In my thirty plus years on this earth, I can remember exactly one Christmas where we failed to have snow.  On the upper Great Plains, there were three things that you could typically count on: 

1. Snow in the winter

2. Heat in the summer

3.  Drastic changes at any minute

In short, you just expected December through February to be cold and snowy and often times November through March - and once in a while October through April - but you always expected snow on Christmas.

Any holiday special that we watched on television showed snow.  Bob Hope’s Christmas special?  Always snow.  Andy Williams Christmas special?  Plenty of the white stuff.  A Christmas with John Denver?  A Rocky Mountain high with plenty of snow.  Think of any of the many Christmas cartoons - Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer?  Snow.  A Charlie Brown Christmas? Snow.  Muppets Christmas?  Snow.  Santa Claus is Coming to Town?  Snow.

I’m not sure when it first hit me that snow was not universal.  As a kid the world that you see is the world that you know.  If you go sledding on Christmas Day, you fully expect that every kid on the planet goes sledding on Christmas Day - regardless if they live in your hometown, Fargo, Bismarck, St. Paul, Chicago, New York, Los Angeles, Phoenix, Mexico City, New Delhi, Qatar, Johannesburg or Riyadh.

The thought of a Christmas without snow was just as foreign as some of those cities.

Gradually, your mind adjusts to the facts of weather and geography - you realize that places like Jamaica rarely get colder then seventy degree’s and you also know that snow can’t survive temperatures higher then thirty-two degrees.  You realize that the ornaments that your aunt sent you from Hawaii with Santa in shorts and a straw hat doesn’t mean that he is going to get frost bite, it means that with any luck, Santa Claus is sunning himself on a beach by New Years Day and enjoying the sunshine after a successful Christmas.

Sometimes, it is still hard to believe that there are parts of the world that don’t get to experience the joy of snowstorms and sub-zero temperatures.

Recently, a friend of mine sent pictures from a “monster snow storm” that dumped up to three inches of the white stuff in Baton Rouge - three whole inches.  In Minnesota, we refer to that as a light dusting…in central Louisiana it ranks up there as one of the top three snow storms of all time.

Sometimes we need to be knocked back into our sense of wonder.  A Christmas with snow, while normal in the little world that I grew up in, is not normal for the vast majority of people around the country, and indeed for most of the people around the world.  Sometimes we lose sight that the place that we live, regardless how warm or how cold is truly a wonderful and magical place - regardless where that is.

For me, it just happens to be in the beautiful snows of Northwestern Minnesota!

How and why it happened remains a mystery, but on a cold December day, back in 1985, Sister Baptist, principal and teacher at St. Michael’s School, made the request of a young man, her request, and his answer would live with him for the rest of his life.  That decision on that cold December day so many years ago still lives.  That is why, whenever called upon, that young man still responses to the call for Claus, Mr. Santa Claus.Sister Baptist had tried to play the roll the year before, and while she had the holiness of a saint, she lacked a little bit of the deep bellied laugh, the jolliness, and the round cheeks, and masculinity to be Santa Claus (though anyone that got their mouth washed out with soap by Sister Baptists hands would say there was no man a match for her).

That first year, it was a simple enough request, walk across the stage (i.e. altar) at church and speak a brief part into the microphone - a little jolly laugh, a little bit of the history, a little bit about the connection to the Christ child.

The seeds for Saint Nick lay dormant for another nine years.

In 1993, some of the seniors in Mahnomen High School had a great idea - a food drive to be held the last week before Christmas, if you brought in a canned good, you would get your picture taken with Santa Claus…but who would play dear Saint Nick?  Once again, called into service, this scion of Santa, lacking in holiness, but making up for it with a jolly laugh and witty comments (and Santa did appreciate the line of girls waiting to greet him…) was pressed into service.

