Monday nights were Knights of Columbus, Ladies Aid, PTA, or Catholic Daughters.

Tuesdays were Township Board.

Wednesdays were religious ed classes.

Thursday nights were School Board or Parish Council.

Friday and Saturday was leg work and socializing.

Sundays were church (choir, usher, and/or serving coffee donuts or a church dinner), MCCL Meetings, and various community events.

Whew.

That was the schedule my parents kept.  In addition to raising five very active kids and running a very labor intense farming operation along with all that goes with it (cooking, cleaning, canning, gardening, etc), they were very active in community.

Dad has served roughly 60 years in the Knights of Columbus, almost 30 years as Pembina Township Clerk, 62 years as church usher, 10 years in the Lions Club.

Mom served about 30 years in Ladies Aid and Catholic Daughters, 15 years in MCCL, numerous years in choir, countless times as room mother, chaperone, and religious ed teacher.

Between them, they served 20 years on the School Board, numerous years on the Parish Council, and volunteered for numerous other events.

This doesn’t count the times spent visiting people in the hospital, the various meals on wheels runs, or the times helping friends and neighbors.

It seems like it is no longer in fashion to do these things.  Lions Clubs, Knights of Columbus chapters, Elks Lodges, VFW’s, Legion Halls, Jaycee’s, Ladies Aid – all social and civil organizations are suffering from membership.  We get wrapped up in our lives and our daily schedules.

It means fewer and fewer people to do the jobs that many of us take for granted.  The meals at most funerals, the carnivals and fairs in our hometowns, blood drives, meals-on-wheels, and other community events are dying – not from lack of need, but from lack of people.

Growing up, there never seemed like there was enough time or enough labor to go around.  Sometimes we questioned to ourselves why our parents were always running off to another meeting or another event.

But when the time came when it was our family that needed the help and support of the community, we realized what a difference those nights alone meant.  My Mom got sick when I was a junior in high shool.  When we were on the receiving end of the visits, the meals, the prayers and the support all through her illness, it really sunk in.

My parents were building a community.  But more then that, they were building a life of service dedicated to make the world a little brighter, a little better, for their friends and their neighbors and in turn brightening the world for their children and their children’s children.

That isn’t just building a community…that is building a life.

The County Fair wasn’t all fun and games.

OK, it was all fun and games.

But there was also a lot of hard work that went into it too.  Like most community events, they were run by a large army of volunteers.  People willing to give of their time, talents and treasures to make sure that the community had an event each summer to bring it together and celebrate its success.

At the top, was the county fair board.  They were the generals that did the planning throughout the year.  Coordinating with the carnival shows, lining up the grandstand attractions, making sure that the buildings were all in good shape and the grounds kept up.

Sometimes that meant one of them running the lawnmower, but it always got done.

Underneath them was the huge cast of people.  The volunteers for the races and the demolition derby.  The people working the barns.  The county extension office worked long hours making sure that there were judges for everything from the cattle and hogs down to the flowers.

Then there was the coordination from the large group of people coming to the commercial building.  People representing their businesses or their organization.  Making sure that a booth was rented and their organizations were represented – and in the process, lending their support to their community. 

In addition, most churches and other civic organizations had some part to play.  Some had food booths, some ran events.  The Lions had their pancake feed.  The Knights of Columbus had their Bingo games.  The Ladies Aid had their food stand.  The 4-H had their building with displays and food.

My folks were no exception.

I can remember Mom starting to work weeks before the fair for the Ladies Aid Food Stand.  She and several other ladies would divide duties – calling for volunteers, food, and donations.  The spread was usually pretty good.  A good sandwich, a piece of pie, and a pop satisfied a lot of fair goers. 

Dad played his part too.  He would gallantly hand the reigns of the farm over to us kids at least one day and do his part at the Knight’s of Columbus Bingo tent.  Making sure that people had their cards, taking money and handing out winnings.

In addition to being hard work, I also think it was a lot of fun.  It was the social networking that held our community together.  Mom could catch up on the latest news calling around.  Sometimes working the food stand was a good respite from her own five hudlums at home.  For Dad, getting away from the farm and working with friends…maybe having a beer or two in the process…was also a good way to catch up, relax a little, and recharge.

