(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 October, 1988)

I peered out the window.  It was drizzling outside and cold raindrops made tracks in the dust on the opposite side of the window.  I huddled thee in the darkness of the haymow, knowing that he would be there soon.  I pulled my fingers out of their individual compartments in my gloves and curled them against the palms of my hands to keep them warm.

I was growing impatient.  If he didn’t show up soon, my entire plot would be ruined.

Then I saw a shaft of light flash from the door of the house across the yard.  Then it was gone.  Someone had come out of the house.  In the harsh light cast by the yard light, I could see someone trudging toward the barn.

The figure was too small to be Dad and the wrong proportion to be my brother, Jaime.  That meant it had to be …. Yes!  It was my brother, John!  Things were going perfectly!

I scrambled away from the window.  I didn’t want him to see me.  That would ruin everything.

I could hear the door to the barn downstairs roll open, then closed.  Light flashed up through the hay chutes as John turned on the lights downstairs.  I could hear him rattling around down there.  The, suddenly, he called out for me.

Did that mean he knew I was there?  Was my plan spoiled?  No! Not now that I was so close.

I didn’t answer.  I held my breath.  I heard John swear.  I took a cautious breath.  His curses meant that he thought I should be doing our chores and he couldn’t find me.  He was angry, but I was glad.  He didn’t know I was there.

I heard the door roll open and closed again.  I quietly dashed to the darkest corner of the haymow.  I hunched down behind a tumbled pile of bales.  The aluminum ladder banged in the darkness as John angrily stomped up to the haymow.

He was framed at the top of the ladder for a moment in the open doorway.  He paused, then went to work.  I watched silently as he sent four bales tumbling down the front chute.   The last one wedged itself in the opening.  John was really steaming now.  He stomped around, kicking at hay bales, mumbling to himself.  Finally, he dislodged the bale.

I sank down behind the bales even farther s he approached.  H e tossed two bales down the rear chute.  I could hear his angry mumbling clearly now, “I don’t know where the heck that Tom is,” he said to himself.  “This is supposed to be his job, I don’t know why I have to do it! Cripes!” He added.

I grinned to myself.  This was great.  He was so wrapped up in his anger, he wasn’t aware of his surroundings at all.

He moved closer to me. We were both in the darkest shadows of the haymow.  He was just on the opposite side of the bales, working to pull one loose from the pile.  I could hear his heavy breathing as he mumbles and worked to pull the bale loose.

I had to wait for just the right moment.  Not yet.  Not yet.  Not yet.

NOW!

I jumped over the top of the bales with my coat held out like a pair of giant bat wings.  I screamed at the top of my voice,”AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!”

As I crashed into him, John’s eyes grew to four times their normal size and his face turned white in the darkness.  He just kind of gurgled for a moment until a scream of his own erupted form his throat.

I collapsed on the hay, laughing so hard that I couldn’t catch my breath.
John was lying limply across a bale nearby, taking ragged gasps of air as he tried to recover his composure.

I jumped up, yelling,” Happy Halloween!  Happy Halloween!  Happy Halloween!”  As I scrambled for the ladder, I could hear John running after me.  I couldn’t quite make out what he was screaming, but I think it was something about how much fun it was to be my brother.

Halloween was so much more fun when I was 15 and had a 12-year-old brother.  I haven’t scared anyone like that in ages.  Shhhhh.  Is that my wife coming?  Yes!  This is perfect!  I’ll just unscrew this lightbulb and get down behind the couch….

St. Louis Park, MN: A Minneapolis area man is celebrating what he refers to as the “Pioneer Diet.”"It is a perfectly balanced diet of protein, vegetables, and fruit.” Stated the man who’s other nutritional find was the recent “tailgaters diet” craze that swept through college sports parking lots this fall.

“This diet celebrates our ancestors, especially during this fall time of the year, by balance bear, corn, and cherries.  It has the colors of the season, combined with good nutrition.” Stated the proponent of the diet.

“Look, in theory, this is correct.  While bear meat is high in fat, it is also high in protein.  Corn is a great, nutritious vegetable, and cherries provide some very good anti-oxidants.” Stated one nutritionalist.

