(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) 

There’s been a lot of name-calling going on lately.

Some folks have been calling it by its USDA -given name, Low Input Sustainable Agriculture (LISA for short).  Others have found a more sarcastic name to fit the acronym- Low Income Sustainable Agriculture.  Meanwhile, the people in the agriculture public relations game say the problem lies in the name itself.  “We’ll never be able to sell the word ‘sustainable’,” they say.  “It makes people think of the environmental radicals of the  ‘60’s.”

Still others, like Larry Sanders, Great Plains director of the Potash and Phosphate Institute, say the whole idea of low-input, sustainable agriculture is a crock.  According to a recent Association Press article, he call LISA a step backward in farming and says “LISA is the chairman of the wrecking crew ” of hysterical individuals who believe modern agriculture is polluting the soil and water.

As the Farm Bill debate in Washington heats up, the debate over LISA (or whatever you call it) intensifies.  Congressmen on agriculture committees who you’d expect to pooh-pooh the ideas of the environmentalists are sternly warning Agriculture Secretary Clayton Yeutter that he’d better pay attention to what those environmentalists are saying.

Meanwhile, at home, Dean Kleckner, an Iowa farmer and president of the American Farm Bureau Federation, is taking potshots a the alternative agriculture report published by the National Academy of Science’s National Research Council.  John Pesek, the no-nonsense head of the agronomy department at Iowa State University, chaired the committee that conducted the study and wrote the report.  Pesek says he understands Kleckner’s claims, but stands firmly behind his work.

If that’s not confusing enough, consider this:  the Iowa Fertilizer and Chemical Dealers Association is on friendly terms with Iowa State University’s Leopold Center for Sustainable Agriculture.  The Association has also been a big supporter of a new ISU soil test that could reduce Iowa nitrogen fertilizer applications by thousands of tons each year.

Go figure.

Makes one wonder what all the uproar’s about.

You’d think most farmers wouldn’t mind cutting costs a little bit, especially if it didn’t mean cutting the bottom line (and Pesek says it wouldn’t).  And most farmers wouldn’t mind protecting the environment while they’re at it either.  I don’t see much controversy there.

Most farmers have a bad habit or two they can correct, like using a little extra herbicide or fertilizer- just in case; like not using conservation practices where appropriate because they’re inconvenient; and not trying a new technique or two because of what the neighbors say.

But behind the controversy, the names, the acronyms and the name-calling, the solution seems pretty clear-cut.  That solution lies in four areas:  research, information, public policy and attitudes.

Public research programs need to find ways to make agriculture and environmental protection compatible while preserving a decent living for farmers.  There are already some good steps in that direction.

More information on alternative farming methods, including analysis to determine fertilizer needs and integrated pest management techniques, is available every day.  That information needs to widely dispersed in a form that’s easily accessible to farmers.  As research expands, so will the base of information.  As research expands, so does the base of information.

Public policy needs to be adjusted so it doesn’t penalize farmers who adopt low-input agricultural practices.  That’s one point that rings loud and clear in the National Research Council’s report.

And most importantly, farmers and others need to be open to new ideas.  Some ideas that spring for LISA and other programs will work.  Others won’t.  Some will work in some areas and not in others.  Some solidly held attitudes need to be changed Environmentalists need to listen to farmers.   Farmers need to listen to environmentalists.

No one wants polluted water and eroded landscapes.  Everybody wants to eat during the next decade and the next century.  So why is everyone arguing?

It shouldn’t be this hard.

 Pay cash.

Growing up, that was the mantra we learned from our folks.  If you need something, save.  You want that new video game, fine, save up the gopher bounty money.  You want to buy a new stereo, good - the money you are going to get from milking the cows for the neighbors will come in pretty handy.

To their credit, Mom and Dad lived by that mantra.  We were a farming operation, so we had some debt - loans are a standard practice of most businesses.  But in a world of sophisticated finance, my folks were pretty old fashioned.  Their motto seemed to be, “Don’t borrow more then you need, and if you need to borrow, you better make sure that you need it.”

My Dad is a child of the Great Depression.  Born in 1929, he knew the value of hard work and the importance of keeping debt under control.  When you grow up hearing horror stories of bank failures and people loosing all they have due to bad loans - it tends to create some aversion to taking on too much debt, or having too much money in one place.  All of us kids had a savings account and were advised once the balance got big enough that “savings bonds are safe.”  Smart check book management also came with high school.

