Fargo survived the great flood of 1997.  Once the Red River had crested, the threat subsided, and the water moved north, the city let one big sigh of relief.  We, with a little help from above it seemed, had managed to save the city.

After three hard weeks of sandbagging and studies, I decided to take a weekend at home and travel as far as Bemidji to visit my brother and his girl friend to attend a concert at Bemidji State University.

As I drove out of Fargo that Friday afternoon after the flood, it was like driving through a war zone.  Living and working in Fargo during the flooding, nothing quite prepared me for the devastation in the countryside.

The shoulders of most of the roads between Moorhead and Borup, Minnesota were washed away by the force of the overland flooding.  Homes and farmsteads had water marks.  Permanent earthern dikes built to protect farmsteads years ago were battered and smashed at places.  Rugs, cloths, and family items hung in yards.

But the traffic was the most concerning.

My car seemed to be the only private vehicle on the road.  While Fargo had been spared, the work continued in Halstead, Hendrum, and other river towns.  The memory of the loss of Ada was etched in everyone’s minds – the sight of almost two thousand people forced from their homes with ice covered water rushing through the streets and people rescued with the help of payloaders and massive trucks to reach above the bitterly cold water.

At most major intersections, in the middle of nowhere, miles from the nearest town, National Guard soldiers directed traffic as convoys of trucks filled with sand and troops rushed to save the small towns along the river.

While the mood in Fargo was one of joy and relief, there was little of that to be seen along the roads of Clay and Norman County that day…

Saturday, April 19^th, 1997, I made the drive from Mahnomen to Bemidji.  The night before, news was coming out of Grand Forks that sections of the city along the river were being evacuated.  Nothing prepared me for what I was about to see.

Caravans of cars and buses streamed along Highway 2 as the dikes in Grand Forks continued to crumble under the might crest of the river.  The water plant had gone under.  The downtown, started on fire due to an electrical short caused by the rising water, burned in an inferno with firefighters watching in horror, unable to reach the fire due to the raging river running through the town.

The exodus was almost biblical.  One hundred thousand people streaming from Grand Forks and East Grand Forks, the largest evacuation in American history was happening and I was witnessing the mass of humanity looking for refuge.

I don’t remember much about the concert that night – though I remember the feeling.  There was a loss of innocence that day for the region, and for myself.  It was painful.

But it was also inspiring.

The shelters were empty within days – with the thousands of refuges taken in by family, friends, and strangers just willing to share their food and shelter with their neighbors in need.  Food, money, clothing – help of every kind, piled into the area.

As cruel as nature was, as mean and angry as the Red River was that spring, as destructive as its power was…it could not destroy the spirit of the people.  It as not powerful enough to destroy human kindness.  It was not withstand the power of the friendship.

 (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)

Springtime is freedom time down on the farm.

All winter long, the holstein calves are penned up in the barn.  When warm weather rolls in, it’s time to turn them out and let them enjoy the great outdoors

The calf pens on our farm were in a long, low lean-to on the south side of our barn.  Each fall we prepared them for winter arrival of the calves.  Fences and windows were repaired or replaced, and the pens were cleaned and lined with fresh straw.

Throughout the winter additional straw was added to keep the calves warm and dry, and on milder days we would open the windows and pitch out some of the manure into a  waiting manure spreader

Getting the calves outside in the spring is not as easy as it sounds.

Remember, these calves plopped out of the womb into the cold and dirty world of the barn.  They went from the soft, dark apartment-like uterus to a cruel world of manure gutters and dirt teats.  Then, just when they were getting the hang of jumping across the gutters and started thinking barn life wasn’t so bad, they were forced to change again.

They were taken from their mothers and placed with other calves in a pen.  There they were weaned from an on-demand diet of mom’s milk to a twice-a -day feeding of powdered milk, generically referred to a “milk replacer.”

Then we had the nerve to wonder, “Why don’t these calves want to go outside?”  A little thought would have revealed why these tiny bovines had leaned to resist change.

The first tactic we use is the “scare-them-out” method.  We would open the doors and chase them around the pen while screaming and yelling like deranged idiots.

