It hit me about six o’clock this morning as I was doing dishes, having Christmas at home was going to be a lot of work.  A lot more then I had probably bargained on.Every year, we celebrate Christmas as a family, Dad, us five kids, wives, my sister’s boyfriend, grandkids, in-laws, and sometimes some random guests all gathering to celebrate the joy of Christmas together.  It tends to switch off every year between my three older brothers homes.  It seems like it has been years since it was back at home on the farm.  Like bidding for the Olympic games, I threw out one tantalizing offer – I would grill a beef tenderloin for the entire crew.  My offer was accepted and soon, we were planning Christmas on the farm.

The magnitude of what I had done hit me this morning.

It has been (or seems to have been) years since we celebrated Christmas on the farm.  It will be hard, correction, it will be impossible to live up to those memories of the by-gone Christmas’s of our youth.  The cattle in the barn, the warm house filled with laughter and love are locked forever in our minds.  Here I was standing in the kitchen of that farm house, dishes piled high, canning from September on the counters, piles of township papers piled around the dining room table.  As I walked out into the entry, I saw more clutter.  The living room?  Papers, books, and various nick-knacks and articles were piled up on the exercise equipment that has gotten planted in our home over the years.

Suddenly, it dawned on me – it was going to take some serious cleaning to get the house ready for Christmas.  Some very serious cleaning – and there was no time in my schedule to come home over the next couple of weekends.

Anger, frustration, and my own stupidity washed over me.  I was angry at myself for trying to bring Christmas back home, I was angry at my Dad for not keeping a tidier house, I was frustrated with life.  This was not how it was suppose to be.

Then I remember, today is the first day of Advent….

You want to talk about an example of how things were not to be?  A girl engaged to be married turns up pregnant.  Her husband to be takes her anyway, but the Roman’s insist on a census that is going to take them far from home just when this same girl is suppose to give birth.  Mary and Joseph being human, you can only think of the frustrations that came to their minds.  In our minds, we have this image of a serene Joseph and a contemplative Mary as they worked side-by-side.

You can easily imagine it another way too – Joseph, tired and frustrated with the situation, maybe embarrassed (how did an engaged woman get pregnant?) – the gossip circles were as alive around the village wells as they are around the office water coolers today.  Mary, probably hearing some of the rumors circling around the village, now forced to travel to a town where they knew no one and give birth.

There had to be some tough conversations, maybe some banged pots and pans, maybe some voices raised in anger, maybe some tears of frustrations.

In the end, it didn’t matter.  He came.

Regardless if Joseph and Mary were ready, regardless if they were far from home, regardless of the rumors, and the slights, and the horribleness of the situation, He came.

In manger, far from home, in a stable, to parents that were probably as confused and scared as any today – and probably much, much more so – He came.

All of a sudden, the dirty dishes, the piles of papers, the dirty entry, they all seemed so insignificant, because in the end, He comes.  Ready or not, a perfect spotless house or a tiny hovel, He comes.  More important then if our house is ready or the food is perfect or the Christmas matches the expectations laid out by memories of youth – He still comes.

That is the joy of Advent.

(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 November, 1988)

Thanksgiving was a little different this year.  There was a little more sincerity, a little more urgency to our wishes of good will and a little more sadness in our hearts.

The conversations around our dinner tables invariably turned to the military buildup in Saudi Arabia.  The activation of the Boone Iowa National Guard’s 1187^th Medical Company was fresh on everyone’s minds.  Newscasts from the Persian Gulf showed President Bush touring and dining with U.S. soldiers under the hot sun.

It’s been a long time since a Thanksgiving has been so overshadowed by world events.  And it’s been a long time since world events have struck home so personally for so many.  It seems that everyone know someone who is in a newly activated guard unit or is already serving in Saudi Arabia or elsewhere because of the buildup.

We all worry about the potential for conflict, but it is the uncertainty that wears heaviest on us.  Around town, the talk is that Boone’s other National Guard units will be called soon.  Perhaps by the time you read this, they will already be gathering at the armory.  Or perhaps the orders will never come. 

Family members and the soldiers themselves wonder,” How long? And “Where?”

