Thwarted.  My plans to participate in the party of the century – no – the party of the millennium – were thoroughly thwarted.The turning of the calendar from 1999 to 2000 was a big one and I was going to participate.  I’ve never been a big New Years participant for a variety of reasons (chores, weather, travel, illness, etc).  But this year was going to be different.

It was going to be a trip to remember – a car of us driving from Fargo, ND up to Winnipeg, Canada (if you are going to be cold on New Years, you might as well be in Canada), to celebrate in style.  Instead, my Dad and I left the night after Christmas to go to my Uncle Hank’s funeral in Pennsylvania.  It was going to be a quick trip – home the morning of December 30^th – in plenty of time to make my connection in Fargo the morning of the 31^st.

Our connecting flight from Chicago to Fargo the afternoon of December 30^th was canceled.  Then the evening flight was canceled.  But they booked us the 7:00 am flight and put us up in hotel.

Back at the airport at 5:00am…and the flight was canceled.  It was then that I noticed something a little suspicious…there was no one else in the area…the restaurants, the bars, the waiting areas, the bathrooms…there was almost no one else around.

December 31, 1999 was not a day that most people wanted to be flying, for two reasons – first, the world was going to have one heck of a party welcoming in the new century and the new millennium.  Second, with the uncertainty of the computer bugs that could potentially make computers turn to “1900″ instead of “2000″ people were worried about planes falling out of the sky.

As these thoughts played through my mind, we waited for the noon flight…then the noon flight was canceled.

Finally, they called for our boarding on the 5:00pm flight, 24 hours later then expected and well beyond any hope of making it to Winnipeg for the turning of the New Millennium.

As they boarded us, Dad and I were third and fourth in line…and also last and second to last in line.  Yup, four whole people on the flight from Chicago to Fargo.  They wouldn’t let us sit together, claimed they had to balance the weight.  The two other people sat at the window seat at the very front of the plane.  Dad and I sat on the opposite sides of the plane at the very back.  I’m not sure if it was to balance the weight, or if they knew that we had all spent 24 hours in an airplane terminal and were likely to attack each other over the minutest detail.

As the plan took off, the stewardesses were attentive (after all, they only had 1.33 passengers each!).  About six o’clock, the captain came over the intercom.

“Good afternoon folks, we are currently approaching Minneapolis/St. Paul so you should be able to see that out of your windows.  Some good news for you folks as well, it is now officially midnight Greenwich Mean Time and we are still in the air!  Happy New Year!.”

So Dad and I were some of the few, the very few, to say that we were in the air when we greeted the new millennium (and one of about eight on the flight from Chicago to Fargo).

In the end, I made it home, safe and in one piece to celebrate the turning of the New Mellenium on our little farm in Northwestern Minnesota.  As the clock approached midnight, I put on my coveralls, boots, hat and gloves and went for a walk in the cold night air.  Watching my watch as the minutes ticked by, I fell to my knees as the clock turned and said my traditional New Years Prayers, this time – not for the year, but for the new millennium, “Lord, thanks for all of the blessings of the old one, and may the new one be sight better.”

In the end, I don’t know of a better way to welcome it in.

(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 December, 1988)

Christmas trees are coming down all over town today.  Decorations are being packed away.  Christmas lights are being unplugged for another year.

Not at out house.

Our tree is staying up and lit for at least two more weeks.  We’re going to wallow I holiday cheer for that much longer too.

Christmas gets a tremendous build-up.  Retailers start their Christmas push in October.  Home holiday decorations go up the day after Thanksgiving.  We spend all of December scurrying around shopping and buying and preparing and wrapping and cooking and baking and writing cards.  Whew!  There’s hardly any time to celebrate Christmas.

For many of us, we’re so busy doing things before Christmas that we don’t take any time to enjoy and savor the sentiments of the season.  We spend weeks preparing.  We celebrate for exhausting day.  And then it’s over for another year.

That’s probably why so many of us have such fond memories of childhood Christmases.  If we baked, we did it with mom and it was fun.  If we shopped, it wasn’t because we felt we had to, it was because we wanted to.  Selecting gifts and getting them wrapped was almost like a game.  Seeing mom and dad or a brother or sister open the gift we so carefully selected was one of the best joys of Christmas.

There was time to watch Christmas specials on television.  We enjoyed singing Christmas carols.   The only time we faced holiday stress was when we had to appear in the annual school or church Christmas play.  As a fourth-grader, I played the inn keeper in our school play.  I couldn’t have been more nervous if the play had been opening on Broadway.  In our one and only performance, I flawlessly performed my line,” I’m sorry, we have no room, but you can stay in the stable.”  That’s what Christmas memories are made of.

