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At one point in time, Cuba was a center for culture in Central America. Where the rich and famous from the United States came to play, eat, drink, and be entertained - and entertained they were.Cabaret was developed by the French (of course), but took on a distinctly Latin feel when it reached the shores of Cuba. The largest and most famous Cabaret in Cuba is the famous Tropicana Club outside of Havana. Only slightly less famous is the Cabaret Parisein in the Hotel Nacional de Cuba.
What a show.
I really felt like I should be in a smoking jacket with a cigarette in hand as I sat at the table five tables back (and several steps up) from the main stage. Built like a dinner theater with tables and chairs from the 1950’s, table cloths, curtains, and carpet all that had the classic look of the 1950’s. It still had that smoky, hazy feel of a 1950’s club show - which, I guess, in many ways it was.
It was strange mixture of Latin culture, music, dance, dress, with a heavy dose of sensuality that explored the cultures throughout Latin America. While I couldn’t understand the language, the sites, the sounds, the motions led us on a journey around the southern half of the America’s.
Tango from Argentina, Carnival from Brazil, Aztecs and Maya’s from Mexico, a salute to Venezuela, a celebration of Cuba…the stories, the dances, the music beat into my head. The syncopation, the dazzling costumes, the choreography - it was breath-takingly beautiful.
It was also not a family show - it was all very respectfully and tastefully done…but the pulse and the innuendoes were present.
Overall, it was fascinating to behold.
From the Parisien, we took a quick break on the back terrace of the Hotel Nacional de Cuba…a mohito and a few sips of Club Havana Reserva - Cuban Rum that is illegal to drink in the United States…and it is good…
From the Hotel Nacional, we proceeded to Salon Rojo, a dance club not that far from the hotel.
It was like a modern rendition of the Cabaret. As a matter of fact, the club was set up almost exactly like the Cabaret Parisien with a raised stage and tables and seats that stretched to the back. The difference was this was so modern and trendy, you could have put it down in the center of New York City and it would have fit right in.
When we walked in the doors, the music was blaring Madonna (believe it or not, her hit song, “Vogue” which glamorized the stars from the 1950’s…) and there was group of about ten women on stage, wearing shorts and very reveling shirts (but all military camouflage).
The majority of the music was from the United States as dancers and performers shuffled on and off stage - a group of rap dancers, a performance artist, more scantily clad women.
And ah yes, the women.
Before I had the first sip of my Mohito, a very young beautiful Cuban girl walked up to me and asked me (in Spanish) where I was from, then I used the line that either helped or hurt me for the rest of the trip…”No Hablo Espanol.”
In my thinking, this meant that I couldn’t understand them and couldn’t buy what they were selling (regardless how beautiful they were).
In their thinking I believe it meant, “Pay dirt.”
The first girl said, in near perfect English, “No problem, I speak English.” She learned it from smuggled in US movies.
She asked where I was from, “The United States.” I answered.
“Wait, aren’t we at war with you guys?” She replied.
We talked for a while about relations between the United States and Cuba, and when it was clear she wasn’t going to see any US/Cuban relationships this evening, she moved on to greener pastures.
She was the first of about four women that made it very clear that they were in business that evening. My family and most of my friends are probably happy to know that I stuck to the basics, it was all blocking and tackling, ahhh, in a pure sense, politely refusing the advances.
I walked back to the hotel about two o’clock in the morning and had one last Mohito on the back porch of the Hotel de Nacional still in amazement at the state of Cabaret in Cuba, both old and new…
I am a beer drinker. My Bohemian-Swiss-Austrian-German roots almost dictate that I have an adult malt beverage once in a while. There are even rumors that hospitals in the modern day Czech Republic hand babies a stein of beer as they slide out the birth canal for a celebratory toast as they enter the world…while that fact isn’t true, it would keep them from crying…
I wasn’t always a beer drinker. As a matter of fact, my first brush with alcohol went horribly wrong when I was four (family reunion, brothers, cousins, keg of Old Style…a good story in and of itself), left me with zero hankering for the amber fluid well into college.
In addition, I had too much going on bother with alcohol, at that point in time in my life, I didn’t feel that I had the maturity.
There was one time however, when I made quite the drunken scene in my fraternity house…without having a drop of anything stronger then a Mountain Dew.
Four of us had to a casino about seventy miles from Fargo, ND. As we were nearing the good old fraternity house on College Street in Fargo, ND about ten o’clock in the evening, I announced to the Jason, Chris, and Jed that I was going to be drunk that evening. I don’t think they grasped what I was saying.
