What a great weekend.

One of the highlights was getting together with some good friends and retelling some of our favorite memories together.

We don’t get together as often as we should.  The pressures of families, work, and other obligations leave us sometimes going many months between visits.

Over the years, most of my friends have found a spouse and some are now working on growing and raising a family.  Sometimes, these poor spouses sit shaking their heads at our antics (some of which are relatively recent), or stare in disbelief as we finish each others sentences.

Remember the trip to Iowa?  Remember when my car broke down?  Remember that trip?  Remember that prank?

Sometimes too, they just look on in boredom - but they respect this time that we have together.  And have been great additions as we add more memories to the file.

Sunday, I spent all day at my Dad’s, which too is also always enjoyable.  We go to church.  Eat a little lunch.  Do a little work.  And usually end up either going for a ride “around the block” - which usually means around the county - or visiting some neighbors.

This Sunday, we had several relatives over to help finish off the last ground cherry pie.  For hours, these combo friends, neighbors, and relatives sat in our families living room rehashing old memories.

Remember the old still?  Remember when Uncle Charley snuck that pint of moonshine into the church function?  Remember when Alphonse tried to haul that combine home?

They laughed, they reminsced.  I laughed, I shook my head at their antics, I stared in disbelief, I sometimes looked on in boredom…

It hit me later in the day - we all have these friends, we all have these people that we have built our lifetimes around.  We live, we grow, and our lives intertwine and intersect.

Part of the proper care and maintenance of these friendships is the memories - making sure that we stay in sync, and sometimes too, bringing those other people near and dear into the loop.

Even if sometimes they stare off in boredom…

  (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 Algona Upper Des Moines on November 26, 1986)

Ever since I can remember I have been a mystery fan.  Sherlock Holmes, the Hardy Boys, Tom Magnum, I’m enthralled with all of them. I don’t think my parents would have approved of my becoming a detective, so I did the next best thing.  I became a newspaper reporter.

Even so, I slip into day dreams of being a cool calculating private eye. (In fact, I can feel myself slipping right now.)

 I had just broken into my dirty little office because I lost the key when the phone rang.  Surprised that it hadn’t been disconnected, I picked it up.

A breathless female voice slid through the line into my ear, “I need your help,” the voice cooed.

“Who is this?” I said.

“Can’t tell you over the phone,” the voice breathed.  “Please, you have to help me.  There’s no one else.”

“Listen,” I snapped, “I have more cases than I can handle now.”  I looked across the office at the filing cabinet.  I knew the top drawer held dirty laundry.

“Please,” the voice choked out.

“O.K. “ I said.

“Thank you,” the breathless voice said.  “Meet me at Hy-Vee in a half an hour.”  Then the line was dead.

I hung up the phone perplexed.  A tiny alarm was ringing way back in my brain, but the excitement of having a new case clutched at my gut and I chose to ignore the alarm- for now.

Not knowing what to expect, I reached into the right hand drawer of my desk where I kept my trusty side-arm.  I pulled out the 3-blade pocket knife.

Yeah, that baby got me out of more than a few scrapes.  I always felt a little more secure with it in my pocket.

Exactly 27 minutes later I was browsing through the sardines at Hy-Vee when a voice came from behind me.  “Thanks for coming Mr. Jirik.”  The voice seemed to float like smoke to my ears.  I turned to get a look at the fire.

I assessed her in a single glance.  There was something alluring about the way wisps of her golden hair showed from under her seed-corn cap and the way she had only one leg of her jeans tucked into her 4-buckle overshoes.

Under that odiferous parka, I knew she had a figure that could stop a combine.

“You can call me Plowshare. (Real p.i.’s always have names like Steel, Magnum or Plowshare.)  You must be miss…?”

“Ei-I-Ei-I,” she said breathlessly.

“Oh,” I said.  She wasn’t fooling me.  I had heard that song before.

“Perhaps you’ve heard of me?  My grandfather was a McDonald.   Now I have his farm.”

“What can I do for you?” I said ruthlessly.

She looked at me with sad eyes that would put an old dairy cow to shame.  “My tractor,” she sobbed.  “It’s been tractor-napped.”  I put my hand on her shoulder to comfort her.  The produce manager was peering at us suspiciously.

