(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 in the March 16, 1988)

From seventh grade on I was one of those performers.  I played a baritone horn in the Mahnomen High School Band.  I started out with the rest of the beginners in “C” band.  Then as we got better or played louder, (I’m not sure which) we advanced to “B” band.

With our move to “B” band we graduated from “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,” to real and real easy John Philip Sousa marches.  Once we started playing real music, I realized the glamour instruments like the trumpets, flutes, and trombones played all the good stuff music.  The workhorse instruments, like baritones, had the privilege of playing things like “counter-melodies,” and “movements.”

Those of us who played baritone were not impressed.  But as we got better and even louder, we baritones occasionally got to play little melodies here and there.  That kept us happy and we all stuck it out and eventually made it to “A” band.

Our band director, Mr. Kuhn, tried to teach us by example.  He was a proficient performer with most of the instruments in the band, but picking up an instrument to demonstrate was too time-consuming and inconvenient.  Instead he would mouth the proper sounds.

Ta. Ta, taas for the trumpets, Pa, pa, paaas for the baritones and wa, was, waaas for the trombones.  It was pretty humorous.

Will directing he would leap about on his podium screaming out all of his bizarre noises.  Any casual observer would have committed him to a home for the infirm on sight.

Any student who learned how to play an instrument from Mr. Kuhn knows his unorthodox methods worked.

The high school cheerleaders wanted to put together a dance routine to one of our tunes.  They came in and set up a tape recorder in front of the band next to the director’s podium.

When the tape was played back, we were amazed at Mr. Kuhn’s stunning mouth performance of “Star’s and Stripes Forever.”  It was unfortunate that the recording was ruined by all that muffled band noise in the background.

When there wasn’t snow on the ground, the band practiced marching.  We practiced marching with horns and we practiced marching without horns.  We practiced bumping into each other while turning military-style corners.  Consequently, most of our horns received as many dents on the streets as most cars in town.

The dropping of horns upon the pavement was sternly frowned upon, but happened with surprising frequency.

We marched in performances about three times each year.  We would march for the home-town crowd at the Annual Rice Days Festival.  This celebration is similar to Pufferbilly Days, except there are no trains, only beer.  We were their kids so they had to clap.

We marched on the football field at homecoming.  We performed dazzling marching maneuvers, usually in the rain or the snow, while everyone else was at the concession stand or in the bathroom.

Finally we went on the road to another town to march in a civic celebration.  Usually on the hottest day of the year, we would get all snazzed up in our flashy maroon and gold wool uniforms, pile into a stuffy school bus, drive for an hour, then march on the sweltering pavement for a mile or two.

Boy, did we have fun.  A flute player or a coronet player or two usually succumbed to the heat and fainted during these “death marches,” but as far as I know there were never any fatalities.

Daaa,daa,da,da.  Daaa, da, da.  Daaa,da,da.  Baaa, baaa,ba, da,deet, dot, dow.

For those of you who never had Mr. Kuhn as a band director, that was the tune form “Good Night Ladies, I’m Going to Leave You Now.”

Today we celebrate the lives and faith of St. Peter and St. Paul.

What an odd combination.

On the one hand, we have a poor fisherman.  A poor, uneducated, laborer used to the hard labor of casting nets and hauling in a days catch.

On the other hand, you have a learned, educated, religious zealot, intent on destroying the Christian faith.

Then the guiding hand of the Lord steps in.

The poor fisherman becomes “the rock” that the Lord will build his church around, the man that the Lord hands over his church here on earth.  The leader of the Apostles through faith and through action.

The anti-Christian zealot will be the man that spreads the Gospel throughout the known world.  He will be the one that will argue and debate, and send letters that we read to this very day.

Who would have guessed that these two very different men would be lead by the Spirit to lead the early chuch here on earth?

Who would have guessed that the Holy Spirit would guide them on these roads?

Who knows where the same Holy Spirit is guiding us today – if we but have the courage to listen…

 (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 March 23, 1988)

What about the moms out there?

Here we are saluting the working women and nobody has mentioned the moms.  You don’t have to wear a business suit, a hard hat or a uniform to be a working woman.

Those moms out there get out of bed early, get the kids off to school, was the clothes, clean the house, cook the meals and do all the other stuff that moms do.  It looks like hard work to me.  Yet, all to often, i’ll meet women who will tell me, “I’m just a homemaker.”

Just a homemaker?

Running a family has to be as challenging as running your own business.  The end product is certainly more important.

