(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 fall of 1988)

My pickup truck has a chirp.

It is most pronounced at about 30 miles per hour.  As I cruise down Story Street, everyone turns to stare.  “Chirp.  Chirp.  Chirp,” my truck scoffs at the onlookers.  I stare nonchalantly back at them, as if to say,” What are you string at?”

But inside, I cry.  A macho vehicle like an old pickup truck should not chirp.  Or at the very least, it should fumble just a bit while I wait for the light to turn green.

My truck chirps.

If you read this column regularly (and you should), you know I spent most of the summer rebuilding the engine in this truck.

No, I’m no a mechanic, but now the truck runs.  I am back on the road.  My wife doesn’t have to share her car anymore.  And everything’s fine.

Except for that darn chirp.  Maintaining that truck is becoming a permanent hobby.

I knew when I started rebuilding the engine that it was going to be a big job.  I was prepared for that.  I wasn’t prepared for all the little things that came next.

Once the engine was running like a charm, I thought I’d put in a new radio.  The old one was fine if bent knobs and static are your thing.  Personally, I wanted a little more fidelity in my sound system.

It took me almost an entire Saturday to take out that old radio out of there.  I put it in myself when I got the truck five years ago, but I don’t remember putting all of those screws in there so tight.

Anyway, once the radio was out, my wife gave me The Checkbook Look.  I decided that purchasing a new radio would not be fiscally responsible.  So now I have a gaping hole in my dash.

That’s not as bad as it sounds (or doesn’t sound, as is the case when your radio is missing).

When the weather turned cold recently, I discovered that switching the warm airflow from the “Heat” setting to the “Defrost” setting was all but impossible- especially while trying to drive.  Adjusting my heater became a two-handed task.

Not to worry.  Access to the backside of the sliding control was easy with the radio missing.  A couple of shots of WD-40 was all it took to return fingertip control to my airflow.  Now as the heater heats up, the odor of WD-40 permeates the cab.  But I expect that to fade by Christmas.

And by Christmas I expect to be sitting on the floor.  That’s because my seat is sagging.  I can deal with a sagging seat. It’s been sagging for a long time now.  I just settle into the hole and away I go.

But a couple of weeks ago, I became painfully aware that there were still little wires poking through those old tufts of foam rubber.  I guess you could say I’m “on pins and needles” wondering what will happen next.

In the meantime there’s that chirp to worry about.

I don’t suppose it has anything to do with that puddle of anti-freeze there on the pavement.

No, I didn’t think so.

I hope automotive heater-hose goes on sale somewhere soon.  I need about 18 feet of it.  I might as well replace those old hose clamps, too.

And last week, someone smashed an egg against my driver’s side window in a pagan Halloween ritual.  The gaskets around those windows aren’t too good anymore and a good size chunk of shell and quite a bit of yellow gunk oozed down inside my door.

Me and my nose are suddenly glad it’s cold outside.

I tried my hardest with my longest screwdriver and I couldn’t get that shell out of there. All I did was make a bad situation worse as far as my window gaskets are concerned.

I did get the rest of the egg washed off the window and the door.  It didn’t help the chirp though.

Of course the chirp might not be as bad it seems.  If I manage to get rid of the chirp, chirp, chirp.  I might notice a clunk, clunk, clunk or a thump, thump, thump.

And anybody knows anything about old trucks know a chirp, chirp is better than a clunk, clunk or a thump, thump.   That’s not to be confused with the thunka, thunka, thunka that indicated that you need to rebuild your engine.

If you hear a thunka, thunka, thunka in your old truck, just save yourself a bunch of trouble and turn they keys over to your brother for Christmas.

 (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 September, 1988)

We were in northern Minnesota a while ago.  The farmers there have finished harvesting their wheat and barley.  Much of the ground has blackened by plowing-like a blanket turned back in preparation for the cold days of winter.

The leaves there were just starting to show their golds and yellows.  It was windy and rainy while we were there.  In the drizzle and mist our little car hissed past empty beaches and resorts.  The lakes were steel-gray and choppy.  Except for whitecaps, the lakes were empty where only a few short weeks earlier sportsmen and vacationers frolicked in their calm blue depths.

