Don’t you guys serve ice cream here?

That’s what we get for locating in a building that once housed one ofthe most famous dairys in central Iowa (Boyd’s Dairy for those of you who didn’t know).

 At the time that I was growing up on a northern Minnesota dairy farm, I was involved in what economists call a vertical monopoly, which simply means that production and consumption took place at the same location.  It’s sad that when you ask many children where milk comes from, they will answer, “from the store.”

Most urban dwellers have an idealized view of the dairy industry. 

Visions of miles of stainless steel pipes, huge gleaming milk tanks and gentle black cows probably come to mind.

Anybody out there who has anything to do with a Holstein cows know, “That just ain’t so.”

 Sure, the majority of cows are gentle and well mannered but there is a cunning killer in every herd.  That one cow should have its hooves licensed as deadly weapons. However, the hooves are only one weapon at a cow’s disposal.

Horns are especially devious.  When your back is turned you can be sure that you will get accidently bumped in the spine by a horn, even it is just a stub, it hurts like crazy A knock under the chin can make your dentist rich.

Ever notice how much mucus a cow has in its nose?  Ever notice how far that stuff flies when a cow sneezes?  Do you know what happens if you get in the way?  This situation is especially maddening when you wear glasses.

It’s big trouble when two trouble- making Holsteins happen to stand together.  The unsuspecting person doing the milking steps in between the diabolical pair.  He or she crouches down to put on the milker and smooth as butter the two cows step sideways until all eight of their stomachs are touching.  The human is trapped, crouched underneath 3 tons of cow.

Even so, it’s hard to get angry with a cow.  The minute you are about to blow your top they look at you with those huge brown eyes that say: “who me?”

It has taken 1,500 years of genetic research to develop those eyes. 

Most of the pranks previously mentioned are relatively harmless.  Frustrating yes, but not seriously harmful.  Only the cows possessed by evil spirits do things like kick you in the knees, step on your foot, or knock you in the funny bone with a horn.

The most diabolical of all cow pranks is the muddy-tail-in-the-face trick.  They usually spring this on you when you lest expect it (like when your mouth is open.)  Sometimes a particularly nasty cow will replace mud with unspeakable substance.

When the mud drys into stone-like chunks, this trick is particularly dangerous.  It becomes similar to a blackjack or David-and-Goliath-type stunt.

Stunts like this sure make milking cows a challenge.

Now across the country, barns stand empty and the challenge of milking is swiftly disappearing.  Even in the remaining barns, the job is losing some of it’s thrill.

My dad just installed a pipeline milker in his barn.  No more lifting heavy buckets from between belligerent bossies.  No more lift and dump maneuvers after milking every cow.

Milking cows is turning into a soft job.  The milk surges out of the cow, through miles of gleaming stainless steel pipes and into a giant milk tank.  Swish, whoosh, spash and it’s done.

The darn thing even has an automatic washer.

I think Dad put off installing it because he felt I was the only son that could handle milking cows the rough way.  Maybe he thought it would build my character.

Thanks a lot, Dad.

It seems every job has a uniform.  Growing up the farm was no exception.  Our uniform was maybe a little less formal then others, but was just right for working and growing up on farm

Jeans were needed to protect against hay, straw, or just plain muddy (or worst) situations.  Try picking up a hay bale with shorts on - the scratching would happen with the first brush against the legs, the bleeding may take a minute or two.  The jeans were generally either some hand-me-downs from an older brother, or more then likely, school jeans that were starting to show some wear.

A t-shirt in the summer was a must.  Any kid caught without a shirt on in the hay field was probably:

1) from town

2) going to be burned to a crisp from the hot afternoon sun

3) in for an icthy afternoon (hay is dusty)

4) not coming back for day two of making hay

The t-shirt wardrobe was augmented with a sweatshirt to wear on top spring and fall and maybe some coveralls and insulated coveralls for winter (and if it was cold enough, all of the above).  The most popular shirts were the Wal-Mart specials, grey or other light color t-shirts with one front pocket (perfect for putting in a reciept for parts or a grain slip from the elevator).  They had to be light colored.  Brother Jaime tried a black one for a day.  He was taught an important physics lesson, dark absorbs heat, light reflects it.  Tis better to be cool then cool.

