(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

The giant statues of Easter Island. The strange arrangement of stones at Stonehenge.  The pyramids and Sphinx of ancient Egypt.  All are great unexplained mysteries of the ancient world. 

North America also has such unexplained mysteries.

Who can ponder the purpose of a giant fiberglass cow erected high on a hill near New Salem, N.D.?  One can imagine thousands of ancient dairy farmers prostrating themselves before the fiberglass bossie, chanting solemnly, “Prosperity, grant unto us, Oh Sue the Holstein.”

Sue the cow is visible from 10 miles away in any direction from New Salem.  It’s kind of eerie.

As you travel east on I-94 in North Dakota from New Salem you will eventually enter the kingdom of the Buffalo men.  Perched on top of a hill in Jamestown (you guessed it), a giant concrete buffalo.

Jamestown is the birthplace of Lois L’ Amour.  I don’t know if that has anything to do with the buffalo or not. The bold bison stands at least 35 feet tall.  Talk about one heck of a lawn ornament.

Bottineau, N.D., the gateway to the Turtle Mountains, is home to a giant turtle.  This is not your typical turtle either.  This grinning monster is seated astride a giant snowmobile.  A statue like that should make a few future archeologists scratch their heads.

A giant badger makes his home in Wishek, N.D. The town carries the dubious title, “Home of the World’s Largest Badger.”   I don’t know about you, but every time I hear that slogan I have to suppress a great urge to move to Wishek.

Imagine a native Wisheker traveling abroad.  As the crowds admire the Taj Mahal, the Eiffel Tower, or Buckingham Palace he remains unmoved.  “Heck, this ain’t nothin’.  You should see the world’s largest badger we got back home.”

Who ever it is that mysteriously places these large statues on the landscape did not limit himself to working in North Dakota.  Minnesota has its share of oversized replicas.  Maybe visitors from outerspace have planted them there.

Pelican Rapids has a 35-foot pelican perched on a man-made island in the middle of the river that runs through town.  I’ll bet that baby scares the scales off more than a few unsuspecting Minnesota walleyes.  It’s like the King Kong of pelicans.

Just down the road in Fergus Falls is an otter that is at least 70 feet long.

Nearby Alexandria has its own tribute to Hagar the Horrible.  In the center of a street in town stands a giant Viking.  I don’t know his name, but it’s probably something like Bobby.

And finally, no one could visit Minnesota without stopping in Bemidji to see the massive statues of Paul Bunyan and Babe his blue ox. (Maybe somebody could visit Minnesota without stopping there.)  Why anyone would build a statue of a man who is named after a foot ailment, much less build one of a giant blue ox named Babe is beyond the scope of this column.

Archeologists 2,000 years from now will certainly wonder when, while sifting through the rubble of our civilization, they stumble upon the mystic statues of North America.  Will Minnesota be the Easter Island of tomorrow?

Luke tells us that on the day Jesus rose, two of His disciples were going to the village of Emmaus, when Jesus drew near and began walking with him, but they didn’t recognize him.

They didn’t recognize their friend?  Their Lord?  They are walking down the road, talking about His horrible death on the cross and He simply walks up and joins their conversation.

But wait, it gets better.

He begins to explain to them the Old Testement scriptures and how His death - His own death - was necessary to break open the gates of heaven, to bring us the new covenent, to bring to pass the prophesies of the prior generations.

And they still failed to recognize Him.

Finally, when He sits with them at meal, breaks the bread and gives it to them, finally they see Him for who He is.  And they say “were our hearts not burning within us when He opened the Scriptures to us.”

How could they not see Him?  In his disciples defense, they believed Him dead and in the tomb.  Dead men tell no tales.

What then is our excuse.

We profess our faith that He is risen, that through the power of God, He was crucified, died, and was buried, and on the third day, raised up.  Why then, do we fail to see and hear Him?  We cannot make the excuse that we do not know that He lives.

I think that our generation has gotten jaded over time.  We fail to see Him, to hear Him, in our daily lives.