As we walked into the foyer of the fraternity where we lived, my speech started to slur, I began to stumble, and I became very, very jolly.
Chris and Jason laughed at me and went to bed. Jed stayed behind what I believe was perhaps one of the greatest performances of my life.
It was a well know fact that I had no objection to drinking, but chose not to do so myself. The first people to walk past were Jim and Ryan, and while thought it was extremely funny to see me drunk, but also very skeptical. Until I grab the phone out of someone’s hand as they were talking to their girlfriend and started to rant and rave.
Jed laughed.
Then “my stomach didn’t feel right” at which point they panicked, they could just see me launching the contents of my stomach across the foyer and they quickly escorted me to the bathroom, laughing in newfound belief that I was in fact drunk.
“Kneel on the toilet,” Jim and Ryan said.
So I did. I got up and kneeled on the toilet seat head looking down at the tank as the word spread. This guy was really drunk. The audience grew.
Jed laughed harder.
For the next hour, I ranted and raved about everything. My face was flushed. I stumbled around. I feel down small flights of stairs. People laughed. Jed harder then anyone.
About twelve thirty, the bar crowd showed up. Seeing me drunk was funny enough, but it was funnier if you too were drunk. I was laying on the steps in a fake drunken stupor. One of those that had just came fresh from the bar came up and grabbed my arm to drag me down to the kitchen to make grilled cheese. I sat up, stuck my finger in his chest and said, “you’re a hairy little man.”
The guy went back and wound up for a punch. Perhaps, just perhaps I said, I had taken this drunken act a little too far. That is when this same guy said. “My God, he really is drunk.”
Everyone laughed. Jed laughed harder.
At that point, about four people reached out for me, it was clear I wasn’t going to be able to navigate stairs, so they were going to carry me downstairs to make the traditional grilled cheese.
By this time, I was tired.
So I promptly stood up and said to the twenty people standing in the foyer of our fraternity and announced, “Thanks guys, this has been a lot of fun, but I’m getting tired and really should be off to bed.”
With that, I turned on my heels and marched up the steps.
No one laughed. No one laughed at all.
Well, except for Jed, who was in on it from the start…he was laughing so hard he was on the ground in a fetal position gasping for air.
The beauty of it all was, I didn’t even get a hang over…
(Note: I had heard rumors that there were “drunken pictures” of me floating around on the internet that my good friend Jed had posted, this written in defense of myself…I should never have worried. His version of events are almost identical (though better written) then mine - thanks Jed…his version can be found at: http://youreahairylittleman.blogspot.com/ )
I’ve been back from Cuba almost a week and the thoughts, the sights, the sounds, and the emotions continue to run through me. A beautiful, ugly, backward, friendly, horrible, place with a wonderful oppressed people. A nation of contrast.
I’m not quite done updating the stories and thoughts from the trip, so check back over the next week or two for updates.
(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, October 21, 1987)
Dear members of society, please, please, PLEEAASE, forgive me.
I’ve committed a terrible transgression against the good people of Iowa. I’ve betrayed your trust. Destroyed my credibility as a citizen.
And worst of all, I got caught.
I got a speeding ticket. I’m sorry. I’m soooo sorry. In fact, I’m $33 worth of sorry.” My wife, my family and my friends have been warning me. “One of these days you’re gonna get caught,” they said. “Maybe you should get a radar detector,” one well-meaning friend suggested.
I know they were right. I tried to slow down. Honest I did. I drive a ‘68 Ford pickup, and that baby doesn’t like to go any slower than 70 mph.
I’d carefully adjust my speed so that I was only going 55 or for certain no more than 58. Then I’d look up at the beautiful Iowa scenery, and the next time I’d glance down I’d be cruisin’ along at a comfortable 70.
I was headed up to Algona on Highway 169 when I finally got nabbed. It was a dreary cold fall day. A light rain was falling. I had been concentrating on keeping my speed down for the whole trip.
Suddenly, I was headed downhill just south of Humboldt. There were beautiful fall colors on either side of the road. The sun broke through the clouds and I was jammin’ to the tunes on the radio. I was just soaking it all up.
But not the highway patrolman coming toward me. He had his attention centered on that little radar gun of his, and it said I was enjoying all the scenery at 67 mph.
I know that I couldn’t have going any faster than. say…67, I guess.
Suddenly, his lights were flashing and he was pointing at me and motioning for me to pull over. I knew that I had four choices.
Okay, I’m a wimp. I chose D.
So now I have a speeding ticket on my record. My children’s children will remember grandpa Tom who brought such shame and disgrace on our fine family name.