“Lets go to your farm,” I suggested.  “I’ll drive.”  She offered no resistance as I helped her into my pickup truck. (O.K., so I don’t drive a Ferrari.)  “Where is your farm?” I asked.

“Just north of LuVerne. You know, in the dell.”

“I am so glad you’re on the case.  Now I know that we’ll get my tractor back,” she sighed.

“I’ll do my best,” I replied.

She put her head on my shoulder.  “ I think I’m in love with you.”

Just as I leaned over to kiss those wonderful lips, I heard.  “Get to work!  We have a paper to put out!”

Case closed.

I have tulips in front of my house.  Red and yellow tulips.  They are in full bloom today.  Living, flowers outstreatched towards the heaven.

For two years, I knew the tulips were their, but never knew what color were their blooms.  The first year I saw just the last remnants of them as I moved in.  Last year, just when I thought I would see them burst forth into flowers, the rabbits found them and nibbled them to nothing.

I am no gardner, and profess to know very little about flowers.  But tulips are an amazing plant.  Mine have been snowed on no less then four times this year.  They were chewed to nothing last year and still came back strong and healthy this year.  They lie in the ground, sometimes unseen - and yet still manage to stun with their beauty each year.

How fitting that mine should be in full bloom for Pentecost Sunday…

This weekend, we celebrate the gift of the Holy Spirit, we commorate that day 2000 years ago when the “tongues of flame” settled on each of the disciplines heads and they cried out in load voices, spoke in tongues, and worshipped God, and spread his good news.

Through Confirmation, and through our acceptance, we too are to have this gift of the Holy Spirit.

I’ll admit, sometimes it sure doesn’t feel that way.

I do stupid things.  I say stupid things.  Thinks that I know I shouldn’t, but I do them anyway.  If the Spirit is in me, why do I do these things?

I believe the Spirit is always there.  Guiding us, protecting us.  Like the tulips, sometimes they are hard to see.  Sometimes, they suffer through the coldness of our hearts and small minds.  Sometimes they are chewed down by the rabbits of our souls - haughtiness, pride, unfair judgements.

But like the tulips, the Spirit is always there.  Waiting to spring forth.  Sometimes, when the winter refuses to turn to spring, the tulips act as that reminder bursting through the snow and cold, saying that spring is coming.  There is hope.

So too with the Spirit.

I know there have been times, dark times in my own life.  Sickness in my family.  Times when I have doubted my abilities or purpose on this earth.  I have felt that overwhelming feeling of the Spirit.  That feeling of hope in a time of despair.  That guiding hand that clears our minds and acts as a lamp unto our feet.

With prayer and reflection, with the grace of God and the good works for His children here on earth, we soften our hearts and our minds.  We cannot help the Spirit, but we can chisel away at our imperfections and pride and allow our feeble minds to open our hearts to Spirit.

 (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 Algona Upper Des Moines on November 12, 1986)

Uncle Charley was actually my great-uncle.  He was my grandmother’s brother.  My dad bought his farm from Uncle Charley and for years Uncle Charley worked out on the farm helping my dad.  Most of the time I just call him Uncle and that seemed to suit him just fine.

Uncle had been christened Charles Stolka by his parents.  That was just before the Stolka family pulled up roots and moved from Czechoslovakia to the United States.  The spent some time in Iowa, near Oelwein, before moving to northern Minnesota.

That was long before Uncle and I became such good friends.  I don’t know what he thought of me, but I thought Uncle was wonderful. Through a little boy’s eyes he was everything a man should be.  He was big, 6’4” certainly not skinny.  He was a farmer in every sense of the world. He almost always wore bib-overalls.  I can never remember him losing his temper.  I remember the way that his hands and face were wrinkle and darkened by years of hard work and exposure to the elements.  He usually wore a hat.  The hat covered the coolest haircut this little boy had ever seen.  His hair was completely white and he kept it clipped short in a heinie.  Grandma did all the haircutting for the family and I can remember asking her for an “Uncle Charley haircut.”

Probably best of all was that he always had time for little boys.  Things were different when I was with him than when I was with other grown-ups.  He never tired of my ceaseless questions and he always treated me as an equal.  I remember doing grow-up farm stuff with him like driving out to check crops and feeding cows and doing other chores.  He actually let me help.