“But the thought that you can get this from a combination of gummy bears, candy corn, and Code Red Mountain Dew is about as preposterous as thinking you can get a full balanced breakfast from Oatmeal Stout Beer, Berryweise Beer, and Bailey’s Irish Cream in your coffee.”

“Hey, that was my idea too.”  Stated the Minneapolis area man.

While nutritionalists agree that the diet is absolutely not healthy, they do give him marks for the colorfulness of it.  “The multicolored gummy bears, the yellow, orange and while candy corn, and light red Code Red Mountain Dew certainly is colorful,” conceded one diet expert.

“DIET Code Red Mountain Dew.”  Cited the Minneapolis area man, “Its DIET Code Red Mountain Dew.”

Halloween was that tenuous time between fall and winter.  The day could hit and be a balmy 70F or we could be in the gripe of a major winter snow storm.  Regardless of the weather, we would hit the neighborhood trick-or-treating.But it really didn’t matter if we needed insulated coveralls on over our costumes or not - our family only owned three costumes.

Costume number one was a clown costume.  Or to be more accurate, two clown costumes.  Suitable for younger members of the family, they could be worn over, and over, and over again.  Of us five children, every one of us was a clown at some point in our childhood.  Mom made the costume.  The neighbors expected it.  It was never a surprise, but every year we would walk up to the door of a neighbor and say “Trick-or-treat!” and every year they would act, not so much surprised, but very polite - “Oh my word!  Which one of the children is dressed up in that cute clown costume this year?  Is that little Marky this year?”

The second costume was a black cape.  This was more versatile then the clown costume.  Zorro?  A construction paper mask would suffice.  A vampire?  Some simple false teeth from the dime store in town. “Oh my, you look so brave as Zorro this year and not nearly as scary as you did last year when you were a vampire Jaime,” the neighbors would say with all sincerity as Jaime bared it tin foil sword at one of the neighbors.

The third and final costume was an old black suit coat of Dad’s.  It could be used for a “sad clown” look with a little of Mom’s lipstick on the cheeks and a ripped pair or pants.  It could be used as a hobo with a few coffee grinds used to look like stubble on the face and one of Dad’s hanker chiefs tied around the neck and one of Grandpa’s old bowler hats.  It even doubled once as for Abraham Lincoln - same suit coat, same bowler hat - with construction paper making up the stove pipe, and different (but similar) coffee grounds making up Honest Abe’s beard.  “Oh my, a hobo!”  Cried one of the neighbors, “No, I’m the sixteenth President of the United State’s!” I exclaimed.

The other ritual was visiting the neighbors.

Dad would let us out of the barn after the feeding was done and we would race to the house and change into our costumes.  Then we would pile into the station wagon and hit the neighbors.

Mrs. Gunderson had a big bag of candy and a popcorn ball ready for us with our names one each bag (and a cup of coffee for Mom).

Lois Otto would have a big bag of candy and a popcorn ball ready for us with our names on each bag (and a cup of coffee for Mom).

Mrs. Hull would have a big bag of candy and a popcorn ball ready for us with our names on each bag (and a cup of coffee for Mom).

Yosts, Buschettes, Kettners, Thorpes, Grandma’s, Aunt Mary’s, Aunt Carrie’s - the response was always the same.  Bag of candy.  Pop corn ball.  Cup of coffee for Mom.

We scamper out of the car at the end of the night, high on sugar, way past our bedtimes, and Mom would chase us off to bed…”You boys have to get up for chores in the morning.”  She would say…as she would nestle in with a book with a slight caffeine tick, ready for a long night of recovery from another Halloween.

I like small animals.

Those that know me are now looking for the punch line, like “…done medium well.” Or “…especially as an appetizer.” Or “…with a little ketchup.” Or “….with a little BBQ sauce.” Or “…next to my mashed potatoes.” Or “…with a nice white wine.” Or “…made into slippers.” Or…well, you get the picture.

