(Tom Jirik wrote columns in several newspapers in Iowa from the late 1980’s to the mid 1990’s.  This column originally appeared in the The Boone Today in Fall 1987)

The grass along the road exploded in a flurry of wings and feathers.

The large bird narrowly missed my windshield as it flew up and over the road.  I was so startled, that the bird was gone before I even realized what it was.

As startled as I was, I was glad to see the pheasant.  Even though the first pheasant had shocked me out of my travel-time daydream, I almost overlooked the second pheasant hiding in the brown grass of the ditch a mile later.

It was a beautiful fall day as we drove along a gravel road near Ledges State Park.  We came upon a group of cars stopped in the road.  Not wanting to block traffic, I eased past them.  We strained to see what had caught the eyes of these other fall drivers.

We collectively caught our breath.  In the middle of a grassy field, about 20 deer made their way cautiously toward the shelter of the trees.  As we drove around the corner away from the cars, a buck bounded gracefully across the road, his tail flashing white.

A quiet fall drive along the Des Moines River was brought to a halt as my passenger hissed,”Stop!”  He pointed to our right and a group of wild turkeys were just disappearing into the brush.  Their brown feathers made them instantly invisible.

It’s nice to see Boone’s wildlife flourishing.  Not long ago, fence row to fence row planting, excessive use of chemicals and a lack of knowledge about game management made wildlife sightings pretty uncommon.

Conservationists have done a good job. The beautiful large and small animals that once ranged far and wide across Iowa are returning.  Once again shelterbelts and fencelines are becoming havens for native animals.  It’s because people are again caring for the land and its wild residents.

The largest part of the conservations groups’ job has been education.  They taught farmers that some of these animals help to control rodents and insects.  They taught hunters that responsible hunting means game limits and wildlife management.  They taught hunting opponents that no all hunters are irresponsible and that hunting can be a part of conservation.

They taught politicians that wild game and habitat are important features of the Iowa life and that they deserve state regulation and preservation.  They taught land owners that brush, long grass and tall trees are not eyesores, but housing for furry and feathery neighbors.

So as the green leaves turn to brilliant orange and fiery red, stop and take time to enjoy the Boone area’s natural; wonders.  Take a ride on the Boone and Scenic Valley Railroad.  Drive through the river valley.  Walk through mchose Park or amble through the ledges or stroll along the shore of Don Williams Lake.

Remember to take time to look at the colors and the creatures.  Notice the texture of the bark on the trees and follow the animal tracks in the mud.  Remember how Boone County must have looked before fences and railroads and highways.

But most of all, enjoy.

Language is a funny thing.  It is how we communicate ideas, thoughts, and feelings.  Generally, we believe this is all done through the spoken word, through verbal language, words, phrases.  Going to Cuba, where the general language is Spanish, made me realize that much of language remains the non-verbal, the subtle and not so subtle things which allow us to convey thoughts, feelings and emotions across time and space.Some of the language differences were overcome by some knowledge on my part.  I had three years of Spanish in high school, all of a sudden, all those hours spent conjugating verbs paid off.  I could make out about twenty-five or thirty percent of the conversations that took place in Spanish.  I could make out another twenty or thirty percent of the conversation as I put words together and made some implied assumptions.  Another twenty or thirty percent of the conversation you could make out from the body language and the emotions.

When you can’t understand the language, the non-verbal communication becomes that much more important.  The bows, the hand gestures, the smiles, all make up part of the language…but perhaps more telling is the language they use behind you.  A host’s smile at a restaurant may turn to a frown as soon as they turn their back and a crumbling look when they are talking to the server may spell some trouble ahead.  A host’s smile turning to a frown of concern becomes something more when he gets a waiter that can speak English to come and wait on your table, “just to make you feel more comfortable.”

Those gestures speak volumes.

A good example of the non verbal, not so subtle language was in one of Hemingway’s old haunts, the Floridita Bar, with its famous daiquiri.  As we were sitting at the stately bar, I noticed the bartenders jaw drop about two inches and his mouth hang open.  He pointed at the doorman.  The bartender then took both hands to his eyes and held them like binoculars.  The doorman spun around and saw nothing - turning, he looked at the bartender and shrugged his shoulders.  The bartender then took his hands and made some generous curves in the air…there was no doubting what he saw.  The doorman laughed, the bartender saw me smiling at him and his very descriptive non-verbal story and winked at me and all three of us shared a hearty laugh.

In the end, some things are universal.

Several times a week, I call to get an update from back home.  The conversation is usually pretty much the same.  “Hey Dad, how are you?  So what’s new?  Anybody sick?  Anybody die?”Usually, I get pretty standard responses “I’m good.  Not much.  Not that I know of.”