The best time of the year was harvest.  Dad used to run the combine and Uncle used to drive the truck.

Even better was waiting in the field for a load.  Uncle and I would talk about farming and other things.  I think I did most of the talking, but Uncle was sure a good listener. Sometimes he even let me take drink out of his water jug.   He carried water in old 2-quart glass jars.  There was always grain dust and chaff floating in it and it was always warm, but he let me drink out of it just like the big guys. 

Uncle also had a wonderful sense of humor and was always quick to laugh.  He liked to tease me but he was never nasty, he was just having fun.

It would be nice if everyone had an Uncle.  I think the world would be a better place.

Uncle and I sort of lost touch after I got older and his age and health prevented him from visiting the farm so often.  When I went to college Uncle had to be placed in a nursing home.  I visited him several times but things just were not the same.  Old age was cruel and he was very confused.  On one of my last visits I brought my wife along.  We weren’t even engaged yet and it was the only time the two of them met.  The visit didn’t go well and I was about ready to leave when I asked Uncle what he thought of Mary.  He looked at me with a spark of the old twinkle in his eye and a broad smile, “It looks like you got yourself a good little milk-maid there,” he said. 

As we left Mary wanted to know what he meant by that.  I couldn’t explain it but I suddenly knew that even if things weren’t the same as they used to be between us and Uncle, they were still okay.

Growing up with three older brothers and thrity head of needy dairy cows, the wardrobe was pretty simple.  In the summer, jeans, t-shirt, seed cap, and boots.

On Sunday, we would put on the good jeans, a nice shirt and our finest tennis shoes.

For really special occassions, we would line up and enter our parents bedroom.  It was like a superheroe’s armory - anything you need to look good, or at least somewhat respectable could be found (and usually just as stuffy and uncomfortable as some of those super hero suits look).

In that closet were our families finest.  Sometimes a suit, sometimes just a good button shirt.  Sometimes some dress pants.  Sometimes a pair of dress shoes.  With four growing boys, there was usually some good hand-me-downs or some of Dad’s old dress stuff that would fit.

Sometimes pretty well…sometimes not so much…

Rarely, if ever, would we need or require a tie.  But we always knew where they were.

My Dad’s tie collection hung over the mirror in my folk’s bedroom.  What a collection.  Fifty years of style were drapped over that mirror.

 Wide ties, narrow ties, serious ties, paisley ties, ties that matched the old leisure suits in the closet.

The very first tie that I owned came with my first communion suit.  It was “chocolate” brown…though my older brothers thought of another shade of brown that it reminded them of…

The second tie was for my confirmation.  This was a black tie with what looks like American Legion insignia on it.  Very classy at the time.

The third tie that I owned was the infamous FFA tie.  Blue with gold stripes.

Then came college.  Fraternity meetings, scholarship luncheons, internship interviews, presentations all required sophisticated neck wear.

Then came the trip to Washington, D.C. in college.  Jackpot.  For a kid that had few ties (and hated spending the money on them), this was perfect - five ties for five bucks - FANTASTIC!  Only later did I figure out that perhaps a tie with presidential seals on looks ok in Washington, not so good in Fargo, ND.

Eventually, I was forced to raid my Dad’s stash of ties.  The lime green leisure suit might not fit, but the matching tie sure did.  That stylist Hawaiin - did it ever really go out of style?  White shirt, blue blazer, ah yes, that calf scours yellow tie is perfect.  Don’t get me wrong, my Dad had some nice ties…I just had no sense of good taste.  I figured if I had to suffer with a tie, other people would have to suffer looking at it too.

I’m older now and in the working world.  Ties are still worn, but with less frequency.  I visited my local mens wear shop last week to beef up my wardrobe.  I figured I should get at least one new tie.

The salesman was showing me the full array of ties - every color under the rainbow.  The one that he was most adamate on…A chocolate (or other colored brown…) colored paisley…

At least it wasn’t calf scours yellow…

The 2008 Minnesota FFA Convention is gone.  The Future Farmers of America as they used to be known have come and gone from the University of Minnesota Campus.

The National FFA Organization remains the largest youth organization in American and continues to teach the same values of hard work, perseverance, and leadership that it is known for.  Seeing the students, I realized how little has changed, but how much I’ve changed.  I will admit, seeing the blue jackets swarming the campus brings back memories of my own days wearing the blue cordoruy jackets.