Two years latter, Christmas, 1995, the young man’s fraternity’s Christmas party was at risk - the normal Santa Claus called in sick, who could replace him?  Who had the experience, the jolliness, the gut to fill the role so desperately needed at this critical time?  Once again, the young man stepped up.  With witty comments (Santa: “Where you a good boy this year Shane?”  Shane: “yeah, pretty much.” Santa: “Yes, I know, I am Santa Clause…”)

That same year, his brother’s Christmas card in doubt, who would fill the roll with his infant daughter on the front of the card, once again, the red pants, red hat, red jacket, white beard came out.  Santa is an amazing man, but can’t be every where, he counts on the few, the chosen few to be there when the need is great, so the Christmas card was saved, and dear old Santa’s reputation was saved again by the man filling in behind the beard.

Christmas, 1996, once again, the young man’s fraternity needed a Santa Claus…once again, the young man donned the suit and beard and bravely walked in the shoes of the man loved around the world for his generosity and love of children and crank out witticisms and jolly laughs for the young men.  (Santa: “So Parker, have you been good this year?”  Parker: “More or less.”  Santa: “Mary said good, Sarah said bad, Megan said good, Blair said bad, Steph said good, Karen said bad…”).

The suit was put away, and once again, the Santa’s helper went dormant….

Christmas, 2006.  Tragedy in Ohio.  The man who had played Santa the year before was no longer available (something about rehab), and the local Christmas party organizers were desperate…they had 150 children that were expecting Santa Claus, they had a velvet suit, and no one willing to don it.  The call went out.  The call was answered.

This was the big time.  This was 150 children.  This was where you needed to get the laugh just right (is it huh-huh-HOOOOO or HO-HO-HOO, is the emphasis on the first or second syllable?) 

While the big man couldn’t be there in person (December is a very busy month for THE Santa Claus), he knew this one was a big one, and called with a little Santaly advice: “Children are fun and are a precious gift.  Treat them with reverence, but also have fun with them.  And don’t worry if they pee on you, that is a hazard of the job….”

The doors of the Elk Lodge opened wide and in walked Santa Claus.  Huh-huh-HOOOO’ing and crying Merry Christmas in a jolly voice, he gave hugs and high fives as he made his way through the three foot tall mass of humanity like wading through a swimming pool with grabby arms and runny noses to his throne at the end of the room.  For the next two hours.  Children in various states of excitement, joy, and terror sat on his knee, got their pictures taken a gift and promise to do the very best he could to get them what they wished.

When all of the tots had gone through, Santa again wadded through the mass of miniature humanity and made it to the back room, where he sat down, sweaty and exhausted.  Its tough work filling in for Santa Claus, there is a reason that man is a saint.  But he also know why he did it - the joy, the excitement, the love that he saw on those innocent faces made him realize that there was hope for humanity.  That the pureness of life still exists in the wonder of children, and at heart, we all know that Santa Claus still lives, and the Christ Child still resides in each of our hearts.

Like a picture of Bigfoot, the man, the myth, a Santa Claus sighting….

Mr. Claus, with one of his fans…

Santa and one of his young admirers….

Santa in all his splendor…

“These people are as free as you or I are.  They don’t have property rights, but in reality, neither do we - if you don’t pay your property taxes, our government will take your land away.”

“Right I said, but what about the ability to pass along property to your children” I said.

“We don’t have that in the United States either.  You die; the government essentially takes half anyway.  Let’s face it; these people have as much freedom as we have in the United States.  They can travel.  They can move around. They get great educations.  They have more doctors per capita then we do.  Their health care is free. What more is there?” said my protagonist.

“What about liberties?  What about the right to protest?  What about the right to vote?  What about freedom of speech?  Freedom of the press? What about the right to worship?” I replied.

That ended the argument right there.  To that, there was no response.

It made for a tense couple of minutes at the outdoor café at the site of the Havana Fair over our roast pork and rice dinner.  Our friend from Argentina was visibly shaken - outraged that anyone could mistake the freedom of want for freedom to be.

This happened on my last day in Havana, and until that point, I could not place the great sense of discomfort that I got from the country.  What separated this country from others that I visited?  This conversation struck to the heart of it.

The people of Cuba have security - they are guaranteed food, shelter, and security from lawlessness.  What they lack are the liberties and the freedoms to make life truly worth living.