In all seriousness, I don’t mind small animals as pets.  Growing up on the farm we had Puppy, a large Collie, German Sheppard, Lab cross - she was a steady friend that could be counted on to be there when you were having a bad day.  Lady was a Border Collie crossed with a Blue Heeler and smart as a whip, a little more excitable then Puppy, but just as good a companion.  In addition, we had a plethora of cats that prowled the farm.  Usually at least one that liked to lay down next to us as we sat on the hay bales waiting to change the milking machines.

Growing up with this menagerie, you were also exposed to their death at an early age as well.  Puppy was an old dog at seventeen (I didn’t name her) and died when I was in grade school.  Lady passed away when I was at college at the ripe old age of fifteen.  I remember a cat or two dying on my watch as well - casualties of any wide range of mishaps, laid on by a cow, one too many fights with the dogs, a run in with a coyote, running under a moving hay pile.  As a kid, it always brought a bit of a tear to my eye.  They were my friends, but they were also animals.  Life is not to be taken lightly, but it was not human - it was an animal.

Usually, with a tear in our eye, we would lay the deceased cat into the gutter and watch solemnly as it went up and out the end of the barn with the manure and into the waiting spreader to be spread on to the fields - dust to dust, ashes to ashes.  It was the natural part of the circle of life.

Several years ago, my nieces got a rabbit and wisely called him “Bunners.”  Bunners was supposed to teach my nieces responsibility and the work that goes into caring for an animal.  I think it taught some valuable lessons, especially to my brother and sister-in-law about how much hard work goes into taking care of a pet via proxy.

In the end, Bunners was well loved, but overfed and under exercised (before you judge too harshly, about 40% of all American humans also fit into this category).  He lived a happy bunny life.

Two weeks ago, Bunners was having a hard time breathing.  My brother came home from work and after assessing the situation, loaded the rabbit and my oldest niece into the car and off to the emergency vet clinic.

Like I said, I like animals, but this is where it goes a little too much for me.

Upon arrival at the pet hospital, my brother had to sign a “do not resuscitate form - so that the doctor would know not to go to extraordinary lengths to save this plump bunny.

Unfortunately, as the doctor was assessing what turned out to be an upper respiratory infection, Bunner suffered a massive heart attack.  My grief stricken niece and my brother were escorted out of the waiting room and - I’m not making this up - into the “bereavement room” where calm pictures of happy animals could let them think pleasant thoughts.  In addition - this gets better - were various cards for counselors who could help my brother and his family cope with the loss of their beloved pet.  Finally, the staff came out with a very nice cardboard casket that held the remains of their beloved pet - as well as information on a very nice pet cemetery and cremation services.

It was a sad day for my brother’s family, but I couldn’t help but think of my grandmother who came over from the old country and scrapped a hard living out of a wild land - what would her reaction have been….I think I know what she would have said…”Would have made a pretty good stew…”

(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) 

Tom Sutherland isn’t bitter.

He was held captive in Lebanon for more than six years.  He was chained to a wall.  He was beaten.  He was isolated from his friends and family.  His diet for all of those years consisted of bread, rice, water, tea and cheese.

But Tom Sutherland isn’t bitter.  Not at all.

“Bitterness is a very destructive emotion,” Sutherland said.  “I could spend all my time being bitter and those guys over there in Lebanon wouldn’t even know it.”

Instead of being bitter, Sutherland is having the time of his life.  He says everyday is like spending another day on a honeymoon with his wife, Jan.  This spring and summer have been the most beautiful he can remember.

“We’re the luckiest, happiest people in the United States or the world, for that matter,” he said.

I’ve seen Sutherland speak several times since his release in November.  Each time I’m impressed, and awed by the strength, insight, and wisdom he seems to have gained from his ordeal.

Monday morning in Pittsburgh, I saw Sutherland appear before the American Society of Animal Science at the group’s annual meeting.  He greeted his colleagues with sincerity and charm.   There was no doubt that he is a man who is thrilled to be alive and enjoying every minute of it.

Sutherland received a master’s degree in animal science for Iowa State University in 1956 and a Ph. D. In 1958.  His wife is an Ames native.   He was kidnapped by armed gunmen while being driven from the Beirut airport to on June 9, 1985.  He was on leave from Colorado State University at the time and was serving as dean of agriculture and food sciences at the American University in Beirut.

