“Rock on freaky bro!”

It’ll be my third day back home today, and I have had a new post forming in my head since the day that I left the ranch–last Saturday, August 11th. I want to talk about the origin of “Rock on freaky bro!” and its significance to John and I.

There’s a little kid, John told me, of the age of five or six whose adopted mantra is the title of this post. I don’t know anything else about him, other than another story John told me about the time he politely asked an old man on the ranch if he could start calling him “Jim Boy.” However, from what I knew of this kid and his phrase, I began to love.

(For all of you LDB staff members reading this, I picture him to look a lot like little Louis. For all of you who don’t know Louis, follow this link to enhance your understanding of this post: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qUXQhUtMj1A)

From what I have heard, it would seem to me that a kid this happy, who uses the phrase “Rock on freaky bro!” must see life as one big party, and from working at a camp for the first part of this summer, a lot of wisdom can be gleaned from children.

Now, Montana is beautiful. I loved the remoteness of the area where we had stayed. You could stand on any hilltop and not see anything for 20 miles in every direction. It’s so remote, you could go running naked in the mornings while the sun is coming up while carrying a knife in case of mountain lions, if you wanted to.

During the day, however, I would often fall out of love. Imagine sittiing in a window-less, 4ft x 4ft x 5ft square space in 95 degree weather for 10 hours that bounces up and down so violently that you’re coming out of your seat every two seconds. On top of that, the sweat from the heat of the day, and the grease from lubricating the tractor in the morning, have paired up with the dust floating in the air, so heavy that one feels as if they have been transported back to the Dust Bowl of the 30s. You will literally see dirt if you blow your nose. This is the Montana that I do not like.

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It is when imagining yourself in the Dust Bowl days is no longer fun, after you have exhausted all the possibilities for post-graduation plans, or the music runs out on your iPod, that you realize the Montana that you do not love is back, and you have to spend another 4 hours with it. It is in those instances where I would force myself to smile for 5 seconds, to release some Endorphins, and I would raise my hand, form the universal rock-on symbol, and shout, “Rock on freaky bro!” with all I had. John and I would communicate it to one another from the window’s of our respective hot boxes, and we would scream it on the ride home at the end of the work day as the Montana that we loved had come back.

When life gets hard, “Rock on freaky bro!”


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