It was an annual conflict.  Every fall growing up, we were left to ponder the question, should we hope for a wet fall?A wet fall would mean a lot more work. Chopping corn in the mud, feeding cattle in the mud, working fields in the mud, picking the potatoes out of the garden in the mud - it meant working every weekend in mud.

The benefit on the other hand, would come in December.  If the fall was wet enough, it would mean that the big slough that separated the farmyard from the edge of the farm where we parked old machinery (i.e. Machinery Hill) would be full.  If the slough was full, it would mean the bulk of the cattails would be submerged and we would have prime ice for sledding all winter long which would create yet another saga of the suicide sled.

The red plastic toboggan being pulled by our three-wheeler at fifty miles an hour was a formidable force in and of itself, combined with a big, wide open sheet of ice, surrounded by drifts, tall grass and cattails along the end of the slough and the suicide sled truly lived up to its name.

But it required some work to properly endanger our lives.

In theory, the long rope connecting the sled and three-wheeler would have to be long enough to ensure proper velocity to create right centrifical to cause the sled to go fast.  How fast?  Wicked fast.  But you would want the rope short enough to allow some control over the sled.  In the end, velocity always won out over control.  Always.  This allowed for maximum speed while minimizing any potential for safety.

We would each have our jobs to do.

Jaime, at the helm of the three-wheeler would have to hit the ice at top speed, bumping up out of the snow and lodged grass on the edge of the slough and onto the smooth ice pack.  About half of the way out to the center, he would need to start hitting the right back brake, while turning slowly to the right, while at the same time keeping the throttle wide open and place his foot on the ground to prevent the three-wheeler from tipping over.  This ensured that the three-wheeler would continue to go at maximum speed while starting the spinning of the following sled - which would now be sliding at a greater rate then the three-wheeler in the center of the slough.  He would then need to keep the three-wheeler spinning in the center of the ice until he got dizzy, I fell out, puked, or all three.

My job was to sit in the sled, hold on for dear life, and pray.

Inevitably, Jaime would “accidently” get too far off to one side and the sled, with me inside, would go careening off into the snow, cattails, and grass at the edge of the slough.  This was not a soft landing.

If Jaime didn’t get the sled off the ice, sometimes the centrifical force became too much and I went flying out of the sled, usually bouncing off the ice and into the snow, cattails, and grass at the edge of slough.  This was even less of a soft landing.

In hind sight, it is probably a good thing that we didn’t get a wet fall every year…I don’t know if I would have survived to puberty.

 ”Hey, do you want to go outside and laugh in the face of death?”

Or at least that is what my brother could have said…in reality, it was just a simple, “Hey, do you want to go outside and ride in the sled behind the three wheeler?”

Sledding on the farm was a harrowing experience.  It usually meant my older brother Jaime driving our Honda 185 three-wheeler with the big floatation tires, bored out so that she could really move.  It was pretty striped down - nothing fancy, but she could really fly.  There was no speedometer, but a neighbor once clocked it at about sixty miles an hour on the long gravel road that ran past our farm.

My position was in the back on the sled, a big red toboggan, which apply earned the nickname, the suicide sled.  The sled was about three feet long, eighteen inches wide with four yellow handles (two very small people could ride in the sled - hence two sets of handles). The floor of the sled was extremely thin plastic, which meant that you could feel every bump, every ice chunk, every dirt clod, ever pebble that you would ride over - and you would feel it right in the keister as the position was riding sitting up in the sled, facing forward.

Individually, these items were not all that dangerous.  Put together, with a brother that had no qualms about injuring his younger brother, and a very long rope that allowed the sled to swing wildly behind the three-wheeler and it was a perfect recipe for disaster.

And yet, there we were, almost everyday of the winter that we were able - before chores, after chores, on the weekends - whenever the temperatures weren’t too cold or the storms weren’t blowing too bad, we were out their tempting death for about seven years of my life from first grade through seventh.  We would ride until I got bounced out, then start all over again until we were too cold and frozen to go on.