“Our very survival depended on not dwelling on the negative aspect,” Sutherland said of his captivity.  “The experience has given me a renewed appreciation for the simple things of live-like sunlight.”

Sutherland said he knew there were risks in Lebanon.  The embassy had warned him of the dangers.  The president of the American University in Beirut, a friend of Sutherland’s had been assassinated only a few months before the kidnapping. “I stood over the pool of blood on the sidewalk and knew I had to make some decision,” Sutherland said.

Sutherland attributes his decision to stay in Lebanon to his Scottish stubbornness and a commitment to the educational ideals of the American University in Beirut.  It was a decision that cost him more than six more years of his life.

Still there is no regret and no bitterness.  Tom Sutherland is too busy enjoying a life of freedom to worry about those things.

I live in a cracker box neighborhood.  House after house for miles in either direction of me on the same sized lot, with a very similar house - either a one and a half story house or a one floor ranch - and most of them were built about the same time too - post World War II as the great migration from the rural areas of the country to the cities took place.The wall of my house is about 10 feet from my neighbors.  I wave at them as they come and go - or as we work in our respective back yards or man our respective grills.  I know their names, or at least a rough idea of their names.  Their kids yell and wave at me with smile on their faces.

We live close to one another yet very far away.

Growing up, our closest neighbor was about a quarter mile away - across the road from our place.  To the east, the next place was about a half mile, to the west, you had to go over a mile.

The Gunderson’s, Hull’s, Otto’s, Yost’s, Bjerken’s (Gene and Gilbert), Pederson’s - they were our neighbors, but they were also people that we knew we had to take care of.  When the snows came, Dad would hook up the snow blower on the back of the John Deere 3010 and make the rounds, making sure that the neighbors drive ways were clear.

Halloween, we used to go to the neighborhood and get bucket of candy - it was more then a candy stop, it was a time to visit and talk.  Neighbors looked out for each other.

Our lives and our lifestyles have changed dramatically since those by gone days.  In the cities, the people that live on our street are still technically our neighbors, but they are nameless faces passing us each day.  In the rural areas, the distance between neighbors is growing greater with phone, and internet, and roads that can carry us farther and farther and technology that sucks more and more of our time.

But we have lost something in this exchange.

We link in with people across the globe, but we fail to help those in our own neighborhoods.  Our tolerance for different opinions wanes as we find we can find someone that shares our interest in ancient Chinese watercolors on line so our need to interact with our neighbors ten feet away goes away…why talk about the neighborhood school, or the streets, or the neighbor that needs help when we can talk about where our interest lies?

In the hustle and bustle of our daily lives, we set our boundries - we can’t rake the neighbors leaves, or mow their grass, or shovel their snow - if we do it once, they expect it all the time.

But we are called to take that risk.

The good Lord told us that the two greatest commandments were to love the Lord our God with all our heart, all our mind, and will all our spirit and to love our neighbor as ourselves.

We are called to love our neighbor - to care for them in need, to lift their daily burdens, to serve them and love them as we love ourselves.  Regardless if we live in a dense urban world or the Spartan landscape of the Great Plains.  Regardless if our nearest neighbor is five feet or five miles (or more in some cases).  Regardless if they share the same interest or care about the same thing or share the same views.

In end, loving our neighbors as ourselves will help to drive us towards that greater love that resides with our Lord - in loving our neighbors, we will be guided to loving the Lord our God with all our heart, with all our mind, and will all our soul.

(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)

A brilliant blue sky arcs over acres and acres of golden wheat and barley.  The grain shimmers and tosses in the relentless wind.

The Red River Valley is a spectacular sight this time of year.  If you can appreciate an endless horizon and the thrill of solitude, it’ll leave you breathless.  There’s really nothing like it.

Except maybe our backyard.  Recent rains have had dramatic effect on our lawn’s productivity.

I stepped out the back door last week and I could have sworn that I was looking across the prairie outside of Fargo.  My sidewalk was like a mini I-94 with the rolling waves of grass stretching off into the distance on both sides.