A good seed cap.  Wait, actually just a seed cap.  It usually started good and new when you start and probably tatters when it was retired.  If run through the haybine, combine, swather, or lawn mower, might be more tattered then others when retired.  The hat kept the sun off and other undesirables (think of kneeling next to a cow with a messy tail, laying under a tractor, or greasing a combine or baler).  Generally, the same hat was worn for years on end.  And each of us had our own unique hat.  Dad’s was Cass-Clay Creamery hat.  My brother Jaime’s was a GTA Feed Hat.  Jack’s was Cenex.  Mine was Syre Fertilizer.

In the winter, the seed cap would be replaced with a stocking cap.  Also a hat that would be worn year after year.  Dad’s hat was the one exception - his was the bombidiers hat.  Ear loppers coming down the side.

Finally, a good pair of boots.  Preferable with steele toes - suitable for being stepped on by a one ton cow or running after that same cow if needed.  No dropped barrel of oil, pry bar, or other heavy item could hurt the toes.  And if you got made and kicked something, the damage would be relatively small to your toes…but not necessarily to your brother’s shins…

Our meetings concluded Wednesday at noon at the wonderful Pennyhill Park Resort, then it was another train ride with some of the other folks at the meeting to downtown London - this time from another station close by - and a straight shot with no transfers!

First stop was the London Eye - a huge ferris wheel type attraction - one that towers above London right along the River Thames.  The glass capsules can hold about 30 people each.  We got in line and were quickly raised above the masses to view a fantastic vista.  The entire city of London streatched before us - we could see rain showers moving in, we could see the people like ants below us.  We could see all of the major sites.  I could make out Admiral Nelson rising from Trafalgar Square, St. Pauls, Tower Bridge - everything.

Impressive.

From their, we walked.

Along the windy streets to Piccadelly Circus, to Convent Gardens, to Leister Square.  Past the lines waiting for tickets to the newest movies.  Throught the business district.  Past Lincoln Inn (the law district), and to St. Paul’s Cathedral.  We made it in just in time to catch the last half of the Benediction.  The wonderful coral music wafted through the church.  The site was fantastic.

Then out again and through the rain and walked to the Tower of London and the Tower Bridge again.  Someone commented that they hated the Tower Bridge - they are Argentinian by birth and the Tower Bridge is painted in their colors - because they were the last person that England defeated in war before the bridge was painted (the Faulklands War).

A bus back to the train station and then riding home…dead tired…

I can’t explain it.

Over the last fifteen years, I have lived in eleven - yes thats right, eleven - different places.  One dorm room.  One fraternity house.  Two rented houses.  Three apartments.  Three homes that I have owned.  Then, the one place that was, is, and probably always will be home.

I have learned to sleep almost anywhere.  I once slept one whole semester on the floor of one of my graduate school classmates floors.  I have camped in Death Valley.  My first job out of college, I lived in an apartment that had a folding chair, a folding table, and a sleeping bag for furnishings.

But I have yet to sleep quite as well as when I’m at home on the farm.

I’m not sure if it is the air, the water, the surroundings, or just thousands of memories that fill space and time as I walk through the doors.

This is the house that my Great Uncle Charley built with his own hands.  The house that my father built onto.  This is the house that has seen each of us children carefully carried into as our first home.  It is the house where my parents lived, where my mother died.

It has seen some of the happiest times of my life, as well as some of the most tragic.

It is the repository for our families past, both in memories as well as in actual historic items…or scars.

That spot by the window?  That is where the plant pole shot into the wall - narrowly missing my brothers head…

That mark on the door frame?  Where we were measured.

The flat spot on the carpet?  Where we used to pound our feet on the floor to make Dad think we were out of bed for morning chores.

The green hue to the paint?  What we once thought was the perfect color for a bedroom, but now can’t seem to cover up.

I’m not sure why, but I always seem to sleep a little better.  Rest a little more easy.  Be a little more at peace.

Don’t ask me to explain what it is.  The scent of the fresh night air through the windows in summer, the crisp air between the car and the door in winter, or the fresh smells of spring?  The sound of the wind in winter, the frogs in the summer, or the rain taping on the roof in fall?  Is it the feel of the cold north wind in the winter through the cracks around the windows or the stiffling heat in the summer?

