(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 1990)

Thanks to my wife, we’re almost done Christmas shopping.  We bought presents the first presents way back in July.  And now we only have a few odds and ends to pick up before the big holiday arrives.

Frankly, I agree with you.  It disgusting.  Why would anyone be organized enough to be done shopping by the first week in December?  Some of the fun goes out of the holiday season when you’re not rushing around at the last minutes trying to find that special something for that special someone.

My wife and a few other mutant shoppers out there disagree.  “I hate the crowds!  You can never find a place to park!  And you can never find what you want!” She laments.  “I don’t want to wait until December 23^rd to finish shopping, Do you?” She asks accusingly.

“Well…” I begin to respond.  But before I explained how much fin it is to watch the kids visit Santa at the mall, look at all the holiday decorations in the window and listen to piped-in Christmas carols, she stops off to make certain that we have enough wrapping paper and cellophane tape.

Some of the nicest things about being married and settling down are the holiday traditions and customs that gradually develop over the years.  When we were first married and moved to Iowa, everything we did for the holidays we were doing together for the first time.

Now we can look forward to a Sunday trip to a local tree farm to select the perfect tree.  Our Christmas decorations, once new and shiny, are beginning to show a little wear.  But now they shine with the memories of our Christmases together.  Some of them can be traced to my childhood Christmases.  Some of them (like Christmas shopping in July) are new traditions and holiday habits that we developed on our own.  They are all special.

Growing older and settling down isn’t all bad.

One of the things that is becoming a Christmas tradition is my annual trek to Boxholm to visit the Farm Tow Store there.  Larry Krakau and Randy Lehman have packed the little building on the edge of town with just about every toy tractor and implement that you can imagine.  There are enough to delight kids of any age.  I suspect that adult collectors are some of the best customers.

I make the trip under the premise that I am going Christmas shopping for my younger brothers.  Somehow, I almost always manage to bring home a little present for myself. Too.

When I was there last week, there were cars from Polk, Buena Vista, Boone, Story and Webster counties parked outside.  Apparently, farm toys do a pretty good job of attracting holiday shoppers to Boxholm.

I suspect that in rural Iowa, toy tractors might even be more popular than Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.  I hope so.

We live in an era of instant gratification.  We want it all and we want it now.  Our materialistic society tells us that if we work hard and make lots of money, we can have all that we want when we want it.But somewhere in that life, we lose the valuable skill of waiting.

Most of is (me included) hate the thought of waiting.  It conjures up images of waiting in lines or standing in a crowd of people.  It means uncomfortable chairs and old magazines.  It may mean straining through the days until an expected holiday or vacation arrives.  It strikes up images of sitting there, doing nothing.

But waiting is a word of action.

Waiting means hard work, thought, reflection, planning.  It means preparation.

For thousands of years, the Jewish people waited, and Isaiah exhorted them to “In the desert prepare the way of the Lord!  Make straight in the wasteland a highway for our God!  Every mountain and hill made low!  Every lowland and valley be raised!”

John the Baptist called out to the Jewish people proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins, for as he said, “One mightier then I is coming after me.”

People were to wait, but they were to wait actively, preparing their hearts, minds and souls for his arrival.

Our society tells us to demand things now - and that is the easier way.  It is easy to see the immediate, to feel that instant gratification.  But it is so much harder, but so much more rewarding to learn the skill of waiting.

Advent is a time of preparation for Christmas, to get that shopping, that baking, that decorating done for Christmas, to celebrate the and commemorate the birth of the Christ here on this earth through the generosity of our Father’s love.

But Advent is also a time of preparation for the coming of our Lord in the future tense as well.  We are called to prepare for His second coming and through our arrival into our day of judgment.

This is a time for action.  It is a time for prayer and reflection, it is a time to feed the hungry and cloth the poor - it is a reminder that it isn’t just a four week window once a year, it is on ongoing process that we must live everyday or our life.  It is a reminder that we must continue to make this world a better place in preparation for the coming of our God in our day.

In some ways it is very hard.  It is very difficult to look at it from the long term view, especially when society tells us to reach for the instant gratification.  On the other hand, the rewards of waiting, of tithing instead of buying that television, of praying instead of playing that computer game, of mentoring a child instead of going to that movie, or living a moral life instead of giving in to carnal pleasures.  It is about giving our time, pleasures and comforts to make a better world - and a better life - for our children and our children’s children.  All of a sudden, the joy and the beauty of the long term view comes into focus.  The rewards of heaven, of having the joy of the Lord in our hearts provides a constant source of comfort and peace.

May we learn to wait - actively and with love and joy, this Advent season.

