(Tom Jirik wrote columns in several newspapers in Iowa from the late 1980’s to the mid 1990’s.)

Ink Spots
Tom Jirik

If you are related, or acquainted or in any way associated with a newswriter or columnist, watch out.  You are fair game for us to pick on.  In my short career in newspaper work I haven’t picked on any of the fore-mentioned people yet.

If you know me, hold your breath, because here it comes.

This week’s victim is my cousin Patrick.

Pat is a student up at North Dakota State and is studying to be a county extension agent.  I’m afraid he is going to be on the wrong side of the desk.  The man is a farmer through and through.

At age 23 Pat is an accomplished Entrepreneur and a master of home-grown witticisms.  His home-spun humor would shame all masters of the rural barb from Appalachian hillbillies to west-Texas cowboys.  The following are some examples.

On religion- Choosing a religion is like buying used farm equipment- you probably have a favorite brand but you pick and choose the best from what’s available.

On studying-Studying is a lot like putting on fertilizer- at first it helps a lot but after awhile you just get to the point of diminishing returns.

On choosing a wife-What I’m going to look for in a wife is a girl with 2,000 acres of good land and enough John Deere equipment to farm it.

On girl-watching-It’s a lot like judging cattle.  The first thing you do is look for good physical characteristics.

On studying-I guess you have to make hay when the sun shines even if you have to burn the midnight oil.

On long meetings- you can bale the same field more than once but you won’t get any more hay off of it.

On religion-Religions are like tractors, there are a lot of different kinds out there but when you get right down to it they are all basically alike.

On being bald-I’m not bald, these are my government set-aside acres.

On college chemistry-Chemistry is like farming, you work hard all season, but when it comes to the end it’s just luck that determines whether or not you make a profit.

On house cleaning- It looks like I better file a chapter 11 around here and reorganize.

On a different tangent, I have been hearing quite a little talk about hardy Iowans lately.  If I understand things correctly, this is not a typical Iowa winter and true Iowans are naturally indifferent to cold weather.  I did notice quite a few complaints last week as the mercury “plummeted” to a minus 15.

On the very same day, in my home town of Mahnomen, Minn., the temperature dropped to –45 degrees.  This prompted some locals to remark, “The icicles in the coffeepot are certainly beautiful this morning.”

Stuff that in your stocking caps, hardy Iowans.

I am a doubting Thomas.

I believe in the risen Lord.  My faith tells me that there is something greater, that there is a God, and his son died for us.  I believe in the church, and its teaching.  I believe there is a heaven.

But sometimes, it can be a challenge to see his grace in our every day lives.

You can also see how the faith of his Apostles were shaken.  They expected someone to take Jeruselem by storm – and he did on Palm Sunday.  The people were estastic, he was curing the sick, healing the lame – rising people from the grave!

Then, five days later, he was killed on the gibbet of the cross.  Nailed up for the world to see and to mock as a failure.  Insurrectionist?  Blasphemer?  Fraud?  Either way – to earthly minds, he was gone.  No Savior.  Not one to beat back the Romans, or restore the greatest of Judea.

They had no idea the path laid out by the prophets, and foretold in the sermons would be as bloody, as horrible, or as contrary to our small minds as possible.

You can’t blame Thomas for doubting – for wanting to put his fingers in the nail prints and his hand in his side.  It is difficult, if not impossible to see the big picture – which means the details too are hard to imagine.

It is still hard to see the big picture, to have faith that the trials and tribulations of our lives here, our living and our dying, our gifts and our weaknesses are part of something bigger.

 We have the free will to follow, but do we listen to our hearts well enough?

Even when we pray for things to happen – and they come to pass, but not as expected, don’t we also doubt the Lord?

We want an end to materialism, but bemoan the fate of the economy.

We want more time with our families, but fear loss of income.

We want to change the world, but fear when that change comes with a personal price.

In the end, I can say that I am a doubting Thomas – or worse.  Even when I see things, even when prayers are answered, I don’t always understand that what is happening is what I desire, because it doesn’t happen as expected.

Poor Thomas has been branded as a man of little faith – but in the end, he has given in to our human emotions.  The wonder of this Easter season, and our faith, is that He still shows us His face, if we have the courage to look.

(Tom Jirik wrote columns in several newspapers in Iowa from the late 1980’s to the mid 1990’s.  Following is one of his early writings from September or October 1986)

Ink Spots
Tom Jirik

This column is a confession.  So that the public will know, I confess that I have always wanted to be Captain James T. Kirk, Commander of the U.S.S. Enteprise.

Growing up on a farm meant that I spent many long hours in the seat of a tractor, going up and down, and up and down the fields.  What better time to do a little day-dreaming.