As a farm boy from wheat country, I felt a pang of homesickness somewhere in my heart.  It’s August and the combines are beginning to roll across fields at home.  Looking out across my lawn, I felt a need to harvest.

My 20-inch push lawn mower is a far cry from a massive John Deere 7720 combine or a big Massey Ferguson 860 harvester, but it does the job on my spread.  I felt a familiar tingle of excitement as I prepared to fire up that hefty 2 ½  Briggs and Stratton engine and do some serious farming.

But it was not to be.  “You have writing to do,” Mary reminded me.  “I’m going to mow the lawn today.  It’ll be good exercise.”

To say that I was crushed would be an understatement, but she was right.  I had more important things to tend to.  Still, I was disappointed that for Mary, the mystical thrill of harvest meant no more than an opportunity to tone some muscles.

I retired to my keyboard and Mary headed outside to do the mowing.  It was nearly impossible to concentrate as the mower roared by the windows.  I wanted to be out there.  I needed to be out there. 

I crept to the window.  There was Mary working like crazy, sweat pouring off her face.  It was good to see her getting in touch with the land.

A little later, I peaked through the curtains again.  Now she is trudging back and forth across the backyard, pushing the mower through the thick grass.  Her face was red and droplets of perspiration left streaks in the dust on her face.

Suddenly, I felt better for having sacrificed for Mary.   I knew her life would be enriched by this experience.  She was learning the thrill of the harvest that all farmers feel.  She was becoming intimately acquainted with our little corner land that we nurture so that it sustains life.

As I looked out at my sweaty wife trudging across the lawn, I knew someday she would thank me.  Probably not soon, but someday.

If she’s lucky, maybe I’ll sacrifice for her again next week.

For a farm boy, there is just nothing quite like the fall.  The combines slowly rolling through the fields of corn and beans, the grain cart running back and forth between the combine and the trucks at the edge of the field.  The corn waving in the cool fall afternoon, drying down in the late fall sunshine.Regardless if you used a modern state of the art John Deere combine and a shiny new grain cart yesterday, a Massy 510 and gravity box twenty years ago, or a threshing machine or corn picker seventy years ago - the basic process hasn’t changed much.  It still requires hard work.  It still requires some skill, and it also requires a bit of wonder.

It is almost hard to fathom that the little seed that was planted four or five months earlier has grown into this massive, proud corn plant or the bushy soybean.  It might have survived through wet spells where it languished under water, a late spring or early summer frost that nipped the leaves, or a blazing sun that showed no mercy at the height of pollination.  That little plant might have fought off the corn bore and the beans might have fended off aphids.

The farmer had a hand in all of this too of course - spraying for weeds and pests.  Maybe walking the rows and checking for weeds and infestations.  Making sure that the fertilizer was applied right.  Ensuring that the proper drainage was put in last fall.  Watching the sky and the weather reports.  Praying.

It is the seed that does the work, sitting in the cool spring ground, slowly breaking out of the hard pericarp, setting down the first seminal root.  The first cotyledon reaching up through the black dirt and setting its sight on the new spring sun, while the spring rains nourished and helped it along.

It grew slowly at first, in fits and starts.  As the weather slowly warmed and the rains came through June, the growth sped up and the rich green plants reached for the sky.  Then came pollination.  Slowly the first ears and pods came into being as the corn tasseled and the beans set flowers.  This was followed by ear and pod setting and the kernels and beans were set.

Then the plant slowly started to die.  The tips started to turn from a dark, lush green to a light brown.  As the sun moved lower and lower across the southern sky and the nights grew a little longer each day, so the corn and the beans slowly turned as summer turned to fall.

As the plants turn dry and brown, the sound of the wind changes from a light rustle to a dry scratchy crackle.  Once they have dried down enough, then come the combines.

It always amazes me to see the big machines crawl through the fields in the quiet twilight of farm country with the big orange harvest moon hanging in the background.