They don’t make Christmases like that anymore.

Years ago, people didn’t try to cram everything in just before Christmas.  In fact, Christmas didn’t really get underway until Christmas Eve.

So we’re going to spend the next few weeks getting back to the basics of Christmas.  We’ll enjoy our tree and decorations for a bit longer.  Our nativity scene will stay out on the tale to help us remember what Christmas is all about.  We’ll nibble at leftovers and munch on holiday goodies.  We may even do a little holiday entertaining as well.

With that in mind, I’ll wish you a continuing Merry 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 December, 1988)

I’m lucky to be alive.

You’ve opened your paper and here is my smiling face and my column.  Now you know I survived Christmas Eve at the Jirik’s.

We hopped in the car and went north for Christmas- nine hours worth of north.  While all of Boone’s snowbirds were enjoying the sun belt, we were driving to northern Minnesota.  It was not sunny there, but it was seasonably warm.  “It’d three degrees outside so enjoy it while you can.  It’s going to get cold tomorrow,” the television weatherman from Fargo said.

We spent Christmas Eve with my family and Christmas Day with Mary’s family.  The Christmas with Mary’s family was normal, calm-relaxing even.  We all sat down to the traditional Christmas dinner-complete with traditional ham, traditional turkey and traditional mashed potatoes and stuffing.  In the background traditional Christmas carols played on the stereo.

Then after the traditional feast we all retired to the living for the traditional gift opening ceremony.  The youngest family member present traditionally hands out the gifts.  He did.  We each opened our gifts one at a time, pausing so the other family members could ooo and ahhh over the gifts.  It’s a nice tradition.

Christmas eve with the Jirik family is somewhat more frantic.  For the past 24 years there has been at least one youngster under 10 years old there.  This year was no exception.  Margaret, my sister is 9 years old.

At 5:30 p.m. We did the Christmas chores- feed and water the cows and prepare for milking.  It’s funny, but those are the same as the Fourth of July chores.

At 6 or so we had our traditional Christmas supper.  Then we did the traditional Christmas milking.  It doesn’t take long to milk 28 cows when there’s a heap of presents under the tree waiting to be opened.

Then the excitement began.  My father began the traditional Christmas gift distribution.  He started with the Christmas stockings. I got a Slymee Hand in mine this year.  It was an interesting although somewhat useless rubber toy.

At that point, my sister began her high-pitched, pneumatic-drill squeal of excitement.

“Wheeeeee! Look a Barbie Disco fashion set!  Just what I wanted! Wheeeee!”

“Wheee! A stuffed kitty! Wow! Wheee!”

“Oh, nice books.”

“Wheeeee!  A Molly watch my hair grow!  I really wanted one of these! Wheeee!”

Yes, we bought her books.

She wasn’t the only one unwrapping.  Mary, three brothers, my mother, my father, and my grandmother were all unwrapping and ooing and ahhhing at the same time.  It was an out-of -control gift opening frenzy.

I remember that each of my brothers used to get pretty excited about opening Christmas gifts too.  And I’m sure that as a lad of nine years, I was somewhat excitable too.  Who knows, maybe, maybe inside-underneath this mature exterior- I was screaming too.

“Wheeee!  A SLYMEE HAND!  Just what I wanted.”

There was silence…a long, uncomfortable silence…Dad looked at Mom, Mom looked at Grandma, Grandma looked at Tom, Tom looked at Dad.The meal was great – and always was.  For Christmas Eve, Mom always outdid herself.  Turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes, gravy, corn, pistachio salad, fruit salad, pie, cookies, koblaha, bitawicha, fruit cake – the table seemed to groan as the last dish was placed on the table and grace was said.

But that was over an hour ago.  The fantastic meal had been devoured, but not quite digested.

Mom cleared her throat – the silence was broken, and all eyes focused on her.

“Why don’t we clean off the table, then Tom can take you kids to go to town to see the Christmas lights,” Mom said.

ACTION!

All of us kids (and I include the adults in that statement too) sprang from their chairs and went right to work.  One packing the dishwasher, one scrapping plates, one packing leftovers into the regriderator, the balance quickly cleaning off the table.

In five minutes, what had been a table laden with debris from a fantastic meal was spotlessly cleaned.  The dishwasher was running, the last of the dishes that weren’t dishwasher safe were being washed, the floor was being swept, the counters being wiped clean – all jobs that normally would have taken us an hour, five minutes flat.