Those days have passed.  The state health board shut down the Ladies Aid Food Stand.  It had no running water and the pop was cooled in iced down stock tanks.  Plus the food was all prepared at home – all no-no’s in today’s food safety concious world.  The Knight’s Bingo Hall died away too.  Lack of volunteers and lack of people with Bingo halls popping up around the countryside elimating the fix to buy a card or two and try for the $50 grand prize.

Thankfully, the fair lives on.  It has consolidated, and smaller then it has been in the past, but it still breathes.  Hopefully, it will remain a part of the fabric of young families and the community for years to come.

(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 spring of 1989)

Outlaw the darn things before somebody anybody else gets hurt or killed.

The first rays of spring had barely burst through the clouds and they were back.  Buzzing here.  Whizzing there.  And humming everywhere.  Almost makes you wish winter was back.

Moped.  I hate ‘em.

They are the product of a once-serious-problem- the energy crisis.  They look like toys.  All they are is two wheels, a seat, a gas tank and a little wind-up motor.  Even that annoying sound they make is hard to take seriously.

What is serious is the hazard the drivers of those things pose to pedestrians, property, other drivers and themselves.  But they do give quite a performance as they zip around town.

Watch them swing across two or three lanes without signaling! 

Watch them run stop signs!

Watch them play tag with their friends while zooming down Story Street!

Watch them cut in and out of traffic!

Watch them zoom around corners with out looking or signaling first!

They’re amazing!

If one bashes into me nine chances out of 10 it’s not my fault.

Looks to me that most of the offending drivers are youngsters- just weaned from bicycles and skate boards, no doubt.  Hot-dogging on something that runs on foot-power alone is dangerous enough.  Add an engine to the mix and you’ve got a formula for disaster

Downtown traffic’s no place for a show-off. (A lesson some grownups could stand to study.) But motorized mayhem is particular idiotic if the participants don’t have the protection of four doors, a roof and a few windows.

If drivers can’t obey traffic laws and drive responsibly, they shouldn’t be driving.  And mopeds seem to lend themselves to bending the rules and hot-rodding

Some parents will argue mopeds are necessary for their kids to get around and meet their busy schedules.  That’s fine, but if the little idiots can’t follow the rules of the road, maybe their schedules need to be revised.

The new schedule could include a little more study of driver safety-perhaps while safely confined to the basement.

So if things don’t change, look for some action by the city council or legislators.  A few more injuries or a little too much hot-dogging with the wrong people watching is all it will take.  Pressure from concerned citizens will mount and lawmakers will acct.

Snowmobiles are prohibited in downtown Boone.  Bikes and skateboards are no-nos on the sidewalks there.  How hard would it be to ban mopeds?

Or maybe a concentrated effort by our police department would be called for.  Strict enforcement of motor vehicles codes would ensure that all the most responsible and conscientious drivers would have to steer clear of downtown or risk a fine or confiscation. 

So next time you get the urge to rev it up a little-think again.

If you don’t shape up, somebody else may see that you get shipped out.

In this materialistic, consumer driven, secular world of ours, the reading from Matthew is a great read – “The Kingdom of heaven is like a treasure buried in a field, which a person finds and hides again, and out of joy goes and sells all he has and buys that field.”

Gold.  Money.  Power.  Riches.  Treasure.  These are the things we treasure.  These are things society tells us are good and proper, and worthy.

Our society throws out such mantra’s such as “If you can believe it, you can acheive it.” or “The Lord will bless us with riches here on earth if we but ask Him.”  We expect to pray and have our financial burdens eased, our health restored, and all our problems gone away.  Society would like us to see the Lord as our own personal banker.

Unfortunately, we miss the entire point.

Yes, Jesus, St. Paul, St. Peter, and many of the prophets tells us that true believers SHOULD expect rewards.  They SHOULD expect happiness.  They SHOULD expect graces.

But lets not forget that these same people that told us to expect all of these wonderful things also suffered amazingly painful and horrific deaths near penniless.

But that should not surprise us.

In fact, the Bible is very clear on two points.

The first is that things rarely happen the way we expect them.  The Lord gives us signs and guide posts along our journey, but rarely is it easy, and rarely do things go according to our own plans.  One of my favorite lines is “If you want to hear God laugh, tell Him your plans.”

We see St. Paul as the mighty preacher of the gospel – he probably didn’t see it that way as he faced his death at the hands of the Roman athorities.

St. Peter was the humble fisherman that lead the early church from the death of our Lord to its exponential growth.  He probably didn’t see how people would view his work as he hung upside down from the gibbet of the cross.