Occasionally, he will throw out names of people that I don’t know or vaguely recollect.  Sometimes, the information is a little dated.  “I told you about so and so that died two week ago right?”  Sometimes, even when the names are a little vague, they still catch you off guard.

Most people won’t remember or note the name of Wendell Vlasin.  I will admit, even I didn’t know him all that well, though he was a fixture in my hometown the entire time I was growing up.  Not until I read his obituary did I realize the impact he had in the lives of people in our community.  Mr. Vlasin was the founder of the local Quarterback Club, leader in the Boy Scouts that saw eight young men achieve the rank of Eagle Scout, and a military veteran.  Mr. Vlasin was also a huge supporter of the football and basketball teams, neither sport that I participated in.

But somehow, Mr. Vlasin still knew who I was.

Once or twice, I got a card from Mr. Vlasin telling me he had seen me in the local paper and I should be proud of my accomplishments.  I’ll never forget my senior year at the FFA banquet.  Handing over the gavel at our banquet was a bit of a defining moment for me, the tying up of one more loose end in my high school career.

Mr. Vlasin was there too.  He walked up to me, shook my hand, told me that he was proud of what I had done, handed me a thick envelope, and walked away.

Inside that envelope where three small books, “Thoughts of Friendship,” “Thoughts of Laughter,” and “Thoughts of Wisdom,” - words of wisdom and comfort from ages of men and women.  St. Jerome, Benjamin Franklin, Robert Burns, Lewis Carroll, Isaac Newton - thoughts and words for the ages.  Books that still sit on my desk.

“Why me?” I thought.

Every town, every city, every country needs a few more Wendell Vlasin’s.  Providing that quiet support for their fellow man.  A quick note of encouragement, a word of thanks, a little gift that will stick with hearts and minds.  I know that I wasn’t the only one that got the note or gift from Mr. Vlasin, reading his obituary made me sure of that.

I don’t know that I ever really thanked Mr. Vlasin.  Never told him that those small gestures of good will, those small words of encouragement would mean something even fifteen years later.  Somehow, I think he knew.  One of the quotes, one of the sayings in one of those little books sums it up best:

            Through this toilsome world, alas!

            Once and only once I pass

            If a kindness I may show,

            If a good deed I may do,

            To a suffering fellow man,

            Let me do it while I can.

            No delay, for it is plain

            I shall not pass this way again.

                                               - Anonymous

The Hotel Nacional de Cuba is an imposing building.  Built on a hill overlooking the sea in the Vedado area of Havana,   which is one of the commercial centers of Havana, the Hotel Nacional de Cuba at one point served as the hub of the city.The Vedado section of Havana itself has an interesting history.  Vedado translates as “preserve” - and indeed, this area was forbidden to build on for much of Havana’s history.  It was a wide open plain, from the heights of the fortress that marked the entrance of Havana Harbor, pirates and raiders could be seen approaching out of sea by looking out across this very plain.  The Hotel Nacional de Cuba is set on a hill overlooking the sea, the site of pirate landings and a battle with the British during the seven years war (the cannon still sit in the side of the hill).

The hotel is built like a large “H”, with the entrance and the main hall forming the center and the rooms forming each side.  A visitor pulls up in a circular driveway and enters at the very center of the building.  It is imposing to look at as you drive up the road towards it, one of the largest buildings and one of the fanciest with its eight floors and towers on each side.

The main lobby is like a scene out of a different era and a strange mixture of modern and Moorish architecture…modern in the 1950’s style.  The ceiling in the lobby is like that of an ancient church with large wooden beams marked with flowers and vines painted on their surface.  Arches run up and down each side, sculptures on either end of the hallway, and opposite the main entrance is another door that leads out to the garden area.

The lobby too has a history.  It is said that it was out this lobby, the United States mafia ran the country for the five years leading up the rise of Castro.  Out of defiance of them, it is said that Castro too ran the country out of the lobby of this same hotel.

They would not have been alone walking the modern…yet ancient looking…lobby.  The Hotel bills itself as the “place where actors and diplomats sleep.”  It is true; Winston Churchill, Frank Sinatra, Ava Gardner, Johnny Weissmuller, Buster Keaton, Errol Flynn, and Ernest Hemingway all walked these same hallways.  Ah yes, they also have something else in common…they all died a long, long time ago.

But don’t worry; you can probably sleep on the exact same mattresses that they too slept on.

The hotel says that it modernized in the 1950’s and 1990’s.  The furniture in the rooms was classic - all polished wood and chairs that were relatively small.  The mattresses too were classics, all appearing to be circa 1950’s as well, but don’t worry, the box spring was not…they were all removed at some point.