The world over is filled with good, decent, people - willing to care for each other, and willing to go the extra mile to help people in need.  The people that I met in Cuba were the exact same.  But that sense of liberty, of freedom - not economic freedom or the ability to acquire wealth and pass it on, but of the riches of liberty and freedom.

(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 1989)

Thanks to the eager prodding of my wife, most of my Christmas shopping is complete.  Nearly all the gifts we’ve purchased are neatly wrapped and tagged.

I’m pretty happy with our selection this year.  Some relatives and friends are regular readers, so I won’t go into details here.  I’ll just say that I think we’ve found gifts that even my parents will appreciate.

They’ll never admit it, but that has not always been so.

I can remember plenty of gifts that I’ve given my parents for Christmas and birthdays that are probably better off forgotten.  It’s amazing how parents can remain so appreciative after years and years of receiving strange and useless gifts from their children.

Like the ceramic cow that I gave my dad two years ago.  At the time, that cow and calf seemed to be the perfect gift.  I remember at Christmas how Dad opened the gift and admired it with wide-eyed happiness.

It wasn’t until later that I noticed how much the cow looked like a bull with an udder.  That calf didn’t look so good, either.  Until recently, the cow and calf remained in their place of honor on top of the television.

I’m not sure where the bovine mother and offspring are now but that’s probably just as well.

I do know where the fantastic all-purpose screwdriver/wrench is.  It’s at the very bottom of the drawers in the cabinet in the garage.  When my brothers and I bought the screwdriver/wrench for Dad 10 years ago, we thought it would be perfect solution to all of his fix-it needs.

It had a screwdriver on one end and a metal ball on the other.  The metal ball had a variety of hexagon-shaped holes in it.  Theoretically, you could tighten or loosen screws with one end and then turn it around and tighten or loosen any size nut or bolt with the other.

I don’t think the screwdriver/wrench was ever used.  It was in the drawer inn the garage by New Year’s Eve.  Dad refuses to throw it out.  “Might come in handy some day.  Besides, it was a present from you boys,” he says while we cringe.

That’s only one of the useless tools that we’ve given Dad over the years.  I remember the self-destructing drill bit (only $1.99). The plastic screwdriver handle with interchangeable screwdriver bits (the handle broke on Christmas morning while Dad was working on one of those self-assembly required projects), and the indestructible flashlight (replacement bulbs available only in Mexico).

Mom was luckier.  Mrs. Hanson down at Hanson’s Hardware was pretty good at convincing us each year that mixing bowls and wooden spoons are much better gifts for a mom than mousetraps and ceramic birds.

Thanks to Mrs. Hanson, Mom never runs short of mixing bowls or wooden spoons, even during her most ambitious baking projects.

That’s not to say she didn’t receive her share of kitchen gadgets and ceramic animals.  She can show you a drawer full of them.  And every time she received one, she was happier than the time before.  I guess that’s something they teach in parenting school.

Along with their drawers full of gadgets, they’ve got shelves full of souvenirs.  There’s a teacup from Winnipeg, a tray from Bismarck, N.D., a ceramic cow from (this one’s a cream server) from Fargo, N.D., and a coffee mug from Ames.

But that doesn’t even make a dent in the list of gifts and gadgets.  Fortunately, most of them lie forgotten in shelf, box, or drawer.  But every once in a while, a child’s gift is so memorable that it can’t be forgotten.  Stories about gifts like those grow into family legends.

Like that bronzed buffalo chip form the Black Hills of South Dakota.

Who could ever forget that?

This Christmas, my intentions were to do it right.  Maybe not perfect, but at least right.  I even had it all planned out.  Outside - a wreath by the door, some little trees, some pine boughs in my planters, some festive decorations on my yard light out front.  Inside, the tree, trimmed and perfect, the nativity on my glass cabinet, wall hangings throughout - it was going to be as festive as what I remember from my youth.And friends - my intentions were to throw a big Christmas party, a full meal with twenty or more people, all around a big festive table in my basement, wine, beer, pop - more importantly, good cheer and warm feelings all the way around.  Then there were the Christmas cards - for the friends scattered throughout the world.