Te big seat in our Farmall 806 diesel tractor became the captain’s chair and the cab became the bridge of the  Star-tractor Enterprise.

Captain’s log.  Stardate 1978.

This is Thomas C. Jirik, Commander of the Startractor Enterprise.  Our 5-hour mission is to plow boldly where no tractor has plowed before, to seek out new life-forms, and to destroy weeds- wherever they may be.

Today we are assigned to plow as deeply into the wet areas of the fields as we possibly can.

We have been informed that it is vital to the farm Federation (Dad) to destroy weeds as close to standing water as we can.  We have also been informed that should our startractor become mired in the mud, no other tractor will be risked to save us.  We will be trapped in a black(mud) hole for endless millenniums.

As commander of the vessel it is up to my judgement to determine when we should turn back.  My decisions are always based on the solid logic of my first officer, Mister Spock, and the emotional advice of the tractor’s doctor, Dr. “Bones” Mcoy.  I also rely on the navigator, Mr. Sulu, and the tractor’s engineer, Mr. “Scotty” Scott.

On this particular day we sighted a heavy stand of quack grass ( more deadly than Klingons) dead ahead.  However, our sensors indicated that it was located dangerously near standing water.

“Our most  logical course of action would be to retreat, but my calculations indicate that the correct ratio of speed and power would allow us to eradicate the offending plants and escape safely,” says Spock.  “However, that possibility is highly improbable.”

“Dammit, Tom, you can’t risk the safety of the tractor and the crew,” exclaimed the doctor, “It’s sheer lunacy.”

I knew they were right, but the federation’s orders were explicit- we had to chance it.

“Mr. Scott, full power,” I said as I pulled the tractor’s throttle back.

“Aye, Aye, Cap’n,” he replied as the tractor roared.

“Readings, Mr. Sulu,” I demanded.

“5 seconds to contact and counting,” he replied in his even Oriental voice. “4,3,2…”

Suddenly the tractor began to bog down in the mud.  “Cap’n, we’re losin’ power fast,” Scot exclaimed.

“Gimmee all she’s got, Scotty.”  I replied as I pulled the lever back on the torque amplifier.

“RPM’s dropping,” droned Sulu.

“We can’t take much more of this, Cap’n.  We haven’t got the power,” yelled Scotty.

“Come on, come on, “ I muttered.

“We have contact,”said Sulu.

“Logic tells me that we are doomed,” says Spock, as his eyebrows raised slightly.

“Dam your logic,” said Bones.

“Attack,” I commanded.  “Full photon torpedoes.”

The grass disappeared under the plow.  “All we have to do is get out of here,” I thought.

“Speed building,” droned Sulu.

“ Our main engines are over-heating,” said Scotty, his brogue more pronounced.

“Hold her just a few seconds more, Scot.  Just a few seconds more,” I pleaded.

“We’re free of the mud,” said Sulu.

“Let’s take her home people,” I said commandingly.

“Well done Captain.  A little over-dramatic perhaps, but well done nonetheless,”said the Vulcan as he walked away.

Plowing is a thankless job.  It can also be boring.

We all have a choice, and no where is that more clear at Easter time.  It took our parish priest to point, it out to us – and hearing the sermon both during Easter Vigil and during Easter morning to truly grasp his meaning.

We can chose to dwell in the tomb.  We can live in the darkness and decay of the grave.  Or we can allow the Lord to roll away the stone and walk into the light.

This Easter was special.  It marked the 13th year since my mother lost her battle with cancer.

I will admit, I’ve done a fair bit of tomb dwelling in those 13 years.

Questioning my faith.  Questioning why there needs to be the darkness.  At times, focusing on the despair of the tomb and what it represents.  Lost hopes.  Lost dreams.  Lost childhoods.  The loss of not having my children some day know my mother.  Not having Mom there for graduations, weddings, and birthdays.  Not having that guiding voice on the other end of the telephone or the comfort of her wisdom.

But with Easter – and this Easter particularly for me – brought new hope.  The voice of the Lord to the Mary outside of the tomb struck me more then usual this year – “Be Not Afraid.”

For sometimes life is scary outside of the tomb.  Opening ourselves up to the light.  Opening ourselves up to what we could be – and for what the Good Lord has planned for us.

Sometimes we dwell on the tomb so much, we forget that we must go on living.

For Easter teaches us – no Easter is the exclamation point – on the fact that the tomb is not the end, but merely the end of the beginning.  Our lives here are fleeting and while we shudder in the tomb, to often we become accustumed to it.  We live our lives in the tomb, instead of walking into the light of Christ.

We must – I must – make that choice to walk out of the tomb.  To obey the laws of the Lord, but to live to the fullest.  To watch out for my fellow man.  To truly live a life worth living.