Many of the small communities we visited were already showing their winter personalities.  Some of the frantic gaiety was gone.  The towns were quieter, perhaps muffled by the rain, but more likely resuming the stately pace of winter living without vacationers and tourists.

It’s fascinating to watch the seasons change in lake country. When we lived there we frequented a resort bar and grill just across the road from the sandy shore of Detroit Lake in northwestern Minnesota.  The Lakeside Lodge was an ancient building dating back to the 1880’s.  Heavy beams and joists supported the old building through generations of summer revelers and long winters of cold emptiness.  Its plank floor was scarred by many seasons’ worth of cigarettes, spilled beer and damp feet fresh from Detroit Lake.

In the spring as we munched fried appetizers, we watched as the proprietors frantically readied the lodge for the season, laying in supplies and painting murals on the walls and installing a volleyball court outside.  Spring sunshine reflected off the lake and through the door.  The door stood open as if beckoning to the summer crowds that had not yet arrived.

In July, we sipped cool glasses of beer as the old jukebox boomed out tunes by the Beachboys and Bruce Springsteen.  We had been swept inside the open door by a tide of vacationers who had come for the fun and sun of summer in Minnesota.  Our words were swept away in the buzz of the crowd and the jukebox throb.  We could only smile at one another as we stood shoulder to shoulder with vacationers from Canada, Fargo, California and New York City.

Then in the fall as the leaves fell and the lake turned cold and choppy, we watched quietly through the lodge’s big windows as a fall thunderstorm slowly moved across the lake, drawing a curtain of gray between us and the opposite shore.  The door still stood open.  Through it wafted the cool smell of rain mingled with the odor of burning leaves.

As the only customers there, we enjoyed the baskets of free appetizers as the employees attempted to empty the freezers before the old lodge was closed for another winter.

On Christmas Eve we drove the curving road that follows the beach of Detroit Lake.  Lighted Christmas trees and decorations glinted windows tucked back amid the trees.  The lake was frozen, a barren white plain.  In the darkness and falling snow, we could make out the shadowy forms of a few isolated ice-fishing houses out on the lake.

The Lakeside Lodge was dark, its black windows staring like empty eyes across the white lake.  The door was closed and locked and the new snow joined what was already on the doorstep.

For us boys, chopping corn meant a couple of days out of school.  Usually there was a crew that would help, but on days when someone could make it, we were pulled into service.The job was relatively easy.  Drive back and forth from the field to the farm yard.  In the field, you would wait for the person running the chopper (for us, this was always Dad) to have a full wagon of silage.  He would pull a cord that would automatically unhook then silage box, then he would drive ahead, line up with the empty box, and back up to it so that you could hook him up.

All pretty simple stuff.

But the silage box was pretty simple piece of equipment too.  It was a simple metal wagon.  On the bottom of the wagon was two chains that ran around with paddles that would push the load of silage out of the back of the wagon.  The back of the box opened with two big swinging doors and an overhead wooden gate that would swing out as the silage was pushed out.  In the front of the box was a long power take-off shaft and a gear box.  Tight turns required that as you came into to dump you had to hook up the power take off, before you left the farmyard, you had to disconnect the PTO shaft from the tractor and secure it too the wagon.  Failure to do so would mean that the PTO shaft would split in the middle as you made one of the many turns to and from the field and cause a breakdown that would grind the operations to a halt…and may not allow you the opportunity to miss school the next time the chance came up….

My junior year of high school, we had one of those days, two of the crew couldn’t make it so my brother Jaime and I would get out of school for a day hauling silage.

The two tractors that we used was the Old Farmall H - a narrow front tractor with no cab and no real protection from the elements.  The other was a newer John Deere 3010 that had a cab with an actual heater and radio (neither of which worked).

Usually, as the younger brother, I had got the old H.

This day, after lunch, I managed to get in front my brother Jaime in the line up and took the 3010 out to the field.   I heard about it from my brother who was furious (”I have to drive the H?!?”) and from my Dad (”How come you are making Jaime drive the H?!?”).   My Dad’s cousin Urban, who was in charge of packing the pile of silage in the farmyard found some humor in it (”Jaime didn’t look too happy…can’t imagine why.”).

The job got to be routine.