(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 16, 1987)

Snow is a mind-altering chemical.

Yes, it is.  My wife and I were stranded in Albert Lea, Minn., on our way back for a trip north during the holidays.  What we saw there convinced me that snow warps the human mind.

There’s the macho effect.  When we drove into Albert Lea we couldn’t tell up from down because it was snowing and blowing so hard.  Still, there people who were bound and determined that they could make it just a little bit farther.  They’re the same people that drive 60 miles-an-hour on glare ice.

Other drivers suffered from the grandma effect.  At the sight of the first flakes these folks slow down to 35 miles an hour.  If you happened to be driving on a 4-lane highway, two of them will drive alongside each other so you can’t pass.  It’s a sick, sick interpretation of the buddy-system.

When it really starts to snow and blow and when the roads get super slick you can always count on these people to suddenly appear in front of you, driving extremely slow or stopped all together.  The American Heart Association has scientifically determined that this category of driver is directly responsible for 73.2 percent of all heat attacks suffered o U.S. highways.

After the snow has stopped the craziness really starts. Albert Lea received about 12 inches of snow while we were there.  Most of it was concentrated in the motel parking lot.

Before the crack of dawn, there were people out in the parking lot trying to get their cars out.  Where were they going?  The roads were snow and ice covered.  No travel recommended.  But these people were bound and determined to get out of that parking lot.  Obviously having another day off bothered them deeply.

I finally went out at 11:30 a.m. To try and uncover the car.  For awhile it looked hopeless, but with the help of some strong people from Illinois, Ohio, Minnesota, Iowa, Nebraska and Wisconsin helping us push we managed to get out.  I feel sorry for that last guy whose car was left in the parking lot with no one to help him push.

So all of us mind-altered idiots crowded onto I-35 along with the snow and ice and played chicken with each other until we got to where we were going.

Maybe could get the surgeon-general to put a warning on snow.  “The surgeon-general has determined that snow can warp your mind.”

It was a cold, a simple, crummy cold.  A little sore throat, a little runny nose, nothing to be worried about, it was a simple virus that I would shake off in a day or two.  Or as I grew up having drilled into me, “a good cure for a runny nose is keeping it to the grindstone.”There was no way you would go to the doctor for a simple cold.

With four, sometimes very accident prone, boys on a dairy farm, our family made its fair share of trips to the hospital in our little home town.  Some days, we felt like we were the only things keeping it afloat.

I think I can picture the hospital board sitting around saying, “Well, people are just to darn healthy around here, we are just going to have to hope that one of the Jirik boys hurts himself soon.”

Usually a trip to the hospital meant something seriously wrong.  I can remember looking my Dad in the eye the night he came home from the KC meeting and saying, “Dad, I think I sprained my wrist.”

“Let me see.”  He said.

Then I watched his face go white when he saw my arm dangle and the bone hit the skin.  I went to the doctor for that one - and probably that was one of the more memorable trips.

Usually there was some pretty intense conversation when discussing going to the doctor, you had better be really sick to hope the Mom shuttle to the hospital.

That still sticks with me to this day.

 When I got the cold three weeks ago, the best cure was an evening of rest, some liquids (non-alcoholic), and push forward whether I felt like it or not.  In theory, it sounds fantastic, in reality, not so good.

You would have thought I’d learned my lesson five years ago when a cold gone bad, gone very, very bad, almost got me admitted to the hospital with pneumonia.  Wheezing and near collapse, I sat in the doctors office that day listening to a partial lecture, partial questioning about the need to seek medical care when things like a cold don’t clear up after two or three weeks, the importance of rest and proper care, the need to come a see a doctor prior to almost passing out from lack of oxygen.

I think the doctor today would agree with that statement.

“Well, I looked at your chest x-ray from today, and also some from the past.  Wow, you were really sick about five years ago.  That is an x-ray almost worth framing.  Your one today isn’t quite as conclusive, but your lungs don’t look good.  If it isn’t pneumonia, it will be soon,” She said, “Looking at your past x-rays, at least you are learning.”

“So doctor,” I asked, “How come I keep on getting pneumonia?”

“Just lucky I guess.” She said, “Also, when you get sick, what do you do?”

I didn’t have the heart to tell her my old cure, just put that runny nose to the grindstone.

There some unwritten rules for using the telephone in our family, be quick.  My Dad not only helped write those rules, he was also the chief practitioner.The first time Dad left for a two week vacation between my freshman and sophomore years of college to see his brother out in Pennsylvania.  The instructions were, “Don’t call me, I’ll call to let you know I’m ok.”

I remember coming home and getting a message on the answering machine, “Ya, this is Dad.  Bye.” 