Those of you who are working up a lather because you think that I think that all women should stay home and be homemakers, hold your horses.  If a woman wants to work outside the home. That’s fine with me.  She should be allowed to have a fair shot for any job she chooses at a fair wage.

Moms work hard.  They accept heavy responsibility.  They do a good job at what they do.

What I’m trying to sayis,”why should a mom be penalized, chastised, and looked down on for wanting to be a full-time homemaker?”

I can’t think of any good reasons, can you?

I didn’t think so.

Speaking of working women, what about all those farmer’s wives out there?  Lets give them a little recognition too. Many farm wives have assumed a partnership position on the farm.  These working women are another group that is largely ignored.

They handle sizeable sums of money with ease and expertise.   They fix fences.  The chase cows.  They drive tractors.  In some cases, where a husband works off the farm, they do the majority of farm work.  In many more cases the farm work is shared equally.

Again, these hard workers are often ignored when it comes time to salute “working women.”  Not only that but laws regarding divorces, and ownership of farm assets virtually refuse to admit that farm wives exist.  Under some of the existing laws, farm wives have very little control over the farm or very little chance of maintaining a piece of that farm in the event of a divorce.

Most farm wives, like my mother, combine their roles as farm partners, off-the-farm workers and mothers.

“As soon as I get off work, i’ll run out to John Deere and pick up those parts, stop at the store and buy groceries, pickup the kids at school and take Margaret to dance lessons,” Mom would say.

“O.K.,” dad would respond.  “While you’re in town, could pick up that tire at the co-op and could we have supper early tonight?   I have a meeting.”

Mom would get it all done without a second thought and we would take it all for granted.  For those of you who know a mom, a farm wife or a farm wife/mom, don’t forget to salute them once in awhile- preferably more than once a year.

There were some rules that you just had to live by growing up on a dairy farm.

The first was the livestock had to be fed twice a day, regardless the weather. 

The second was pretty darn close to the first. 

The cows always – ALWAYS – had to be milked twice a day.

Another rule, not quite as unbreakable, but up there towards the top, was when hay was out in the field, it came only after the care of the livestock.

We were fortunate to have a good baler and a good FarmHand bale accumulator.  The accumulator was a device that was attached to the baler and would kick out neat packs of eight bales automatically behind the baler, then later, you could come around with a loader with a special loader and pick up the packs of bales and put them on a hay rack.

We had making hay darn near down to a science. 

Dad would start checking the hay, walking the windrows, twisting the hay to make sure it was fit – not to dry, not to wet, but just right to make a good sturdy bale that wouldn’t rot, or worse, heat to a point where it would start a fire.

Once Dad declared the hay fit, he would go off in the John Deere 3010 and the baler, the John Deere 336 for most of my baling years, and get a good hour start on my brother Jaime and me.

Jaime and I would go out, Jaime, being older, driving the loader tractor, an International 656 (commonly known as the “656″) and me on the old Farmall H (you guessed it, affectionately known as the “H”).

Each of us would be pulling a specially designed hay wagon, hand made on the farm.  A Minnesota chassis, built with care by the inmates at the Minnesota state pen, extended and fitted with the best rough cut lumber in the state.  You could fit three packs of bales, or twenty-four bales, the short way, across, and two bale lengths across.  All totaled, about 352 bales, or about seven tons of hay.

Jaime and I would pick up hay until milking time, then head back out for one more load before it got dark (and before supper).

It happened about once a year – we would head back out, about 7:30pm – just as the western horizon started to cloud up.  When we made it out into the field, Dad would stop long enough to get a quick update on the cows, then he would say – watch that weather boys as we he took a slug on his water jug and moved back to baling.

We would scurry around the field and quickly fill the racks, Jaime nimbly running the loader as I positioned the racks.  We usually fought a little less as the threatening weather moved it too.

When the last rack was full, I’d hop off the H, run over hook up the second full rack to Jaime’s tracter, we would glance at the sky, glance at each other and know – we had to get home.

Dad was already heading home, the hay too tough and the weather threatening.

Jaime would speed off with the heavier and newer 656, and I’d rush off to the little old H.

The H was a light tractor, the oldest running tractor on our farm, and the only narrow front.  She ran smooth, but with seven tons of hay, she knew she had to work and would sound it.

I’d hop on and take her right to second gear.

“Frrooooommmm, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop” the H would respond.

I’d shift to second and quickly to third.

“FRRRROOOMMMMM, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop” said the H.

I’d hit the clutch as I approached the crossing, backing off the throttle, my foot tapping the left side brake a my arms fighting with the steering wheel as I turned onto the road that ran a good one and half mile home, with the storm on my heels.