Mike Shearer, night operator at Boone’s Water Plant, knows those feelings and frustrations.  He has a brother in Saudi Arabia and has been planning a happy homecoming for him since August.

Tim Shearer has been keeping his tank in tip-top condition in the Saudi Arabian desert and counting down his dwindling days in the Army.  Tim is a member of the Army’s 82^nd Airborne Division.  He grew up in Boone and has been in the Army for five years.  In April he decided that enough was enough and made plans to get out.

As part of the process, the Army barred him from re-enlisting and from receiving any promotions or awards for the remainder of his time in uniform.  He was scheduled to be home by Nov. 17.

In August, he was among the first of the troops sent to the Persian Gulf.  His superiors said his statue was unchanged, he’d be home by Nov. 17.

On Nov. 1, he sent Mike a postcard.  He told Mike how he was counting the days to his departure.  Free time was spent snorkeling in the Persian Gulf and dreaming about pizza back in Boone.  Mike says Tim is planning on going back to college once he’s back in town. 

The day after Thanksgiving, Mike received another letter from his brother.  Tim wrote that he had received no orders from the Army.  His plans to come home were on hold.  “The worst part is that he has no idea where he stands with the Army,” Mike explained.  Time asked Mike to contact U.S. Senator Tom Harkin to find out when or if he was going to be discharged from the Army.

But Saturday, before Mike could send a letter to the Senator, the Army announced that all discharges had been cancelled.  For the Shearers, one uncertainy had been resolved.

But other worries remain for Mike and Tim and the rest of us.  The headlines do not become any more comforting.  We just can’t seem to get used to the sight of desert camouflage   fatigues during the evening news.  And the letters home get more poignant.

The holiday season looks to be especially long and painful this year.

Maybe it was the recent birthday.  Maybe it was the dreary weather.  Maybe it was the bad cold I couldn’t quite shake.  Maybe it was those incredibility high goals that I set for myself that I wasn’t living up too.  Either way, I was suffering a crisis of confidence.It sure felt like my life up to this point had been wasted, like there wasn’t much that I had accomplished and my life was pretty much off track.  Thirty-three years of my life down the tubes.

I’m not sure what took me to the trunk in the corner – I really don’t.  I wasn’t looking for anything special, I didn’t even remember what I had in there.  It was just a big trunk loaded with pictures and memorabilia from my past.

I opened boxes I hadn’t seen in years.

Pictures of my family, of working on the farm, of playing in the yard.  Pictures from high school – pictures of trips, and conferences, and graduation, and parties.  Pictures from college – my fraternity brothers, homecoming, graduation, emceeing the variety show, different organizations, memories from my days in the FFA, pictures of old girlfriends and dates.  There were letters…letters that I had forgotten about, from people grateful for a kind word that I had spoken, or some idea that I had shared at a camp or conference.

What was I thinking?

There is so much to be thankful for, the friends, the family, the memories, the kind words from people to cheer us, the food on our tables, the roofs over our heads.

Sometimes, we can get bogged down in the little horrors of our everyday lives, the dreary drudgery that we all must suffer through – that we fail to see the really wonderful things that we are given.  We fail to see the everyday miracles that stack up over time, that truly make our lives something wonderful and special.

Like the man set free from the demon in the gospel of Mark, may we go forth in a spirit of thankfulness and joy and share that wonderful feeling with our family and friends.

A child’s view of the world is often skewed by time and perspective.  What seems idyllic for a child, may be something much less then perfect for those surrounding with a wider perspective or a sounder grasp of reality.In my mind, I remember many idyllic Thanksgiving’s growing up as a child.  Our family gathered around the table in our home on the plains of northwestern Minnesota.  In   my mind, I picture it the same every year, my Dad at the head of the table, my three older brothers, my younger sister, Grandma Jirik, and Mom placing the carved turkey on the table.

The food was a big part of it, and Mom was an excellent cook.  Our table was always full, a big moist turkey, Mom’s special dressing (with raisins and wild rice), corn, beans, squash, cranberries, koblaha, kolaches, bitawicka, home made bread, gravy, and pies for desert – apple, pumpkin, or lemon meringue.