My first major brush with injury happened early in the snow season my fourth grade year.  Jaime was doing the big loop.  Starting out at the house, he would drive through the yard, then down the grass field trail that went around the big slough and out into the pasture behind the house, back over the same trail, around the farm yard - crisscrossing the gravel driveway multiple times in the process, then back out to the pasture.

Of house, sliding me too and fro as he went - tractors, buildings, posts, fences, be damned.  They would have to get out of OUR way.

As was normal, I had on my big mittens, choppers as we called them.  Big leather mittens with a smaller knit mitten inside, very warm, but very bulky.  This day, they almost caused my death.

As Jaime rounded the windmill and pump house and was crossing into another section of the yard, a big bump sent me sprawling out of the sled…except my mitten was caught in the yellow handles of the sled and my hand was stuck in the mitten.

I was being drug on my back, next to the sled through the snow in the yard, yelling at my brother who either can’t hear me, or, more normally, isn’t paying attention.  He heads back across the gravel driveway.  Which hurts as you cross it sprawled on your back being drug at 45 miles per hour.

Crossing the driveway, we were back on another patch of yard…but Jaime was breaking a new trail, this one across a nearly bare field…a rough, bumpy, mostly black and covered with monster dirt clod ploughed field…I was panicked. 

I could see the field approaching.  I couldn’t get my hand out of the mitten.  I knew I couldn’t go across the plowed field on my back at 45 miles per hour.  With an andreneline rush, I flipped myself belly down on the sled, my face pointing frontwards towards the flying snow and we hit the field.

Wump! Wump! Wump! Wump! Wump! The sled bounced off the plowed furrows of earth.  Hitting my stomach and jarring me with each one - breaking off icy chunks of earth with each hit and sending them flying back up in my face.

Jaime did a couple more spins around the farm yard, then came to stop in front of the house. 

As he stopped the three wheeler, he turned and saw me riding half sprawled in the sled, stomach down, face forward, covered in snow and dirt, hand still caught and twisted at an odd angle in the handle, and he looked at me and said, “Why did you get into the sled like that?”

 Addison Mizner was a bit of an eccentric.

He spent part of his youth traveling in South America with his father who was a minister to Guatemala.  Sometimes, young Addison did not make the minister popular with his guests or hosts.  Such as the time his pet monkey escaped during a diner party and ran loose among the high society guests.

But Addison was affable, bright, and a budding artist.

It was drawing that led to his work as an architect.  While he never formally studied architecture at a university, he was an apprentice draftsman for a firm in San Francisco.

Starting first in New York designing homes on Long Island for the rich and famous, he moved to Florida for his health in 1918.

Discarding the styles of the day, he fashioned homes and buildings in a classical look, with columns, French doors, tile roofs, hearths, great staircases, wrought iron, pillars, and long colonnades.

Perhaps his most famous residence was the second White House of the Kennedy years, the mansion that John F. Kennedy ran the government out of during his Presidential years was a Addison Mizner design.

His grand plan was to develop the unincorporated city of Boca Raton into a national resort destination.

And he almost did it.

The Mizner Development Corporation bought over 1,500 acres of land and planned an elaborate community that would include parks, golf courses, tree lined boulevards, and a 1,000 room hotel.  At its peak, it even had its own Iron Works to build the ornate cast iron pillars and columns used in his buildings.

The heart of his development was the Cloister Inn, now the heart of the Boca Raton Beach Club and Resort.  When Mizner was running the hotel, he, along with his pet monkey, would great visitors as they entered the hotel.  Mizner sometimes in his bathrobe.

A combination of the Miami hurricane of 1926 and the end of the great land boom of the 1920’s were forces that could not be overcome overcome, and the immediate success of Boca Raton and Addison Mizner didn’t develop in his life time.

Addison Mizner died in 1933, after suffering through bankruptcy and the failing of his business ventures.

But his ideas and dreams live on.  The hotel, once dismissed by other architects is a lauded today for its classic style, as are most of the buildings that he designed.  The hotel retains much of the same flair and style that he brought to it - classical designs, or as he put it, “a building looking traditional and as though it had fought its way from a small unimportant structure to a great, rambling house.”