Mom was born a little later, 1938, but into a family of ten children.  She was the master of smart recycling and reducing the unnecessary.  Greasing a frying pan?  Use that bacon grease from the can on the back of the stove.  What is in this great hot dish?  Monday’s supper, Tuesday’s dinner, and a few other things from the refrigerator.  You need some new cloths?  Lets see what’s in your older brother’s closet.  You need a dress shirt for school?  Dad’s not going to be wearing his today.  You want the newest toy?  Well, Christmas is only nine months away - we’ll see if you still want it then.

Loans were fine if you needed them.  Student loans, car loans, home loans were necessary parts of life.  But - when you sign those papers, you are making a promise, and promises are meant to be kept.

It was a tough lesson for us growing up.  Patience is great unless you see all of you friends with the latest gadgets or fashions.

But patience is a virtue.

The funny thing is, we never went hungry, we never lacked the bare necessities, we never wanted for love.

Five children have navigated through some higher education and the student loan process.  We didn’t always listen to the lessons of our parents, but we also never strayed too far from them either.  I think all five of us have a healthy respect for finances.

Those lessons seemed pretty old fashioned.  My brother still likes to tell the story of the car salesman that was aghast that my father wanted to pay cash for a new used pick up.  “But money is so cheap!  We can get you a great interest rate on a loan” the salesman had pleaded with my father.

“Yup, or else I can cut you a check and not have to worry about it,” my father replied.

At the time, we laughed at my Dad.  In the day and age of high leverage, double mortgages, and cashing out equity on your ever appreciating assets, the lessons of my folks seemed like old folk tales.

Funny how time changes things.

Those lessons from my parents now seem to be genius.  Instead of old fashioned, they are revolutionary.  News shows are running stories about how you can do more with less.  The experts that were telling us to live the high life are now saying in finance, patience is a virtue.

Who would have guessed, the old fashioned lessons of my parents are now the standard in era of high finance.

 Being of Bohemian-Swiss-Austrian-German roots and growing up in the heart of Native American and Norwegian country, Saint Patrick’s Day wasn’t observed.  Oh sure, we would watch the celebration on the television and listen to the news reports on the radio while milking - but the thought of green beer and leprechauns were a far cry from the little farm in Northwestern Minnesota.

Proceeding to college, when people would ask what I was doing for St. Patrick’s Day, I would scoff and state, “I’m not Irish.”

But yet, there was an allure to it.

My first attempt at celebrating St. Patrick’s Day was my senior year at North Dakota State University - Saint Patrick’s Day fell over spring break, but by chance, I was passing through Fargo on March 17^th, so I swung by my favorite watering hole (the Turf) and asked my good friend John, the bartender and a true Irishman himself, for a big pint of green beer.

John proceeded to pour me a pint of the cheapest beer behind the bar, take a little bottle of green food coloring, and drip three drops into the glass, then he set it in front of me with little flourish, the green still oozing to the bottom of the glass.

Not what I had in mind and needless to say, a little less enthusiasm then expected.

Going on to the University of Illinois wasn’t much different.  A spring break trip took me with my father out to visit relatives in Pennsylvania.  For lunch, a big plate of corned beef and cabbage with my father looking on in disgust.

“But you aren’t Irish?” he lamented.

“I know Dad, but everyone is Irish on Saint Patrick’s Day!” I replied.

He didn’t buy it.  I think he was ashamed of me.

The following year, I was working feverishly to finish my master’s thesis - and was sleeping on the living room floor of a friend to save money.  About 7 am, I was waken by the sound of my roommate Mike rummaging around the kitchen.  He was getting ready to make his corned beef and cabbage. 

As I crawled out of my sleeping bag and rubbed the sleep out of my eyes - Mike handed me the first beer of the morning.  “Here, drink this.  It’s Saint Patrick’s Day.”

Mike was a Polish-Irish and his girlfriend of the time was very Irish and I remember thinking, this was going to be a fun day.  From what I remember, it was.