I can remember several years after the meal, sitting down with grandma on our couch in our living room and reading through the story of the first Thanksgiving in one of old Catholic Reader textbooks.  She was always patient with my slow reading, always asking questions about what I read – or just asking what I was thankful for.

If there was snow on the ground, after the meal had settled and the tryptophan had worn off, us boys would head outside for some good sledding behind the three wheeler through the early drifts and snow.  If there was no snow, it might be outside playing in the woods or just inside with the family watching football or one of the many specials on television.

It was the perfect Thanksgiving.

As time goes on, you realize that things are not perfect.  The ups and downs of the farm economy would weigh on Mom and Dad.  Age was catching up with Grandma as she moved slower with time.  Each year, the meal that we would consume in one hour, Mom would have been working hours and hours on.  You would start to see when Dad would sneak out to check on that downed cow or that calf that didn’t seem quite right in the morning.

Perhaps the trick of Thanksgiving, and perhaps life, is to view things through that child like eyes.  In the end, the economy is going it have its ups and downs, our bodies will deteriorate, our loved ones will pass on.  Things will never be perfect.  But on Thanksgiving Day, and indeed, everyday, we have so much to be thankful for.

We may have the worries and the strife of life, we may lack comfort, or hearty meals, we might lack all of the creature comforts of home, but our faith, the love of family and friends, and the hope of better times to come remain – and if that is all I have, somehow, I know that idyllic Thanksgiving lives on.

Wishing you and yours a very happy and blessed Thanksgiving.

Party lines, rotary dials, local operators, four digit dialing, leased phones – all phrases and words that seem woefully ancient in our modern day and age of cell phones, pages, internet phone service, call waiting and blue tooth wireless.But even I remember some of those now archaic words.

Growing up, we shared the phone line with our neighbors across the road.  We would never hear their rings and they would never hear ours, but we always knew when they were on the phone, usually, you could hear the unexplained noises and the unexplained breathing on the line.

It really crimped down on the amount of gossip that could be shared over the phone lines.  For a teenage boy, somehow it just ruined the mood when you were talking to a girl and all of a sudden that “old man breathing” noise come across the phone line.  “We must have a bad connection, lets talk tomorrow at school,” came the explanation.

Then there was the rotary phone.  I think we had the last rotary phone that I can remember – and a beautiful “harvest gold” phone that hung on the wall in the kitchen at that (nothing says modern age like a 1970′s harvest gold phone…but don’t worry, it matched the refridgerator).  “Witch cha-cha-cha-cha-cha, Witch-cha-cha-cha, Witch-cha-cha-cha, Witch-cha-ca-ca-cha-cha, Witch-cha, Witch-cha, Witch-ca” the phone would rattle as you dialed (that was my grandmother’s number by the way).

Then there was the answering machines.  “I’m never going to have one of those #$%# machines my Dad would exclaim every time the subject was breached.”

Making an outgoing call, an answering machine could ruin a day, “Going to call Lori,” I’d say.  Ringing, ringing, ringing…”Hi, we aren’t home right now..”

I’d hang up the phone “#$%#% answering machine.” I’d say.

“Don’t swear!” Mom would say.

“Yeah, even if you get a #$%# answering machine.” Dad would follow up.

The technology also made the rules pretty simple growing up – make it quick, make it worthwhile, and don’t say anything you wouldn’t want the neighbors to hear.

Their were two exceptions to those rules, 1) Grandma called every day at nine o’clock in the morning and she would get as much time as she and Mom wanted 2) Mom would call and talk to her sister once a month and regardless if it was fifteen or fifty minutes – both of those times were sacred.

Today, Dad still has the “land-line” but also a cell phone.  I’ve got a personal cell phone and a work issued Blackberry to allow me to get email at any time of day and night.  All of my brothers have a stack of phones and land lines to keep them connected.  Each of them has voicemail and text messaging and for the old lines the answering machines.

But each age has its scourge.

“##$%# telemarketers…”

(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 November 1988)I love snow.

There’s no two ways about it.

I like to walk in it.  I like to watch it fall.  I even like to drive in it.  I’m ready for big snow in ’89.