The glory of Easter is the fact that the stone on the tomb continues to be rolled back, for any one willing to trust in the Lord.

It is then that we must remember those first words of the risen Lord to his followers – and to us today: “Be Not Afraid!”

(Tom Jirik wrote columns in several newspapers in Iowa from the late 1980’s to the mid 1990’s.  Following appeared in the Algona Upper Des Moines paper, October 15st, 1986)

The farmer pushed a vagrant strand of hair under his hat as the truck ground its way out of the yard.  That was the last of them.  All of his cows had now gone to market.  Soon they would all be hamburger or giving milk in someone else’s barn.

He turned and stepped into the coolness of the now empty barn.  Yet, it was different.

The smells were still there.  The musty smell of old feed and the pungent of manure, and even the slightly pleasant smell of alfalfa hay still permeated the building.  Even the odor of the cows was still present.  The sounds were gone.  That’s what made the difference.  The rattling of stanchions, the slow breathing, the shifting of hooves in the straw, and the gentle lowing were all gone.

The tools were all there.  Stainless steel milkers and fixtures stood by, waiting for the next milking that would never come.  Forks and shovels, their dark hardwood handles worn smooth and shiny with use, waiting to be picked up again. 

After the auction these would be gone as well, to be used by a stranger in a strange barn.

Soon all that would be left would be the barn.  But that would not even be a real barn.  A barn is not a barn when it stands empty.  It would be just a shell, a monument against an empty sky to something that was no more.

The farmer, in the still coolness of the empty barn, began to weep.  Suddenly his wife was asking him to wake up.  He looked at her face and then around the darkened bedroom and realized that everything was all right.  It had been a nightmare.  Horrifying real, but a nightmare nonetheless.

(Tom Jirik wrote columns in several newspapers in Iowa from the late 1980’s to the mid 1990’s.  Following appeared in the Algona Upper Des Moines paper, October 1st, 1986)

“Algona, Iowa.  Why would anyone move to Algona, Iowa?” my wife asked as we cruised southward on Highway 169 in our overloaded pickup truck.

Aside from the fact that I had found a job in Algona, I wasn’t sure myself.

There we were, newlyweds from Northern Minnesota, a land of towering pines and 10,000 lakes moving to a land of towering cornstalks and occasional sloughs.

Were we crazy?

Or were we just desperate for work?

I’m convinced that it was a little of both that caused us to move to Algona, but somehow I knew that there was something more.

I grew up on a farm, and I have always felt a close tie to the land and the people who belong to it.  I worked in North Dakota, and where people complained about the emptiness and desolations of the state, I was thrilled by the sight of rolling hills and empty skies and the acres of waving grain.

I went to college at North Dakota State in Fargo, in the heart of the Red River Valley.  In the “Valley” as it is know throughout the region, most people there think of it as the breadbasket of the world.

I think that as we rolled on toward Algona I was hoping that Iowa would be all of these things to us and more.

As we moved southward across the border in our old pickup we noticed that as a car with Iowa plates met us the driver waved… It was a simple lift of the hand from the steering wheel and I commented to Mary, “He must have thought we were someone he knew.”

We continued driving and cracking the Iowa jokes we had been telling all week.   I don’t think that driver of that car was mistaken because the drivers and passengers of most of the cars that we met also waved and some even honked a greeting.  Talk about friendly.

Victor Lindstrom, the Executive Director of the Fargo-Moorhead Convention and Visitors Bureau always proclaims the people of the area as the most friendly in the world.

Well, Vince, you ain’t seen nothing yet.  You should visit Iowa sometime.

Everyone we met or dealt with has been exceptionally helpful, even going out of their way to be friendly.  We stopped in Bancroft on the way into town to check some prices on furniture.  We never had such good service.

That is until we went grocery shopping in Algona. We were worried about stocking our cupboards with only out-of-state checks.  The management of all the stores we visited practically tripped themselves in their efforts to help us.

Needless to say we stopped telling Iowa jokes.

As if to erase all doubt that Iowans are friendly we received a final testimonial when our parents arrived with the rest of our furniture.  My dad’s pickup had been overheating the entire trip.  The 8-hour trip had taken 11 hours.

By the time we determined that the water-pump was bad, it was nearly 7 o’clock and all the auto supply stores and repair shops were closed. Dad wanted to get back home on Sunday as a conscientious dairy farmer would.  We thought it was hopeless, but we were wrong again. With the help of a persistent gas station attendant and an understanding partsman we were able to get the needed parts and get dad back to his cows.

My hat is off to all the helpful Iowans.  Our thanks goes out to you. 

So maybe we came here for more than a job after all.  We probably didn’t realize it at the time but there are many reasons to move to Algona, Iowa.