We usually were able to dislodge one or two with this method.  We were left with 12 mildly excited calves who looked at us with bemused expressions while we panted and wheezed.

We would then resort to the “ease-them-out” tactic.  My dad, my brothers and I would form a line and quietly “shush” the calves up to the door.  The calves would nervously glance from us to the open door, trying to decide which was worse.

Again, one or two would make the leap.  The others would panic at the last moment and run around, between or over us.  The result: two calves outside, 10 thoroughly paranoid calves inside, one little brother bawling in the house with hoof prints on his chest and the rest of us completely disgusted and splattered with manure.

Our next strategy, my favorite, was the “let’s go eat lunch and see if the rest of them go out by themselves” tactic.  This method was our most successful.

Finally, we would return, and only one or two stubborn calves would remain.  With ropes and levers and brute strength we would remove the balking, bawling calves.

Once outside, the calves would huddle in a group.  It was as if some primal instinct told them to huddle like yaks in order to ward off the wolves.  They would curiously look around, blinking in the bright sunshine, sniffing the strange smells of grass and flowers on the spring air.

Then one brave calf would venture from the group.  You can almost hear him thinking.  “Hey, this pen is a lot bigger,” and, “This green stuff stuck in the ground tastes pretty good,” and finally, “There’s enough room out here to kick up my heels! Mooooo!”

With that said, the rest of his buddies would join in cavorting around the pasture.

Watching those calves experienced the wonder of springtime made all the work of getting them there worthwhile.

 As I was driving across town tonight for a meeting, I heard the new prediction of the crest in Fargo – 2 to 3 feet higher then initially predicted.  I felt sick and pale.  This wasn’t good news. 

Only later in the evening did it hit home.  We believe that my sister has been placed under voluntary evacuation, unable to confirm, and can’t get a hold of her.  It is funny how you go from an innocent bystander in a disanster 250 miles away to an active participant.  My brother’s church and old neighborhood – once thought safe – are now in the path of the Red River.  Friends, family, relatives – all now seem in harms way.

I cannot sit idly by.  It may be foolhearty, it may be a waste of time, but something inside me says that I need to join what may be a futile fight against mother nature.

Driving to Fargo.  Please keep all those in harms way in your thoughts and prayers.

(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) 

Farmers don’t like it and some of them aren’t going to take it anymore.

That’s what I’ve been reading in the readers forum section of various farm publications lately.  The subject of all this outrage is farm chemical ads on television.  It’s not that farmers object to the ads or the chemicals.  The farmers are worried about the way farmers are portrayed in the ads.

“They make us look stupid,” wrote one letter writer.

“We’re not just country hicks.  Funny little advertisements aren’t going to influence us to buy one chemical over another,” wrote another.

Other letters writers suggested that chemical companies would be better off spending their money showing how hard farmers work and how much they care for their land and families.  “If they would just show people what a farmer really is, we’d be happy,” another complained.

It’s not going to happen.  Chemical companies run commercials to sell chemicals.  That’s their business.  Glorifying the farmer and his way of life doesn’t fit in the budget.  Television commercials are too expensive to spend much time doing that sort of thing.

Besides, is there really enough time in a 30-second commercial to “show people what a farmer really is?”  No, 30 seconds is long enough for a television viewer to go to the bathroom or the refrigerator.  The advertisement’s job is to keep the viewer in his seat long enough to show off what’s for sale- in this case, it’s farm chemicals.  Name recognition is the key.

So they turn a farm upside down.  They show a vine changing stations on the television set or letting the air out of somebody’s tires.  They show a kernel of corn driving around in the dirt.  They show a kernel of corn exploding.  They show entire fields of corn falling down from cutworm damage.

Some of those commercials are pretty clever.  Some of those commercials are pretty silly.  When some of them come on, I watch and chuckle everytime.  Others send me scurrying to the refrigerator as soon as I recognize  them.

So don’t try to change the farmer’s image, by attacking the chemical companies.  It would be tough to give an accurate portrayal of a “typical” farmer in a two-hour movie.  It’s impossible to do it in 30 seconds.