I was always active in the FFA as were my older brothers, but never much beyond the confines of our local chapter.

I attended the state FFA convention in St. Paul for four years straight and the National FFA Convention, November 1991 in Kansas City, Missouri - the first time I’d traveled outside of my known world of Minnesota and extreme eastern ND.  I kept looking for the sign “There be monsters here.”  And must admit the thrill of seeing a mule standing in a field as we approached Indendence, Missouri.  So this is Missouri I thought.

The Minnesota FFA put on some great camps and conferences, but with dairy cows and field work, they were something that I never had a chance to participate in.

When I graduated from high school, my thoughts were on helping my family through some rough times and doing well in college - my FFA days were behind me.

The spring of my freshmen year at college, my FFA advisor, Dale Erickson, convinced me to fill out my American FFA Degree application and the state FFA officer application - what is the harm he said?  A couple of hours of work.

I was intimidated.  There were about twenty young people running for six offices.  We were all about the same age, but they all seemed to know each other, knew the current people in office, had gone to camps and conferences together, and already seemed to have the pecking order firmly in place.

And here was this outsider from the middle of nowhere.  From a town that never had a state officer, and a region that hadn’t had a state officer in 30 years.

Besides all that, I fit right in.

I don’t think anyone was more surprised then me when they called my name to come on the stage at the final session.  I had been nominated and elected to be the Minnesota State FFA Vice President.  For a farm kid from northern Minnesota - this was almost beyond my grasp.  I was surrounded by the best and the brightest in the state.  My thought was “what am I doing here?”

We shook hands, handed out awards, and I rushed to the bus to make it back up north.  I was a freshman in college then, and the rest of the students avoided me on the way home - little joking, little laughing.  I was still in awe and I think they were too - no one knew quite what this meant.

I remember driving home from town, walking in, and meeting my Dad and younger sister in the kitchen.

“So how did you do.” My Dad asked.

“I’m the new Minnesota State FFA Vice President.” I said.

My Dad got this look on his face, a mixture of pride, joy, and a little mischief, and he said, “What’s the matter, you weren’t good enough to be President?”  Then he smiled and turned away.

The kitchen seemed smaller then when I had left.  The world, and a whole new scope of possibilities were in front of me.  At that point, it became very clear to me.  It wasn’t the state FFA office.  It wasn’t the awards and the honors.  It was the living.  It would be the friendships that I would make.  It would be the difference I could make - and it wouldn’t, it couldn’t be for that one year.  It was bigger then the FFA, or college - it was about life.

What a fantastic year it turned out to be.  In the end, it was just what I needed at that point in my life.

Even if I was just the vice president.

 (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 Algona Upper Des Moines on November 5, 1986)

Hi, my name is Fletcher C. Kat.  You can call me Fletch.  The C stands for capitalist and it’s Kat, as in Cat or Feline.

I imagine that you’re surprised to be reading a column written by a cat, especially a capitalist cat, but we all are you know.  Capitalist, that is.

After all capitalism is my middle name.

You see, I’ve “adopted” this newswriter as my caretaker.  It works out well.  He gets a cute, cuddly adorable pet.  I get food, water and warm place to sleep and chance to use the media to announce that cats are going to take over the world.

Our domination has been a long time coming.  Take a look at all the people who have cats. Don’t kid yourself.  You know who really is in charge.

We’ll admit that dogs got the jump on us.  Under the Reagan administration there was a dog in the White House, but he blew it.  What kind of true leader wets the rug.

Let’s face it, dogs just aren’t cut out for leadership.  They all run around with their tongues hanging out, trying to please everyone in sight.  They remind me of human politicians in that respect.

The whole bunch of them, dogs that is, are glory-seekers.  Rin-Tin-Tin, Lassie, Benji, and all the rest will do anything to get a little television time.  Dogs, simply put, are all B-grade movie actors.

You know, dogs and human politicians really are a lot alike.

Personally I think David Letterman’s Stupid Pet Tricks is custom-made for dogs.

Back to the subject of world domination.  I think that humans have seen it coming.  You call the lion the king of the jungle and then turn around and refer to politics saying “it’s a jungle out there’.  Even a dog can see that tie-in. 

