One of the wonderful things about winter chores was going into the hay barn every night and throwing down the hay for the evening.  This meant braving the bitter cold as you had to go outside to get to the upstairs of the barn.

And brief respite from the normal work load.

We learned the hard way one summer that our barn, while sturdy, also had an exceptionally large haybarn.  One that, if you tried to stack the hay carefully, would be too much weight for the barn below.  Good lesson learned, and no major damage, just some beauty marks on some of the beams holding the floor of the haybarn above the lower floor where the cows and the heart of our dairy operation were located.

It was tough work.

It meant climbing over the piles of hay, learning the routes over, and sometimes under, bales of hay.  Climbing down the carefully stacked piles that surrounded the holes along the walls where we through the bales down, sticking your toe in along the edge of the plywood and sliding it back to open it up to the barn below, climbing back up and throwing the hay down.

About twenty to thirty bales a night, enough for the nights feeding and the next morning.  And it varied depending upon how much hay the cows left in the manger.

It was also a good way to get away for even a little while.

Part of me felt myself doing my Swiss ancestors proud.  Scaling mounds of bales.  Using the ropes from the old hay sling, or that dangled from the elevator mounted to the peak and scaling up seemingly insurmountable heights.

Or sometimes it was just looking out the big barn door on a clear, cool winters night, peaceful, quiet, before descending to the hustling world below.

Any student of the Civil War, or history for that matter, know the name Robert E. Lee.  But few people really know him.

On the surface, Robert E. Lee is the man that defended slavery, turned his back on his country, and chose his state above his country.

The reality is something different.

He was a man admired by both sides.  A man who knew what his priorities where.  A man who showed honor in vicotory and in defeat.

No trip to Arlington National Cemetary would be complete without a trip to see the plantation house that sits on the hill overlooking the final resting place of the soldiers who gave their all for their country.  The home that also overlooks Washington, DC.  This home, that was the pride of Robert E. Lee himself.

The home was surrendered during the Civil War due to back taxes – the Lee’s couldn’t get the money across the battle lines.  The Federal government seized the home and used it for a cemetery.

After the way, the Lee’s could have sued for its return, but decided that there was enough fighting, enough bitterness, enough angst.  They rebuild their lives and decided instead instead to try to rebuild their country and their country’s youth by becoming president of what is now Washington and Lee University.

It is humbling to walk the grounds of Arlington.  A beautiful farm at one time, now our nations most sacred resting place.

History has vindicated Lee – the cause he fought for was wrong, but his honor in defeat and way he conducted himself are a model of leadership, but it seems that we have failed to learned from him.

We still fight over what is fair or not.  We still seem to think that the world owes us.  We still seem to think that our own personal well being, or sense of right, comes before the common good.

It is humbling walking through Arlington.

While I cannot condone Lee’s actions in defending the indefensible position of slavery, the principles of honor, of sacrifice, of chivilry, of nobleness, are still alive.  They are watered with the blood of the men and women of every race that are laid to rest in the hallowed ground of Arlington.

Growing up in rural Minnesota, I followed in my older brothers footsteps and joined the local FFA Chapter.

It was really not that big of a deal, as our advisor said, you could do as much or as little as you wanted to, if you just wanted to play softball or compete in the ice fishing tourneyment, that was all you needed to do. If you wanted to enter a contest or go for some of the awards, that was highly encouraged too.  It was an easy idea for a kid to latch onto.

Until you got sucked in.

Leadership, responsibly, career success, motivation, hard work – all those things taught by my parents were alive and well in the classroom as well as the contests, the regional rally’s, and the state convention.  Awards, new friends, new ideas, and trips – all things that a kid from northern Minnesota aspired too.

All available through the FFA.

I was not a standout in high school.  My grades were better then average.  My athletic ability was slight.  My looks were, and are not, something to write home about.  My social skills suspect.  My life was chores in the morning, school during the day, and whatever else I could fit in between. 

FFA was a good fit, and I flourished.