“Well, I suppose you kids had better go.” Mom would say…as everyone knew that she would, for that was the sign, Santa Claus was on his way…

Away we would pile into the family car, Tom at the helm, to “look at Christmas lights.” We would drive through town, ohhh’ing and ahhh’ing at the displays of lights and decorations.  For thirty minutes Tom was to keep us occupied, which in a town as small as ours is, wasn’t that easy, sometimes those light displays looked familiar for a reason – it was the third time we had driven past them (Tom’s one attempt at something a little more fun got him busted one year when one of his young siblings announced at dinner Christmas Day “the cookies that Tom did in the parking lot of school last night was SOOOO cool!”).

Finally, the allotted thirty minutes – the longest thirty minutes of the year – were up and the car headed towards home. We knew, we just knew, that Santa had stopped by while we were gone…

We would bust into the entry door and sure enough, there were three big bags of gifts waiting in the entry!  We would each hoist a bag and march through the kitchen into the living room where Mom, Dad, and Grandma waited with smiles on their faces.

“We thought we heard something out there!” Grandma would deadpan.

The bag with the stockings were in was opened first and the stockings handed out.  Each of us dug down into them to discover what little treasures Santa had left for us.

Once all of the stockings were emptied, we looked at Dad, who would announce after only a second or two of suspense, “Lets see what’s in these boxes!”

With that, he would kneel next to the tree and start yelling names, handing out gifts as he went and watching the paper fly.

In minutes, what had been a massive pile of gifts for eight people piled neatly wrapped under the Christmas tree was reduced to individual piles of gifts and a more massive pile of Christmas paper being scattered from one end of the living room to the other, often times with multiple colored pieces floating and wafting through the air as it was ripped and discarded in excitement.

Within thirty minutes, all of the gifts were opened, the last of the paper settled to earth, and we would all poke our heads up, smiling with that cake eating grin at everyone else in the room. That was the magical moment.

Soon, Dad would announce, “This paper can’t just sit in here,” which was the start of the next clean up phase.  The bags Santa had brought his gifts in were always, conviently enough, big garbage bags, and very quickly, the paper, ribbons, and boxes were separated – the boxes and ribbons saved to be used again next year, the paper ready for the burning barrel.

“You kids must have been good this year,” Grandma would say.

Either that, or Santa must have been very forgiving….

Merry Christmas.

What do you get someone for Christmas that is dying?  What do you get a family whose heart is slowing breaking?  How do you help to make Christmas merry in the face of the sharp reality of life?When they told us that October in 1994 that the cancer was growing again, they told us it could be one month to six years before Mom would succumb to her cancer, but I think, at heart, we all knew, including her, it would be sooner.  We all knew this was probably going to be her last Christmas with us here on earth.

As a freshmen in college, going back and forth every weekend and sometimes during the week, you could see those little moments when the life would be back in her eyes, when the old life and the old spirit, the warrior that had battled hard situations throughout her life, the kindness of a women that loved her husband, her children, her neighbors, and all of God’s creatures deeply. 

But you could also see the moments when she forgot her children’s names, when she thought she was back in time to the days of her youth – those moments were growing too…

What do you get for woman who had been there to scrape the rocks out of your knees and bandage life’s hurts with a hug and kiss to the forehead?  What do you get for the woman that would listen patiently to your ills and console you, but would also tell you to suck it up, and get on with life, because hard times were part of it and life moved on – what do you get for that woman?

What do you get for the family that sometimes fought like cats and dogs, but always closed ranks when some outside presence threatened?  What do you get for the family that when faced with the death of one of its leaders way to early, still found the courage to laugh and joke?  Still found the faith to go to church?  What do you get for the man, Dad, that found the strength when he was told to put his wife of twenty-five years and ten years his junior in a nursing home, had told the doctor to go to hell – who told his family that he promised to love and care for this women for better or worse, and this just happened to be the worse part – what do you get for that man, for that family?

Everything seemed insignificant.

I was at the moment of despair while driving home for Christmas break.  There was nothing that could help, there would be nothing that would lock in this time, this last precious holiday.  I couldn’t bear to go home…I drove past the driveway and into town…away.  Away from the pain, away from the unfairness of it all – away from the cancer and the work, and the pain of seeing a loved one slowly slipping away…

I drove down main street, past the lights and the tinsel, past the shoppers, waving at the neighbors as they walked down the sidewalks or drove down the street.  I drove out on the highway, past the service stations and the John Deere dealership.  I turned on the main road back into town…and there was Starkey Photography.  Could this be it?