 (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) 

It snowed last week and I’m unhappy.

It wasn’t easy to be so unhappy though.  I woke up Thursday morning, looked out the window and saw snow on the windshields outside and suppressed my urge to cheer.  I did my best to put on a sorrowful face and adapt a bad attitude.  “Drat,” I muttered while suppressing a grin,” It snowed.”

It’s not easy.  As a native Minnesotan, I want to welcome winter with glee.  “Bring on the snow!”  I’m tempted to say,” What is the wind chill?”  I want to ask cheerfully.

But my wife and I have been Iowans for four years now and our friends here tell us it’s time to knock it off and quit acting like Minnesotans.  “You are Iowans now.  And basically, Iowans hate winter,” they told us emphatically.  “That’s why we all move to Texas, Florida and Arizona when we retire.  If you want to be an Iowan, you have to be grumpy about the snow and the cold all winter long.”  So we’re doing our best to be Iowans.  So far it’s been a joyless experience.  It means no more snow-tire catalogs in July.  No more day-dreaming about snow drifts in August.  No more rejoicing at October’s first snow.  No more cheerful walks in January’s sub-zero cold.  I have to lose my appreciation for a good battery that will start your car when it’s 30 degrees below zero.

Such is the price of Iowa living.

And we are practicing our winter complaining, too.  “It’s going to be a long winter,” Mary said with a groan yesterday.
“Don’t I know it?  I already miss August and those long hot days,” I agreed.

“It’s not so much the heat I miss, but the humidity.”  Mary pointed out.

“Yeah, I am really going to miss the humidity,” I agreed.

The words were there, but out hearts just weren’t in it.  I guess it’s something that will come with time and patience.  It’s pretty tough to overcome a lifetime of Minnesota influence with only four years of Iowa living.

So we’ll keep practicing.  I’m working on my its -snowing frown, my the-sidewalks-are-icy furrowed brow and my the-wind-chill-os-minus-30 scowl.

They all need a lot of work.  So we’ll keep practicing and polishing our new role in life as Iowans.  We’re committed to becoming true Iowans and we’ll keep at it until we get it right.

But not right now.  I have to go polish my jumper cables.

Regular readers of this column will be glad to know that Mary and I have tickets to the second Billy Joel concert that was scheduled after the first one sold out so quickly.

Thanks to all who showed sympathy and concern, especially the fine gentleman from Madrid who sent a letter of encouragement.

 The Boca Raton Beach Club and Resort is stunning.  The stucco design is softened by the pink hues in the building.  Designed in a Mediterranean style, it has a classical look with fountains, statues, tiled roofs, fountains, mosaics, carvings, and hidden nooks and crannies with comfortable couches and chairs.

Walking in the doors - as probably the most slovenly dressed patron in the establishment, didn’t seem to faze the staff at all.  They greeted me and treated me like royalty.

My room was in one of the original sections of the hotel, called the Cloisters, as they were loosely based on the design of ancient monasteries with there quiet and relaxing atmosphere.

My room was modern, comfortable, and completely in line with a classic top notch resort.  The balcony on my room was directly over the back entrance, the long shaded corridor that lead to the beach shuttle.  Off to the left was the croquet grounds, off to the right was another wing of the hotel as well as a view of the golf course.

This was opulence.

Wandering the grounds were court yards, gardens, long hallways, intricate carvings.  In addition to the croquet grounds, they also had a life size chess set off of the pool area.  They had an area of tents like something out of an oasis.  They had grand halls with paintings and statues.  They have peaceful gardens with babbling brooks and streams. They have all the little amenities that one could wish for, from lemonade in the main lobby to three bars and four restaurants.

Each of the bars has their own benefits as well.  The “Monkey Bar” just off the lobby is nothing but a little eight tabled establishment that has an African motif.  Bar Luna had the feel of an old beer hall, with dark wood and a big fireplace.  The Serendipity bar and restaurant was poolside, with the best Pina Colada’s that I’ve ever had.  Their fish tacos were one of the best meals that I had, all with the pool as the back drop.