I’ve spent two winters in Iowa now and the locals keep telling me that the past two winters have been mild by Iowa’s standards.  “Just wait,” they say, “Sooner or later we’ll have a real winter.”

So I wait. The snow falls.  The sun shines.  The snow melts.  And we’ve had two wimpy winters in a row.  I can’t stand it anymore.  I want snow.

Perhaps this love of snow springs fro my youth.  As a young lad I spent my most joy-filled days frolicking on the snow-and ice- filled plains of Minnesota.  I was born with a natural tendency to dress warm.  It didn’t need to be taught; it happened by instinct.

By February last winter, an exceptional winter, even by Minnesota standards, there was more than 48 inches of snow on the ground.  Boy, was I homesick.

I’m hoping it will be Iowa’s turn for record snows and record-low temps this winter.

It’s not that I dislike fall.  On the contrary, I love this weather.  I watched the Iowa State University Cyclones take on the Oklahoma Sooners at Cyclone Stadium in Ames last weekend.  The sun was shining.  The temperature was a balmy 70 degrees or so and there was just a hint of burning leaves in the air.  It made me glad to be alive.  I would have been gladder if the Cyclones had scored another four points or so, but that is another story.

The leaves were beautiful this fall.  The golds and browns of the fields as they were ready for harvest looked especially rich this fall.  It’s a great time to be in Boone.

But I’m ready for snow.  In fact, I’m ready for piles and piles and piles of it.

Those of you who don’t care for winter have had two wimpy ones to enjoy.  But to those of us who revel in subzero temps and massive drifts deserve our turn.  We will give you until the end of October to enjoy fall.  But when Nov. 1 rolls around, the temperatures better start dropping, the snow better start blowing.

If it doesn’t, I’ll be mighty disappointed in Iowa.

My jumper cables are getting dusty from disuse.  My winter driving skills are getting dulled.  And cold weather tolerance level is slipping.  I don’t like it.

(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 Fall 1987)

The grass along the road exploded in a flurry of wings and feathers.

The large bird narrowly missed my windshield as it flew up and over the road.  I was so startled, that the bird was gone before I even realized what it was.

As startled as I was, I was glad to see the pheasant.  Even though the first pheasant had shocked me out of my travel-time daydream, I almost overlooked the second pheasant hiding in the brown grass of the ditch a mile later.

It was a beautiful fall day as we drove along a gravel road near Ledges State Park.  We came upon a group of cars stopped in the road.  Not wanting to block traffic, I eased past them.  We strained to see what had caught the eyes of these other fall drivers.

We collectively caught our breath.  In the middle of a grassy field, about 20 deer made their way cautiously toward the shelter of the trees.  As we drove around the corner away from the cars, a buck bounded gracefully across the road, his tail flashing white.

A quiet fall drive along the Des Moines River was brought to a halt as my passenger hissed,”Stop!”  He pointed to our right and a group of wild turkeys were just disappearing into the brush.  Their brown feathers made them instantly invisible.

It’s nice to see Boone’s wildlife flourishing.  Not long ago, fence row to fence row planting, excessive use of chemicals and a lack of knowledge about game management made wildlife sightings pretty uncommon.

Conservationists have done a good job. The beautiful large and small animals that once ranged far and wide across Iowa are returning.  Once again shelterbelts and fencelines are becoming havens for native animals.  It’s because people are again caring for the land and its wild residents.

The largest part of the conservations groups’ job has been education.  They taught farmers that some of these animals help to control rodents and insects.  They taught hunters that responsible hunting means game limits and wildlife management.  They taught hunting opponents that no all hunters are irresponsible and that hunting can be a part of conservation.

They taught politicians that wild game and habitat are important features of the Iowa life and that they deserve state regulation and preservation.  They taught land owners that brush, long grass and tall trees are not eyesores, but housing for furry and feathery neighbors.

So as the green leaves turn to brilliant orange and fiery red, stop and take time to enjoy the Boone area’s natural; wonders.  Take a ride on the Boone and Scenic Valley Railroad.  Drive through the river valley.  Walk through mchose Park or amble through the ledges or stroll along the shore of Don Williams Lake.

