A Tribute to a Long Standing Tradition (2006.08.12)

Today I write not for you the reader, but for me the writer. I shall not write about an amazing person I met here in Bolivia or even about an experience I’ve had once arriving here at my site. I have no curious tale about a four-hour dusty bus ride or even a story of some strange food I ate, leading to even stranger bowel movements. Today, I write to remember, and perhaps experience, a little bit of something very dear to me that I’m missing back home. I have done my best to not try and think about what I’m missing at home, but some days it’s damn near impossible. Those days when my best friend gets married or another best friend turns 21…those are the days it’s tough to be here, especially when there’s nothing going on short of roosters crowing out in the “yard” and trucks rumbling through town, dragging a curtain of dust along with them. This day has been one of those days.

Currently as I write, the majority of my dad’s side of the family has packed coolers, charcoal, tents, oversized fans, undersized dirtbikes, an unhealthy amount of those old nylon woven chairs and a whole slew of other things into trucks, vans and the occasional little Japanese car and headed off to a camping trip which has been so accurately named the Ranzaganza. I would imagine most of you readers have at the very least heard of Ranzaganza, the way some people have heard about Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster…a legend, a myth, no more. You’ve heard me spin tales of campfire stories and water balloon fights mixed with some oynion and chicken-what-de-hell. However, some of you (the lucky ones) have actually experienced the joy of which I speak.

My family is one of what some might call interesting traditions. Those who have stood around a pile of blazing pine trees in January or experienced the disgusting amount of fireworks we purchase to celebrate our nation’s birthday have see this first hand…but I would imagine what makes these traditions interesting are the interesting members of my family. The Ranzaganza is no exception, and perhaps the best example of this…for everyone brings his or her own little bit to the Ranzaganza, and it’s never failed to be a mishmash of good food, hilarious encounters and just some damn fine folks. It’s well accepted amongst the family that if one of us brings a significant other to the Ranzaganza, then we are obviously serious about the relationship. Otherwise we would not risk putting a civilian through what might be quite a traumatizing experience. Once they make it through a Ranzaganza, they’re usually around for good or gone pretty quickly. It’s a good way to test the water, although it’s more a baptism by fire than anything. Allow me to outline some of the important characters. (Ranzes, please don’t be offended if I don’t highlight you here, it would take way too long to talk about all of you). First there’s Uncle Mitch…the eldest of the Ranz children and perhaps the wittiest of all of us, which is quite an accomplishment. Uncle Mitch lives in Columbus, so we don’t get to see him too often, so the Ranzaganza is always a treat. Uncle Mitch makes some mean instant pancakes in the mornings and is also always good for a free t-shirt or two from his job as a wine salesman. About 5 years ago he bought a big ‘ol Winnebago and changed the whole look of the Ranzaganza, and also gave us a place to cool off in the AC for a bit when it’s hot. There’s Uncle Jamie, always good for an atomic wedgie (look out Seth) and some excellent cooking. One year he brought his deep fryer and fried us up some turkey, and he can always be counted on for some pork sausage cooked over the fire with his mortar trowel. Damn that’s good stuff. Nothing in the world like Ranzaganza breakfast, I say. Grandpa and Grandma are of course always in attendance, although they usually stay at the lodge to stay comfortable and cool. But you can always count on them rolling up for breakfast in the morning and hanging around most of the day. There’s cousin Seth, the youngest of the 3rd generation Ranzes until Jamie and Jeanie’s twins came along about 8 years back. Seth has always marched to the beat of a different drum and is always coming up with something crazy. One year he built a bed out of ropes in a tree and slept in it, he’s always tinkering around with his old school mopeds that he got a hold of…you never can be quite sure what Seth will get into next. I could go on, but I’ll leave it at that.