In the end, I’ve got a wreath by my door and two small pine trees by the entrance.

I was done in by pneumonia and an overall lack of time.  Even the basics haven’t been done - the simple things like prayer and contemplation.  In the end, I have no one to blame but myself, I should never have let that cold turn into something much worse.

In the end, this season, this time of year, is about joy.  The readings today remind us of that simple fact.  Regardless what we have or don’t have, regardless how the economy is treating us, regardless if we are rich or poor, sick or healthy, new born or on the edge of our life here on earth, this day, this hour, this minute, is about the joy that we must have when we remember the graciousness of the Lord.

As Isaiah says, “I rejoice heartily in the Lord, in my God is the joy of my soul; for he has clothed me with a robe of salvation and wrapped me in a mantle of justice….”  Or we are reminded through Paul, “Rejoice always.  Pray without ceasing.  In all circumstances give thanks, for this is the will of God for you in Christ Jesus.”

The Jewish people then were looking for a savior, someone that would take away all of their pains, take away the earthy sickness and tyranny that they lived with.  In truth, what they got was a baby, born in a stable, that was to take away the blight of sin and open wide the gates of our heavenly kingdom.

Today, we look for a savior from our earthly ills - our economic situation, our sickness, our broken hearts, our worries of the day.  We plead through prayer to our Lord to make things right, to take away the bitter cup of life - to save us from our present age.

As humans, we hurt, we get sick, we cause each other to suffer by our words and actions.  The little baby born in the manger would feel that same hurt, would suffer and ask that His Father too take that cup of mortal suffering away from Him…

Yet that suffering is part of life, it is part of being human.  Yet we must still rejoice for the tremendous gift that was given to us.  God did not spare himself the pains of being human.  He hurt, just as we hurt.  He bled, just as we bleed.  He died, just as we are to die.

Yet the triumph and joy of the manger, of Advent, of God With Us, lies in that very misery of our human condition that our God came to share with us.  In the end, the things that troubled us in our imperfectness, sickness, death, despair - are but a pittance compared to the undescribable joy our faith teaches us awaits us in paradise.

Regardless if the tree is up, the holly hung, or the party held - regardless if the pneumonia clears up, or if more troubles befall us.  This season, this time, this hour, this minute, may the joy of our Lord, of our salvation, still reside in our hearts.

(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 17, 1986)One of the things I miss especially during the holidays is the Fargo Theater back where I went college in Fargo, N.D.

What is so special about an old movie theater?

I am too young to remember the golden era of the American silent films but through the magic of the Fargo, I was able to relive a small bit of the incredible era.

The theater was built in the late 1920’s in the tradition of grand theaters.  It was remodeled several times and over the years it fell into disrepair and disuse.  Then in the late 1970’s, area film and history buffs began a drive to restore the Fargo. 

The project is still in progress, but the headway that has been made is impressive.

Like all great movie houses of the era, the Fargo has a tall marquee with rows of flashing lights directing patrons inside.  Stars’ names and the current attractions are always up in lights.

Inside, deep reds characterize the carpeting and wall paper while marble and brass accents lend an especially opulent air.  There are 2 levels of seating inside the main theater.  The walls are decorated in streamlined strips of recessed neon and incandescent colored lighting. The lighting and the acoustically-scalloped ceiling draw the eye to the stage and its magnificent red velvet curtain.

Local lore says the recessed lighting hadn’t been used in years and was so covered over with dust and grime that the theater restorers didn’t realize that it existed.  Supposedly a restoration volunteer found some obscure switches in an out-of-the-way place while cleaning back-stage.  His curiosity revealed one of the most unique features of the theater.

The heart and soul of the theater is the  “Mighty Wurlitzer” pipe organ.

I will never forget the thrill when I heard my first performance at the Fargo.  The lights dimmed in the cavernous theater and only the area in front of the stage remained lit.  The organ began playing, filling the theater with such full deep music that it not only thrilled your ears, but seemed to stimulate every one of your senses, As the concert began the organ slowly and smoothly rose from the floor.  I don’t think I breathed for the entire 5 minutes.