Step back and laugh at the commercials.  You don’t take all the images portrayed in commercials seriously, so don’t expect your city cousins to take the farmer portrayals seriously either.  Humor is potent sales tool.  Happy housewives, busy businessmen, jolly janitors and fast-talking car salesmen are all the images created by television advertisers to sell their products.  Add the funny farmer to the list.

Study your farm and the available chemicals.  Pick what will work best for you and the conditions on your farm.  Ignore the commercials.  If you do that you’ll do more for your credibility and image than a dozen 30-second public service announcements on television.

 That Sunday, we spent the time recovering from our Saturday sandbagging marathon, listening to the radio, and working on homework.  More trouble was brewing, with the heavy rain, the spotty power, and one hundred plus inches of snow that all seemed to be melting at once.

Ada was the first town to go.  I remember it well.  A town only about thirty miles from my hometown, it was unthinkable that the town could flood.  The entire town.  1800 people, forced from their homes.

All that water was heading east towards the mighty Red River of the North.

By April 9^th, Fargo’s sandbagging efforts were in full force.  The river continued to rise.  That week, the universities took time off to allow students to participate in the sandbagging efforts.  One day, North Dakota State University students would join the fight while their counterparts at Moorhead State and Concordia College in Moorhead would hit the books and recuperate, the next day, we Bison would recover and go to class while the Dragons and Cobbers hit the dikes.

While it was extremely stressful, especially as we all had memories of Ada etched in our minds, it also took on a bit of a carnival atmosphere.  The first day, we went from one professor or friend’s house to another along the river, pitching sandbags, shoring up dikes, and usually partaking in a little eating and drinking.  Watching the weather, watching the normally docile Red River in all its spring fury.

It was about this same time that the call came in from the very first house that we sandbagged on that beautiful Saturday.  “Could you come out to help man the pumps?”

The first day that I went back out was shocking.  The owners came to get us in their boat from several blocks away.  We went into the ring dike around their home, completely surrounded by the angry river.  Our once solid dike was straining under the pressure of the water.  The plywood was starting to buckle.  We were confidence only a few days earlier that our work would stand, looking down at the three pumps trying to keep the water out of our work and loosing the fight, our fortress of sand seemed much more like the Alamo then a Fort McHenry.  We rotated helping man the pumps both day and night to provide the homeowners some relief.  We watched as the river continued to rise.

And the sandbagging continued.  Often times, in twos and threes we would go to one of the “sandbag centrals” to fill sandbags to use at troubled to spots or at the very least to have at the ready.  Several trucks stood ready just in case an urgent call came in.

April 15^th, the first overland flooding rushed into south Fargo, the rapid snow melt from the mountains of snow across the valley had started miles west of Fargo.  As one section filled, it would overflow the section road, and flood the next one.  As this progressed for sixty miles from the edge of the valley heading east, the power and the volume steadily built up, until it was an unstoppable force.  Miles and miles of land were covered.  Farmsteads stood like islands in the middle of a flowing and transient sea.  Lake Agassiz seemed destined to reclaim the land that it once occupied.

The crew manning the pumps at the house in south Fargo that we had built the dike around didn’t call for back up that day.  Parker was in charge of the crew that day.  We waited for his call…

Our wait was interrupted when the three guys manning the pumps, Parker in the lead, walked in the door.

“Why didn’t you guys call?” I asked.

“We helped get the last of the things out of the basement, then helped carry most of the things up to the second floor.  The water started coming over the dike about an hour ago.  There wasn’t much we could do.  The fire department got close enough to flood the basement so that it wouldn’t cave it.”

I sat on the steps of our fraternity with my head down, close to tears.  It was like a blow to the chest.  People that I didn’t know, that I had never met, that I couldn’t hardly remember their names had lost their home.  But it was personal.  I had lead the crew that did the sandbagging.  I had screwed together the plywood.  I had filled those sandbags.  It was personal.

 It was a nice Saturday in late March, 1997.  After the snowiest season on record in Fargo (and that is saying something), it was nice to see the sunshine and feel the warmth of spring in the air.

But there was also something ominous about it as well.

A small group of us had heeded the call from the city of Fargo and gone out to sandbag.  Our little band was sent south to the far reaches of the city, far to the south, to help build some ring dikes around a house that was set back about a half mile from the water.  The river, at a half a mile and well inside its banks seemed fairly nonthreatening at the time.