This year marks the 18th year of the Ranzaganza, which generally changes locations each year. We have certainly recycled some places over the years…come to think of it I think the only place we’ve been more than once is Brown County (near Nashville, Indiana) and Hueston Woods (near Oxford, Ohio). Brown County was the place of the very first Ranzaganza and it’s kind of our safe bet if we can’t come up with another place to do. My grandparents used to take my dad and his brothers and sisters there when they were just wee youngn’s. This year, like last, the elected place was Hueston Woods, mainly because of its close proximity to Cincinnati and also because of its close proximity to Wal-Mart. Now, I myself am pretty anti-Wal Mart (as any decent hearted person should be) but like most things, it’s always good to indulge every once in a great while. You see, because the first thing we have to do once we arrive (and unpack all the things that have been meticulously placed in the back of the Ford Pickup, to maximize space) is go to the store. What’s that you say? Why not simply go shopping before we come and bring the food we need? Well, Uncle Scott has the answer to that question. “Cause it’s fun to all go together! And we forget less things!” The first part is definitely true, but we always forget something and end up making countless subsequent trips to Wal Mart or whatever oversized supermarket may be in the vicinity of the campground. At the store we stock up on ice, hamburger meat, lots and lots of bacon, fig newtons, those little Keebler fudge stick wafer things that my dad just can’t seem to get enough of, and of course some Natural Light. You may find it strange or downright disgusting that our alcoholic beverage of choice is Natural Light, but that’s just the way things are at the Ranzaganza.

It has occurred to me that I could write a fairly long and drawn out book about the Ranzaganza, and perhaps someday I will. But for now I’d just like to recount a few things that stick out in my mind to give you even a better idea of what it might be like to spend three or four hot August days with the Ranz family. First of all, we always go during the first week of August. Why, do you ask, do we choose what perennially turns out to be the hottest, stickiest time of the year in the Midwest to go camping? The truth is, I really don’t know. Once again, it’s just always been like that, and we Ranzes have never seen a good reason to change it.

One of the stranger things that goes on at the Ranzaganza would have to be the cardboard cut outs. It all started around Ranzaganza VII (I think) in Portsmouth, Ohio. About a week prior to departure, my dad was cruising down Westwood Northern Boulevard when he came across a yard (junk) sale. For those of you who know my dad, not stopping at a junk sale (“just for a sec! just to see what they’ve got!”) would be like a boy scout seeing an old lady crossing the street and not helping her. It just doesn’t happen that often. But ol’ Joe had his eye on something particular this time. He skipped going through the boxes of basement relics and old books and went straight for a life sized wooden cut out of Elvis, the king himself. It was beautifully painted and even came with a nice little stand so he could stay up on his own. My mind is sketchy on the exact price, but I don’t imagine it cost more than $10…well worth all the good memories he was to bring. The King was the first thing packed, laid down in the bed of the truck, nice and flat, and hence the last thing we pulled out. We triumphantly displayed Elvis in front of our campground for everyone driving by to see and for some reason just got a huge kick out of it. We even mustered over to the little amphitheater they had in the campground and played some Elvis music while my dad danced around with the big wooden Elvis to a tape of his greatest hits we had bought in town…probably at Wal Mart. What my dad didn’t know was that we kids had planned a bit of an attack at the end of the concert and when it was all said and done we bombed the crap out of him with water balloons. Thirty people standing around laughing their asses off as we drenched Joe and Elvis was quite the sight for the rest of the campground, but we couldn’t care less, we were having a blast. And so it began. Each subsequent year, people began bringing more cardboard cutouts. Some years even two. A few have suffered the effects of a nighttime rainstorm and aren’t quite as sharp as they used to be, and Uncle Jamie even took poor Fabio to the shooting range one day and pumped the blonde bombshell’s pretty little modeling head full of bullet holes. Over the years we’ve added the likes of Hilary Clinton, Dr. Evil, John Wayne, Pee Wee Herman, the Lone Ranger (with Tonto) and this year I hear they’ve added not only Spiderman, but Superman as well. These all get displayed proudly around the campsite, with interested onlookers driving by, wondering just what the hell is wrong with those people. One year some punk kids even stole Elvis in the middle of the night, which we realized after my cousin Shane had run down the street naked for no reason (on videotape) and we were out by the front of the campsite. I believe my cousin Matt was the first to notice, and we then proceeded to go on a late night Elvis hunt, not willing to part with something that had become such a strong part of Ranzaganza tradition without a fight. Well, he was easy to find, the thieves were not quite as stealthy as they thought, and I also think they were stoners, which didn’t make it any harder on us. He was sitting out, under a light, with some teenagers sitting around a campfire. We promptly walked into their campsite, rescued The King (with little protest from the stoners…except maybe a quick “Heeeeeeeeeeeeeey maaaaaaaaaaaaaan…” I guess they couldn’t really argue, they knew he was ours) and triumphantly returned to our campsite. Matt and I celebrated by eating even more of the leftover cottage ham that had been cooked for dinner. We just kind of sat it on the table and hacked off pieces with a knife and ate with our hands…that went on for about an hour till we almost threw up. Victory celebrated by consuming mass quantities of pork is pretty awesome.