But like everything, it all comes with a price.  You pay for the service as you order the food and drink.  You pay for the sights and amenities with your room charge.  It is opulent, but like anything opulent…there is a price to be paid.

 I grew up about as far as you could geographical could from the ocean.  The geographical heart of North America is only about 200 miles from my hometown, but you could argue that they were probably closer to Hudson Bay.

Sure, there were lakes and rivers, but no ocean, no sea - and for a landlubber, the ocean is a magical place.

Visiting the Boca Raton Beach Club and Resort, there was just something about sitting in a chair on the beach, watching the ocean.

The waves coming in and out, the slowing rising or ebbing tide, it all seemed so gradual and sublime.  But you also observe that those some gentle waves are also overwhelmingly powerful.  They shift the sand as the waves come in and go out.   They pulverize and scrap the sea floor.  They create and they destroy.

It was amazing to see the waves as they crashed against the soft sandy beach.  Like an artist painting on a blank canvass, each wave had its own function.  Some waves wiped it clean.  Other waves arranged the sand in fine ledges and clefts, and each time unique in its design and beauty.

If you stood on the very edge of the ocean, as the waves rose and fell around you, you could feel the sand move beneath you, slowly shifting.  Watching as your feet slowly disappeared, between sinking into the sand and the new deposits that would form and fan out and form small drifts.

Swimming in those same waves was an amazing experience as well.  Feeling the power of the waves and tides as they hit and whipped you in the water, having the soothing feel of the warm ocean water combined with the uncomfortable feeling of swimming in a mighty, uncontrollable ocean.

Then there was the timing.  A lot of my old physic lessons came back to me as I watched, waded, and swam in the surf.  The timing of the waves, the measuring from peak to peak and valley to valley, the force and the power - ages of sages have watched and studied the waves, learning and observing, trying to discover the source of the power and the trying to understand our universe.  Here I was, watching, observing, and seeing these lessons coming to life in from of me.  Watching successions of waves hit the beach, rising in a crescendo, then starting to build again.

Finally, it was the smells - the salty smell of the beach, of the warm ocean spray.  It is faint, subtle, but also overpowering.  It seems so natural when you are their and can smell it, almost feel the smell on your body, you miss it once you are gone.

The mighty ocean, beautiful and powerful.

Stereotypes are powerful things.The Boca Raton Beach Club has got a fantastic beach that is immaculate.  Soft sand beaches, wide open views of the ocean, beautiful women out enjoying the sun and the sand, and people that will come around and sell you beer while you are in your sun chair.

The actual hotel is on the intercoastal waterway, the beach club is located across the canal and right on the beach, so getting from one to the other requires a shuttle bus.  Where the shuttle bus deposits the guests, it is an easy board walk stroll to the beach.  Greeting you as you step into the sand are the beach attendants, better known as the beach boys.

The beach boys are the young men that set up the chairs, get towels, serve drinks, set up umbrellas, and otherwise made sure that the people on the beach enjoy their stay.

For a farm boy from Northern Minnesota, they looked like loafing young punks to me.  Dressed in khaki shorts and polo shirts - they seemed to look down on everyone that walked out onto the beach.

The first day, the kid that set up my chair barely acknowledged me.

The second day, I was one of the first on the beach at about nine in the morning.  I asked one of the punks guarding the towels if I could have one and another one of the punks offered to set up a chair for me.

As he grabbed a chair and started carrying to the beach, I struck up a conversation.

“It is a nice morning!” I said.

“A little cool,” replied the kid

“For a farm kid from northern Minnesota, this is great!” I replied.  “They are getting the first snow storm of the season back home.”

“I’ve never gotten out of Florida yet,” he replied.  “But I hope when I go off to college to be able to travel.”

Turns out, this young privileged punk just a working class kid trying to earn money for college to make a better life for himself.

He gave me the best spot on the beach.  On the very end, but “close to where the single girls like to go.”

I tip him well as he went off.

The rest of the day, I think I got the best service on the beach.