The homeowners were concerned, but not exceedingly so, the river was to rise, but the house was over fifty years old and while the river had crept close a time or two, it had never flooded.  We went about our work determined, but cheerful.

Bags, sand, plywood, posts, plastic, drills, and screws were all ready for us and we began our work in earnest.  Hot chocolate, barbeques (sloppy joes to those outside of the upper Midwest), cookies and bars also kept the atmosphere light.

Many hands made light work.  From our start at eight in the morning to when the sandbags ran out at six in the evening, we managed to construct a good four foot high ring dike around the home.  One side was slightly lower, but the homeowners were hoping for another delivery of sand.  We finished our supper and headed home, barely noticing the thick black clouds gathering to the west.

We made it back to the north side of Fargo and took some good, long, hot showers.  It was fun, but exhausting work.  As I was walking around the near empty fraternity house, I noticed our member in charge of maintenance looking glumly through the phone book.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Haven’t you watched the news today?” Jaime asked.  “Rain and ice, heading our way.  I need to figure out how to stop our sewers from backing up.”

Within forty five minutes, the rain and ice were pelting our house on College Street.  As we stood outside on the porch, we could see the bright blue flashing light – almost like lighting to the west and moving east.  We strained to hear the first thunder of the evening, but to no avail…then we saw the lines snap under the strain of the ice from the transformer across the street with a brilliant flash of blue and a big shower of sparks.

Our power stayed on, but we went to bed with our radio’s tuned to KFGO radio, the station that had the best news coverage that night, and worried about the several feet of snow melting under the pouring rain and ice, and the thousands of homes without power – which meant no septic pumps, no city pumping stations.  It was a fitful night’s sleep.

The next morning, the world had changed.  The expected crest in Fargo had risen significantly overnight, the city was in danger.  Calls for volunteers went out.  It turned out to be a very busy week.

A little over a week ago, we were suffering through below zero temperatures.  Old Man Winter was defiant until the end it would seem as snow and freezing rain gripped the upper Midwest, but still, you could see that his strength was waning.

Driving into work one blustering morning early last week, I noticed that geese first.  They were back on the small ponds and sloughs, making their way gingerly onto ice, but paired up and ready for the nesting season.

Later in the week, as the weather warmed even more, the small brood of turkey’s that used to strut down the road as I drove too and from work was back.  But their numbers had grown.  The small gaggle last week had given way to one more then triple the size this year.  Apparently, the harsh winter wasn’t so harsh for family of Turkeys – they all seemed to have survived the winter just fine.

Driving through Fargo last week – right after a fourteen inch snowfall, my brother gave me cautionary statement, “watch out on the roads, the fawns are out.”  Apparently, there are already reports too of fawns being out and about on the roadways.

Less then a week after the bone chilling cold of March gave way to days in the mid 60′s.  The last of the snow has retreated to the very shadiest parts of the yard in central Minnesota, while flooding, a sure shine that Mother Nature is upon us, is once again plaguing the Red River Valley of the North. 

Talking to Dad, the water was starting to flow on the Northern Prairies.  All that snow sitting under the how March sun – combined with the warming temperatures and now showers, all that water will make it quickly through the systems.  The fields are the first to melt off, with water pooling in sloughs and ditches, slowly backing up behind ice filled culverts, once the water starts to slowly flow through those culverts, before long it is a rushing torrent – heading towards the little Wild Rice River, which eventually feeds into the mighty Red.

I’m sure that Old Man Winter isn’t quite done with us yet.  There is bound to be at least one more snowfall, one last gasp from the old man.  One last cold spell – though perhaps cold being a relative term, may only mean a move into the teens instead of the moves below zero.

Perhaps the surest sign of spring is my tulips are sprouting.  Sure that I had killed them all last summer with some major renovations to my landscaping – and failing to replant the bulbs that I had plucked from the warm earth back then, I was sure that my flower bed would be barren this spring.  But they came back.  I’m not sure from where or from what, but there they are – stretching out to the warm spring sun.

Before long, those pairing geese will be swimming in the chilly spring water.  They will have their hatchlings out and about with them.