My wife said, I told you so.” The folks at the office here in Boone are having trouble believing it. “You got a speeding ticket?” they keep asking in astonishment.
My brother John, teenager who has had several scrapes with the law but has never gotten a ticket, snickered and rubbed it in. “At least I never get a ticket.”
I’m so ashamed.
My own Mother laughed at me.
My wife said.” I told you so.”
As a commodity trader, the parable of the master who divided up his money to three servants really strikes home. To the first he gave five talents, to the second three, to the third, one. A talent was a unit of measure for gold and silver which was roughly equal to a weight of one man (about 130 lbs), which in today’s value would be close to about $1.5 million dollars.No small sum.
The master is described as a demanding man. One who reaps where he doesn’t sow - who expects his servants to work well, and serve him well. But he also shows that he is generous for those that perform well.
The first man takes his five talents (about $7.5 million in today’s value) and trades with them and doubles the money. For his reward, he is given more responsibility, wealth, and power.
The second man too takes his two talents (about $3.0 million in today’s value) and trades with them and manages to double the wealth as well. For his reward, he is given more responsibility, wealth, and power.
The third man takes his one talent ($1.5 million) and buries. For his efforts, or his lack of effort, he is thrown out into the street and the talents are given to those that proved they could manage them effectively.
Those are good management techniques.
The challenge is, it isn’t that simple.
It is not by coincidence that the word for talents has been passed onto us with another meaning. In Greek, it meant scale or balance, in our modern thinking, it means the skills, the gifts that we have been given.
Our Master too is demanding - He demands that we serve Him well. He demands that we serve each other well. He demands that we work to bring about His kingdom here on earth.
And he still distributes wealth.
Each of us is given talents, though our talents are more precious then gold or silver. They are the skills, the gifts, the thoughts, the very essence of who we are - they are our talents, figuratively and literally, they are still in some ways the measure of the man.
Each of us is called to use our unique gifts to serve our Lord and Master.
This can be a challenge.
Society calls for us to conform, to follow the herd, to live the life of quiet desperation where we are to stand up and use our God given talents. Society tells us to shut up and take our seat on the bus.
But we are called to use those gifts - if our gift is writing, do we write? If our gift is mercy - do we show compassion and mercy to those who need it? If our gift is preaching - do we speak our voice? If our gift is leading others - do we take that responsibility in our hands?
Or do we choose to bury our talents in the ground? Do we hide our light under the bushel basket of comfort and ease. Do we live those lives of quiet desperation - know that the demanding Master is going to call for a full accounting on the day of His return…
(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 called my brother at college last week. “Is John there?” I asked his roommate.
“Oh, you mean the Great hunter of the Far North who is one with the wolf and at peace with the wild?” John’s roommate asked.
“Well? I guess so,” I replied.
It turns out that my brother really is the Great White Hunter. After three years, two rifles, 642 rounds of ammunition and four blaze-orange coats, he single-handedly brought home his first deer last week.
He did get one last year, but it was a community effort. It was near the end of the season and John and the rest of the frustrated hunters in the area teamed up. They surrounded a small wooded area and opened fire. They continued shooting until large trees began to topple. Then they went in, counted the dead animals and divided the booty. Not pretty, but effective.
This year, John landed one all by himself. All summer, he scouted areas that deer might be likely to frequent-areas such as tickets, brushy areas, river bottoms and dimly lit highways.
He decided it is too tough to get a clear shot off in thickets and brushy areas. Hunting along the highway is unsafe and illegal. So all that was left was the river bottom.
So John went out and found a nice clearing with some signs of deer activity and set up a stand. With his stand built high above any typical deer’s line of sight, he was ready for the hunt. Less than an hour into his first day out, a group of deer came walking by.
My words here could not relay to you the drama of the hunt and the thrill of the kill. I will let John tell you in his own words. This is his story-
I had arrived shortly before dawn. I was there, not specifically to kill, but to feel the thrill of the hunt. As I sat there in the pre-dawn darkness, I felt long-buried instincts come alive. My senses were heightened. The sun began to rise.
I could sense the deer before they appeared. I could not see them. I could not hear them. I could not smell them. But I knew they were there.
Then they came into view. There were a dozen of them. Each was a magnificent creature with towering antlers and rippling muscles. I trembled with excitement. I could feel the cold steel of my rifle as I raised it my shoulder.
NO! I could not shoot. A gun, with its harsh noise and smelly powder is not the way of the wilderness. I was one with the wild just then and I knew I could never use a gun to kill one of these creatures. The kill would have to be more of a challenge than that.