The memories of the Christmas’ or Easters’ or Thanksgivings’ or Babtisms’ or Confirmations’?  Of our family living together?  Of my older brothers and how much we fought…but also how much we care for each other?  Of my little sister - her bratty little moments…but also the times when she was so darn cute and endearing.  Of my parents, how they taught us to live, and love, and laugh, and cry, and pray, and die?  Or the hundreds of friends and neighbors and relatives that have always found a welcome repose inside the humble door.

When I’m at home, the world is a little less harsh.  The dreams get a little bigger.  I’m always raring to run out the door and back into the world and conquer…but it is always good to have a place to go back and lick the wounds of the world as well….and remember what life is truly about.

Somewhere in my grandma’s closet or big trunk is an antique oval frame. 
The picture is of a handsome young man dressed in a World War I army uniform, complete with high leather boots and leggings and a Smokey-the-Bear hat.

Tucked under the man’s arm is a shiny brass bugle.  The man is my grandpa.  As a veteran of the “war to end all wars,” his service to his country left a lasting impression on me.

Although grandpa is dead now, I can remember his recollections.  He never talked much about the death and destruction he must have seen while he was in Europe.

More often he talked of the friendships he made with the other men that he met and camaraderie that they shared.  I remember him talking once about spending three nights in a troop ship waiting to cross the English Channel.  Enemy shelling was of heavy the ship was driven back.

 “I didn’t think we were ever going to get to France,” he recalled.

To Grandpa, his time in the Army was not easy, but it was memorable because he was proud to give service to his country.  In later years he became active in the American Legion post in our hometown of Mahnomen. 

One of his proudest accomplishments was that he was a musician in the Eighth District Legion Band.

Grandpa, like many other veterans, was a staunch patriot, who saluted the flag at the proper times and firmly believed in the United States and what it stood for.

To me, as a little boy, his patriotism seemed silly, but somehow it made me realize that there was more to being an American than being able to recite the pledge of allegiance or knowing when and how to salute the flag.

Earlier this year, I had the opportunity to interview another World War I veteran. Like my grandpa, he was proud that he had been able to serve his country in times of peril.  His memories of the hardships he endured had been softened by the years and he was able to share his memories with a touch of humor.

Grandpa was not what most would consider a hero.  As far as I know he was not a dashing flying ace or a man who rescued his buddies and held off the enemy single-handedly.   He did what his country asked of him, just like thousands of other soldiers.

Maybe that unquestioning response to his country’s call and his lingering patriotism is what t makes him more of a hero to me.

I only hope I can learn from his example that I don’t have to be embarrassed to be patriotic and that it is OK to proud to be a U.S. citizen.

I’m very grateful to my grandpa and other veterans who gave their time and, some, even their lives so that I can live in a free country.

Woke up to rain this morning.  Something that I guess you have to expect in London.  The last few days have been exceptionally good, so no complaints.

Packed my bags, left them with the front desk, and away I went to Westminster Cathedral, the see of the church in England.  It was breathtaking walking into the building.  It is huge, it is beautiful, it is only half way done.  The Mass was moving - part of it was because it was a Holy Day, part of it because you could really get the sense of what the church is - there was people from Africa, America, Asia, Europe - all dialets, all colors, all faces.

Walking around this beautiful building, you realize how much we take what we have in the United States for granted.  Their was a sign up that celebrated the fact that Queen Elizebeth had been to Mass there - there first sitting monarch in England to go to a Catholic Mass since Queen Mary almost 400 years ago.  There was a shrine dedicated to the matryes of England - Thomas Moore, John Fisher - just to name a few, who gave their lives rather then compromise their faith.

We live in blessed times.

From there, walked the city a bit more, grabbed a bit at a pub, and looked for a why to make it to my conference.  Which turned out to be harder then I thought.  When I asked the gentleman at the front desk about going to Pennyhill Park Hotel in Bagshot, Surrey (real place - really), their mouths about hit the floor.