I’d gun the throttle to full speed and quickly shift to road gear as the first cold draft from the approaching storm hit my back…

“FRRRROOOMMMMM, POP, POP, SNORT, POP, POP, SNORT, SNORT, POP, POP, WEEE, POP POP” said the H with ther front wheels now bouncing off the gravel.

I’d lean forward on the metal seat like a motorcycle racer trying to reduce the wind drag and get a little more out of the old girl (which probably made little difference with seven tons of hay sticking up fifteen feet in the air behind me).

I eased back the throttle, downshifted, use the brakes to help steer her on the drive way and made for the open shed doors where Dad and Jaime were waiting to close them behind me just as the raindrops started to fall.

“You didn’t have her in road gear full open did you” Said Dad over the roar of the rain on the machine shed roof.

“Of course not, I know better then that.” I said, as I patted the old girl on her gas tank…

St. Louis Park, MN – Mission control was relatively quiet today as the final preparations are being made for a local man’s vacation.  In what may actually be the start of a real vacation, the Minneapolis traveler was within twenty-four hours of departure and so far, all systems are go.

“Work is fine.  The house is fine.  I still need to get my desk cleaned, take care of a few customers, pack my bags, buy gifts, warn a few people I’m planning on dropping in on, work with the person filling in, finish the retaining wall in front of my house, clean my house, buy some food for the picnic Friday night, pack the cooler, back my bag of gifts, lock up the house, stop the mail, pay some bills, pick out some books, call my sister, mail some letters, call my brothers, call my dad, get a hotel reservation for Monday night, buy a map, cover my grill, plan my route, pick out an official traveling song, get an oil change, eat three meals, and down a bottle of tequila.”  Stated the weary potential traveler.

Planners at Mission Control in St. Louis Park and planners in Fargo were concerned about some potential delays in lift off as the man’s replacement called in sick today and was unable to cross train.

“I certianly hope that my friend and collegue is doing fine and this is nothing serious.”  Stated the potential vacationeer with a dazed look in his eyes and a slight droop to his shoulders.

Experts believe that the vacation will happen.

“Quite frankly, the window is closing” cited professional scheduler Scott Zigfied.  “If we fail to get lift off witin the next forty-eight to seventy-two hours, the chance of this vacation happening before the fourth of July deminishes rapidly, then you are looking at a late July or potentially even August lift off.  Quite frankly, we don’t know if we can allow the pressure to build until that time.”

People are watching, and waiting, and hoping for the best.

Summer Time

For a farm kid from the Midwest, summer time was more then just a three month vacation.

It meant real work

The start of summer, while officially landing on June 20th, really started on Memorial Day weekend.  By June 20th, we had better have had at least one crop of hay in the hay shed, the corn had better be coming out of the ground, and the wheat had better we waving in the wind.

Summer time meant checking fences, working cattle, making sure that the last of the cows had no problems calving, work on weaning those calves from the cows and move the older calves from drinking milk replacer to a steady solid diet of grains, hay, and water.  It meant watching the pastures to make sure the cows were getting enough hay.  It meant herding them around the slough next to the house so that they could munch on the fresh green grass kept fresh by the slough that rarely went dry.

Summer time also meant helping in the garden.  By June 20th, hoeing the corn and potatoes and plucking radishes from the ground were almost daily occurances.  Endless pulling of weeds and tilling between the rows started about that time too.  It also usually meant the first of the early peas and beans.  It meant sitting on the porch swing on a warm summer night and shelling the peas to bring into Mom where she would wash and freeze them.

Summer time also meant having a little fun. 

It was Sunday afternoon picnics – the Knights of Columbus picnic, or the Homemakers picnic, or a spontaneous visit by neighbors or relatives.  It was playing with friends.  It might be one of the rare visits to Uncle Frank and Aunt Marie or Uncle Omer and Aunt Julie’s cabin at the lake.

Summertime was the time of long nights.  Of working hard all day and coming in for a late supper just as the sun was going down.  Of our family sitting around the table in the warm summer nights, laughing and joking about the day, eating my mother’s wonderful cooking and usually topped off with a big dish of ice cream.  It was about sitting on the porch when the house was just to warm, about us boys sleeping in the living room to avoid the heat in our upstairs bedroom in the 1/2 story above the kitchen.

It was those quiet nights with the singing of the frogs and blissful beauty of the earth at rest.

That was a real summer vacation.

(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 in the summer of 1988)

Ever since I started college way back in 1982 i’ve been washing my own clothes in some form of pay washer or another.  In Boone, I spend at least two hours a week at the Duds and Suds Laundromat down in the Alco Mall.