The organ itself is a mechanical wonder with miles of piping and electrical wiring, all painstakingly restored.  The organ is able to reproduce car horns, a doorbell, a diesel air horn, a steam whistle, and the sounds of a steam locomotive.  It has its own entire percussion and bell section.  All of the incredible sounds are controlled from the organ’s massive console, which can be raised hydraulically from below floor level.

The organ was designed to provide background music and sound effects for silent films.  Silent film stars such as Coleen Moore and Lillian Gish have visited Fargo, to promote the preservation of the Theater and the piece of history that it represents.

Throughout the year the theater shows new and old film classics and even features live performances occasionally.  During the holidays the theater hosts local performers and its organ in free concerts during noon hours.

Some of the best Christmas performances I have ever heard were from the “Mighty Wurlitzer” in the Fargo Theater.  I, like other hardy Fargoans, braved the cold in order to hear that mighty organ in the magic atmosphere of a theater from yesterday.

Perhaps more then anyone else, Ernest Hemingway serves as one of the unbreakable bonds between the United States and Cuba.  When Havana was a sleepy capital city in the blue waters of the Caribbean, this American went ashore and conquered the hearts and imagination of the generations of Cubans and Americans alike.He lived just up the beach in a little seaside village, drinking and fishing with the local villagers.  He visited the haunts and watering holes of Havana.  He rubbed elbows with most of the famous and well-heeled of Cuba, as well as the visitors from across the narrow strip of sea that separated the United States and Cuba, while at the same time, feeling as comfortable (or perhaps more so) with the rugged Cuban fishermen.

Born in Oak Park, IL in 1899, Hemingway became one of giants of American literature from the 1920’s all the way until his death in 1961.  While he is known to most Americans as a resident of either Key West, Florida or Cuba, his foot prints can be found in places big and small: Oak Park, Kansas City, Chicago, Paris, Piggot, AR, Key West, FL, Binini, Bahamas, Spain, Acciarola, Italy, Havana, Cuba, and Ketchum, ID.

He was a rugged individualist with a love of the outdoors and flair for writing.  An ambulance driver on the Italian front in World War I and wounded in action, he covered three other world conflicts as a writer.  While he is famous for his fishing (who can ever forget “The Old Man and the Sea”), most of his time plying the Caribbean waters was on his fishing boat the Pilar, which we outfitted as a sub-hunter during World War II - chasing Nazi U-boats through the Florida Straits.

He moved to Cuba after World War II and became loved by the locals and the visitors a like.  One of his favorite places to visit was the famous, La Floridata Bar in central Havana, originally christened the La Pina de Planta in 1820, the bar regrouped and renamed in 1898 as La Florida, but changed its name to the La Floridata as patrons refused to call it anything else.  It was the official home of the daiquiri, with Mr. Hemingway drank with abandoned - which I could certainly understand after tasting one - hands down the best daiquiri I’ve ever had.

The La Floridata was the place that local well-to-do and visiting dignitaries and celebrities would visit.

And almost always, they could find Mr. Hemingway.

We too found Mr. Hemingway there, or at least a bronze likeness of him, still standing at the bar, a flash in his eyes and a story on his lips - forever frozen in that pose that gave so many people joy in his lifetime, still locked in that pose for those that wish to remember him as he might have been.

Like Cuba, there was more to him then meets the eye.  I think people want to see him as a rugged minimalist - which is what he wrote and how he appeared to live.  But underneath was a tortured soul that eventually succumbed to his drinking and depression.  Cuba too on the surface appears to be a happy place - short in material goods, but long on social well-being, the truth, as in Mr. Hemingway’s case is much, much darker.

Mr. Hemingway was an incredible writer and an incredible individual - visiting and writing about the world he saw and the world he knew.

In his honor, sitting at the La Floridita Bar, I lifted my daiquiri and toasted the rugged American at the end of the bar.

Here’s to you Ernest, here’s to you.