Our rooms were on the executive floor, floor number six.  There was a large gathering area where you could get breakfast in the mornings as you looked out over the deep blue Caribbean Sea.  In the evening, the room was filled with the rich smell of Cuban Cigars wafting through the air as people relaxed while watching the latest on CNN.

By far, the best part of the hotel is the garden area on the opposite side of the hotel from the main driveway.  The garden area, the other open half of the “H” is lined with arches on all three sides - all line with wicker tables and chairs.  At the very top center was a beautiful Spanish fountain accessible via the footstones that lead even farther, past the fountain to the overlook by the sea.  Between two ancient gun emplacements from the Seven Years War in 1862 sits a small cluster of tables with a perfect overlook of the sea and the Malecon, the main thouroughfare that runs along the sea.

Some of the very best mohitos that I consumed while in Cuba were mixed at one of the two bars, the first, tucked back in the corner of the “H” was open twenty-four hours.  The second was a satellite bar closer to the ocean.

The Hotel Nacional de Cuba was like the rest of the country, a dirty gem in a grimy box.  It was a contradiction, a beautiful old hotel that had style and opulence but where the details were not taken care of, where the edges were a little tattered and the carpets a little frayed.  Where it has the vestiges of greatness, but was somehow eschew.

ThisCountryBoy.com made its first official post one year ago today, November 18, 2007.  Since then, there have been over 250 posts and we are now being read almost 150 times a week.  For the regular readers - thanks for your support and for coming back week after week.  If you have thoughts and suggestions for improvement, please shoot me a line at: Contact@ThisCountryBoy.com. 

At one point in time, Cuba was a center for culture in Central America.  Where the rich and famous from the United States came to play, eat, drink, and be entertained - and entertained they were.Cabaret was developed by the French (of course), but took on a distinctly Latin feel when it reached the shores of Cuba.  The largest and most famous Cabaret in Cuba is the famous Tropicana Club outside of Havana.  Only slightly less famous is the Cabaret Parisein in the Hotel Nacional de Cuba.

What a show.

I really felt like I should be in a smoking jacket with a cigarette in hand as I sat at the table five tables back (and several steps up) from the main stage.  Built like a dinner theater with tables and chairs from the 1950’s, table cloths, curtains, and carpet all that had the classic look of the 1950’s.  It still had that smoky, hazy feel of a 1950’s club show - which, I guess, in many ways it was.

It was strange mixture of Latin culture, music, dance, dress, with a heavy dose of sensuality that explored the cultures throughout Latin America.  While I couldn’t understand the language, the sites, the sounds, the motions led us on a journey around the southern half of the America’s.

Tango from Argentina, Carnival from Brazil, Aztecs and Maya’s from Mexico, a salute to Venezuela, a celebration of Cuba…the stories, the dances, the music beat into my head.  The syncopation, the dazzling costumes, the choreography - it was breath-takingly beautiful.

It was also not a family show - it was all very respectfully and tastefully done…but the pulse and the innuendoes were present.

Overall, it was fascinating to behold.

From the Parisien, we took a quick break on the back terrace of the Hotel Nacional de Cuba…a mohito and a few sips of Club Havana Reserva - Cuban Rum that is illegal to drink in the United States…and it is good…

From the Hotel Nacional, we proceeded to Salon Rojo, a dance club not that far from the hotel.

It was like a modern rendition of the Cabaret.  As a matter of fact, the club was set up almost exactly like the Cabaret Parisien with a raised stage and tables and seats that stretched to the back.  The difference was this was so modern and trendy, you could have put it down in the center of New York City and it would have fit right in.

When we walked in the doors, the music was blaring Madonna (believe it or not, her hit song, “Vogue” which glamorized the stars from the 1950’s…) and there was group of about ten women on stage, wearing shorts and very reveling shirts (but all military camouflage).

The majority of the music was from the United States as dancers and performers shuffled on and off stage - a group of rap dancers, a performance artist, more scantily clad women.

And ah yes, the women.

Before I had the first sip of my Mohito, a very young beautiful Cuban girl walked up to me and asked me (in Spanish) where I was from, then I used the line that either helped or hurt me for the rest of the trip…”No Hablo Espanol.”

In my thinking, this meant that I couldn’t understand them and couldn’t buy what they were selling (regardless how beautiful they were).

In their thinking I believe it meant, “Pay dirt.”

The first girl said, in near perfect English, “No problem, I speak English.”  She learned it from smuggled in US movies.

She asked where I was from, “The United States.” I answered.