The Cardboard Clan

For the most part, Ranzaganza is all about silly things that we find funny for whatever reason. For example, the year we broke out the song “I’m My Own Grandpa” for everyone to hear…or the fact that first one to fall asleep around the campfire (almost every time it’s me) gets a bare ass in their face until they wake up…affectionately referred to as “open assing.” I can’t even type that phrase without laughing hysterically. You just hope that it’s cousin Leslie’s soft little smooth hynee in your face as opposed to cousin Shane’s hairy pimply one…sometimes you’re lucky, other times not. The campfire, however is what I consider to be the heart and soul of Ranzaganza. It breeds both discussion and quiet, which is a strange dichotomy but one that works well. Smores are always in the mix, along with some of the aforementioned Natural Light, perhaps a cigar or two and definitely the name game. If my memory serves me correctly, the name game came to us from Uncle Denny, who (since related by marriage and not mandated to come to Ranzaganza) made a surprise showing for Ranzganza VI or VII. The name game is simply this: I name a famous person (famous is to be judged by the group…usually if one other person knows who it is, then it’s allowed), then the next person in the circle names another famous person whose first name begins with the same letter as the other person’s last name. For example, a quick round might go like this: Tom Cruise, Christopher Walken, Wally Joyner, John Wayne, etc. But if you can manage to get a double name, then it reverses directions…”Backatchya!” we like to say. For example if someone says to me “Reggie Sanders” I’ll usually respond with “Sally Struthers, backatchya!” And if that person is so inclined, he or she can send it back to me with “Susan Sarandon” or “Sam Snead.” The point of this game is that there is no point, it’s merely to pass the time and laugh occasionally when you pull out a funny name. Shane is always making up names and claiming that they are ballet dancers, but we all know he’s full of crap…even him.

Most evenings the 2nd generation Ranzes (my dad and his siblings) muster off to bed by 10 pm, or fall asleep in their chairs, snoring until we wake them up and send them off to bed. The third generation Ranzes (my cousins and I) usually stay up a bit later around the fire, catching up on whatever, reminisce about old Ranzaganzas, threaten to Open Ass whoever falls asleep first and sometimes even tell a ghost story…the favorite is one called “The Burr Woman” which I read in a ghost story book I bought at the Oakdale book fair in elementary school, but cannot seem to find anymore. I think the first time I told the story my cousins were genuinely scared because I had remembered all the details and we were much younger then…and every subsequent year they ask me to tell it again…although I haven’t told it in quite a while, mainly because what I remember of it is just not that scary…but it always comes up. Maybe when there are more of the 4th generation Ranzes around it will come out again.

Although much of the Ranzaganza stays the same over the years, there are usually a few instances that stick out that make each one unique. The Elvis concert was one of those, last year was the year we all played paintball and my cousin Shane and I ran across the firing range while all our relatives pumped us full of paint, there was the first year cousin Seth brought his little mopeds and we found some trials to take them on, there was the time Uncle Mitch first brought his Winnebago and saved everyone the trouble of having to listen to him snore, there was the time when a seemingly huge log fell out of a tree and nearly crushed poor little Seth, or the time Shane ran into a tree on his bike and sliced open his twig & berries on the gooseneck, then there was the time when Seth got attacked by a swarm of bees in his clothes and my dad had to strip him down and dunk him in the creek as passing hikers once again wondered what the hell was going on, or when Shane put on Uncle Jamie’s gorilla costume and went calvanting around in the field like a monkey and scared the crap out of the missionary kids who were camping next to us, or the time Little Leslie dropped the F-bomb in front of her dad, or the time Shane chucked a water balloon out of the car at some poor kid along the road, nailed him the stomach and he fell over wincing…like I said, I could go on for days, and someday I might.