I don’t know if I have ever seen a rib eye steak that looked quite so good.  They were the perfect thickness - about an inch and a half, they had the perfect marbling, and they had that perfect shape that a rib eye should have.  They were from the half of beef making a home in my freezer, every cut of which so far had made the perfect meal, the hamburger was lean, the roasts were tasty, the T-bones tasted fantastic.  Now, the piece that was a cut above the rest (pun intended), once unwrapped from the white butcher paper looked like the choicest yet.I was nervous.

It is one thing to screw up a mediocre meal, but with a steak like this, you had to be careful. Luckily, I located the recipe for “THE PERFECT STEAK.”  Normally, these saying turn out to be good on paper, but poor in practice.  This one said, take the steak, put on a light coating of olive oil and melted butter, and lightly coat with kosher salt and pepper, put on the grill for a max of twelve minutes, three minutes on the first side, flip, three minutes on the other, flip, three minutes on the first side, flip, three more minutes.

Sounds too easy, but the guests were arriving, so the risk had to be taken.

There were seven of us total, six very good friends celebrating with a little food, a little wine, and a big steak.

OK, maybe not a little food.  There was crackers, cheese, and fresh venison sausage for appetizers thanks to the Z’s.  There was a green bean casserole and cheesy bread from the Peterson.  The Woerner’s brought a great - but healthy - desert with strawberries and a pretzel crust (healthy and great tasting indeed!).  In addition, there was wild rice - a staple for a man from the town that literally means “Wild Rice” in Ojibwa.

The steaks were marinated in olive oil and melted butter, coated with the kosher salt and pepper and placed on the grill.

This is where I got into trouble…”So, how do people like their steaks?”

The response came back, two well, two medium, three medium rares.  Rats, now how was I going to do that?  In the dark.  In the rain.  Which was freezing.

Luckily, the flare up in the grill took care of that problem…After the first three minutes; I was slightly surprised to see flames shooting from the bottom of the grill…inside the metal cabinet and out the front.  One side of the grill was definitely hotter then the other what with the raging grease fire at the bottom of it.

Turn off the grill, lets the flames die down, restart, flip.

Three minutes later…raging grease fire in the bottom of the grill.  Turn off the grill, lets the flames die down, restart, flip.

Three minutes later…raging grease fire in the bottom of the grill.  Turn off the grill, lets the flames die down, restart, flip.

Three minutes later…raging grease fire in the bottom of the grill.  Turn off the grill, lets the flames die down, restart, take them off and bring them into the house.

As we gathered around the table, you could smell them, still cooking on the plate from the inside.  We said the blessing, toasted to good food and good friends, and cut into the steak and the verdict came back: If it wasn’t perfect, it wasn’t far off.

When the meal and the conversation were done, there wasn’t a scrap of meat left on the table.  We had gone through five bottles of wine, a stick of venison sausage, a green bean casserole, and a strawberry/pretzel desert that was on its last leg.

The meal was darn near perfect.  But as the crowd dispersed and the good byes were said, I think that we all realized that even if the steaks had been burned, and the rest of the food bad, it was the friendship, the conversation, and the comraderie that made the meal perfect in the end.

When the Americans took over Cuba after the Spanish American war, they quickly set to work on repairing and building the city of Havana.  American engineers and architects left their mark on the city with the neoclassical designs.

Perhaps nothing so marks the city and what the Americans left then the Malecon, the broad walk way and road way that runs the length of the city from the bay all the way to the newest section of the city that starts by the Hotel Nacional de Cuba.

Along the broad avenue lies the sea to one side and the city of Havana on the other.  Monuments mark the route, including one for the USS Maine.  The sites on the city side range from the Soviet inspired apartment buildings to the neoclassic’s of the American era, then to the heart of the ancient colonial capital.

On the sea side of the Malecon is nothing but the open sea.  The Malecon acting as a seawall, protecting the city from the pounding surf.

From my perch on the hillside from the Hotel de Nacional de Cuba, along the old canon perched their from the British occupation centuries before, you could see the life on the Malecon.