“That’ll cost ya a’ am an a leg en a cab it would” said the younger guy.  The older and the younger guy looked at each other in unisone and said “Victory Station.”  With that, in two minutes, they had me in a cab and on my way to the famous Victoria station (which by the way I had just come from via the underground after Mass at Westminster).  A pleasant visit with the cab driver, a helpfull ticket agent, and two hours, and three trains later, there I was.

In the middle of no where.

Let me back up.  Victoria Station is a beutiful station from the outside, and relatively easy to get around in from the inside.  The train wasn’t packed, I made my connections - almost without a hitch.  The country side was great.  There were the old row houses interspersed with industrial areas, then residential neighborhoods, then little country villages - the last train change was in Ash Vale - a station that had a vending machine for tickets and an old brick station - locked up, with two benchs under a shelter outside.

Great.

My train showed up on time, and off I was.  About 30 college kids on break - some with their bikes - and me.  I pull into the Bagshot terminal and it is not much better then Ash Vale.   It looks better, but I found out that is because the actual station has been let out as an office to a business.  Not a good sign. 

So there I am, standing in the middle of rural England, I don’t know any one, and I hope that I’m at the right spot.  But at least the sights and sounds are beautiful (wait, was that thunder…).

There was a sign on the door - who to call in case of emergency, police, fire, hospital, cabs, pubs, etc - wait - cabs!

Sure enough, their cab service came, picked me up, and took me to the hotel.

And what a hotel.

This is what they talk about when they discribe “English Estates.”  It is like a sprawling manor house.  The bell man takes my lugages after I check in and says, your room is right up here sir.  Down a short hallway to a large sweeping staircase.  Around a corner and up another smaller staircase - and directly to the Willow Room.

The door opens and so does my mouth.

Exposed wooden beams, antique furniture, old sitting chairs with the curved arms.  A narrow stairway leading upwards to the bath…a very nice wooden stairway leading up to a bathroom with the Tudor like finish to the slated roof, an antique wooden floor, windows on each side that overlook the entire property (I’m at the highest point on the property except for the flagpole), a shower that has an overhead head - and two rows of jets on either side.  A towel warming rack, a raised bathtub, more atique furniture, a TV, and a marble sink.

Wow.

I walked the grounds.  Fanatasic grounds.  Fantastic furnishings.

The train ride was worth it.

As a child, I can still remember my first communion.  It was May 1st, my grandparents were there.  My whole family was there.  There was a reception in the church basement after Mass for all of my classmates, then we went home to a great meal.

What I also remember is the sense of warmth, the sense of peace that I received.

We sometimes forget that the Mass is more then just a church service we attend, it is recieving the body and blood of Christ.  It is that overwhelming feeling.  When I leave Mass, I feel a little lighter, my heart feels a little stronger, I feel like I go forward with the strenght of God to do his will in the wicked world.

Sometimes to, we forget that the Mass is a celebration, a communion, with the entire church.  We celebrate it just as it is celebrated around the state, around the country, and around the world.  On this feast of Corpus Christie, I’ve had the pleasure of celebrating it in Rome with thousands of other people with Pope John Paul II.  Today, I will celebrate the Mass at Westminster Cathedral in London, and I have celebrated it at home in our humble parish church.  But in the end, we celebrate it TOGETHER, as the the children of God. 

The Mass, the celebration, is never ending.

On this feast of the Body and Blood of Christ, may we to realize that we are but one small part in this body of Christ, but as important as all the rest.

Schedules are made to be broken, and somtimes that is a good thing.

Got off the train at Waterloo station and walked up to London Bridge, there before me sat two of the items on the itinerary yesterday: the Tower Bridge and the Tower of London.  So off I went.  Walked the far side of the river from the Tower of London, right along the river way.  Past several of the small sailing ships still sitting along the dock and past the mightly HMS Belfast - the largest Cruiser ever made for the British Navy - it is a big ship.  On to the Tower Bridge, the gateway to London.

I’ve seen pictures of the Tower Bridge, but never knew the history.  It is only a little more then 100 years old, it was built and designed to allow large ships to continue up the Thames river, but also to blend in with the splendor of The Tower of London.