We invaded Iowa last weekend.  Two Minnesotans, Two North Dakotas, all of us NDSU fans - scampered across the border on United States Highway 63 through Fillmore County and raced (I use that word figuratively, but my passengers would exaggerate and use it literally) to Cedar Falls, IA to watch our beloved North Dakota State University Bison - aka “The Thundering Herd” take on the University of Northern Iowa Panthers.We were not the first ones at the battle site.

We found the UNI Dome (Pronounced You-Knee Dome) quickly saw the Bison battle flags flying from the hill overlooking the Dome.

There they were hundreds of people - many of them making the long trek from Fargo and points beyond for the tailgating festivities.  RV’s, buses, trailers, Yugo’s with portable grills - a motley crew, but ready to take on the Panthers.

We knew when we were in for a fight though.  The four of us made it to the officially sanctioned NDSU tailgate put on by the alumni association and while we were told by some of the many friendly Panthers that we were the largest crowd of tailgaters they had seen, it didn’t stop the thirty or so students from standing out side of the ropes, poking a hole in their beer cans, shotgunning a beer, and chanting “U-N-I! U-N-I!” in front of the three hundred or so of us Bison assembled (herding?).

I’m not going to say much about the game.  Except we lost and we weren’t happy about it.  But I will say:

• 1. UNI has some great fans and a great team.
• 2. The UNI-Dome is no Fargo Dome, but its not bad.
• 3. NDSU has a right to be proud - the team made some valiant attempts
• 4. NDSU fans, even when out numbered, are loud.

When we left in the Iowa twilight, defeated, but still proud, we could still see the Bison flags waving on the hillside defiant to the end.

In the end, a great trip, with great friends - a great day!

There were five kids in my family.  Four boys and the youngest one, the baby of the family, was a girl.My folks worked hard to make sure that all of us kids were well cared for.  While sometimes we lacked some of the material trifles of the modern world, we never wanted for the things that truly mattered - food, clothing, shelter, or love.

One of the staples for any young boys - or old ones for that matter, were jeans.  Those good old reliable, wear like iron jeans that provided shelter from the cold in winter, from the sun in the summer, mud in spring and fall, and from any in a long list of things that might damage a less hardy pair of clothing - scratchy hay bales, biting cats, spilled chemicals, flying debris from the lawnmower, hot panels on the tractors - just to name a few.  In additional, there was just the disgusting things on the farm that they would protect you from.  A pair of dockers wouldn’t stand up to cow slobber as you were trying to clean a manger.  A pair of shorts is useless against swarms of mosquitoes as you checked fence.

A good pair of jeans was a necessary part of the farm and growing up.  Skinned knees from riding a bike or riding the three wheeler through thistles were muted by ruggedness of the jeans.

There were also some things that a pair of jeans wouldn’t protect you from - a calf with scours with the right aim is going to soak through regardless what type of clothing you have on.

As strong as those jeans were, they were not iron.

After carrying so many hay bales rubbing against your knees, and upper legs, they were bound to wear through as the scratchy hay gradually took their toll.  Kneeling down to milk thirty cows a day, twice a day, 365 days a year eventually wrecked havoc on the knees too.  Jumping up and down off tractors, ladders, haystacks, feeders, haylofts, fences, combines, mangers, trees, ditches…you get the picture…usually lead to an eventual rip in the crotch.  Then there were the little dangers - a chemical spill cleaning the milk room might leave a hole, crossing the barbed wire fence may leave a snag, back pocket done in by a forgotten screwdriver - all of which would get bigger as time went by.

When I was really young, Mom would patch the jeans.  Sometimes even going so far as to patch a patch, or even put a patch on a patch that was already patched.  But even she had her limits.  Jeans that were too far gone became patches.

When I was older, Mom got a job in town (and there were fewer of us at home to keep up on), we started buying the cheaper jeans at the Wal-Mart in neighboring town.  The cheap cost more then offset the time and effort Mom spent in patching.  In addition, we found a good use for the big stack of patching that was growing in the corner of the sewing room - rugs.

Yup, a lady about eight miles east of my hometown with take old jeans, cut them into strips and make nice rag rugs out of old jeans and corduroy pants.  Boy, did we get a load of rugs…plus, like the orginals, they wear like iron!