Beautiful rural countryside.  Strong rural values.  Pride in making a living from the soil in what perhaps is the true breadbasket of the world.  All of these are convincing reasons to move here.  But perhaps the most persuasive reason of all if the people who live here.  Hardy.   Helpful.  Friendly.

Hello, Iowa!

We’re glad to be here!

My Dad only had one sibling, a brother named Henry.  Hank as all his friends and family knew him, of Uncle Hank, as all of his neices and nephews knew him – was a perfect uncle.

Uncle Hank and Aunt Peg knew how to spoil us, even if they lived 1500 miles away.  He and Aunt Peg remembered all of birthdays with a card and a couple of dollars – as a farm kid, that was some of our only income for the year!  Every Christmas could be counted on to have a big box under the tree – sometimes fruit from Florida, or a box of chocolate from Hershey.  Some years, each of us kids got something.

In short, special people.

It was tough having them live that far away.  But it made their visits all the more special.  Uncle Hank used to try to come home to the farm at least once every year.

Which was not often enough for this nephew.

There was just something special about him – how he treated even the youngest of his nephews. 

Not only that, but like most men of his generation, he served in the military.  Unlike most of the men of his generation, he lived a life of work and family, while serving in FOUR branches of the military.  He started in the Navy, was transfered to the Marines.  His enlistment ended, and then joined the Coast Gaurd.  Finally, retiring, many years later, from the Air Force Reserves.

He wasn’t perfect, but his imperfections made him a good uncle too.  Telling jokes to a young nephew.  Some that were just plan goofy and some that he really shouldn’t.  Telling war and work stories about pushing the limit – not too much – but just enough…

He told stories of people that he helped, but not in a boasting way, but more along the lines of making sure that we knew there was no shame in helping – or excepting help – from others.  Even if sometimes that help was just a friendly ear to listen.

Kind and wise.  Caring and forgiving.  Rarely a cross word for anyone. I haven’t served in the military, and I want to be closer to my neices and nephews, but I want to be an uncle like Uncle Hank.

I had been to Gettysburg three times before.  Had read the books.  Had seen the sights.  Knew the stories of the battles and the heart aches. Of the near misses and the seemingly chance situations that turned the battles.

But some how, I had overlooked John Buford.

General John Buford was the commander of the First Corps Calvary, and was the first to arrive on the scene at Gettysburg.  He could have chose to run, he was out numbered and out gunned and he knew it.  He knew he couldn’t hold his position, he also knew that his commanding officers had let him down in the past.

But on June 30th, the day before the battle, he saw how the battle would play out, and knew the part he would play, it would not be easy, and history could judge it a failure, but he knew what must be done.

Gettysburg is located in south central Pennsylvania.  Good fertile farmland, but marked with the wildness of the foothills of the Appalachian mountains and a thousands of years of slowly eroding peaks and valleys that degregated into small ridges that ripple across the horizon from the mountains to the north and west.  Trees, creeks, and streams mark the land.

Nature made the nature features, but man made the roads that radiated out of Gettysburg like spokes in a wheel.

To the east side of Gettysburg is a large ridgeline overlooking the town, this was know as Cemetary Ridge.  On the west side of Gettysburg is a shorter ridge which still stands the Lutheran Seminary, this was known as Seminary Ridge.  Farther to the west, were smaller ridges that slowly melted in the thick forests west of town.

Buford knew that Cematary Ridge would be the decisive point of the battlefield.

But he also knew his force was too small to hold it versus an all out onslaught of rebel forces.  So he positioned his men five miles from Seminary Ridge, on the first of the small ridges, and there he had them fight, withdraw, fight, withdraw, fight, withdraw.

And he held them.

These tactics were relatively new.  He learned them through reading and employed them while fighting in the frontier wars in Wyoming and Utah.

But he also knew he couldn’t hold them for long.  He was blocking one spoke of the wheel, more rebels would be coming from the north, and he was only delaying the inevitable.  But he held long enough for help to arrive.

The Union won the high ground that day, and the rest is history.  That battle marked the turning point in the United States Civil War.

Standing their, on that “hallowed ground” as President Lincoln so aptly discribed it, you can still see what Buford saw.

The ridgelines, the farms, high ground, the roads converging.

What Buford saw with foresight, the agonizing battle, the death, the destruction, we now see with the help of momuments, of cannon sitting quietly now for over a century, in the cemetaries that hold these honored dead.

We don’t know how far out General Buford looked that last day of June in 1863.  We don’t know if he saw the Union victory that day, or the ultimate Union victory two years later.

But we know that his commanding officer, President Abraham Lincoln saw the ultimately victory when he spoke on a warm November day only four months later.  He know that he was looking ahead, and while he might not have envisioned our gleaming cities and our great advances, his words still ring true today: We here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain – that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom – and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.