As he was hanging up, I heard him exclaim - and it was recorded on the machine, “I hate those #$%#% answering machines.”

Phone calls home were always brief and too the point, don’t use three words when two will do.

My first trip overseas was a trip to Europe.  I promised my family I would check in every couple of days to get the news from home to let them know that I was still alive and well.

My first phone call came from a street corner in Rome where an international call on my credit card was costing me two Euro’s a minute.

“Ya, Dad, its me, everything is good here.  Anybody sick?  Anybody died?” I said.

Suddenly, seventy-years of phone training went out the window, “Where are you calling from?” Dad asked.

“I’m on a street corner in Rome, its eight o’clock at night, everybody ok at home?”

“Wow, the connection is so clear, its like you are right next door or just over in the next county.”  Dad said.

“Yup, that’s great Dad, how is everything at home.”  I say staring at my watch…

“Is that a helicopter in the background?”  Dad asks.

“Yes, yes it is a helicopter, anything new?  Anyone sick?  Anyone died?” I implore.

“Well, Bernice has some sort of skin infection, my cousin has got some funny lump on his foot.  They don’t know what it is.  It doesn’t look to serious, but its kind of black, so I told he should really go in with it, because it might not be serious, but ya never know with that sort of thing and you really don’t want to take any chances…”

“Dad!  This is costing me two Euro’s a minute - anything serious going on that I need to be worried about?” I cried exasperated.

“Wow, two Euro’s a minute, what is that exchange rate now?  How much is that in dollar terms?  It just floors me that it is just so darn sharp and clear.  It’s about one o’clock in the afternoon here right now you know, maybe the quality has something to do with the time of day…”

“Dad, I’ll check in from Switzerland in two days.  Nothing serious at home to worry about.” I finally cut him off.

“Nope things are good, talk to you in a couple of days.” Dad said.

Whew.  Perhaps we had crossed a new threshold in our relationship.  Maybe Dad was going to turn into a talker on the phone.  Could I handle that change?

Two days later I called from Switzerland..where the going rate from our hotel for an international call was about ten cents a minute.  I bought a sixty minute calling card, expecting a long conversation with Dad.

“Hey Dad, its me, I’m in Switzerland!” I said when he answered the phone.

“Hey, what do you need?”  Dad said.

“Nothing, just wanted to check in, anybody sick?  Anybody die?” I asked.

“Nope, everything is good.  I’ll let you go.” Dad replied.

“Wait a minute, that’s all I get today - this phone call is only costing me about ten cents a minute.” I said.

“Ok, well, I’ll let you go then, I’m going over to your brother’s place” Dad said, “enjoy the rest of your trip.”

Part of me was a little dejected - the hope for a major phone conversation had been broken…but still, part of me knew, the earth and planets were still in orbit, nothing had changed while I was gone, and the status quo was pretty darn comfortable.

(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 November 25, 1987)

Where’s the snow?

We had to go over the river and through the dirt to get to Grandmother’s house for Thanksgiving.  I was just wondering, where’s the snow.

Every picture I’ve ever seen of Iowa in the wintertime features (quite prominently) snow.  Last year we had hardly snow.   We had to go over the river and through the slush for most of the winter.  It’s just not fair.

Some of us like snow.   Think of all the trouble a lack of snow would cause for Christmas cards, for example: I’m Dreaming of a Brown Christmas, Jingle Bells (dashing through the dirt) and Let It Rain, Let It Rain, Let It Rain.

A lack of snow takes most of the fun out of winter time.  Ever try to roll up a dirt man and throwing dirt clods or rocks instead of snowballs could be dangerous.  Skiing’s not so great either.

Look at the photograph that accompanies this column.  As you can see I’m just a young pup.  I rode a bus to school.  My parents had to slog through 3 feet of snow to get to school everyday.  My grandparents had to plow through 6 feet of snow to get to the old one-room school house.

So where’s all that stuff now? 

Here I am, snow.  Come and get me.

After all, I’m a reporter.  I’d love to go out and cover a major blizzard.  Then I could tell my kids someday that I had to push through 12 feet of snow to get to work after the blizzard of ‘87.

I can take it.  I’m from Minnesota.  I went to school in North Dakota where they really have winter.  The only thing between Fargo and the North Pole is a barbwire fence and two strands of that are down.

C’mon Iowa, show me you’re not a weather wimp.

In this issue you will find a story about Jonas Miller and his Christmas tree farm.  To prove that I’m a macho kinda of guy, I went out there to do the story with no hat and no gloves.

We tromped around the pines breathing in the brisk winter air and enjoying the solitude.  I got tot feeling pretty robust.

I think I froze my ears off.