I see more of Duds and Suds owner Jim Haleen and his family than I do of my won family up in Minnesota.  His Laundromat is a little different than those we took pictures of last week.

I think the magazines are newer.  There is somebody attending the place all the time and when you buy pop and candy it’s from a person and not a machine.

Jim says those old fashioned touches will be the wave of the future.  “When somebody rebuilds a Laundromat these days, they rebuild like this,” he said.

Jim said he gets to meet many of Boone’s newest residents through his work at the Laundromat.  Many new arrivals don’t have a washer and dryer so they come to Duds and Suds.

Let’s face it, doing laundry at Duds and Suds is pretty posh.  I toss my clothes in, grab a soda, plop down in a couch and watch a big-screen TV.  What a life.

And Haleen and family are trying to make it even better.  They’ve moved the snack counter and added a drycleaning and laundry service.

When I lived in the forms at college, you had to trudge down into the dungeon of a basement to the washers.  The university obviously felt that three washing machines for 2,000 men was more than enough.  Consequently 3 a.m. Was a good time to wash.

When I lived in Bismarck, N.D., I used to carry my laundry for two blocks to the nearby Laundromat.  If you liked dark, smelly steambaths, the place was great.

In Algona, we finally got our won washing machine.  A shiny 1963 Speed Queen ringer-washer.  It was the first washing machine my parents ever owned.  We dragged it out of the basement at home, cleaned it up, shook the dog food out of it and hauled it to Algona.  That was the life. We still didn’t have a dryer, so we’d wash clothes in the basement, run them thru the ringer and hang them up to dry on the make-shift clothes lines stretched down there.

It was convenient and the humidity in the house was always comfortable.  Damp jeans were a problem though.  Fortunately we always wore our clothes before they started growing any mildew or mold.

By the way, the dog food was up inside the washer near the motor.  The mice were using it for a pantry.

I guess, all told, washing clothes at Duds and Suds every week isn’t all that bad.

We don’t have a big-screen TV at home and I wouldn’t argue if they brought back the Beer either.

I have never been popular.  I’ve never been accused of having good looks, or a good body.  I have never been known to be on the cutting edge of fashion and style.

But society and peer pressure takes its toll on me, and probably on all society.

Do I have the right job?  The right car?  Live in the right neighborhood?  Am I keeping up with the Jone’s?

I’ll admit, I live in fear sometimes.  The fear of not being accepted.  The fear of losing all I’ve worked for.  The fear of scorn and rejection of my friends, or worse my family.

Both friends and family are quick to cut us down when we step out of the societal or even family norms.  The ridicule is worse when it comes from those that we respect and admire.

We must watch what we say, watch what we do, watch to make sure that we live our lives in the “acceptable” way.  In the way that conforms to our family, or our friends, or society’s norms.

And watch out when we step out of line.

It is when I think of all these norms that I think of my little sister.

My sister Margaret has defied conventional wisdom more then once in her life.

“You must drive a car.” Says society.

“But I don’t want to.” Says Margaret.

“You must have a practical educational experience” Says society.

“But I’m not sure what I want to do.” Says Margaret.

“You must work hard and strive to get ahead.” Says society.

“But I want to work hard and learn Irish dance, or ballet, or be in a play or work on my computer.” Says Margaret.

“You must grow up and act like a proper adult.” Says society.

“What is a proper adult and what does that mean, and what if I don’t like it?” Says Margaret.

Margaret has seen her fair share of struggles.  She has struggled with faith.  She has struggled with societal and family norms.  Some days, I know she lives in fear.

When it comes down to it, I love my little sister.  I don’t know if I approve of everything she does, but I pray like Jeremiah does, that the Lord will be with her like a mighty champion.  That the Lord will Bless her, guide her and all her endeavors.

I pray that she can live a life without fear.  For I know that as much as I love my sister, the Lord loves her even more and just as he cares for the sparrow in the nest, he loves her, and guides her, and will not leave her abandoned.

The clock continues to tick and experts are predicting that a Minnesota commodity will get his vacation.

 ”The fourth time is the charm, I’m convinced of it” Stated the Minnesota man.  “Last time, I didn’t say I was going to take vacation come heck or high water.   Then the flood hit Iowa and everything got crazy.  So this time, I’m going on record, I’m going on vacation come heck or high water.”