Those small deer prone to running out in front of cars will learn the wily ways of their parents and steer clear of the iron hunters of the roads.

Those crazy turkeys, so prolific, will cause my commute to and from work to be even slower then normal as their numbers grow.  But today, I don’t care…as long as spring is here.

 ”Mom, we just don’t know how long it could be.  The doctor said six months or six years!  Wouldn’t it be great if you could walk again?  To go on to therapy to see if could do some of things that you used to do?” I pushed.

Mom teared up, “I would, I really would…but I don’t know how much longer my body can hold out.”

It was a bright sunshiny day towards the end of February, 1995.  Snow was melting, the hope of spring was around the corner.  A series of small strokes had caused some of the progress Mom had made over the last couple of months to backslide.  Dad was gone, and I was sitting with her at home.  She was unable to do much for herself, so Dad had converted the living room into a make shift hospital room – as he said, for better or for worse, he had swore to love and cherish her,  this was just the worst part.

The cancer was still there, and it was growing, but we had hope.  Mom had been born into a loving family, but had their life shattered at the age of eleven when her mother died from a fast acting case of leukemia.

Her mother was defiant until the end – one of her last requests was to make sure that her youngest daughter’s birthday party would go on as planned for that very afternoon.

Mom had a tough row to hoe throughout her life, but she was a fighter.  But she needed to be, especially when the brain tumor ruptured in April of 1993.  The battle that Mom’s mother, aunts, and other family members had faced was now her own – Mom’s own battle with cancer was starting.

Every day, 1,500 Americans die from cancer.  One in four deaths each year happen as a result of cancer or cancer related illnesses.  It is the second leading cause of death after heart disease.  Over 35% of those diagnosed with all types of cancer today, will die from it.  Every American will feel the sting of cancer at some point in their life – either personally or from a family member or friend.

Yet every decade, every year, every month, every day the hope is building.  The survival rate in 1948 when my grandmother was diagnosed was well under 50%.  New studies, new information, new drugs, new treatments are being tested around the globe.

My mother was defiant until the end as well.  She was a test patient in several studies – because even if it cut her down, perhaps she could save one of her children.  She and her doctor had a dream that Hospice would expand into Mahnomen County so that more people could spend their precious time in the comfort of their homes with family and friends. 

A little less then a month after I tried to convince her to push ahead with additional rehabilitation, her body started failing.  On Monday, March 22, 1993 she became the very first patient under Hospice care in Mahnomen County.

The next morning, with a Hospice nurse, my father, and two priests at her side, she slipped the bonds of this world and went home to her Lord, her mother and other waiting loved ones where the cruel grip of cancer could no longer hold reign.

Like so many, the cancer had killed her body, but it could never kill her faith, it could never kill her hope, it could never kill her spirit.  She would go on to be one of the millions of the undefeated.

But the mantle now falls on us to fight the good fight, to learn and grow from her example, to live life to the fullest, to never waiver in faith, and to do all we can to prevent the horrors of cancer from continuing – and to live boldly, happily, and defiantly with faith, hope, and spirit!

(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) 

I’m not a well-traveled guy.  I’ve been as far south as Chariton; as far West as Medora, N.D; as far east as the Amana Colonies; and as far north as Winnipeg.  I’ve never seen an ocean for a mountain.  I know Europe exists because I read National Geographic and the Grand Canyon sure looks nice in pictures.

But I’m not complaining.  I like it here in the Midwest.  It’s a good place to live and the people here are friendly.  They are also normal, which is more than I can say for my sister-in-law, Patty, and her husband Bill.

They used to be normal Midwesterners.  They lived in a normal Midwestern house in a normal Midwestern city-Minneapolis.  Then they moved to Florida.

I’m certain that Florida is a wonderful place to visit.  With all those swamps and alligators, who wouldn’t want to visit?  But I think I’d have some problems adjusting to life there.  I don’t care for teeny-tiny reptiles, so I’m sure I wouldn’t care for big ones with sharp teeth, I honestly like snow and windchills.  If Florida’s heat didn’t kill me, it’s humidity would.