In addition to looking the part, the old Victorian hydrolic system, since updated, is still intact.  It is a modern marvel.  How the engineers of the day planed and designed this structure is amazing.  Lifting thousands of tons of steel to make way for the mighty ships passing by underneath, while at the same time having it blend in with the stonework of the Tower.

After the tour of Tower Bridge, on to the Tower of London.  I will admit, from the outside, it just doesn’t seem that imposing surrounded by modern office buildings and railroads.  At first I was a bit disappointed.  Then there were the lines to get tickets.  Then there was the large crowd around the tour guide…

But soon, I was hooked.

The stories, the history, the ancient stones put in place 1000 years ago.  You could walk the same walk as St. Thomas More.  You could walk in the same room as Kings and Queens of old.  You could read their marks on the wall - where the imprisoned priests and monks from the reformation left their last words of encouragement.

You could walk the grounds and the walls.  See the battlements.  We think of the Tower as a tall building used as a prison.  We forget that is was a full castle and the prison was only a small part of its history.  It was the home of Kings and Queens.  It was designed to protect and defend.  The history was overwhelming.

Finally, the crown jewels are housed in the Waterloo barracks on site.  The pomp and regalia of the royal family.  Impressive, though not as impressive as the buildings that surround them.

From the Tower of London, I hoped a ferry boat down to Thames to Westminster.  A good tour via water of the city.  They pointed out the club along the water that is still only reserved for those boats that helped with the evacuation of Dunkirk.  They are the only ones allowed to dock there and allowed to fly a certian flag - that the captian pointed out on the bow of our boat…wait a minute…yup, that’s right, the boat we were on was built in 1908 and made the treacherous crossing from London to Dunkirk.  Send a shiver down my neck…

Finally, a quick bit to eat and homeward I went. 

I walked.

I walked alot.

Slept in a little this morning, but was still underway by about 9:30am local time (about 3:30 am central time for those in the states keeping score).  Went to the Glouchester Road Subway (ie Tube) and took the train to Westminster Abbey. 

Orginally, was debating - go to Westminster Abbey or not.  It is an imposing and impressive church, both in size and in history.  It has been the official coronation site of England since William the Conguerer was crowned there about 1066 AD.  The church has been built and rebuilt (and damaged slightly during the reformation).  Where else can you see the shrine of Saint (King) Edward the Confessor, most of the King Henrys, and even Elizebeth herself.  All in the same building with other Lords, Ladies, and notables such as Geophery Chaucer.  The artwork, the history, the pagentry was all stunning.  But so too was the Holiness.  You knew you were in a church.  The chapter room where the monks used to meet had the look and feel of a Holy place .

From Westminster Abbey, proceeded across the street to see Parliment and Big Ben.  Impressive and imposing building.  Right off to the side of the building was a little park on the banks of the Thames and in the shadow of the great Tower at Parliment.  Here were men in suits, grabbing a little lunch.  Children from the world over playing soccer under the watchful eye of their African decent school teacher - laughing, joking, playing - and helping each other up, regardless of race - when they fell.  In the United States, we call ourselves the melting pot - but we hold nothing over this city.

Walked back in front of Parliment - only two statues sit in front of Parliment - that of Oliver Cromwell and Richard the I, the Lion Hearted.  I found both of these to be interesting choices.  Cromwell because we did away from the Royalty and all of the pomp and pagentry of the English government during his reign as “Lord Protector.”  Richard because he was seen as a genuine hero among the people, but his brother, King John, was so dispised that he was forced by the Lords to sign the Magna Carta - esentially garunteeing the right of Parliment to exist.  In hindsight - Cromwell to was trying to defend the rights of Parliment - he just took it much, much farther…

From Parliment, I went to the War Room and Churchill Museum.  For those that are World War II buffs or Winston Churchill fans - a must.  Seeing where the war was fought - in a secret basement apartment with people almost literally sleeping on top of one another was quite amazing.  I can’t imagine a government trying this today, and yet England at the time was the only country fighthing Nazi Germany.  It just goes on to show their stamina and simplicity that could be summed up in two words - survival and victory.