Perhaps the most memorable remains St. Patrick’s Day of 2001.  Waking early the Friday before hand - like a good, reasonable Czech that has a 7am flight should, I proceeded to pick up my friend Patrick - a true Irish German - around 5am.

I got Pat out of bed.  I knew we were in trouble.  Pat showered, then packed.  The time was 6am.

We drove to Pat’s folks, who we also roused from their sleep - and managed, just managed - to get the flight to Chicago (thanks to Pat who ran the length of the terminal and argued with the stewardess not to close the door yet - and managed to keep her occupied until I could catch up.

Out of breath, but happy to be underway, we flew to Chicago and proceeded to the Big Ten Basketball Tournament.  Later that day, we were joined by a herd of Pat’s fellow Badger fans who came more for the green beer then the basketball and proceeded to imbibe and blarney our way through the weekend - even managing to get a picture of our crew - Pat, Scott, Chad and myself - missing only Mike - with the security guards at the John Hancock building smiling with us as the sun rose over Lake Michigan that Sunday morning.

I don’t know if Saint Patrick would be proud, but I think the normal Irishman would be!

(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 March 2, 1988)

It must be spring.

It’s meeting time around Boone County.  The local co-ops will be holding their annual meetings soon.  The area Lamb and Wool Producers has an annual meeting coming up.

Last week I had the privilege to attend the Boone county Livestock Producers’ Banquet and Meeting.  What a spread.  I had a little pork.  I had a little beef.  In fact I more than a little.  I’m still full.

Not too long ago I was tagging along to some of these meetings with my dad.  I even went to a few of them by myself as a dedicated ag student in college.

Last week’s meeting was a little different from the others I’ve attended.

Folks there were optimistic about the coming year.  Thanks to cheap feed, Uncle Sam, and an increase in meat consumption, beef and hog farmers are doing OK. Although I suspect most people attend these meetings for two reasons, eating and door prizes, most of the people around me seemed to genuinely enthused about being hog or beef farmers.

The tough times are by no means past, but agriculture, especially the kind where your crops walk on four legs, sees to be turning around.

I’ve mixed feelings about these ag groups.  Every crop or animal seems to have it own producer group.  In the past it appeared that the groups siphoned valuable cash from farmers while their own programs were largely ineffective.

But not it seems that the Beef Producers and some of the other groups have gotten their act together and have undertaken some pretty effective efforts.  If you haven’t seen James Garner making his pitch for beef on T.V. lately, you must be a hermit.

According to a preliminary study authorized by the Beef Producers, the ads have boosted per capita beef consumption across the nation and improved people’s attitude toward beef.  The Beef Producers’ campaign has more people thinking that beef is a healthy wholesome food. 

Not bad results for a campaign that’s been in effect for less than a year.

For years local beef and pork producer groups held cooking demonstrations and promotions at county fairs and ag-related events.  Most people who attend county fairs and ag expositions don’t need to be convinced to eat meat.

Seems it took the groups a long time to learn that lesson, but now they’ve moved some of their demonstrations and promotions to metropolitan populations centers.  They’ve targeted the “yuppies,” the health-conscious group with money to spend.  So far, it appears to be working.

The American Dairy Association’s “Milk kick” promotion is also pretty slick.  The ADA has a little more experience with commercials than the Beef Producers.

A few years ago when the ADA used puppets and clay figures in their commercials I wouldn’t be surprised if milk consumption actually went down.  But now their commercials are giving a little competition to Pepsi and Coke.

It seems agricultural product promotions are growing.

As budgets for the groups grow, a real danger emerges.  Lobbying efforts and promotions must continue to be focused so that the farmers who are footing the bill are the ones who receive the benefits.

That may occasionally mean going against large grain or meat packing interests.  With the influence those wield, casting a opposing vote or lobbying against them may not be an easy task.

All this brings me back to my original topic of annual meetings.  I hope that regional and state directors listened closely to what their neighbors had to say last week at the meeting.  If they are going to do what is best for pork and beef farmers in Iowa and Boone County they will need to keep an ear open.

After all, those farmers are paying the bills.

 I knew better.  For the second time in my life, I had forgotten my camera charger at home.  Now, with beautiful desert scenery and history of Tucson all around me, my camera battery was dead.

Now what?