These men were promised riches – indeed, they are the same that promise us riches!  Yet it was not earthy riches, or power, or honor that they sought or were granted.  They chose the things that are more worthy.  Dying to self.  Living for others, and following the way of our Lord.

The second point is about how we are to pray.  Modern times will tell us to ask the Lord for money, and power and honor.  In our secular soceity, these are the things we must and should ask for.  They are the fashion of the time.

If only we would follow the wisdom of Solomon.

Here was a young king in uncertian situations.  The Lord granted him anything he wished.  Money? Fame? Power? The heads of his enemies?  All these things would be very usefull for a young king.

But Solomon instead asked for an understanding heart.

How often does that make our way into our prayers?  If we were granted one wish for anything in the world, how many of us in our society today would have the courage, the strength or the wisdom to ask for understanding?

May the Lord grant us the wisdom to our live our lives so that we might lead a life that will help us acquire those things that are true treasures in this world and the next.

 (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)

I phoned my brother Jamie last night for a damage report.

He is a 6-foot-4-inch teenager who’s waist is smaller than my wrist, legs are longer than both of mine put together and shoes are as big as my car.  He’s also clumsy which is why I was talking to him.  Every week or so I call him for a damage report.  Usually he recites a list of broken bones, furniture, farm equipment- things like that.

He is also prone to convulsions, hay fever and unexpected seizures and growths.  He’s known to local insurance agents as bad risk number one.

Lately we’ve been concerned about a series of bumps that have developed on his legs.  I asked Jaime what they were.

“I don’t know, but they’re kind of cool, though.  They gross-out Mark,” Jaime said.

Mark is my younger brother.  He is two years younger than Jaime and gets grossed-out by things like blood, dead animals, bugs and Jaime.  Jaime doesn’t mind blood or dead animals.  He thinks bugs are neat and wants to make a career out of grossing-out his younger brother.

Mark’s only recourse is that he is extremely talented at irritating the heck out of Jaime when ever he wants to.  A carefully turned phrase or cleverly planned action will send Jaime over the edge into a blind rage.

As far as the damage report was concerned, the bumps had quit growing so there was nothing new this week.  However, Jaime did mention that Mark had developed a large bump on his arm moments before my call.

“What kind of bump?” I inquired.

“Just a bump-black and blue,” he replied.

“What do mom and dad think about it?”

“Don’t know.  They’re not home.”

“Are you sure Mark’s OK?” I asked.  I happen to know that Mark’s personal safety and well-being are not always upper-most in Jaime’s mind.

“I don’t think it’s that bad,” Jaime replied confidently.   Why shouldn’t he be confident?  He’d examined similar bumps on his own body many times before.

“How did it happen?” I asked.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Jaime replied, “We were down in the barn figh-playing.. Yeah, playing,” he replied.

“Playing?” I asked pointedly. 

“Yeah, he fell.”

“Did you help him fall?

“Maybe a little.”

Turns out that Mark has a broken arm.  He’ll be in a cast for several weeks.  Jaime has just a touch of a guilty conscience.  He still maintains his innocence though.  “I didn’t do anything.  We were just playing,” he says incredulously.  His facial expression relays shock.  How could we accuse him of breaking Mark’s arm?  After all, they’re brothers.

Not to worry, though.  There is some justice.  Somebody has to do Mark’s chores while he is in a cast.

Now where’s Jaime?

I sure hope he’s not out “playing” with the dog.

It was one of the few days of the summer Dad would shut down operations on the farm a little early.  The tractors would be put away, the milking done a little earlier then normal (just so that cows would barely notice).  Mom would have a good – but light supper ready when the cows were milked, for she knew…junk food would be consumed in bulk in a very short amount of time.

This was the time of the county fair.

Our county fair always used to seem to hit at the hottest time of summer, either late July or early August.  The sight of heat lightening as we walked from the car to midway always stuck with me.  It seemed like every year (when in reality it might have been two or three times) we were met by the sight of the natural fireworks far off in the western sky as we walked through the ancient stone gates that lead to the county fair grounds.

The fairgrounds themselves were really something.  The four main features were all products of President Roosevelt’s New Deal via the Works Progress Administration.  The front gates were all field stone.  The barn, the main exhibition building, and the grandstand were all solidly constructed by the same program.  The barn was very unique – with its three story lofty design.