Remember to take time to look at the colors and the creatures.  Notice the texture of the bark on the trees and follow the animal tracks in the mud.  Remember how Boone County must have looked before fences and railroads and highways.

But most of all, enjoy.

Language is a funny thing.  It is how we communicate ideas, thoughts, and feelings.  Generally, we believe this is all done through the spoken word, through verbal language, words, phrases.  Going to Cuba, where the general language is Spanish, made me realize that much of language remains the non-verbal, the subtle and not so subtle things which allow us to convey thoughts, feelings and emotions across time and space.Some of the language differences were overcome by some knowledge on my part.  I had three years of Spanish in high school, all of a sudden, all those hours spent conjugating verbs paid off.  I could make out about twenty-five or thirty percent of the conversations that took place in Spanish.  I could make out another twenty or thirty percent of the conversation as I put words together and made some implied assumptions.  Another twenty or thirty percent of the conversation you could make out from the body language and the emotions.

When you can’t understand the language, the non-verbal communication becomes that much more important.  The bows, the hand gestures, the smiles, all make up part of the language…but perhaps more telling is the language they use behind you.  A host’s smile at a restaurant may turn to a frown as soon as they turn their back and a crumbling look when they are talking to the server may spell some trouble ahead.  A host’s smile turning to a frown of concern becomes something more when he gets a waiter that can speak English to come and wait on your table, “just to make you feel more comfortable.”

Those gestures speak volumes.

A good example of the non verbal, not so subtle language was in one of Hemingway’s old haunts, the Floridita Bar, with its famous daiquiri.  As we were sitting at the stately bar, I noticed the bartenders jaw drop about two inches and his mouth hang open.  He pointed at the doorman.  The bartender then took both hands to his eyes and held them like binoculars.  The doorman spun around and saw nothing – turning, he looked at the bartender and shrugged his shoulders.  The bartender then took his hands and made some generous curves in the air…there was no doubting what he saw.  The doorman laughed, the bartender saw me smiling at him and his very descriptive non-verbal story and winked at me and all three of us shared a hearty laugh.

In the end, some things are universal.

Several times a week, I call to get an update from back home.  The conversation is usually pretty much the same.  “Hey Dad, how are you?  So what’s new?  Anybody sick?  Anybody die?”Usually, I get pretty standard responses “I’m good.  Not much.  Not that I know of.”

Occasionally, he will throw out names of people that I don’t know or vaguely recollect.  Sometimes, the information is a little dated.  “I told you about so and so that died two week ago right?”  Sometimes, even when the names are a little vague, they still catch you off guard.

Most people won’t remember or note the name of Wendell Vlasin.  I will admit, even I didn’t know him all that well, though he was a fixture in my hometown the entire time I was growing up.  Not until I read his obituary did I realize the impact he had in the lives of people in our community.  Mr. Vlasin was the founder of the local Quarterback Club, leader in the Boy Scouts that saw eight young men achieve the rank of Eagle Scout, and a military veteran.  Mr. Vlasin was also a huge supporter of the football and basketball teams, neither sport that I participated in.

But somehow, Mr. Vlasin still knew who I was.

Once or twice, I got a card from Mr. Vlasin telling me he had seen me in the local paper and I should be proud of my accomplishments.  I’ll never forget my senior year at the FFA banquet.  Handing over the gavel at our banquet was a bit of a defining moment for me, the tying up of one more loose end in my high school career.

Mr. Vlasin was there too.  He walked up to me, shook my hand, told me that he was proud of what I had done, handed me a thick envelope, and walked away.

Inside that envelope where three small books, “Thoughts of Friendship,” “Thoughts of Laughter,” and “Thoughts of Wisdom,” – words of wisdom and comfort from ages of men and women.  St. Jerome, Benjamin Franklin, Robert Burns, Lewis Carroll, Isaac Newton – thoughts and words for the ages.  Books that still sit on my desk.

“Why me?” I thought.

Every town, every city, every country needs a few more Wendell Vlasin’s.  Providing that quiet support for their fellow man.  A quick note of encouragement, a word of thanks, a little gift that will stick with hearts and minds.  I know that I wasn’t the only one that got the note or gift from Mr. Vlasin, reading his obituary made me sure of that.