So when Patty and Bill announced they were headed for Florida, I had some misgivings.  I thought,” Move to Florida, and you’ll be sorry.”  But I kept my mouth shut.  And now its too late.  Something strange is happening to Patty and Bill.

Out first indication came in the form of a video tape.  Apparently bitten by the “Miami Vice” bug, Patty and Bill took us on a video tour of their new neighborhood. 

The narration went something like this:  “This is the north side of our house.  This is the south side of our house.  This is the west side.  This is the east side.  This is our cat, Emerson, but you know him.   These are our bushes.  We are going to cut them down because snakes live in them.  Here we go in the car.  This is the street.  There is stop sign.  There is our local store.”

Those of us back in the Midwest got carsick.

Next. Patty and Bill began making regular trips to the “Magic-Kingdom.”  How many times can you really enjoy those whirling teacups?

Pretty soon Patty became fixated with tiny reptiles, namely chameleons.  She calls them “meleons.”  Every letter or phone call had a reference to them like this: “The meleons like to hang on the screens,” and “we have lots of meleons out in the garage,” or Emerson ate a meleon, but it make him sick.”

Well, I think living in Florida has finally, pushed Patty and Bill off the deep end.  Last week an envelope came in the mail.  It was addressed to our cats, Fletcher and Zerbert, (I

May explain those names in a future column, but I won’t go into it here.)

The return address carried Emerson’s name.  Our cats had received a letter from another cat.

I was mildly surprised.

Although Fletcher has shown some interest in the typewriter, neither of our cats have ever shown and interest in writing.  I’m sure Emerson is intelligent, but I really doubted that he could write.

Inside the envelope were some coupons for cat food and this scribbly letter.

Dear Cats cousins, Fletcher and Zerbert:

I found these wonderful kitty food coupons for you.  Mom helped me write this letter, even though I didn’t want to do it.  I meowed violently to let her know my displeasure.  Bye!

Love, Emerson.

It’s a shame about what’s happened to Patty and Bill.  A real shame.

 It is hard to have faith.  As humans, we are weak and we believe what we see.  It is a survival instinct.  How many of our ancestors wondered off into unknown wilds never to be heard from again.  How many maps had vast lands labeled, “there be dragons here.”  The things that are unseen, unheard, and unsmelled, untasted, untouched are fairy tales and fantasies.  If our senses can’t perceive it, how can it be real?

Yet, things don’t always go as planned.

Samuel knew that Jesse’s oldest son was going to be the anointed king…but God told him, “Not as man sees does God see.”  Only His mind, His vision has the depth to see what is to come.

When the man that had been blind from birth regained his sight by the power of the Lord, no one believed him.  Yet for that man, literally, seeing was believing.  Even his parents shied away from the Pharisees, fearful of their power.  But the man once blind, has seen an even more powerful force at work – the power of God, so he did not cower from the Pharisees, but instead, boldly stated his case.

It is hard to believe, but like that man, once we have that faith, once we convert out hearts and minds to the things perceived, but not physically sensed, the strength of Him who rules resides within us.

As Paul told the Ephesians, “You were once darkness, but now you are light in the Lord.  Live as children of the Light, for light produces every kind of goodness and righteousness and truth.”

The tough part is the seeing.  Which path to take, what choice to make – and perceiving those things we cannot sense.  Looking for the path that is marked only for us to see, with prayer, and contemplation.

Perhaps harder still is even when we see that path, having the strength and courage to move forward even in the face of ridicule and rejection from those we love or whom are in power.  Facing the loss in those things seen for the hope of the things unseen.

But once we see the path and are given the strength and courage to follow the will of God, it is then that we truly have the power and passion of our Lord.  It is truly then that we become alive.  As Paul says, “Awake, O sleeper, and arise from the dead, and Christ will give you light.”

We cannot perceive how things will work out, we cannot know the end of the path.  Who could have guessed that a man blind from birth would be held up as an example for all to believe without seeing.  Who could have guessed that a shepherd named David, would lead God’s chosen people.  Who could have guessed that our Lord would chose to come in a manger and raised in humble conditions – one to die on the cross for our sins.

Not as man sees, does God see – but only we can chose to follow the path where he beckons.