As a family, we would walk through the exhibit hall, usually with a malt firmly in our hands bought from the county dairy association malt booth close to the gate.  We would look at the wheat, the corn, the vegetables, the canning.

Then off to the commercial building where businesses and organizations had their booths set up with raffles, give-aways, and promotions.  But usually it was a lot of friends and neighbors visiting and supporting each other.  Which was sometimes commical.  Seeing the County Democrats carefully watching the County Republicans booth (“Oh, Vernon just went to grab us all malts.” one of the volunteers in the Democrat booth told us when we inquired where her neighboring Republican adversary was.)

Then it was off to the barns.  The main building housed the cattle.  Steers, heifers, and cow calf pairs.  Maybe some dairy thrown in, but primarily beef.  The first annex  with the show ring held the sheep and lambs.  The west annex was all hogs.  The last annex held the balance of the dairy and the poultry.

This is when our folks would give my older brothers a handful of tickets and a dollar or two and cut them loose on the Midway to find their school friends and get caught up on the happenings of the summer.

Mom and Dad would take us younger kids around the midway.  Dad usually hung back and visited with the other fathers.  Mom made sure we had our tickets and would sometimes join us on the rides.  The scrambler and the tilt-a-whirl were the favorite of Mom, and so naturally they were the favorite of us kids too, even though I sometimes found them pretty scary.  The fear factor was taken out when you had the safety of Mom sitting next to you and it just became a thrill.

The last ride was usually the carousel was usually the last ride of the evening.  Mom and Dad would watch us go around.  We were all pretty tired and I remember thinking my eyes were playing tricks on me – was that my Mom and Dad holding hands?  Wasn’t my Dad afraid of getting girl germs?

Once they had us all rounded up, a final treat of cotton candy was passed around as we made our way back to the car as the heat lightening still shimmered in the distance…

The Knights of Columbus picnic always marked the turning point of summer.  We knew, that once the picnic came, summer was half over.

Usually, the picnic was held in the parking lot of one of the country church about eight miles east of my hometown.  There was no real lake (more like a muddy brown slough), but there was always plenty of trouble…er…fun to get into.

After church, the family would pile into the car, and after a quick stop at home to grab some food, chairs, and blankets, away we would go.

My dad wasn’t, and still isn’t, a big one for eating outside.

“I have to work outside everyday, I don’t want to have to fight bugs for my lunch.” He used to say.

And we couldn’t hardly blame him, but the picnic was something special.

Usually, it was the same group of people that showed up every year, and looking back, it is amazing how clickish things were, even amongst the grown ups.  Usually, we knew who our group was – the Bushettes, the Kettners, the Leins, the Jiriks.  There was always some cross polination, but everyone had their cores.

Once the car hit the parking lots, the same thing happened every year.  The fathers would all congregate.  They would talk farming, politics, and local gossip (of course they wouldn’t refer to it as gossip…it was local news and events…).  The mothers all went to work putting the food out, making sure the hot things stayed hot and the cold things stayed cold (I don’t think it was so much food safety as much as the fact that if anyone got sick, they knew they would be the ones cleaning it up).  And us kids made a run for our own groups.  The older kids went to the quiet of the cemetary where they could drink the beers they swiped out of the coolers.  The middle aged kids would head behind the pastor’s house.  The young kids would head for the ancient playground.

Most of the food was the same as well.  You knew the Kettner’s would bring their great pulled pork.  The Bushette’s make some of the best bars.  The Lein’s always brought the fruit.  My Mom always brought her lemon bars and her five bean hot dish.  The highlight for most people (the lowlight if anyone was trapped with them in a car the next day – the beans, dripping with brown sugar and bacon were delicious was toxic 24 hours later which begs the question, how could anything that tastes SOOOO good smell so very, very, very bad such a short time later?  I digress).

We all ate around 1pm.  Each family to their own family group (there seems something so bibilical about that).  After eating, the mothers cleaned and visited.  The fathers visited.  The kids did organized games.

The games consisted of three-legged races, sack races, wheel barrow races, and races races.  I sincerely think that they were just trying to wear us down with races.

But it never worked.

Ultimately, the few fathers that we selected to organize us kids gave up (like we knew they would), and the real games began.

The ancient playground next to the church consisted of a rotting swingset, a large slide, and a very small, but well greased, merry-go-round.  It was the merry-go-round that was the main attraction.  It was diveded into four equal pie shapes.  The older kids would select younger kids to take turns grabbing onto the middle post while three or four of them stood there and spun it as fast it could go.