I don’t know that I ever really thanked Mr. Vlasin.  Never told him that those small gestures of good will, those small words of encouragement would mean something even fifteen years later.  Somehow, I think he knew.  One of the quotes, one of the sayings in one of those little books sums it up best:

            Through this toilsome world, alas!

            Once and only once I pass

            If a kindness I may show,

            If a good deed I may do,

            To a suffering fellow man,

            Let me do it while I can.

            No delay, for it is plain

            I shall not pass this way again.

                                               – Anonymous

The Hotel Nacional de Cuba is an imposing building.  Built on a hill overlooking the sea in the Vedado area of Havana,   which is one of the commercial centers of Havana, the Hotel Nacional de Cuba at one point served as the hub of the city.The Vedado section of Havana itself has an interesting history.  Vedado translates as “preserve” – and indeed, this area was forbidden to build on for much of Havana’s history.  It was a wide open plain, from the heights of the fortress that marked the entrance of Havana Harbor, pirates and raiders could be seen approaching out of sea by looking out across this very plain.  The Hotel Nacional de Cuba is set on a hill overlooking the sea, the site of pirate landings and a battle with the British during the seven years war (the cannon still sit in the side of the hill).

The hotel is built like a large “H”, with the entrance and the main hall forming the center and the rooms forming each side.  A visitor pulls up in a circular driveway and enters at the very center of the building.  It is imposing to look at as you drive up the road towards it, one of the largest buildings and one of the fanciest with its eight floors and towers on each side.

The main lobby is like a scene out of a different era and a strange mixture of modern and Moorish architecture…modern in the 1950′s style.  The ceiling in the lobby is like that of an ancient church with large wooden beams marked with flowers and vines painted on their surface.  Arches run up and down each side, sculptures on either end of the hallway, and opposite the main entrance is another door that leads out to the garden area.

The lobby too has a history.  It is said that it was out this lobby, the United States mafia ran the country for the five years leading up the rise of Castro.  Out of defiance of them, it is said that Castro too ran the country out of the lobby of this same hotel.

They would not have been alone walking the modern…yet ancient looking…lobby.  The Hotel bills itself as the “place where actors and diplomats sleep.”  It is true; Winston Churchill, Frank Sinatra, Ava Gardner, Johnny Weissmuller, Buster Keaton, Errol Flynn, and Ernest Hemingway all walked these same hallways.  Ah yes, they also have something else in common…they all died a long, long time ago.

But don’t worry; you can probably sleep on the exact same mattresses that they too slept on.

The hotel says that it modernized in the 1950′s and 1990′s.  The furniture in the rooms was classic – all polished wood and chairs that were relatively small.  The mattresses too were classics, all appearing to be circa 1950′s as well, but don’t worry, the box spring was not…they were all removed at some point.

Our rooms were on the executive floor, floor number six.  There was a large gathering area where you could get breakfast in the mornings as you looked out over the deep blue Caribbean Sea.  In the evening, the room was filled with the rich smell of Cuban Cigars wafting through the air as people relaxed while watching the latest on CNN.

By far, the best part of the hotel is the garden area on the opposite side of the hotel from the main driveway.  The garden area, the other open half of the “H” is lined with arches on all three sides – all line with wicker tables and chairs.  At the very top center was a beautiful Spanish fountain accessible via the footstones that lead even farther, past the fountain to the overlook by the sea.  Between two ancient gun emplacements from the Seven Years War in 1862 sits a small cluster of tables with a perfect overlook of the sea and the Malecon, the main thouroughfare that runs along the sea.

Some of the very best mohitos that I consumed while in Cuba were mixed at one of the two bars, the first, tucked back in the corner of the “H” was open twenty-four hours.  The second was a satellite bar closer to the ocean.

The Hotel Nacional de Cuba was like the rest of the country, a dirty gem in a grimy box.  It was a contradiction, a beautiful old hotel that had style and opulence but where the details were not taken care of, where the edges were a little tattered and the carpets a little frayed.  Where it has the vestiges of greatness, but was somehow eschew.