mention my wife is coming home for the weekend? Have you ever been watching a major league baseball game when the manager calls down to the bullpen to get a new pitcher ready to come into the game? The pitcher on the mound is struggling a little, and you see the manager pick up the phone in the dugout and tell the yahoos in the bullpen to get warmed up and ready to come in and pitch. As soon as the manager hangs up the phone in the dugout, you’ll see a flurry of activity in the bullpen, or as close to a flurry as you can get from overpaid and overrated athletes.

Well, the same sort of scenario happens when my wife, the manager, calls from her dugout, Vermillion, and tells me, the yahoo, that she’s coming home for the weekend. Goodbyes, final salutations, and such are cordially exchanged, the phone is hung up, and the flurry begins. A bonafide caffeine induced, wild eyed, flurry. The dust flutters off of various cleaning products as they are wrestled from their hiding place behind the stack of “recycle, when I get around to it” stuff. In the time it takes to chug a cup of coffee, ooohh that burns, the scent of bleach fills the air.

Since I have been deprived of the sense of smell since birth, I deduce the scent of bleach is in the air by the burning sensation in my eyes, nose and throat. Fortunately for me, when I passed out from the fumes my head hit the refrigerator hard enough to open the door. The crisp, cool draft wafting from the fridge was quite refreshing. As I lay basking in the soft glow of the fridge light, snacking on a carrot I was able to retrieve from the crisper, I thought to myself, “Aren’t carrots supposed to break when you bend them?” I’ll clean the fridge while I’m here.

I made my way to the bathroom, nasty toilet scrubber in one hand and a machete in the other. Judging by what I found in there we have a family of Yeti frequenting our bathroom while we’re out. I was able to knit some nice sweaters and a couple tea cozies for Christmas gifts out of the hair that was collected.

We’re all set for the inspection, I mean arrival. We look forward to the weekends Dawn gets to come home, and I don’t mind inhaling a little bleach so she can relax and enjoy her time with her family without worrying about cleaning when she’s home.

So, for a few days I can greet people into our place and say, “You’ll have to excuse the mess,” and not really mean it.

Enjoy the tea cozies.

Halloween is here and gone, nothing left but candy wrappers, belly aches, and costume rash. Hope yours was a good one.

Did your windows get waxed or were you the waxer? Did your garbage cans and picnic table turn into a roadblock or were you the blocker? Did you get any rotten produce, or eggs hurled your way or were you the hurler? Either way it’s all part of the experience and I would be sadly disappointed if none of the above happened in Halloween friendly Burke County. Anyone who doesn’t take advantage of a day that is specifically designated for petty vandalism is going to have problems later in life.

Problems with what I don’t really know, but I’m sure there would have to be some ill effects. Nobody I ever associated with abstained from enjoying the full extent of the trick in trick or treat. So, I can’t rightly say what happens to the poor souls that merrily go about getting sugary treats in their special little outfits.

Parents, here’s a little tip. When junior heads out the door for Halloween dressed like Rambo, complete with face paint, the dangers of sugar ruining his teeth should be the least of your worries. The only candy he’s going to get is when he snags a tootsie roll from Spongebob just before he pushes him into the hedges.

Another thing you’ll notice is his bag will be full when he leaves the house and empty when he gets back, or when you go pick him up at the police station. Which if that’s the case he obviously didn’t have enough training and should dig his Buzz Light Year costume out again until he’s ready for the rigors of rambling.

In all my years in the Halloween business I never once saw a cutesy little costume kid commit trickery. For one thing it would be impossible to be sneaky or run away in a half-frozen plastic costume with ill-fitting eye holes. It would be interesting, and somewhat disturbing, to come out and find Dora The Explorer and Bob The Builder dragging your picnic table out into the road.

Maybe it’s because you take on the mindset of the costume you are wearing. I know when I dress like a woman I, well, that’s not a good example. You ever tried running in stiletto heels and a heavily padded brassier? Heels aren’t designed for speed, so you better have a quick sashay.

You ever sashay? Okay everyone up, let’s sashay a little, come on, don’t be shy. All right, all right, knock it off, someone’s going to get hurt.

As for my family, Sierra dressed as “The Scream,” Jackson was a Ninja and me, well I chose a timeless classic, “Mullet Man.” My wife is still successfully masquerading around as a college student and wondering how she ever got mixed up with Mullet Man. I think it was the sashay that reeled her in, no woman can resist a manly sashay.

So, if you didn’t get chased, yelled at, or threatened this year, there’s always next year. Until then may the egg break “after” you throw it and the spirit of Halloween be with you always.

Something is going on around here. This weekend I awoke to the clatter of my kids bringing me breakfast in bed, both Saturday and Sunday morning. I can barely drag them out of bed for school but somehow they muster the strength on the weekends to get up early and feed their father.

Saturday morning they prepared my favorite, Frosted Mini-Wheats. Nothing kick starts the intestines like a bowlful of sugar-coated fiber. Top that off with some coffee and you’re as regular as Old Faithful, minus the tourists, Park Rangers, and gift shop. Sunday morning they brought me a plate full of the monkey bread I had made for them the night before and a glass of chocolate milk.

Jackson informed me the chocolate milk was homemade by his sister. If you don’t know what monkey bread is, it’s a bunch of little pieces of dough thrown in a bunt pan, topped with caramel, and baked for approximately 25 minutes at 375 degrees.

You would know why they call it monkey bread if you saw me in the kitchen tearing little pieces off and poking them in my mouth as quickly as the hot caramel will allow. You use the bunt pan so you can eat a section and slide it together and nobody will know. Well, enough cooking tips from Billy Crocker. We had French toast and chicken noodle soup for supper so don’t contact me for any culinary advice.

The French toast was made from bread I made in the bread machine. It was supposed to be “light” wheat bread, but light is not the word that would come to mind when you hefted it up for a bite. The bread reminded me of a squirrel that made an attempt on my life last year. I came out of our apartment and as I was walking under a branch, I noticed a squirrel poised on it holding what appeared to be a rock.

I thought, “Oh no, it’s starting.” They’ll start by using primitive weaponry like rocks but soon enough they’ll be pillaging the neighborhood on dogback with hubcap shields, tin can helmets, and yard dart spears. Before the terror completely gripped me, I noticed the rock was actually the heal from the loaf of bread I had thrown out the day before. Honest mistake, the bread’s DNA was closer to granite than Sweatheart.

As I watched the squirrel drag it to his home, I hoped his buddies new about the Heimlich maneuver or there would be one less squirrel to carry out their plan to overthrow the neighborhood.

Maybe my children are softening me up for an overthrow. Keep feeding the old man so in a few years they’ll have to come and tear down a wall to get him out of bed. If they switch my Frosted Mini-Wheats to bacon wrapped sausages dipped in butter I’ll start to worry and accuse them of being in cahoots with the squirrels.

Until then I’ll just be thankful for being blessed with thoughtful, loving children.