Walking in, I asked Bruce if he would be willing to take a family picture for us on Christmas Eve Day.  He was willing. I paid the deposit and went home.

It had been over fifteen years since our last full, professional family photograph.  My last minute planning made it so that some of my brothers didn’t get notice to bring home their suits, so we were a bit of a motley crew that walked into the studio that day – the warmest Christmas Eve that any of us could remember, with no snow and temperatures almost hitting forty.

But what a memory and what a photograph.  It some ways, it isn’t Mom.  You can tell that the cancer had taken its toll.  You knew that a part of her was already gone.  But you also knew that the warrior spirit, the kindness and the love was still in there too.

Mom passed on a little less then three months later, March 23, 1995, right before Easter.  But it is that Christmas and that picture that I remember most when I think about her and her cancer.  It serves as a reminder – a joyful, but bittersweet reminder – that the wonders of the first Christmas ended only thirty years later with the horrors of the cross. 

But I also remember that the cross was not the end of the story.  His birth and His death served as a sacrifice for all, so that we might have faith that the warrior spirit, that kind, loving spirit of Mom will be seen again when we too are called home to His love.  For the wonders of Christmas didn’t end at the cross – they lead to the glorious Resurrection of Easter morning and the hope of a world, of a people saved by Love, come to earth on Christmas day.

A vacant moonscape, littered with ancient gravestones and bleached bones.  Our earth, billions of years from now, burned by an expanding sun or cooled by years of our planets core slowly emitting heat to a point were we froze from the inside out – either way, the vision in my head was stark.  A lifeless, Godless place.What if there is no God?  What if I am sitting in this pew, in this church, getting this sacrament of reconciliation for nothing?  What if it is all a waste?

Those were the thoughts that went with the vision.

I am an imperfect man – sinful as God judges, sinful as His laws declare, but what if there is no God?  Does that then make me, not imperfect, but something more?  If there is no judge to judge my imperfections, do I then become perfect in the eyes of the world?  Is it about money, and power, and satisfaction?

What if my life, my struggles, and my work to date have all been for nothing?

The Sacrament of Reconciliation is not easy.  It requires confessing, and actually thinking about our sinful ways.  As a Catholic, it is the hardest thing that I do as a part of my faith, thinking about and reflecting on my failings, as a man and as a child of God.  More then once, I’ve faltered at the door, I’ve debated its merits, I’ve doubted its usefulness.  Mainly because it is so painful to endure.

Part of me wanted to walk out right then.  As a Catholic, we are taught to believe that the Sacrament of Reconciliation is a necessary part of our spiritual life, but if there is no God, then it is an empty gesture.

It was then that the priest began to speak about the Gospel of Mark.  About how the Gospel of Mark is littered with demons and evil spirits – the demons are actually the only ones in the Gospel to recognize Christ for who he really is.  It took his followers much, much longer to see Him for what He was.

But through it all, Jesus set people free from those demons, from their sinfulness.

Evil and sin work its way into our everyday lives subtly, through doubt, through daily little sins, through sins of omission.

As I made my way to the priest and confessed my sins, what he said to me was remarkable.

“God forgives you sins, put more importantly, as imperfect as you are, he is born in you today, you are washed clean, and today, you start anew, as a man, and as child of God.”

The doubt, the fear, was gone.  It was replaced by the greatest gifts that God has given to His people, Faith, Hope, and Love.  Always after this Sacrament, I feel the same way, always, the pain and suffering that goes into preparation is rewarded with these gifts.

Afterwards, I met with a very good friend of mine, a friend that gives wise advice and counsel, and he too provided the gift of hope to me with his wisdom.  No gift was as needed, nor as well received.

As we close out Advent, may we remember, above the boxes, and ribbons, and bows, Faith, Hope, and Love, remain the greatest gifts of all that we get from our Lord, and give to each other.

“Hurry up, it’s almost on!” Mom would exclaim to us, pushing us to finish up whatever we were doing so that we could stop and listen to the music. There was very little that would make Mom stop working, she was always doing ten things at once, and especially around Christmas time.  She was a non-stop flurry of activity – decorating, cleaning, baking, planning, wrapping – and all on top of the other normal household activities (which with four boys and one little girl also must have seemed like an endless task) – though in a mass of community activities and Mom was a bit of a whirl wind at the holidays.