“Wait, aren’t we at war with you guys?”  She replied.

We talked for a while about relations between the United States and Cuba, and when it was clear she wasn’t going to see any US/Cuban relationships this evening, she moved on to greener pastures.

She was the first of about four women that made it very clear that they were in business that evening.  My family and most of my friends are probably happy to know that I stuck to the basics, it was all blocking and tackling, ahhh, in a pure sense, politely refusing the advances.

I walked back to the hotel about two o’clock in the morning and had one last Mohito on the back porch of the Hotel de Nacional still in amazement at the state of Cabaret in Cuba, both old and new…

I am a beer drinker.  My Bohemian-Swiss-Austrian-German roots almost dictate that I have an adult malt beverage once in a while.  There are even rumors that hospitals in the modern day Czech Republic hand babies a stein of beer as they slide out the birth canal for a celebratory toast as they enter the world…while that fact isn’t true, it would keep them from crying…

I wasn’t always a beer drinker.  As a matter of fact, my first brush with alcohol went horribly wrong when I was four (family reunion, brothers, cousins, keg of Old Style…a good story in and of itself), left me with zero hankering for the amber fluid well into college.

In addition, I had too much going on bother with alcohol, at that point in time in my life, I didn’t feel that I had the maturity.

There was one time however, when I made quite the drunken scene in my fraternity house…without having a drop of anything stronger then a Mountain Dew.

Four of us had to a casino about seventy miles from Fargo, ND.  As we were nearing the good old fraternity house on College Street in Fargo, ND about ten o’clock in the evening, I announced to the Jason, Chris, and Jed that I was going to be drunk that evening.  I don’t think they grasped what I was saying.

As we walked into the foyer of the fraternity where we lived, my speech started to slur, I began to stumble, and I became very, very jolly.

Chris and Jason laughed at me and went to bed.  Jed stayed behind what I believe was perhaps one of the greatest performances of my life.

It was a well know fact that I had no objection to drinking, but chose not to do so myself.  The first people to walk past were Jim and Ryan, and while thought it was extremely funny to see me drunk, but also very skeptical.  Until I grab the phone out of someone’s hand as they were talking to their girlfriend and started to rant and rave.

Jed laughed.

Then “my stomach didn’t feel right” at which point they panicked, they could just see me launching the contents of my stomach across the foyer and they quickly escorted me to the bathroom, laughing in newfound belief that I was in fact drunk.

“Kneel on the toilet,” Jim and Ryan said.

So I did.  I got up and kneeled on the toilet seat head looking down at the tank as the word spread.  This guy was really drunk.  The audience grew.

Jed laughed harder.

For the next hour, I ranted and raved about everything.  My face was flushed.  I stumbled around.  I feel down small flights of stairs.  People laughed.  Jed harder then anyone.

About twelve thirty, the bar crowd showed up.  Seeing me drunk was funny enough, but it was funnier if you too were drunk.  I was laying on the steps in a fake drunken stupor.  One of those that had just came fresh from the bar came up and grabbed my arm to drag me down to the kitchen to make grilled cheese.  I sat up, stuck my finger in his chest and said, “you’re a hairy little man.”

The guy went back and wound up for a punch.  Perhaps, just perhaps I said, I had taken this drunken act a little too far.  That is when this same guy said. “My God, he really is drunk.”

Everyone laughed.  Jed laughed harder.

At that point, about four people reached out for me, it was clear I wasn’t going to be able to navigate stairs, so they were going to carry me downstairs to make the traditional grilled cheese.

By this time, I was tired.

So I promptly stood up and said to the twenty people standing in the foyer of our fraternity and announced, “Thanks guys, this has been a lot of fun, but I’m getting tired and really should be off to bed.”

With that, I turned on my heels and marched up the steps.

No one laughed.  No one laughed at all.

Well, except for Jed, who was in on it from the start…he was laughing so hard he was on the ground in a fetal position gasping for air.

The beauty of it all was, I didn’t even get a hang over…

(Note: I had heard rumors that there were “drunken pictures” of me floating around on the internet that my good friend Jed had posted, this written in defense of myself…I should never have worried.  His version of events are almost identical (though better written) then mine - thanks Jed…his version can be found at: http://youreahairylittleman.blogspot.com/ )

I’ve been back from Cuba almost a week and the thoughts, the sights, the sounds, and the emotions continue to run through me.  A beautiful, ugly, backward, friendly, horrible, place with a wonderful oppressed people.  A nation of contrast.

I’m not quite done updating the stories and thoughts from the trip, so check back over the next week or two for updates.