I am no exception.

For the last several months, I have prayed for some stability.  No moves for a while, no disruption in my work, no major changes.

Then a job opened up, a potential promotion - or at least something different.  Something new - perhaps more prestige, more recognition.

And I was disappointed when I didn’t get it.

Until I opened my eyes (or where they opened for me?).  What a fool I was.  I got what I asked for and I became disappointed, disenchanted, disillusioned.  Until my Emmaus moment.

How many times do we fail to see Him in the people around us.  In the opportunities to make a positive difference in the lives of others. 

Jesus tells us what we do for the least of our brothers, we do for Him. Do we feed the hungery?  Cloth the poor?  Give hope and encouragement to those around us?  Or do we need to pray for a few more Emmaus moments in our own lives.

It was a bad day.  I came home from work, was tired, disgusted, and frustrated.  But had to catch the cab to the airport.

How could life be any worse?

As the cab pulled up, the driver got out, put my suitcase in the trunk and asked how my day was going.

Hurrump.

I’m typically not a negative person.  I typically take a great interest in people and like to learn about others.  But not today.

The cab driver struck up a conversation.  Where was I off too?  What did I think about this weather?  Was I from the area?

I couldn’t be rude, so I asked him questions back.

What a different perspective.

The cab driver was a highly educated east African immigrant who came here following his family, and in turn built a family.  He met a wife and had three children.  Worked two jobs.  He was used to a warmer climate.

But he loved America.

He loved the weather.  He loved the people.  He loved the freedom.  He loved the opportunity to work hard and make something of himself and build a better life for his wife and children.  He had been here 14 years - and was proud that he could now call himself an American.  He had passed all of his citizenship requirements and was recently given the that honored status.

All of sudden, my life didn’t seem to bad.  It brought into focus how very easy I have it.  Sure there are stresses and worries, but that is part of life.

It is easy to take our country for granted - its land, heritage, and freedoms, but sometimes it takes someone who truly has had to earn those rights, to point out how very fortunate we are to live it.

I will admit, I am a fan of spring.  The warmer weather.  The longer days.  The budding trees.  The smell of fresh earth.  The tulips pushing through the ground.  The melting of the snow.

The melting of the snow is usually the first sign that spring has sprung.

This year.  It came gradually.  January and February seemed abnormally brutal and it just seemed like Jack Frost was unwilling to give up to spring.  A little snow, and a lot of cold blowing out of the north country every day.  But by the end of February, the longer days started taking their toll, and the temperature started to climb into the twenties and low thirties.  We started loosing the snow cover.

By the first week of March, winter was in full retreat.  The snow slowly receeded and while the temperatures were still cooler then normal, the sight of the snow finally leaving my front yard made me smile on that morning March 19th.  The feast of St. Joseph.  The day that the swallows come back to the mission at San Juan Capistrano, only two days before the first day of spring - the snow was gone, the weather was warm and the upper great plains was ready.

Then we got eight inches of snow.

All through Good Friday and into the weekend, it snowed.  Big, wet flakes.  The temperature dipped into the twenties again.  Roads were icey.  Traffic stalled.  The snow turned to rain as it moved south, but it left a swath of the Dakota’s all the way to Minneapolis-St. Paul under a deep blanket.

Easter came, the sun came out, the temperatures rose that week into the mind forties.  The tulips started to rise from their slumber.  Spring had finally come to the upper plains.

Then we got nine inches of snow.

Just like that.  The temperatures dipped to the twenties, the skies clouded up, and the a huge swath of South Dakota, Minnesota, and Wisconsin was inundated with big, thick, white flakes.  And they piled up.  Roads were icey.  Traffic stalled.  This was opening day for the Minnesota Twins - and the region was gripped in a heavy snow warning.  The tulips were covered.

But spring was too far along.  The next morning, the mercury hung in the mid twenties.  But by mid day, the temperatures were once again into the forties.  By nightfall, the tulips were seeing the sun.

I am a fan of spring.  But please - only once a year.