Trafalgar Square was next on the schedule - but not before passing by Number 10 Downing street and the Horse Guard buildings.  All were impressive.  The Horse Guard grounds were where the literally the guards for the Kings and Queens were mustered and practiced - right in between the Admiralty and Army buildings.  Trafalgar square was also impressive.  Most people have no idea what the Battle of Trafalgar means or who Lord Nelson is, but yet the square was packed anyway.  Hundreds of people, young and old alike.

From Trafalgar, walked under the Admiralty Arch and down the Mall to Buckingham Palace stopping and taking side trips in and out of St. James Park.  While walking along, I literally saw the “Horse Guards” parade down the mall.  Eight horsemen in full regala - black boots, white pants, red jacket, pointed helment - swords drawn - heading towards Buckingham Palace.

The Palace was fine.  It is a big, impressive, imposing building. 

Then, past the “Canada Gate” and through the park to Picadilly Circus, their answer for Times Square.  I’m not a fan of Times Square, I’m less of a fan of Picadilly Circus.  Too many people.  Too much hawking of goods.  Only positive, they have a “Cheers” bar and was a great place to grab a pint and rest my legs.

Finished up the day with some fish and chips at the Hawthorne Arms - a great little, local pub across the street near the hotel.  The wood bar, the old tables, the good beer and food - all will make for a very nice rest this evening and hopefully relieve my aching feet….

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

Note:  reporter Tom Jirik was so caught up in the 1988 Presidential Campaign that he has decided to throw his hat into the ring.  The views expressed here may not necessarily reflect those of this paper and its management.

Ladies and gentlemen of Kossuth County and citizens of the United States of America, today I announce the beginning of a new era for this country.  A new era of prosperity, freedom and frivolity.  Today, I announce my candidacy for President of the United States of America.

With your support, I can lead this country out of the idle eighties and into the nifty nineties.

Of course there are minor hurdles that we must clear in the race to the White House.  Repealing the portion of the Constitution that requires the president to be 35 years old is a good place to start since I am only 23.  Please write your congressman now.  I am a mature 23.

Then there is the problem of money.  I don’t have any.  But that is a small matter.  Tax-deductible contributions can be sent to the “Tom to the Top Campaign Fund,” in care of Algona Publishing, 14 E. Nebraska, Algona, Ia. 50511.

I am prepared to face the rigors of a long and humorous campaign.  I am not afraid of the American press - I am part of it.  I have practiced long and hard at letting idle promises and mindless dribble roll out of my mouth and into the ears of disenchanted masses.

My opponents say I am too young. too inexperienced, too tall.  “No, I’m not.  LBJ was taller than I am.”

So I join Mike Dukakis, Pete duPont, Dick Gephardt, George What’s –his-name and all the others in this campaign.   I say a vote for me is a vote for me.  But remember it is not a vote for them.  Most of all remember, your vote might make a difference.  Maybe.

I assure you that unlike some of my competitors, I am made of strong moral fiber.  I maintain a diet that is high in bananas, bread and bran.  It is that diet that makes me a regular guy.

The first thing I would do as president is move into the White House.  The presidential palace is tastefully decorated and it is patriotic for the president to live there.

You should note that my competitors have not said they will live in the White House.  Are we to assume they will not?  Does this mean they are unpatriotic?   What do those Commies have to hide?  Are they afraid to tell you they are unpatriotic?

The next thing I will do as president is to go to England.  I’ve always wanted to go to England!  Most candidates tell you what they want to do and never do it.  With your vote, I can go to England!  Tom Jirik is a man who keeps his promises.

Social programs in the United States need a complete overhaul.  Whatever happened to good old fashioned box socials and ice cream socials?  There ought to be an ice cream social in every county-seat town every Sunday afternoon - no exceptions.  That’s what I call social security. {Applause would be appropriate here.}

The current administration is stuck in a mire of failed programs.  To quote the words of Franklin D. Roosevelt, “It’s not right.”  Roosevelt said that after he tasted a cup of coffee with too much sugar in it, but that’s not important.

I plan to appoint Yoda as Secretary of Defense.  That reinforces my stand on Star Wars.  If I get the chance, I will appoint Judge Wapner to the Supreme Court.  The highest court in the land needs to have somebody who can cope with the electronic media.

Thank you and remember to vote.