Vegas odds makers are not so optimistic.  Les Brown, a reputable odds maker stated, “Look, with most people, when they say they are taking a vacation, they just take it.  You reschedule it twice, the odds of it happening drop…you really have to wonder about time number four.  For the third time, odds were about 75% versus the first scheduling of about 95%.  For the fourth time, odds drop to about 60%.  Its like a horse – he sires a foal, the odds are pretty good, you got four mares with no foals, the boy may be shooting blanks.  Well, as far as vacations, this boys shooting blanks so far.

North Dakota officials are wary, but cautiously optimistic. 

“Yeah, vell, ve tink it vould be a pretty darn good ting if this guy made it.  I mean, vell, it is kinda a make or bveak ting for our tourist season, either we get the tourist or ve don’t.  But hey, vat can ya do.”  Stated Ole “Ole” Olson, Scandinavian spokesperson for the North Dakota Office of Tourism.

Meanwhile, while no trip to Canada is planned, the Canadian border patrol said that they would continue to stand on gaurd for thee.

(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 in the summer of 1988)

We were quite a team. I have a brother named John who is five years younger than I am.  For years we worked side by side together on the farm.  You’d be hard pressed to find a more amicable pair.  “John, John, those feed pails are too heavy for you.  Allow me,” I would respectfully say.

“Oh no, Tom.  If I’m ever going to be as big and strong as you, i’ve going to have to work hard.  Besides, you need a rest,” he would cheerfully reply.

We almost always got along this well, but we were a model of brotherly love when we baled hay.

When i first started helping with the baling, we pulled a hay wagon behind the baler.  While I drove the tractor up front, somebody back on the wagon stacked the bales as they came pooping out the back of the baler.
As I grew older, thanks to modern technology, we towed this tiny trailer behind the baler called an accumulator.  It accumulated  (hence the name) eight bales into a neat little package and spit them out the back.

Dad drove the baler and accumulator while John and I drove around the field to pick up these neat little stacks.  We picked up the stacks with a tractor with a grapple fork.  I’d work the grapple fork while John skillfully drove another tractor with a pick-up wagon in tow.

After the first hour or two, I could pick up the stacks “on-the-go.”  Occasionally a misplaced bale would fall out of the package and I’d run it over with the tractor.  It was not a pretty sight.  A smashed broken bale messed up a whole load and caused stress and inconvenience for everybody.

As diligent as he was, John was never attentive enough to warn me when these bales fell off the grapple fork.  He should have been paying attention.

The sun beat down.  The temperature went up.  Tempers grew short.

The whole process was intensely boring, so to liven things up. I would wave directions in the air to John.  If I could direct him into the optimum position for loading bales we could speed up the process.

At this point my normally intelligent brother became a complete idiot or he was purposely ignoring my directions.  If I waved my arm around in a circle twice, pointed to the left and then to the right, you’d know what I meant, wouldn’t you?

Eventually our hand signals degenerated into brotherly hayfields warfare.  We’d shout obscenities at each other over the sounds of the tractors.  When this failed, we took turns looking disgusted and angry at one another across the hayfield.

Once in a while we even got down off our tractors and got into a shoving match.  Then dad would have to stop the baler to referee.  If there’s anything that makes dad angrier than having to stop his baler when he the sun’s shining, I haven’t found it.

Once we got a trailer or two loaded with hay, it was back to the farm for the reverse process.  John would give directions as I unloaded the hay from the wagon into an open-sided pole barn with the grapple fork.

Being a kindly big brother, I gave John the easy job.   All he had to do was to warn me the bales were crooked, if the fork was too close to the rafters, or if the tractor was too close to the support poles.  Meanwhile he was supposed to give directions to me so that the resulting stack would have a nice taper up to the roof.

I had the tough job of running the tractor.

If john behaved like an idiot in the field, he was a lunatic on top of a hay stack.  Where did he learn to wave directions like that, anyway?

Sometime during all of this a huge chunk of our haystack would topple over and we would have to re-stack it by hand.  In a nice brotherly way I would climb on the top of the haystack and tell him what he had done wrong.
“You @#@%**@.”  Weren’t you watching that stack?  Were you sleeping @#@@*#sleeping?”  I would scream at the top of my lungs in a brotherly way.

“Where’d you learn to drive a @#%**@tractor?”  Didn’t you see my signal, you ##@%)(#, he would yell calmly in reply.

We were hot and sweaty.  We were covered with scratchy hay dust.  We were tired.  Yet we still took time to talk nose to nose, red face to red face, brother to brother.

It was a touching moment when John tried to push me off the top of the haystack.  Not one to shrink from physical displays of affection, I punched him in the arm.

With tears of happiness in his eyes, John kicked me in the shin with his work boot.  We sure loved each other.

I loved him so much I slapped his face and broke his glasses.

What a team.