If you look back through history you will find that man has had cats solving his political trouble for centuries.  Just look at the Coliseum in Roman times.

The trouble with humans, as we cats see it, is that you make everything more difficult than it really is.

Worry, worry, worry.  That’s all you humans eve do.  Now look at us cats.  How many cats do you know that have ulcers?  Hairballs, yes.  Ulcers, no.  Get my point?

Now I know that there are some humans out there who will argue that cats don’t have the intelligence to rule the world or even to have ulcers.  Let’s be serious here.  I watch TV and I know you humans have made a pretty good mess of things.  Star Wars, the arms race, poverty and the farm problems to name a few.  I don’t see how cats could do much worse.

O.K. I admit that I’m for a strong defense.  I mean, I like to have my claws as sharp as the next cat’s. It’s tough on the carpet but it won’t bust the bank like a couple of minute-man missiles will.

If you have ever seen cats fight you know it’s not pretty.  We hiss at each other, make the fur raise on our backs, (saber rattling, cat style) we scratch, the hair flies and sometimes we even draw blood.

No, cat fights aren’t pretty, but they ‘re always cat to cat.   No innocent bystanders get hurt, and certainly whole countries don’t get annihilated.

Read on human reader, I’m about to make a startling revelation to you.

We cats, capitalists that we are, have had humans figured out for a long time.  Being good capitalists, we used you to our advantage.

You feed us.  You keep us warm.  You water us.  You cuddle us.  You get rid of our parasites.  We’ve even got you trained to change our litter boxes.  All we have to do is play with some string, purr a little bit, make a half-hearted attempt at being cute, and you’re putty in our paws. 

You might as well resign yourself that cats will one day rule the world.  It really won’t be much of a change, will it?

Having said that, I, Fletcher C. Kat, bring my column to a close. George Will, eat your heart out.

Religion is contemplative.  Religion is something that we must think about, reflect upon, and hold ponder in our hearts and minds.  We must keep our eyes fixed on heaven.

But that is only part of it.

Our faith is also about action.  All of the things listed above are true, but as we reflect on the Ascension of our Lord today, let us also remember the words of the two men dressed in white that appeared as the Apostles look to heaven, “Why are you standing here looking up at heaven?”

Sometimes we forget that true faith is an active faith.  It is important to keep our eyes on heaven, but without doing anything, it is an empty goal.

Sometimes I forget as well.  I say my prayers.  I go to Mass.  I go through the motions.  I short, I stand there looking up at heaven.

I forget that our faith is one of action.  We are called to help the poor.  We are called to feed the hungry.  We are called to visit the lonely.  We are called to be Christ for one another.

Our faith is not only one of thought, our faith is also one of deed.

When we think of Jesus’ life here on earth, part of it was thought, and reason, and contemplation, but part was a life of action.  Battling demons, helping the poor, curing the lame, helping the least of society.  Preaching a Gospel of love, mercy, and justice.  We are His instruments here on earth to continue the work of the Kingdom.

May we hear the voice of the men in white calling to us “Why are you standing there looking at heaven?”

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

The moral decline of America may soon be halted by cable television.

My editor, Molly MacDonald, may argue that the scantily-clad dancer of MTV fame are hastening the moral decay of the heartland, but I am steadfast in my belief that cable TV is just what the country needs.

My logic for this belief (although admittedly somewhat askew) is that the decline of moral living in America roughly coincides with the disappearance of the grade-B movie cowboy.  I’m speaking about the rough-and tough, no-cuss, no-fuss singing cowboy.

Experts (2 middle-aged mothers who were recently lunching at Hardee’s) tell me preteen children are strongly influenced by what they watch on television.  So tell me, would you rather have your children playing “Drug dealers and Don Johnson” or “Cowboys and Indians?” 

Cable TV stations show old Roy Rogers’ flicks nearly 24 hours a day.  During weekends the cable fare really gets exciting.  The Lone Ranger, and the Cisco Kid vie for airtime with Rin Tin Tin and Rawhide.

Just for an added touch of spice, the stations throw in an old John Wayne movie to keep things interesting.  A Saturday afternoon in front of the boob tube can stir up enough patriotism to keep you going all week.

