my careless contagion

An open letter to the place I lived (slightly edited from the original).  After more than seven years of living and working in Southern Black Hills, it's time for me to leave. If you don't know who I am, you are certainly forgiven. Judging by the number of people who called me Jason or Justin or Jimmy or "that guy" during my tenure here, not many even knew I existed. I worked on many projects over the years and various publications. Those numerous publications are what I've been helping produce for the last seven-plus years. The publishing industry is always changing. And so are we, our needs and our lives.  I saw some of the best and worst things in my life happen here in the Black Hills, from the birth of my son to my divorce which I initiated back in 2012 or so and finalized in 2018. I came here in part because I wanted to give my marriage another try. There was a lot of trying and failing, in general, but that's just life. What made my stay here unique wer...

I don't know where to start with Gitchie Girl. It's a true story that took place in the 1970s. I found myself sobbing at the end of the book, so I don't know if that is a good recommendation or not. It is a truly incredible book. Why is it nonfiction seems so much more unbelievable than fiction?  The book gets its name from a nickname applied to the main character of the story, a girl who underwent unbelievable trauma, only to be retraumatized by society. (Also, from Gitchie Manitou, the park where the atrocities occurred.) Why is that the way it goes? You go through something horrible — and bravely — and somehow survive and society decides they don't want anything to do with you. That's an ugly truth about how the world works. I found myself nodding along. That is my life. I even whined and asked God, "Where is my happy ending?" God's reply: "Your story isn't over yet."  Young Sandra Cheskey during the trial. But this story is not my lif...

Yep, that's a dead deer. Yep, that's me sometime in the early to mid-90s. This is a terrible photograph. It was night, so the flash created some monstrous shadows. I didn't try to fix this photo. My mom most likely took this photo, as my head is nearly cut off. If you think this photo is bad, the rest of this event are worse. I don't know if my mom would have done any better with the camera in my hand. I don't have a record of it being used. And, well, it's a bit of a crime scene. But at least I got to do my hunter face! Grr! Tough guy. Why am I posting a photo of me with a dead deer? Well, he's a beaut, for one thing. He's not the biggest deer I've gotten over the years, but he sure is pretty. That's a corn-fed Nebraska deer. It looks like a whitetail. Those were the days. All you had to do was sit on the corner of a cornfield at daybreak or at day's end and these guys are either leaving or descending to feed. Deer are crepuscular, whic...

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 ...

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...