Aside from a trip once a year across the border to Fargo, ND, my life revolved in about a 40 mile radius around my home town.  I will never forget hoping on the bus late at night heading to Kansas City for my first National FFA Convention.  A eleven hour bus ride through Minnesota, Iowa, and Missouri.  I was going places.

In the end, I did about as much as I wanted – or could do.  Because of farm responsibilities, I couldn’t attend the camps and conferences during high school – but I did get to help organize and run them when I became a state officer.  I competed in numerous contests and did well in the speaking events, but never good enough to advance to national competition – until I ran (but lost) when running to become a National FFA Officer.

The memories and the friends remain, but so do the skills and the talents that were developed.

Now it is a time to find ways to help the next generation of agriculturalists grow and develop – and let them do as little – or as much – as they care to do!

Life can be stressfull. Family, Job, Commitments, Anxieties, Concerns – they can all seem to drag you down.  Sometimes the weather can do the same.  Cold crisp days while refreshing, do sap your strength over time.

I decided that I needed to take a trip 70 miles south to visit some of my best college friends and their wives and families.

We don’t talk and visit as much as we should – those same things: family, jobs, commitments – seem to keep us appart longer then we should, but there is just something about spending time with people that know and understand you.

Do we finish each others sentences?  Check.

Do we tell the same stories every time we are together? Check.

Do we know the punchlines to most of the jokes we tell each other? Check.

We knew each others politics, what buttons to push to get each other excited, but most importantly, we know how to support one another.

How their wives put up with us, I’ll never know.

But I’m thankful that they do.

There is just something about a good friend. No judgements. No questions.  No worries of trying to impress.  Just good people being good friends to each other.

The weather was cold this last weekend, but lucky the warmness of fast friendship dispelled the icy cold of a February day.

It seems like Ash Wednesday is one of those days in the church year that is unique in it’s message and delivery.  It isn’t a feast or holiday like Christmas or Easter.  Not some solemn day like Good Friday or Holy Thursday.

Ash Wednesday makes us confront the harsh reality that we are humans, formed of clay, and we will revert back to that form once our time on life is done.  This is not what most people care to think about.

It is far easier to think about our lives in terms of the hear and now.  How is school, or work, or our family.  What are the plans for the weekend, or our vacation.

But we need the reminder of Ash Wednesday.  We need the time of Lent to prepare.  For we are dust, and to dust we share return.  It is morbid.  It is depressing.  It is life.

But there is hope.

It is that hope that we must celebrate.  We are pilgrims on this earth.  Our time is fleeting.  Our bodies will decay, but we hope in Easter.  We hope in the promise of a place prepared for us by our Father.

I think to one of my favorite hymns by Tom Conry, Ashes:

We rise again from ashes, from the good we’ve failed to do.
We rise again from ashes, to create ourselves anew,
If all our world is ashes, then must our lives be true
An offering of ashes, an offering to you.

We offer you our failures, we offer you attempts
The gifts not fully given, the dreams not fully dreamt.
Give our stumblings direction, give our visions wider view,
An offering of ashes, an offering to you.

Today, we remember that we must die to self, that our lives are not our own.  That we are pilgrims in this land, who must serve the will of God.  To do that, means helping one another, praying for one another, helping our brothers and sister – and realizing that we are all our brothers and sisters in the eyes of God.

We have failed, we have given gifts heartedly, we stumble, we fall, we lack the clear vision that our Father has.  We must die to self in order to live more fully.  We are a sinful people, and this Ash Wednesday, must teach us as we embark on our 40 day journey

through Lent.

We always looked forward to long weekends growing up.  One extra day away from class.  One extra day outside.

President’s Day was always one of those weekends in northern Minnesota when you still chanced bad weather – bitter cold or heavy snows, but more often then not, you usually ended up with the first major thaw, or at least warm up, of winter.  20F to 30F degrees, the snow would start dripping, and it would be time to start the butchering.

It was hard to butcher when it was too cold.  Butchering is a messy process requiring liberal amounts of water and a lot of going in and outside.  But it also wasn’t good when it was too warm.  Typically, butchering was a multiple day process – sometimes as much as a week, and you couldn’t have the meat hanging when it was too warm.