I quietly placed the gun on my stand. The deer heard the quiet rustle of my jacket, but they did not bolt. They paused, acutely seeking some other sign of my presence.
Slowly, I reached to my belt and clutched the big knife. It felt comfortable in my hand- as if it were an extension of my arm. I had sweated and toiled to forge that knife the winter before. I had spent hours hammering and honing until it was keenly sharp and perfectly balanced.
Now I took aim with that knife. The 18-point buck was an easy target, but I did not aim at him. He had lived too long and proudly for a mere youngster like me to kill. I did not aim at the does. They must live to bear fawns for future hunts. Instead, I took aim at the young six-point buck. He was young and haughty like myself. He and I would challenge each other. His speed and senses would be matched against my aim and strength.
Now the knife was poised. I threw! And what a throw it was. The knife whistled through the air, straight and true.
The rest of the herd thundered away, but my buck lay there, his life-blood pumping from his cleanly severed jugular. At 50 yards, it was a clean and skillful kill. It had been a good day hunting. The family will eat well this winter.
That’s John’s story. I must say it’s pretty impressive. However, he also mentioned something about six shots and a 12-point buck that was too far away. He didn’t talk much about those things so they couldn’t have been too important.
I’ll admit that I like this time of year. When fall and winter battle it out and temperature swings from warm to cold, as the sky fluctuates from sun to rain to snow - inevitably, we know that winter will win out in the end, but for me, the battle is fun to watch.Most people become a little depressed around this time of year - the trees go into slumber, the final work of fall needs to be completed before the snow comes to stay, the last of the crops need to be brought in. There is a lot of work. In addition, the nights are long, the sun is seldom seen, most of the waking hours are spent in work or school.
The days just aren’t long enough.
There is the pungent smell of decay in the air that tugs at our primordial senses, now is the time to prepare for hibernation.
But yet, I remain hopeful.
Part of that is that this is also the time of the year when I turn the page in my life from one year to another.
Birthdays were never a big thing in my family. Mom always baked our favorite cake, we usually got our favorite meal the night of our birthday. Sometimes this was over strenuous objections from other members of the family. I have always been a fan of cherry chip cake, but my Dad and two older brothers were in love with chocolate. They would heap scorn upon me for choosing cherry chip cake, they would implore Mom to please bake a chocolate cake - because I didn’t know what was good for me.
Mom would never give in, there was always a cherry chip cake waiting for me on my birthday. A little ice cream, a little singing, and the birthday was darn near perfect.
There were a couple of memorably bad ones too growing up. The year that Mom had to go to an event in the cities, but made sure that my favorite pizza was in the freezer for my birthday dinner - and my Dad and older brother John smothered it in mushrooms, one food that I hated the most (if I wanted a fungus, I’d get athletes foot).
But there were more good ones then bad ones, spent in the warm embrace of my family.
After my seventeenth birthday, things changed considerably.
My seventeenth birthday was marked with the first birthday cake not baked by my Mom, as she was struggling with cancer. But my sister-in-law Mary stepped up to the plate and we celebrated together, with cherry chip cake and ice cream.
I think I’ve only had one cake since that birthday, and while many of them have passed with little notice or note, they all remain memorable. My 20th at Paradiso in Fargo, ND - dancing with a sombrero and fried ice cream with a candle, My 21st in Kansas City running for National FFA Office, my 22nd birthday spent with an ice cream pail filled with my favorite alcoholic beverage with friends in college in Fargo, ND, my 23rd with new friends in Champaign, IL, my 25th with a group of very good friends and co-workers in Wichita, KS, my 32nd over a home cooked meal with a small group of very good friends.
I believe this year, we will celebrate with a small group of friends at a favorite little haunt in Minneapolis. A good beer and a good burger. At some point in the evening, I will raise a glass and toast to all of the very good friends that I have had the chance to meet and celebrate with over the years, I will toast my beloved family and the memories of birthday pasts. And though there will be no cherry chip cake and ice cream, the same warm embrace of family, friends, and home will stretch across the ages once again as I mark the passing of time from one age to another.
The first day in Cuba, I was amazed. I had been to third world countries before, and while there is extreme poverty, there is also a humbling feeling of people working to make their lives better, of friendliness. Driving through Cuba, that first day from the airport to the hotel then out to the fair grounds outside of Lenin Park, it was a bit awe inspiring to see the hustle and the bustle of the streets and the communities. The hotel was impressive. The people were kind and friendly.