The cowboy heroes were everything you could want your kids to be: clean- shaven, God-fearin’, respectable, well dressed and able to sing.  Not bad for an uneducated cowboy.

Skeptics may argue that the films are unrealistic and violent.  I’ll be the first to admit that it’s unlikely that you will ever meet a group of cowboys who can sing in perfect 8-part harmony while effortlessly rounding up long-horns, but what the heck, kids today need something to aim for.

I’ll also admit that the films and shows are mildly violent, but I personally would rather watch Roy Rogers shoot the gun out an outlaw’s hand than see Jason return to carve up 12 more teeny-boppers in “Friday the 13th Part 23.”  (I really can’t understand why people going back to that camp.  You’d think the place would have quite a reputation by now.)

I, unfortunately, missed the wonderful era when neighborhood kids waited anxiously for the next installments in their serial westerns.  Now, through the magic of cable TV, I am able to reap the harvest of heroism that I was denied during my deprived childhood.

Old westerns on cable TV probably won’t stop the moral decline of America, but it’s nice to think so.

The reason I watch all those old flicks is that I guess I’m just a kid at heart, but professionalism may have something to do with it.  In all those old movies the frontier newspaper is always the rallying point for the good guys (homesteaders, preachers, sheep farmers, and the school marm.)  The bad guys (cattle barons, railroad tycoons, and bandits) always lose and the good guys always win and freedom of the press is preserved.  It’s kinda fun.

In some films the editor also seconds as the town drunk. I don’t believe Molly has mastered that part of her job yet, but with Wade armed with a hatchet and a toy saxophone she’s probably closer than we all think.

Just once I’d like to be like one of those old frontier editors.  In April, when the front page of the Kossuth County Advance carries a giant headline that reads “Cattle Barons Shoot It Out With Homesteaders,” you’ll know that’s the week that Molly is in Des Moines at the Iowa Press Association convention and I’m here running amok without supervision. 

Enjoy your trip, Molly.

This winter seems like it will never end.  Everyweek is more snow or more rain followed by more snow.

Growing up, we always yearned for spring.  The melting of the snow, the freshness of the first good rain, planting, letting the cows out to pasture.

But there was one thing we never craved.  The mud.

That messy gooey in between time from when the snow melted to when the earth finally dried up was a messy icky mess for man and beast.  Regardless if this time lasted a week or two months, it always seemed too long.

The most frustrating chore to do in the mud was feeding the youngstock.  Part of our diversified farm operation was raising our replacement heifers and our market steers together in the same pen.  The pen started on a rise next to the barn and followed a ridge down to the road that ran past our house.  We always strategically placed the feeders so that they were on top of the small rise that streatched through the lot.

The issue was getting through the small low spot that ran between the hayshed and the feeder. 

The cattle, while always provided with dry spots to walk and lay down, still liked the feel of mud between their hooves, so the muddy area was always more of soup, with what seemed like an endless bottom of clay underneath - perfect for holding water, perfect for making a perfect muddy mess.

Feeding was done with the tractor.  You would carefully stack a pile of square bales on the bucket or grab a big round bale with the grapple fork and head to the gate.  Inevitabily, it required getting down off the tractor, fighting through the deep, muddy ruts, opening the gate, and driving into the pen.

Then it was run, full throttle towards the feeder to make sure that you got the traction and momentum to make it through to the feeder.  If you didn’t make it through the first pass, it would usually require getting a second tractor to pull you back up out of the mire - all the while surrounded by thirty hungry head of Holsteins.

Once you made it to the feeder, a quick flick of the bucket dropped the bales into the feeder - just close enough so that they made it in, but far enough away so that you could still fit the loader in front of the feeder to help work your way out.  You see, the beauty of an empty loader was its capacity to stick the bucket into the ground and inch your way backwards.  Once the loader was empty, you would have to practically bury the tractor - which does happen - to not get it out.  Still not always easy, but usually doable.

Once you shifted it in reverse, you gunned it full throttle again, worked the bucket to push you out, and got out of there.

Whew.

Then came the time to get the twines.  The lest skilled, but usually messiest part of the operation.  Back through the mud via foot, sometimes in mud over the top of your boots, through the hungry masses of mooing cattle, and cut and collect the twines.

One week or two months - it happened every spring.

But you always hoped for one week…