So President’s Day was about perfect.

When I was young, butchering was a big family affair, and even got the neighbors involved.  Typically, we butchered one beef and six pigs each year.  That was usually enough meat to get us through the entire year as well as our grandparents and a little left over for some of the neighbors – everyone liked my folks mix of spices in the bologna.

We would start on Monday, with my Dad’s counsin coming over with is 22 rifle and skillfully dispatch the animals.  They would be hoisted, skinned, gutted, trimmed, and split, laid in the back of waiting pick up trucks, and off to a community owned butcher shed that had all the equipment for making sausage, hamburger, and in general cutting.

My Parents were masters at this.  My Dad could skin an animal faster then anyone I’ve seen – and rarely leave any meat to spare.  He could cut of the animal with the skill of a surgeon.  My mother was the mixer and general supervisor once the animals were in the butcher shack.  With any luck, by Thursday night – maybe Friday – they would have both the big chest and the upright freezer full.  Hams, bacon, sausage, hamburger, steaks, livers, roasts – everything.  In short, a job well done.

I can still remember the last time we butchered.  It was just Dad and I, and it was one lone pig on a cold President’s Day weekend.  The feeling wasn’t quite the same, once it was dispatched, we carried it on plywood into the warmth of the barn to skin and trim, but the same skill and precision was there.  Mom was battling cancer at the time, but her and Dad went out to the butcher shack, one last time, and they did their job well as always.

Society today wants to get us squimish about what we are eating.  The poor cow that makes the hamburger or the horrors of the pigs as they are lead to market.  These animals were not necessarily our pets growing up, but we knew them.  The pigs were fed morning and night.  The steer was fed by a bottle, then pail, then slowly raised until it went to the feedlot.  They grew up under our watchful eyes.  But there was nothing sinister in what we did – they were more then dumb animals, but they were also key to our survival.  We treated them right, not just because it made better meat, but also because it was the right thing to do.

(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 on February, 10 1988)

The promotional calendar in our office told me the other day that February is National Potato Month.

Gee Whiz.

George Washington was born in February.  So was honest Abe Lincoln.   My mother-in-law celebrates her birthday in the years’ second month as does my boss.  As a matter of fact so do I.

The Boy Scouts of America celebrate their anniversary this month.  Those of you who are Catholic get to celebrate Ash Wednesday.

It’s no wonder the powers that be selected February to be National Potato Month.  George and Abe only got a day, but the potato gets a whole month. It must be because you can’t sell a dead president. (But then again you never know, some people will buy anything.  By the way, have you purchased your subscription to Boone TODAY yet?)

Some people think a potato is a most wonderful food God ever gave his green earth.  They like ‘em smothered in butter or sour cream.  They drool over mashed, baked and fried potatoes.  Hash browns and au gratin are considered delicacies.

Hordes of Irish came to America seeking fame, fortune and potatoes.

Personally, I like potatoes.  I like them in the ground and that’s where I think they should stay.

I grew up on a farm and we had potatoes for every meal.  They were usually boiled and sometimes mashed.  No offense Mom, I just don’t care for potatoes as much as some folks.

They are neither fruit nor vegetables.  They’re tubers.  Which means that they are roots.  There’s just something dishonest about something that is afraid of light and hides in the ground with worms.

How do I know potatoes are afraid of light?  Because they turn green when they are exposed to it while still growing.

Anyway, before I started this dissertation on potatoes the point I was trying to make was that it’s ridiculous to have a national Potato Month.  I mean what with equal rights and all, the next thing you know we’ll have a National Carrot Month.

Oh, I forgot, that’s September.

I mean, what fun is it to have a national day for this and a national week for that and a national month for the other thing?  The designation loses all of it’s charm and meaning.

It’s like getting a new bike.  Driving it around is great until everybody else on the block gets one.

I’ve been…eyeing this National Potato month designation for a while and I think we should mash the practice of designating national weeks, days and months.