Out to the field, watch Dad drop the full wagon, off the tractor, hook Dad up to the empty wagon, hook up the full wagon haul it home, pass Jaime half way home, scowl back at him, drive up to the pile, Urban opened the back of the wagon, I hooked up the PTO shaft, engage the PTO, and watch the wagon empty.  Once it was empty, unhook the PTO as Urban shut the back gate, drive back to the field, pass Jaime, scowl back at him…

Ho-hum.

It was on one of the passes in the late afternoon, as I was watching the silage flow out the back of the wagon from the driver’s seat of the John Deere 3010, half turned in the seat with my hand out the back of the tractor that I heard the snap, heard the banging, and felt the pain…

The PTO shaft had broken off the wagon - but stayed connected to the tractor - which meant it was spinning pell-mell behind the tractor at 2000 RPM’s hitting the tractor, hitting the wagon tongue, bouncing off the tires, and in general, creating quite a racket.

I disengaged the PTO as Urban came running around the box.

“Huh,” He said, “That’s a new one.”

Five minutes later, the PTO shaft was patched (a quick bolt to hold it together) and I was almost on my way.  Almost unscathed….

“What happened to your finger?” Urban asked as we were finishing up.

“It was hanging out the back of the cab when the shaft broke and it got it.” As I held up the swollen, crooked, middle finger on my right hand.

“Maybe we should be glad you weren’t driving the H today,” he smiled.

Had the shaft of broken when we were driving the H - it wouldn’t have been bouncing off the back of the cab…it would have been bouncing off my back.  I was lucky to have a broken finger and not a broken back.

With four boys (and a younger sister) a little injury like a broken finger wasn’t enough to go to the doctor - the time away from the field and the cost of the doctors bill just wasn’t worth it.

Plus I didn’t mind so much.  Now when I scowled back at Jaime on the road, I could hold up my broken, swollen, middle finger…and not get it trouble…I was just showing him my broken finger, honest!

September meant chopping corn.  Corn silage one of the great wonders of nature.  How corn, piled on the ground or put into a silo, will crust over and ferment - and create a well preserved animal feed in the process is one that chemists have found the answer too…but still boggles the mind.To get that right mix to create a good feed - the corn couldn’t be completely green, but it also couldn’t be dry either.  You needed just the right mix of dry matter and moisture to ferment…just like a fine wine.

Corn chopping was a community activity around our block.  My Dad and his cousin Urban shared the two row John Deere silage chopper.  Several neighbors would help with hauling the silage from the field to the pile in the farm yard.  If not enough neighbors were around, us kids would be pulled out of school to help.

Dad and Urban shared the responsibilities too.

Dad ran the chopper - he was good at it.  His keen directional instincts made him the logical choice for running the chopper and overseeing operations out in the field.  The corn chopper was a fairly uncomplicated piece of machinery.  The corn went in the front, was moved to one side where a huge drum with knives grazed one large bed knife, chopped the corn and shot it out the back to a trailer that was being towed.  Once a trailer was full, a hauler would have another one ready to go - Dad would hook up and go.

Urban oversaw the piling operations in the farm yard.  The mound of silage would grow from one small wagon on the ground to a massive mound of feed that would last us all winter long.  The piler had to be responsible for overseeing the dumping of each wagon and carefully pushing and piling the silage into a neat pile that would allow for good fermentation.  There was some science behind it (and also a good deal of guts) as the tractor pushed and prodded the silage on the pile.  Sometimes leaning precariously off the edge of the 10 foot drop from the top of the pile to the ground to make sure that silage went up - and not out.

It also helped that Urban dealt with the haulers the most.  He was very laid back and had a great, dry sense of humor.  As a kid, things that would have caused my brothers to go into a blinding rage often made Urban bust into laughter.

And that was infectious.

Chopping silage, occasionally, things broke.

One day, a knife broke in the chopper.  Dad and Urban quickly had it apart and one of them ran into town for a replacement.  This was stressful for two reasons - you had a whole crew of men waiting on the chopper to be fixed - and the knives were expensive.

Luckily - this knife was a relatively quick fix.  We had the chopper buttoned up and ready to roll.  Dad fired up the tractored and engaged the PTO.