(Tom Jirik wrote columns in several newspapers in Iowa from the late 1980’s to the mid 1990’s.  This column originally appeared in the The Boone Today, October 21, 1987)

Dear members of society, please, please, PLEEAASE, forgive me.

I’ve committed a terrible transgression against the good people of Iowa.  I’ve betrayed your trust.  Destroyed my credibility as a citizen.

And worst of all, I got caught.

I got a speeding ticket.  I’m sorry.  I’m soooo sorry.  In fact, I’m $33 worth of sorry.” My wife, my family and my friends have been warning me.  “One of these days you’re gonna get caught,” they said.  “Maybe you should get a radar detector,” one well-meaning friend suggested.

I know they were right.  I tried to slow down.  Honest I did.  I drive a ‘68 Ford pickup, and that baby doesn’t like to go any slower than 70 mph.

I’d carefully adjust my speed so that I was only going 55 or for certain no more than 58.   Then I’d look up at the beautiful Iowa scenery, and the next time I’d glance down I’d be cruisin’ along at a comfortable 70.

I was headed up to Algona on Highway 169 when I finally got nabbed.  It was a dreary cold fall day.  A light rain was falling.  I had been concentrating on keeping my speed down for the whole trip.

Suddenly, I was headed downhill just south of Humboldt.  There were beautiful fall colors on either side of the road.  The sun broke through the clouds and I was jammin’ to the tunes on the radio.  I was just soaking it all up.

But not the highway patrolman coming toward me.  He had his attention centered on that little radar gun of his, and it said I was enjoying all the scenery at 67 mph.

I know that I couldn’t have going any faster than. say…67, I guess.

Suddenly, his lights were flashing and he was pointing at me and motioning for me to pull over.  I knew that I had four choices.

1. Make a run for it. (Stupid, but dramatic).
2. Try to lie my way out of it.
3. Beg for sympathy.
4. Sit there and let him write the ticket.

Okay, I’m a wimp.  I chose D.

So now I have a speeding ticket on my record.  My children’s children will remember grandpa Tom who brought such shame and disgrace on our fine family name.

My wife said, I told you so.”  The folks at the office here in Boone are having trouble believing it.  “You got a speeding ticket?” they keep asking in astonishment.

My brother John, teenager who has had several scrapes with the law but has never gotten a ticket, snickered and rubbed it in.  “At least I never get a ticket.”

I’m so ashamed.

My own Mother laughed at me.

My wife said.” I told you so.”

As a commodity trader, the parable of the master who divided up his money to three servants really strikes home.  To the first he gave five talents, to the second three, to the third, one.  A talent was a unit of measure for gold and silver which was roughly equal to a weight of one man (about 130 lbs), which in today’s value would be close to about $1.5 million dollars.No small sum.

The master is described as a demanding man.  One who reaps where he doesn’t sow - who expects his servants to work well, and serve him well.  But he also shows that he is generous for those that perform well.

The first man takes his five talents (about $7.5 million in today’s value) and trades with them and doubles the money.  For his reward, he is given more responsibility, wealth, and power.

The second man too takes his two talents (about $3.0 million in today’s value) and trades with them and manages to double the wealth as well.  For his reward, he is given more responsibility, wealth, and power.

The third man takes his one talent ($1.5 million) and buries.  For his efforts, or his lack of effort, he is thrown out into the street and the talents are given to those that proved they could manage them effectively.

Those are good management techniques.

The challenge is, it isn’t that simple.

It is not by coincidence that the word for talents has been passed onto us with another meaning.  In Greek, it meant scale or balance, in our modern thinking, it means the skills, the gifts that we have been given.

Our Master too is demanding - He demands that we serve Him well.  He demands that we serve each other well.  He demands that we work to bring about His kingdom here on earth.

And he still distributes wealth.

Each of us is given talents, though our talents are more precious then gold or silver.  They are the skills, the gifts, the thoughts, the very essence of who we are - they are our talents, figuratively and literally, they are still in some ways the measure of the man.

Each of us is called to use our unique gifts to serve our Lord and Master. 

This can be a challenge.

Society calls for us to conform, to follow the herd, to live the life of quiet desperation where we are to stand up and use our God given talents.  Society tells us to shut up and take our seat on the bus.

But we are called to use those gifts - if our gift is writing, do we write?  If our gift is mercy - do we show compassion and mercy to those who need it?  If our gift is preaching - do we speak our voice?  If our gift is leading others - do we take that responsibility in our hands?

Or do we choose to bury our talents in the ground?  Do we hide our light under the bushel basket of comfort and ease.  Do we live those lives of quiet desperation - know that the demanding Master is going to call for a full accounting on the day of His return…