This was where the nickname of the puke machine came from.

After kids were loaded down with pork, beans, bars, and punch…you just knew that one of them was going to loose it.

I have to compliment my older brothers.  They would never let them put us, their younger siblings, on the puke machine.  Either they loved us, felt responsible for us, or wanted to torture us at home in their own special way.  Either way, I don’t think any of us had the pleasure of feeling the fine meal going both ways.

About 4pm, you could tell the families that had dairy cows.  The fathers were fidgeting to get home.  Before long, the food was packed, the kids were being herded towards the cars, and the good byes were being said all around.

At the time, the event seemed so natural, so American, so part of life, that you never pictured the tradition coming to an end.  But over time, fewer families would come, there were fewer kids to try to corral, and life got busier and the event faded from existance.  But the memories of family, friends, pulled pork, baked beans and the puke machine will live on for years to come.

  (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)

Like a lazy snake, sunning under the hot summer sky, the Mighty Mississippi River winds it way under the sandstones bluffs of Red Wing, Minnesota.

A boom-town in the 1870’s, Red Wing thrived on the flow of grain spilling sown from northern Minnesota and the Dakotas.  Riverboats, steamed by, billows of smoke streaming across the mighty waters.  In the richly –appointed halls and lounges of the St. James Hotel, traders bought and sold wheat and corn for shipment down the river.

As the railroads expanded their steely grip on the nation, the importance of Red Wing as a trading center slipped.  The once-grand St. James and the fabulous city opera house declined into second-rate status.

Until 10 years ago, Red Wing, like Boone and hundreds of other Midwestern cities and towns, was slowly losing its businesses and citizens.  Citizens of Red Wing traveled the 50 miles to Minneapolis and St. Paul for shopping entertainment, much like Boone residents travel to Ames and Des Moines now.

Then civic-minded Red Wing citizens, with the help of the Red Wing Shoe Company and other businesses and investors, decided it was time to turn the town around.  One of the first projects was to restore the St. James to its original grandeur.  Its brass accents shine and the dark woodwork glows with new life.  From the huge windows in the elegant dining room, patrons watch the massive barges make their way toward the gulf.

Folks come from across the Midwest to enjoy the sandstone bluffs and historic home of Red Wing.  A burgeoning bed-and-breakfast industry is doing well.  The City Opera House where Garrison Keillor broadcast a few of his episodes of his “Prairie Home Companion,” will re-open later this year, completely restored.

An entire city block of historically significant buildings is being restored to reflect its original appearance.  New buildings have sprung up, but city officials, mindful of history, have made certain that they blend into the city-scape.

The revitalized downtown, parks on the riverfront and on the bluffs, and a can-do attitude has brought Red Wing millions of tourist dollars.

There’s a lesson here for Boone.  History and tradition run deep here.  Where grain and river trade built Red Wing, railroads, coal and agriculture built Boone.  Beneath those modern facades in downtown Boone lurks a century’s worth of architecture.  Under the brambles and brush of Boone’s rural country-side hides the remnants of a rich coal-mining and railroad industry.

The Ledges and the quiet beauty of the Des Moines River Valley are natural wonders that rival Red Wing’s sandstone bluffs and the Mississippi.

The key to success in Boone is the same as it is in Red Wing- forward thinking leadership with the initiative to formulate a plan and the tenacity to follow through.

The Boone and Scenic Valley Railroad, Marnie’s Birthplace and Ledges State Park are steps in the right direction. But Boone needs a plan to pull its tourist attractions together.  This spring’s leadership conference was a step in the right direction.

Leaders needn’t think small.  A Des Moines River Convention Center maybe the catalyst Boone County needs to become the largest tourist center in the state. With the right attitude and enough planning, tourists could be flocking here from Des Moines, Fort Dodge or even the Twin Cities.

The pieces are all here.  Boone just needs to put them together.

Friday was not a good day.

I didn’t sleep well the night before.  I woke up tired.  Work was a blur of activity, the phone never quit ringing, and though some things went amazing smooth, others did not.  I was tired.  But more then that, I was disgusted with myself.  These were the day’s that I should love, the days that I thrive on.  These are the days that I should be able to work hard for ten hours straight, grab a beer or two after work, go to the gym and meet people out afterwards to celebrate the end of a good week.

But I couldn’t.