There was three load clanks, and the whole chopper froze up, shutting down the big tractor running it in the process.  We were all standing there stunned.

Very calmly, Urban turned to us and said, “Hey, any of you guys remember to take out that pipe wrench?”

(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 September, 1987)

 All that rainy weather last week was sure starting to get to everybody.  Quite a few folks were getting just a little bit cranky over all the cloudy rainy days, but I kind of like it.

That cool weather reminded me of fall and I love fall.  It’s my favorite season.  I am looking forward to it here in Boone.  I’ll bet the colors on the trees in the valley are fantastic.

In fact, I would be willing to bet that quite a few Boone County farmers say they aren’t looking forward to harvest, but they’ve been checking out their combines since the 4^th of July.

That’s how it was at home.  At the Red Apple Café in Mahnomen, Minn., early in the morning all the farmers in their seed caps sit in booth along the wall or at the counter with a cup of coffee and a doughnut.

“You ready for harvest?” Joe would say to Bud.  “Naw.  And I ain’t looking forward to it either.,”  Bud would reply.  At this point Bud would also add, “But I was out checking the crop the other day…”

You knew Bud was looking forward to harvest just like everyone else.  You also knew that Bud wouldn’t admit it if his life depended upon it.

Checking the crops is another ritual performed by farmers.  A farmer will walk out into his field of wheat, barley, or oats.  He will occasionally stop to inspect the base of a plant for insect damage.

At precise intervals he will snap a head of grain off a stalk.  The next step is to crush the head in his hands and let the wind blow away the hulls and chaff, leaving only the g

scent rain.   An experienced farmer can detect the maturity and moisture content of the kernels by biting into them, at least in theory.

This will be my second harvest season in Iowa.  If last year’s harvest is any indication it is somewhat different than harvest up north where wheat and barley are more typical crops.

The hum of combines last late into the night and a pall of grain dust hangs over the countryside.  Even in the early morning, the smell of grain dust will tickle your nostrils.  Some days this farm-boy-turned-reporter sure misses harvest at home.

(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 September 16, 1987)
Old barns should be preserved forever.

My wife and I visited my parent’s farm in northern Minnesota over the Labor Day holiday.  While we were there I came to this conclusion.

The barn on my parents’ farm is one of those giant, old, hip-roofed barns.  It was built during World War II.  The top third of the back of the barn has six-inch siding instead of eight-inch siding.  “They ran out and the eight-inch was hard to come by during the war,” my Uncle Charley told me once.  He owned the barn before my father purchased the farm.

The barn has always been a safe haven for me.  It is easy to look up into the shadowy gloom of the rafters in the hay-loft and just become lost in marvelous thought and childhood fantasies.  No matter what happened, I always knew that barn would be there.

The “personality” of the barn varies from winter to summer.  During the winter the barn is sealed tight to keep the precious heat generated by 28 or more Holstein cows.  Despite windchills that exceed –100 degrees, the interior of the barn is usually above freezing.  At night the barn is quiet and the only sounds to be heard are the shuffling of hooves in the straw and the gentle rattling of stanchions.

If you look at the very peak of the barn during the sharp cold of a winter night you can often see steam rolling out from under the roof. 

Inside the massive hay-loft the humidity and hot air that seaps up from the warm barn below forms lacy icicles of frost that hang down from the rafters.

A whack to a rafter with a pitch-fork-handle can create a mini-blizzard or bury and unsuspecting brother with falling frost.

 During the summer, the barn is quiet except during milking time.  Kittens frolic where the sun beams through window or knot-holes in the old wood.

I love to savor the smells of an old barn too.  The mixed odors of silage, hay and grain mingle with the sour smell of manure to make a fragrance no woman would wear, but every farm boy loves.

The barn may have been built to raise animals, but it is an ideal place to raise children.  The building is filled with shadowy recesses to explore and tons of hay to clamber over.  Both make wonderful places to play childhood games.

Maybe I’m biased, but I think all children deserve barns while they are growing up.

It was one of the warmest Labor Day’s that I could remember.  Highs in the upper 80’s and the lows hovering around 70F.

And it was windy.

A wind advisory was posted for most of the upper great plains with winds ranging from 25 to 35 miles an hour.

