my careless contagion

My aunt Jane is my father's kid sister. I believe she's a half-sister (different mother). He also has a brother and another kid brother (half brother who is younger than me), all younger than he. That's my dad's side of the family. Pretty wild. But Aunt Jane was a force for good in my life.  She lived with my family I think after she was done with college and before she got married and had kids and all that. She paid attention to me and we had similar interests, so naturally, we had a lot of fun. Except for that time I took her perfume sprayer apart (I was always taking things apart). Aunt Jane is funny, quirky, has curly red hair, and loved all things artistic. The photo dump above shows us coloring something together. The last photo is reprising my role as Tiny Tim. By the way, our house was always trashed like this. I mean, stuff was everywhere. My parents' home is still a disaster. I suggested many times they have a garage sale to get rid of stuff (or many ...

Fishing used to mean a lot to me. I haven't been fishing in years. I'm pretty sure I can no longer tie a knot or pick the right lure or even cast correctly. But I have lots of memories of fishing. My ex-father-in-law was an avid fly fisherman, primarily in the Upper Peninsula. He even wrote a book about his experiences. He tried to teach me how to cast a flyrod. It is a delicate, dancing thing for which I had no patience. I was used to a different kind of fishing, the kind where you don't really catch stuff. No, I'm kidding. I caught my fair share of fish. And, once, I got to meet a guy my brother and I nicknamed "Rock Bass."  The above picture was taken at one of the many lakes in the Black Hills. I mentioned before my first fish was taken at picturesque Sylvan Lake. I'm not sure which lake is in this picture, but you can see the coffee can where I kept my worms. And that green tackle box? I still have it. It has tools in it now, one of ...

I wrote this to pump myself up for winter.  True, it’s still technically autumn. But we all know it’s been winter in the Black Hills since, um, September. We can complain about the weather, or we can do something about it! Hmm. OK, maybe we can’t do anything about it. A wise man once said, “The best thing to do when it snows is to let it snow.” So let it snow. And let’s enjoy our winter wonderland — the Black Hills! Most of the tourists have gone back to their jobs and schoolwork, and the snowbirds have flocked to their warm winter playgrounds. Our streets are often barren and sidewalks often icy. Most shops are closed — but not all. Some may simply have reduced hours. And you can browse at your own pace. In fact, you can do nearly everything at your own pace. I took a jaunt down Spearfish Canyon recently, and it was a calm and relaxing drive. It was nearly perfect, as there was next to no traffic. If you don’t like being rushed through places, now is the time to get out and ...

Autumn. It is a season of contradictions. On one hand, it is the harvest season; it is fullness and bountiful goodness, a reward for hard labor. On the other hand, once the world has reached full ripeness, there is nothing left but rot. The leaves fall, the pumpkins cave in upon themselves, and the apple orchard smells like a brewery. But, much like life itself, while it lasts, it is pure magic. Autumn is my favorite season. I was born on the cusp of fall in September. September means a return to school. It's a month of great change. Summer is still beating down its heat when the month begins. The memories made over the summer still linger, but they're fading like our suntans as we sit at our desks in school and we look longingly at the playground equipment we assault just twice a day instead of the whole outdoors all day long we had just weeks ago.  The month ends and we fill bleachers to watch football games, blankets on our laps as the sun sets and the big lights co...

Recently, I realized I’ve been back in the Black Hills for five years now. Though I was born in the Black Hills, this second time living here has been quite a different experience. When my family moved away from the Hills, I was 10 years old, a far cry from the 36-year-old man who moved here five years ago. Coming back to the Hills was about starting over. I sought a different life as well as a reboot for my marriage. Though I succeeded in living a different kind of life — a life new and challenging — my marriage continued to falter and eventually ended. It’s hard to put into words what happens when a relationship that’s persisted for more than 20 years ends. It’s safe to say I plunged headlong into a vortex of depression, a depression unlike any I’ve ever experienced.  The last five years have not been defined by sadness, though. About four and a half years ago, one of the most amazing things — something I thought would never happen — strode into my life. I became a father....

There must be something in the water in the Black Hills. I’ve seen the worst drivers of my life since moving here about five years ago. I wish I could say I was any better, but I’m not. While I am originally from the Black Hills, I hadn’t had a whole lot of experience driving here until I moved back. Let me tell you, it was cause for concern.  I’ve seen all sorts of bad driving, as I’ve been driving for roughly 26 years (not continuously, thankfully), but Black Hills drivers take the cake. The roads in the Hills are curvy. I get it. Staying in your lane can be a chore. Coming across the centerline at me, though, is not fun for me. Quit it. On the other side of the spectrum are the too-careful drivers who believe breaking the 45-mph barrier will surely propel them into oblivion. Then there are the 35-mph drivers. They are in a category all their own. Okay, I know there are a lot of reasons people drive slowly. Maybe they’re elderly and their reflexes aren’t what they used to...

Me, when I was a boy in the 80s. That hair. It's either a helmet or a Q-tip. Hi, my name is Joshua. I don't think we've officially met. I write this blog.  I want to back up a little bit. All the way back. I was born in Hot Springs, S.D., in September of 1977, the third and final boy to Baby Boomer parents. My dad was an entrepreneurially-minded Vietnam veteran and my mother was a homemaker who also had a more-than-full-time job. As if minding three boys wasn't enough. My dad is a classic first-born, my mom a second-(and last-) born.  I'm the dinky one. Growing up in the 80s in a small town in South Dakota was pretty carefree. I've talked about my childhood years quite a bit here, so we know those years weren't perfect. There were a lot of good things to be thankful for, though.  I don't know much about the rest of the state, but I do know quite a bit about the Black Hills. It's been called "the land of infinite variety." It...