If I had to guess, the loafing young punks were probably all kids that were working to make a better life for themselves, trying to go to college.  They probably weren’t looking down on us from a place of privilege, but with a look of longing.  Longing to belong, longing to be the one on the beach, not working handing out towels, setting up chairs, and serving up beers.

One conversation, and that stereotype was shattered…and I got a very good spot on the beach.

 (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)

As we zoomed across Iowa on our way home for the holidays, many of the fields and ditches in northern Iowa had snowdrifts in them.  More recently fields and ditches in Boone County gathered some snowdrifts of their own.

The fluffy white drifts form a picturesque counterpoint to the winter landscape.  But there is a more sinister element at work here.  Many of the drifts had black or gray dusting mixed in with all that white.  That’s evidence of blowing soil- soil that is the base of Iowa’s largest industry.

Soil, eroded by wind and rivers.  It costs Iowan’s thousands of dollars each year to excavate those areas.  More dollars are spent repairing washed-out gullies and ravines.

But these expenses are minor compared to the loss of the soil and it’s productive power.  Blackened snowdrifts and erosion are simple reminders of the midwest’s environmental problems.

Iowa ha few sewage-clogged rivers and even fewer oceans seething with medical and industrial waste.  But the Midwest has its own environmental problems.

Erosion, worn-out land, overuse of chemicals, swelling landfills and water contamination are just a few.  It’s all a bit overwhelming.

But not all the news is bad.

In 1987, with the passage of the Groundwater Protection Act, the Iowa Legislature created Leopold Center for Sustainable Agriculture.  The center is already forging ahead with research designed to keep Iowa’s land healthy and productive-while maintaining farm profits.  Groundwater quality and soil and energy conservation figure heavily in the center’s agenda.

Other states are also moving forward with their own plans.  The Dakotas and Minnesota are holding a sustainable agriculture conference.  Many others are taking different approaches.  But few continue to ignore the problem.

Iowa’s legislature indicate that they will be taking a close look at environmental concerns again in 1989.  If the problems weren’t so serious, it would be tempting to accuse them of grandstanding just a bit.  You can’t lose when arguing for Iowa’s environment.

Even Time Magazine is getting into the act.  No” man of the year” this year.  A “planet of the year” was named instead.  The winner was:  “the endangered Earth.”  Nearly the entire issue was devoted to environmental problems and efforts designed to solve them.

Now it’s our job to pay attention to all of this media hype of endangered Earth and endangered Iowa.  We must listen to researchers and policy makers.  Scientists tell us things are not looking too good, but they also point out that the land has an incredible ability to heal itself if it is given the chance.

It’s not too late.

The fraternity house on College Street in Fargo, ND was a warm and inviting one - though a little dilapidated.  With thirty plus people living under it’s roof - or should I say roofs, with over three additions to the original structure, the roof was technically a hodge-podge of differing slopes and slants - their was usually someone there to greet you and spend some time chatting.During the spring semester of my sophomore year, I moved into a small two man room on the second story of the house that faced the northeast and had a fantastic view of Burgum Hall, the woman’s dormitory across the street, hence the name, Burgum Overlook.  My roommate was on a one month tour of Germany, so the first two weeks of January, I had the room to myself.

Not that it was that big to begin with.

I had the bottom bunk, which was literally a mattress on the floor - with the sloped ceiling, the top bunk was lodged about three feet above me, just where the roof started to pitch to the center.

It was a small room, but generally a good one (especially in warm weather as the girls sunned themselves on the grassy area next to their dorm, ie Burgum Beach).

But like any good room, it had its draw backs.

I moved in the first week of January as classes were starting.  The winter of 1995/1996 in the Red River Valley was not all that bad of one, and ranks no where near the winter of 1996/1997 in terms of snow, but like most winters, you had to count on some cold snowy days.

I remember the blizzard striking mid-day on Friday, with a heavy, steady snow.  We hunkered down inside of the house, some rooms watching movies, some rooms playing games, some rooms dedicated to studying, most rooms with some type of pizza in them ordered through the brave Fargo pizza delivery services.  Many people were floating from room to room, laughing, watching movies, and visiting.