Inevitibly, we would get recruited.  And, kids being kids, sometimes fight which made our naturally good natured mother a little less good natured.  We quickly found a solution to that problem.

“Mom,” we would gently say as she scrubbed the counter top after making a fresh batch of cookies, “would you mind if we listened to a record while we clean the living room?”

That was the bait…

“As long as you kids get along and get that room clean, I don’t care.”  She would say.

We would carefully have the record, ‘A Christmas Music Festival’ at the ready and put in on the phonograph where it scratched and started to play.

The trap was set…

As soon as Mom heard that first Medley of songs…the scrubbing would stop for just a second, then resume with renewed furver, she knew what was coming and she was going to walk right into the trap.

After the opening medley, came Dean Martin singing a version of Bing Crosby’s classic ‘White Christmas’…the scrubbing and cleaning sounds from the kitchen intensified.

The came Glen Campbell with his version of ‘Silent Night’ – that is when she started hurrying us along.

“Mark, run this upstairs.  Jaime, put these jars in the basement.  Margaret, put these dish cloths out in the entry.  And hurry up, it’s almost on!”  She would say with an excitement in her voice where frustration had been only ten minutes earlier.  We would scamper away, knowing that a break was at hand.

We were all quickly back in the living room – and usually just in time, for the trap was sprung…

Mom would come in just as Sandler and Young began their version of ‘Jingle Bells’, a rollicking mixture of English and French that just brought a smile to everyone’s face.  We would all sit and listen, tapping our feet as Sandler and Young harmonized in this joyful variation of the most tired Christmas classics.

After they finished and Tennessee Ernie Ford started on his rendition of ‘Do You Hear What I Hear’ we would all sit in silence, smiles on our faces.  As he wrapped it up, Mom would look at us and say, “OK, one of you, put that needle back to the beginning of ‘Jingle Bells,’ then we can get back to work.

We  would all listen again enjoying it even more the second time around, though if it was our own enjoyment or the enjoyment that we got from seeing Mom enjoying it remains a bit of a mystery.

As it wrapped up again and Tennessee Ernie Ford began singing again, Mom would announce, “Well, we should be back to work.”

Yup, it was always a perfect trap…and I was always a bit confused as we resumed our work with a new flourish of activity, renewed in energy and sense of good will, with Mom humming in the kitchen as she readied another batch of cookies, we laid the trap, but Mom always ended up seeming to be the trapper…

07-jingle-bells.wma

(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 December 2, 1987)

The old man flicked open the cover of his pocket watch.

None of the excitement was there.  None of the anticipation.  “I’ve made the trip too many times,” he thought.

With an effort he pulled himself out of the chair.  His footsteps echoed heavily in the log stone corridor as he put on the heavy red coat.

With reluctance he pushed open the giant door to the workshop.  They were all there, looking at him expectantly.

He mustered a grin for them, but their eyes betrayed them. They knew something was wrong.

They were worried little elves.  Their spark was gone.  The Christmas eve excitement was missing.  Their faces were raised toward him in concern as he walked silently between them.

With a sigh he climbed into the sleigh.  He felt as though he had done this too many times for too many years.

Then he spotted the big red book with its columns for naughty and nice and a list of deliveries for each stop.

Somewhere inside he began to tingle.  He stroked the smooth leather cover of the book with reverence then placed it in the slot alongside the seat. 

He picked up the reins.  He could feel the color creeping into his cheeks.  The reindeer pawed nervously, anxiously.

Two of the elves dashed to open the massive doors.

He breathed it in, deep and long.  As it filled his lungs, it seemed to clear his mind of everything but the children, children who were waiting expectantly for his deliveries.  His face broke into a giant grin.

Although the temperature was well below freezing, he could feel warmth spreading across his face.  His listlessness had been replaced with restless anticipation.  Somehow his mission had been reaffirmed.  His face broke into a grin “Let’s goooo!” he yelled as he snapped the reigns above the reindeers’ back.

They didn’t need to be told twice. In unison all eight lept against their harnesses, throwing the jolly fat back in his seat.

The sleigh rocketed out of the workshop and into the darkness of the arctic night.  A cloud of snow rolled out from the thundering hooves and the hissing runners.

He adjusted the reigns in his hands, expertly steering the sleigh down the runway carefully prepared by the elves.

“Faster! Faster!” he cried as the wind rushed by.  A jumble of ice loomed up ahead, higher than a house.