The second day in Cuba, you started to see some of the strange things. The policemen stationed along the country road between Havana and the fair. The groups of soldiers lurking in groves of trees and vacant lots. You saw some of the desperation of people looking for a hand out at the booth, “please, a notebook for my son for school.” “Please, crackers so that my baby won’t die in my womb.” At nice you saw the poorness of the majority of the people. You see the ladies of the night - many of them educated, speaking English, willing to sell their bodies so that they might get a little more money. You hear stories of the penalties for having unauthorized meat.
The third day in Cuba, you see the sixteen and seventeenth century churches and cathedrals that are behind iron gates and soldiers at the doors. You see the grocery stores that have only a few items on the shelves - beans, rice, cooking oil. You hear the lady of the night asking to please come with her - she needs the money, she wants to be free in America. She has taught herself English by reading magazines and watching television, but she doesn’t have the money. You see her get a cold look in her eye when she is refused and she pushes on, desperate to find a paying customer.
Flying home, you talk to the women who is flying to see her relative with her young son. She can’t leave Cuba permanently, because she won’t leave her husband…but confides that her son will not be coming back. She is parting with him, so that he may taste freedom.
These are the memories, the images that are seared in my heart and mind as we cross into Veterans Day this November 11th.
November 11th is a day set aside to honor our veterans. The men and women, living and dead who fought - and are fighting the fights, defending the borders, protecting us and people around the nation from tyranny and despots, preserving, restoring, and nourishing freedom.
November 11th is a day set aside to honor our fathers, sons, grandfathers, grandsons, daughters, mothers, uncles, aunts, friends - and those who have no one to remember them, who have given their time, their talents, and their lives so that we, and people around the globe might have a taste of liberty.
November 11th is a day for heroes. Living and dead, remembered or forgotten, those who answered freedoms call and rose to defend liberty around the world. Who picked up arms at Bunker Hill, stormed the beaches of Tripoli, fought on the seas, flew the sorties over Vietnam, worked the Coast Guard cutters in the frightful storms, worked on the trucks and jeeps in the military hospitals during the bitter cold Korean winters, blew the bugle as men marched off to the lines in France. These are the men and women that we should - that we must remember today.
The freedoms that we live, the rights that we have, are not free. They were bought and paid for with many a patriots - many a veterans blood, so that we enjoy the blessings of liberty for ourselves and our children.
If you know a veteran, please thank them today. If you don’t know a veteran, please bow your head and thank the good Lord for the service they have made.
(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 1987)
Did you miss it?
Tucked in there between election day and Thanksgiving is Veterans Day. It was Nov 11 if you didn’t notice. Maybe you didn’t. Unless you worried about your mail not being delivered or your banking not getting done, it might have slipped right by you.
It’s kind of an ambiguous holiday. What does it all mean- this holiday called Veterans Day? Veterans Day and Memorial Day are losing some of their significance. Norman Rockwell scenes of parades and banners and speeches and patriotism are scarce. At times, the flags are more of an advertising gimmick than the proud standard of a nation. Old uniforms hang in back closets or lay folded in dusty steamer trunks.
Has it been that long since the members of our armed forces have engaged in battle? Are we forgetting what these days mean.
Once it seemed that everyone had a grandfather who fought in the war to end all wars- World War I. Everybody had an uncle or a father or a brother who fought in Europe or the Pacific during “the Big One”- World War II. Our fathers, brothers and sons served in Korea and Vietnam.
For me once those wars are only scenes in scratchy old news reels or long forgotten memories of a child who didn’t understand what was happening on TV’s evening news.
We’re a nation of forgetters. Wars are unpleasant. Parades and uniforms are inconvenient and holidays interrupt our daily lives. Let’s forget.
But we can’t afford to forget. The price was too high. Men and women were willing to give their lives for a country and a government that few of us pause to appreciate now. They fought so we could chose our next president, congressional delegates and legislators. They fought so we could have the freedom to live as we chose and to control our own destiny.
Want to know about a veteran’s day? Talk to the woman in the nursing home who’s son “never come home from the Pacific” in 1945. Or the man who remembers a day in 1919 when he cried at the sight of the Statue of Liberty. Talk to a grandfather who remembers black nights in a troop transport trying to cross the channel as shells burst overhead. Ask a father why he seldom talks about what he saw in Korea after the “police action.”
They will tell you why it’s important to remember Veterans Day. Memories of war and pain and hatred aren’t pleasant.
They bought us the freedom and prosperity we enjoy. If we forget we may become reckless as a nation. Our leaders must think deeply before making threats and promises.