A stiff breeze as those of us growing up on the plains would call it.

But the work proceeded anyway, if we wanted wood off the barn, we needed to act now.

Dad had called a gentleman that offered to take down old barns free of charge in exchange for the lumber.  It sounded like a good deal at the time, but three years later and 80% of the barn was still in tact (though leaning precarisously to one side).  As the summer wore on, the barn was contorting and collapsing with each passing week.

Like a balloon artist, mother nature was having her way with the majestic old structure.

Finally, Dad had enough.

“I’m going to bulldoze her and bury her.” He announced a couple of weeks ago.

My oldest brother and I have a sentimental streak that runs through us.  We hated to see the old barn buried under the black Minnesota soil.  It was the barn that our great uncles hands had built.  It was the center of our early working careers, where we had learned the importance of hard work, dedication, and team work (ok some lessons were harder then others).  It was where we worked next to our father.  It was where we worried over sick cows and calves with scours.  It was where we had a lot of fun.

In the end, we decided, we were going to save some of lumber.  My brother for some work in his garage, myself for some furniture projects around the house.

OK, we are sentimental and cheap.

We started work at 9am the Saturday of Labor Day, working on the south side of the barn.  Hooking up logging chains and gently…eh…not so gently tugging…eh…yanking on the old girl, we slowly tilted the roof farther and farther on its side.

We got a lot of good lumber off, one-by-twelves, two-by-sixs, and two-by-eights, and not this wimpy whittled down stuff they sell today - these were actually the demesions they promised.

After dinner, with the roof now resting only about six feet off of the hay barn floor, we decided it would be easier and faster to work upstairs in the barn and pry off some of the lumber off the roof then continue to labor on the ground.

It sounded good.  But in hindsight, it had several flaws, such as:

1. Working eight feet up in the air with a rotten floor underneath us.

2. Peeling off shingles that had 50 years of mold growing on them.

3. Working on top of 10 years worth of moldly hay and mounds of pigeon poo.

4. Running up and down stairs that we had condemned as unsafe 20 years ago.

5. A Father supervisoring that liked to hook chains onto things and start pulling when no one was looking.

But don’t worry, we had absolutely no safety equipment (do jeans count?), only feel through the floor three times (only once all the way), broke through the stairs once (though painfully), got only five splinters, one major blister, one major allergy attack, and many, many, many sore muscles…did I mention the lack of sun screen?  The roof didn’t even collapse on top of us…it took twenty whole hours after we hand left for mother nature to finish that for us…we had plenty of time to spare!

In the end, we got the lumber that we wanted, no serious harm was done, it was good bonding time with my brother, and it was also a good deal of fun.

As I chatted with my doctor Tuesday afternoon about my major allergy flair up…he looked up from my chart and made a good observation…

“Ya know, you haven’t had a tentenous shoot in about fifteen years.”

It was the last weekend of summer.  Even for adults, Labor Day is the turning point between summer and fall.  Regardless if it is hot, or cold, rainy, or a clear blue summer like day, we know the end has come.

Labor Day means that summer is over, school is starting, and fall and the pending winter is on the way.

This Labor Day was no exception.  The temperatures soared into the high 80’s and low 90’s across the upper great plains.  Traveling to the home farm over the long weekend the forcast was clear in mind.  My oldest brother Tom and I had big plans we were going to work on getting some of the boards off of the old barn.

It is sad to see the old farmstead slowly fade away.  First it was the fringe buildings, the old brooder house, the old pump house, then the old corn crib.

None of those buildings were in use for as long as I can remember.

The week dad sold the cows, the hayshed rolled across the yard with a tornado.  As Dad’s retirement took hold, some of the core buildings started to go as time and decay took their toll and we hurried them along to hopefully salvage something out of them.

The pole barn was the first to go.  The poles went to one relative, the rafters to another.  The old shop was next, sold for $5 on Dad’s auction sale - bought by an uncle that carted it off to be rebuild or lumber reused elsewhere.  Then came one of the steel bins, also hauled off the farm for use.

We worked on the barn this weekend.  Its once lofty roof now only feet off the haybarn floor.

The only buildings left are the old wooden grainery, converted into new use as a garage, the steel machine shed, rented to neighbors for storage, one steel bin - also rented, and the sturdy old house.