There is always someone tossing something…whether it be Mitch and Matt tossing a softball, Aunt Joanie and Maryjane tossing cornhole bags, Me tossing a Frisbee, or Shane, Seth, Leslie and I tossing the screaming vortex football in an invented fashion we like to call “The Butt Game.” I’ll spare you the details, but know that it is great fun. When we go to the pool or the lake, whichever the campground has, we always bring one of those little waterballs that you soak and toss around in the water. Usually it consists of someone standing on the water’s edge, rocketing the little ball up in the air, and 5 or 6 of us wrestling around in the water to get to the ball. The point of this game? Once again, there really is none. And then of course someone is always tossing water balloons. Whoever makes the mistake of bringing them can count on the twins getting a hold of them and throwing every last one and then wishing there were more. Bless the person who invented water balloons, I say.

The last day of Ranzaganza is a sad time, but often we’ve had enough and are ready to pack up. We skip making breakfast (unless of course there’s a pound or two of bacon left…then it gets thrown on the fire and we “snack” as we pack up) and go straight into breaking camp. The truck is easier to load this time, with no firewood, having burned it all. The tents come down, the chairs get folded and the campers closed up. Usually by 10am we’re ready to roll out, Uncle Mitch and his crew back to Columbus, The Laucks back to Indy, and the rest of us back to Cincy. Once it’s all packed up though, we usually spend a good 20 minutes relaxing, finishing the rest of the Fudge Stick Cookies Joe hasn’t managed to polish off, and usually talking about where we’re going to be headed next year. Then we move out, sometimes stopping at the local roadside choke-and-puke for some greasy breakfast to make up for the meal we skipped while packing up. Then it’s back home, unpacking, washing the campfire smell out of…well just about everything, airing out the sleeping bags and putting away all of our cardboard friends, only to be dusted off a year later to adorn our new campground.

Ranzaganza has evolved over time like most things…us kids are a little older, some of us are married, some of us with kids of our own (or on the way). Truth be told, I’m not sure what the future holds for Ranzaganza. I like to think that we will all always make time for 3 or 4 days spent sleeping under the stars and cooking over the fire, regardless of where we are or what’s going on. And personally I’m going to try my best to do that (well, after I get done here in Bolivia that is), but you never can tell. Perhaps one day it will fizzle out…when Mitch doesn’t want to navigate the Winnebago or Joe just tires of packing up the Beverly Hillbillies truck. But, I feel strongly that it will always be going on in some format. Whether it’s Seth, Shane and me taking a ski trip to Utah or Sarah & Jason meeting up with Jenny & Mike to do some camping with all their little kiddies, Ranzaganza will go on. We all know things change, we all know everyone can’t make it every year, especially now that we’re getting a bit older, a bit busier and our lives are taking different paths. I’d be willing to bet that regardless of what we’re doing or where we are, those of us who can’t go camping that first week in August will always wish we could. After all, I’m thousands of miles away and all I can think about is sitting around the campfire with some of the finest folks around, making smores and drinking some not so good beer. I miss you guys, I wish I was there with you, but I’ve enjoyed every minute of writing this little dissertation on what we do during the hot days of August. It’s given me a chance to be there in spirit a bit and remember just a handful of the great memories I’ve got. You all know there are so many more, but I’ve gone on long enough. For those of you who made it all the way to the end, I commend you, especially if you’re last name isn’t Ranz (well, or Lauck or Bryant or Saskowsky or even Hanauer). Thanks for your time and for letting me share my memories with you.

Sending all my love from South America,

Ben (the good cousin)

P.S. Some topics I didn’t touch on include The Death Bike, Rawhide, Night Hikes, lots of bug spray, My Mom’s Cookies, The Dogs, Gordon Lightfoot, Tammy the blow up doll, frantically building tents to keep out of the rain, Scott’s Hammock, Joe repairing chairs, the Western Hills Press…I could go on…

Every Year We Take A Group Photo...And This Year They Left a Chair Open For Me In The Front