Suddenly the thunder and hissing died away as the odd vehicle became airborne.

He circled back toward the castle and guided reindeer and sleigh into a breath-taking pass inches above the ground directly in front of the workshop’s still-open doors. 

As he flashed by he could see a row of rosy faces, their mouths open in awe.

Then he was gone.  A “Ho, Ho, Ho,” echoed away into the dark.  Two tiny elves struggle to close the door.  One shoved his elbow into the other’s ribs.  “I told you it’s be a Merry Christmas,” he said with a wink.

Things are not well in the world.  The banking system is on life support, the auto industry is asking for a billions of dollars to fend off bankruptcy, the holiday shopping season is down, restaurants are reporting decreased business.  People are suffering.  More and more people are being laid off.  Donations to charity are falling.  The Salvation Army, along with most charities are reporting record deficits just as we seem to need them most.The government is doing all they can, but even that seems not enough.

It leaves people asking questions.  How can this happen?  How can the Lord let their be suffering on this earth – especially around Christmas?  What have we done to deserve this?  What can we do to fix this?

David was in much better times when he proposed building a temple for the Lord.  David went from being a hunted man and times of upheaval, to times of peace and prosperity.  He wanted to reward God for all of the wonders he had bestowed on him.

But David had it wrong.

David had no authority to build a house for the Lord.  It was not for David to reward God, for God had given everything to David, instead, it was God’s will to do build his house as he wished, and dwell where we wished.  David respected that request, because ultimately, he realized, he was but a servant of the Lord.

The story of Mary is even more amazing.  Here was a woman, a girl really, promised in marriage to a man.  All of a sudden, an angel appears and tells her that, if she approves, she will become the mother of God here on earth.

So she had a choice between living her life as she probably planned – a wife and mother to a carpenter, having a house full of children and keeping house.  But instead, the Lord would take shape in her womb, as an unmarried woman (who by the way could be subjected to stoning for being found pregnant outside of marriage if her husband deemed it necessary), with the uncertainty of what it meant.

Mary’s choice was really a choice for all of us – she was a human after all and she could have very easily have said no.  She could have said, let this cup pass from me, I don’t want to bear this responsibility.  Indeed, the gospel says that she was troubled and the angel says, “Do Not Be Afraid!” 

But as John Wayne said, “Courage is being scared to death, but saddling up anyway.”

In her faith in God, her faith in her Lord, helped her make this very difficult choice that would lead to our salvation.  As we prepare this last week of Christmas with the uncertainty in our world and in our lives, may we have the courage and the fortitude of Mary to say, “May it be done according to Your word.”

(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 December 1987)

Calves for Christmas.

No, not the leg kind of calves, the baby kind of calves.

I grew up on a dairy farm and wintertime is calf-time.  Our cows were timed so they would have their calves during the winter months. Usually, peak calving time was right around Christmas.

Starting at age 5, it was my job to feed the bawling back and white little beggars.  I’d feed them in the morning and feed them again at night.

It was excruciatingly fun.

You see, calves are greedier than Wall Street brokers.  I would feed 15 calves.  I was armed with only three pails with nipples on them…three pails and a floppy piece of rubber hose.  Before any animal rights activists take offense, please remember at age 5, a 2-week-old calf probably out weighed me by a considerable amount

From the perspective of a 5-year old little boy, 15 drooling, bawling calves makes for a frightening confrontation.  Strategy number one was to sneak up on them.  This tactic worked once in every 100 attempt.  The object was to get inside the room and hang the buckets on the fence before they knew what was happening.

That way I could be ready for them before they were ready for me.

Typically, the calves tune in their ESP and were lined up at the fence before I ever made it in the door, ready to knock me over and trample me in their feeding frenzy.

Strategy number 2 was the full frontal attack.  I would rush into the room, screaming at the top of my lungs and try to get the pails hung on the fence while the calves were too shocked to do anything but stare.

Humorous, but highly ineffective.

I’m surprised those calves survived.  It’ s not that I beat them to death with a floppy rubber hose, it’s just that they didn’t get much to eat.

Invariably, as I tried to swing the buckets over the fence so they could get at the nipples, one of them would knock his head on the bottom of one of the pails.

Then, being the 5-year hot head that I was, I would throw down the buckets in disgust and scream in rage as the milk dribbled down my glasses.

Oh, how I pine for the days of childhood.

So the calves went hungry; I got soaked with milk; and my 5-year-old vocabulary was filled with surprising variety of four-letter words.

All of this just in time for Christmas.