I let the concerns of the week weigh me down.  Not just the concerns of the week, but the concerns of my life.  I let the dark shadows of my mind rule me thoughts and my actions.  Rather then celebrate, I slept.  Rather then have joy in the all fo the wonderful things that I have in my life, I mourned over my short comings, my failings, and my sins.

This week’s reading from the Letter of St. Paul to the Roman’s is one that gave me hope in my shortcomings for St. Paul writes, “The Spirit comes to the aid of our weakness…”

Several years ago, then Minnesota Governor Jesse Ventura made the comment that “religion is a crutch for the weak minded.”  He was lambasted in the press and by some religious leaders.

But Jesse was right.

Perhaps crutch is a poor term, but throughout the Bible, the Lord reminds us that we are all weak.  We are all subject to our human frailties.  Our weaknesses and our sinful natures make us human.

But through the intercession of our Lord, these weaknesses are turned into strengths and our sins are washed away on the gibbet of the cross.  If we listen to the words of the gospel, if we open our hearts, if we admit our weakness, our hearts become a fertile ground for the seeds of life to spring forth.

It is by confessing this weakness, it is in knowing our sinfulness, it is in failing, and falling, but standing up again and again to do the good deeds, to fight the good fight, to live a good life in the Spirit, and with the Spirit that we are granted His strength.

We are all weak.  We all need His strength.  May the Lord grant us the wisdom of the Psalmist who said:

“You, O Lord, are a God merciful and gracious,

slow to anger, abounding in kindness and fidelity.

Turn toward me, and have pity on me;

give your strength to your servant.”

 (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)

There was something pretty special about it.

My wife, Mary, and I spent July 2 in Hillsboro, N.D.  We were there for a wedding of two of our close friends.

We spent Saturday cruising up the Red River Valley to Hillsboro, a tiny town located midway between Fargo and Grand Forks.  The heavy soil of that area holds water like a sponge.  As we descended over the rim of the valley, the effects of the drought could scarcely be seen as thousands of acres of green wheat fields spread out before us.

It’s flat there.  The only thing that interrupts the fields are the exit ramps on I-29 and the power poles that march to the horizon.  Here and there, farms break the patchwork of the fields.

Hillsboro and its Crystal Sugar beet processing plant appear on the horizon miles before it’s time to turn off the highway.  We rolled into town about 5:30 p.m., giving us a little time before the 6 p.m. Wedding.  We found Our Savior Lutheran Church on a tidy side street.  The grass was mowed, the bushes trimmed and the door open to catch the evening breeze.

The church seemed fairly old with recent additions.  The dark pews were worn from use.  The Scandinavian influence in the area was as evident in the church’s soaring beams and carvings as in the voices of the family and friends who gathered there.

The families of both the bride and the groom have their roots firmly planted in the North Dakota soil.  In a cliché, they both came from “sturdy stock.”  Fathers wore similar happy expressions softened by years of weathering in North Dakota’s summers and winters.  Mothers also wore similar expressions-a mixture of joy and panic.

It was a nice wedding, as weddings go.  There was a scampering flower girl and some problems with a stubborn unity candle.  We noticed one groomsman had brand-new cowboy boots.

The little touches were nice too.  The bride had made her own dress.  It was complimented by a Norwegian wedding crown- a family heirloom.  There was Norwegian wedding cake and lefse at the reception.

After the wedding, the party moved out to the family farm.  Children fished chilled pop out of the stock tank.  A elderly three-piece band, an accordionist, a guitar player and a drummer, played polkas and waltzes near the garage while couple twirled on the concrete floor.  The red sun sunk out of sight behind the tractors and implements that had been lined up solemnly for the occasion.

It was a traditional Midwestern rural wedding.  So down-to-earth, yet so uplifting.  What made the wedding special?  Was it the wheat waving in the breeze?  The dust hanging over the gravel road?  The sun setting on a little Norwegian church?

We had come to see two people who belonged together pledge to stay that way.  We shared their day.

It was also reminiscent of what Mary and I went through on a July Saturday two years ago.  The elements were there- family, friends, and solemn vows- the things that count.

Eric and Nancy will face problems.  They’ll fight and they’ll make up.  It’ll happen whether they stay in North Dakota or move on to someplace like Iowa.  In the meantime they’ll grow.  They’ll grow in love and they’ll grow closer to friends and family.  That’s what happens to “sturdy stock.”