When I went to bed, the snow was still falling peacefully outside my window.

Then the wind came.

I remember waking up in the middle of the night, cold.  I grabbed a sleeping bag from the foot of my bed and curled up, back to sleep.  A couple of hours later, I was even colder.  Waking up, I crawled out of bed, and immediately felt something cold and wet on the floor.

Hitting the lights, I saw a nice little two inch snow drift that had formed coming from the window, across the couch and was neatly catching on my sleeping bag and curling across the floor where it ended in a small puddle as it got closer to the door.

“Huh,” I thought, “this can’t be good.”

I scooped up the snow on the floor with a notebook, shoved a couple of t-shirts around the window, cranked the thermostat in my room up to 80F, and crawled back under my covers to resume my hibernation.

About six o’clock in the morning, I heard the door to my room open slightly, shut, then open again…from the safety of my covers, I saw a hand quietly reach for my thermostat…and turn it back down to 65F.

Our treasurer had struck like a thief in the night, taking away the heat from my frigid resting place.

I swung the door open and said in a loud whisper, “Hey, Sam!  What are you doing, I just cleaned up a snowdrift off my floor!”

“You should have put plastic on your windows.”  He said.

“I just moved in!  When was I suppose to do that? Plus, we don’t have the plastic and supplies on hand to put it on my windows,” I replied.

“Good point.” He said.  “Well, I’ve got another sleeping bag if you are cold.”

“Thanks.” I said, as I reached for the thermostat, and closed the door…locking it as Sam came back to make sure I didn’t do what he thought I had done…

I slept soundly for a while longer, secure in the knowledge that there wouldn’t be another drift across my room, and knowing that Sam would have the supplies ready to plastic my windows…after he was done pounding on my door trying to get in to turn down the thermostat…

Just north of Miami, Florida sits the city of Boca Raton, which loosely translates from Spanish as “mouth of the rat.”  While the name isn’t very inviting, the weather and the beaches are. Boca Raton, FL is not a cold weather climate.  In November, the highs were in the 70’s and 80’s, at night, they were in the 50’s and 60’s.  The sun showed itself almost everyday.  The beaches were near perfect.

So was a cold weather farm boy doing in this climate in November?

A little vacation, using up some credits earned at a resort, some air miles, and some rental car credits.  And what a perfect place to spend it.  As the first major winter storm bore down on Minnesota, I would be sunning myself in the lap of luxury in Florida.

But where would it get that name from?

Some of the first explorers found that the ropes of their ships were being eaten away due to the coral offshore, at the time, they couldn’t explain why such a beautiful place would cause such destruction to their ropes - what could be chewing on them?  Hence the name, “mouth of the rat.”

There is nothing rat-like about the place today.

Some of the oldest and fanciest resorts ply the waves from Palm Beach up to Boca Raton.  Beautiful homes, resorts, and hotels are along the coast, but also in-land, as the inter-coastal waterway also cuts through the city, following the ocean front only a block or so from the beach front, leaving even more room for the palatial estates.

Here I was, a country boy from Northern Minnesota that had seen the ocean six times in his life and had dabbled his foot in or swam it a total of three, driving my rented Chevy Malibu up to the Boca Raton Beach Club and Resort, probably the nicest and oldest resort in the area.

Thanks to some hotel points and a great on-line discount, I had booked two nights at this prestigious resort.

As I rounded the corner from Mizner Drive and into the private driveway of the resort, the pale pink adobe façade greeted my site as the many fountains and statues seemed to greet me, the guard at the gate checked my reservation and let me proceed to the waiting awning and valets at the main entrance.

As I pulled my rented Chevy Malibu up to the valets, dressed in full uniform - hat, polished shoes, coat and tie, I noticed the BMW in front of me, the Cadillac limousine behind me, and the Lexus beside me.

Before I could stop them, they had my battered “Superior Cattle Company” bag out of the truck, my beat up sweatshirt out the back seat, and had my door opened so that my old work shirt, my Wrangler jeans, and my sandals would be in view for all to see.

Yup, welcome to Florida.