On the first night in Havana, I sat watching as young people walked the concrete path of the Malecon, in groups, in pairs.  Stopping to talk and to laugh.  Small groups of musicians did impromptu concerts on the seawall.  Young couples arm in arm stopping to sit with their backs to the city and their faces to the sea, taking in the cool salt breeze.

On the last night in Havana, with my mind racing from the site of the empty grocery stores and the guards and gates at the churches, and quiet desperation that seemed to seep into the soul the longer I stayed, I walked out on the overlook that peered over the Malecon again.

The site was very different.  With a hurricane bearing down on the ancient capital and seaport, the Malecon took on a very different look.  The ocean waves crashed over the outer rocks.  The sea spray shot over the rocks and make the seawall standout against the blackness of the ocean.

On the abandoned walk way was one couple, facing off against the crashing waves.  It has been years since I’ve written poetry, but looking on from my hill top perch after seeing the quiet desperation of the city, it made me realize, that love still lives…

On the Malecon, by the sea
Two young lovers embraced
Through the froth of the angry waves
The lighthouse and the crashing spray

He laying prone, looking into the dark night sky
Head in her lap, as she stroked his hair
Whispering, talking, laughing,
On the Malecon, by the sea

She in red, he in white
Cast in the darkness
Lightly touching, softly talking
On the Malecon by the sea

Silhouette by the ocean spray,
He slowly rises and sits up,
They kiss, they caress
On the Malecon, by the sea

Holding one another
By an angry sea and a forlorn land
Love conquers all
On the Malecon, by the sea.

Sleep.  Sometimes we take it for granted.  Sometimes we don’t appreciate the importance of it.Through my high school and college career I fought sleep with a vengeance.  Late to bed, early to rise made me a productive boy.  Out late?  Up early. 

Part of it was milking cows at home.  It always seemed like the later we stayed out at night, the earlier Dad thought we should be up to milk the cows.  It was cruel, but effective.  Plus, those early mornings are hard to get out of your system.

Going off to college, it seemed I was always one of the first ones up in the morning.  “The dining hall opens at six in the morning?  Why so late?” I wondered.

Then came the all nighters.

The first one happened my junior year at college.  I always swore that I would never pull an all-nighter, but here I was, typing up a paper at four in the morning that was due only six hours later on the intricacies of the dairy futures market.  Ten pages of analysis and an additional ten pages of graphs, text books, computer printouts and a stack of Hoard’s Dairymen were scattered through the FarmHouse computer room.  The paper got turned in.  It was going to be the last all-nighter that I ever did.

A week later, into the professor’s office I meekly went…to see what my midnight creation yielded for a grade.  The professor looked up and said, “Hey, hold on a minute, I’ll be right back…” and he walked out of the door, letting me to ponder my fate.  Was he going to get the head of the department to chastise me for poor work?  Upstairs to the dean to kick me out of the College of Ag?

The clock ticked.

“Here you are.” He said, “I just wanted to get a copy to use as an example for next years class.”

He handed the paper across to me…”A” was written on the top…

Maybe all-nighters weren’t so bad.

Then came grad school, I had driven late into the night before, but never from sun up to sun down…until I went to visit grad schools.  After choosing a school twelve hours from home, it became apparent that I was going to have to adjust my sleep schedule to allow me to drive through the night.

You learn a lot of tricks.  Mountain Dew, sunflower seeds, frequent stops (also thanks to the Mountain Dew), and occasionally sticking your head out the window were all very useful tactics for staying awake.

But I’m getting older now.  I passed the thirty mark several years ago, and try as I may, I’m finding it harder and harder to pull the all nighter.  Now, you realize the importance of a good nights sleep.  It is restorative, it is necessary.

Last week dealing with a case of pneumonia, there was one day that I slept for eighteen hours - EIGHTEEN HOURS!  That is the normal time that I’m awake on a daily basis!

But as I get older, the body is speaking to me a little more.  Sometimes, when I get a crazy idea to work to much and sleep a little less, it will gently tell me, “I don’t think so.”  When I get start to get the idea that I can stay out a little later and wake up a little earlier, it will mock me and say, “payback my friend…payback…”

Never tempt a mocking tired body…