The Saturday of Labor Day weekend, we had a little celebration.  Three of us kids came home with families, and in some cases, extended families.  We decided to invite some of the neighbors over too.  Before long, we had were serving fourteen people.

We set up tables in the garage, roasted a beef tenderloin on the grill, broke out the old cool-aid pitchers, put the leaves in the dining room table, and as the left overs were counted, realized we could have feed fourteen more.

There was laughing, visiting, and good cheer all around.

It was a very statisfying gathering.

Seeing the old farmstead slowly fade was painful, but like summer fading to fall on a Labor Day weekend, it doesn’t mean the end, but only a transition into something different, something not quite the same, but something very familiar.

And something about as special as we set out to make it.

It would be hot summer labor, but the forcast going forward was anything but summer like.  A cold

(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 fall of 1988)

I just finished eating a thick gooey pizza.

It sure brought back some fond memories of my days in the service.  Just the smell of a pizza brings me back to those days of uniforms, orders, assignments and maneuvers.

I was a private, first class, back the.  No, not in the Army- in the pizza delivery business.

Marvin Schwann, the same fine gentleman from Marshall, Minn., who brings Iowans those big yellow Schwann’s delivery trucks started a pizza delivery business in the Dakotas and Minnesota.

Marvin apparently thought he needed a gimmick to distinguish his pizza delivery business from the thousand or so other pizza delivery businesses out there.  So Marvin named his pizza delivery business “Pizza Patrol,” outfitted all of his managers, cooks, and drivers in paramilitary uniforms and had them deliver his Pizza in used U.S. Postal Service Jeeps.

By the way, on the corporate organization chart, Marvin is listed as Brigadier General Schwann.

Less than a month after Pizza Patrol franchise opened in the Fargo-Moorhead area, I joined up and received my uniform and little peaked cap.  I went to one of those little photo booths and took a picture of myself in uniform and sent it to my mother.  “Your father and I are so proud of you,” her next tear-stained letter said.

Anyway, soon I was dashing around Fargo and Moorhead in my little Jeep keeping the world safe for pizza.

I would stride boldly from Jeep to each house, hat at a natty angle, the crisp crease of my khaki pants snapping in the wind, With military precision I would ring the doorbell.  Pizza carefully balanced in one hand, I would salute smartly with the other.  “Pizza Patrol with your fresh, hot pizza, “I’d say with my best smile.  An official Pizza patrol bomber jacket and a pair of dark aviator-style glasses only served to complete “the look.”

Those college girls didn’t have a chance.  They were swooning all over the place.  The pay wasn’t much, but boy did we have respect.

The delivery personnel from those other pizza joints (designated as “enemy encampments”) used to give us a little trouble.  They would heckle us during deliveries at the college dorms and on the street.  The other drivers and I just accepted it with sad understanding-jealousy is never pretty.

The Jeeps added to the mystique.  The steering wheel was on the right side which made driving seem pretty odd the first couple of times around.  And since the Post Office had used them for numerous years first, there wasn’t a whole lot of damage we could do to them.

With their relatively large engines, the lightweight Jeeps could roar away from a stoplight as fast as a jackrabbit.  My favorite stunt was to pull alongside a competing pizza delivery driver at a stoplight.  I’d rev my engine while we were waiting for the light to change.   As soon as it flashed green I’d snap the other driver a crisp salute and zoom away, leavening him a cloud of blue smoke.

They always looked a little irritated as they shrunk out of sight in my rearview mirror.

The job was never dull.  Besides, it was more of an adventure than a job.

We delivered to poor college students.  “The pizza was $6.98?  Here’s seven, keep the change.”

We delivered to wealthy professionals.  “The pizza was $5.99?  Here’s six, keep the change.

We delivered to big keg parties.  “Shut off your Jeep and have a beer, man.”

We delivered to church gatherings.”Thank you for the pizza, brother.  We will pray for a safe journey for you.”

And we even delivered to mcdonalds once.  “Can we trade you even-up for a couple of Big Macs?”

Whenever and wherever we were called, we answered- all in 30 minutes or less with a crisp salute and a smile.

Pizza Patrol – I never knew capitalism could be so good.