There was a Best Buy close by, and while the cost was something I feared, I couldn’t let the sights of the desert in spring go uncaptured, especially as another roaring blizzard raged at home.  Those pictures of the desert and resorts would come in handy as my longing for spring seemed farther away than ever according to first had reports from friends and family back home.

As I made my way into the near abandoned Best Buy, a kind sales associate in the camera department helped me find what I was looking for - expensive as feared, but also handy.  It was a universal adapter for a multitude of Olympus batteries and had multiple prongs for use overseas.

Expensive, but compact and handy, I could live with that.

As I made my way to the check-out counter, the attractive, young cashier helped me to check out.  Being a normal red blooded American male, I struck up a conversation with her.  As we made small talk, she asked me for my driver’s license to verify my credit card information.

As I handed my driver’s license over, her eyes lit up.

“Are you really from Minnesota?” She asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“It sounds like a beautiful place!” she exclaimed.

“Look, we are getting ten to fifteen inches of snow right now, it is zero degrees - and it’s March!” I said.

“Oh my!” the cashier said with some awe in her voice, “That sounds…WONDERFULL!”

“Wonderful?  Wonderful! Wonderful?” I said with some confusion, “Its 70F out and sunny - and has been every day that I’ve been here.”

“The desert gets boring and depressing.  I’ve never gotten a chance to leave it in my 24 years.” She said as she handed me my receipt and bag.

It certainly changed my perception.  As much as I hate to admit it, I don’t think I could stand the desert for the rest of my life either.  As much as we complain about the cold and the snow, it really isn’t that bad.  Perhaps, just perhaps, the grass is greener on the other side.

But then again….sometimes we just need to be thankful for what we have.

The power of the observation of the people around us!

 There is something different about a March snow. 

In the coolness of autumn, the first snowfall seems magical.  The whiteness covering the soft earth tones of a northern autumn, the reds, golds, and browns of fall lay dormant under the crest of the new fallen snow, slowly sinking into the earth from which they come.  The whiteness of that first snow is exciting - a turning of the seasons, a freshness from the dank, cool mornings of autumn and the browns and rusts of the season.

In contrast, by the time the March snow arrives, we have had enough.  The cold, snow, and magic of a white Christmas has been made unwelcome by the bitter cold of January and February.  The cold and snow doesn’t leave, it instead becomes a way of life. 

Survival is not assured as exposed skin freezes, as winter storms leaves travelers trapped.  It wears on the body and the soul - the snow of November lies trapped under the snows of December, January and February.

But ever so slowly, that ancient battle between light and dark, between cold and warmth continues.  The sun that retreated only months earlier moves north to fill its spot in the northern sky - rising each day a little higher, a little brighter then the day before.

The impact of its rays can be seen to the discerning eye.

In January, in order to melt the snow from the last storm, the temperature would need to move above the 32F mark to cause the dripping from the roofs and roads of the winter weary. 

In March, thanks to the heat of the ever growing strength of the sun, a move into the teens is enough to cause the chemical reaction needed to melt the snow and cause the dripping and running of the roofs and streets.

It becomes clear that winter, though still lashing out with occasional bouts of cold and snow, is breathing its last.

March snow is the defiant snow of winter that a hopeful people will see is coming to an end. Secure in the fact that they have survived yet another winter in the harsh northern climate, and that the warmth of spring is close at hand.

 The saguaro cactus is awe inspiring.  Some rising thirty to forty feet above the brush and brambles of the desert, they are the pillars of the barren landscape. 

Walking along through the desert, the saguaro cacti range in maturity.  Down amidst the prickly pear and the thorns, you will find the small barrel shapes of the infants, perhaps only five to ten years old.  Then, you will find the large, tall columns, green, two inch spikes protecting the soft flesh from desert scavengers.  These might be as old as seventy years old.

Then you see the mature cacti, like body builders flexing their buff arms for all to see.  They have the arms that come with age.  Sometimes it is a single arm, a bit off center, sometimes it is five or six arms, all pointing upward to the desert sun.

The root system of these desert trees are surprisingly shallow, most reaching only a mere few feet into the desert soil - but spread out around the cactus - so while shallow, sometimes they take up a vast area.  In the end, their root structure will usually match the size of the cactus.  However big it is above the ground should be a good estimate of how big it is below the ground.  Shallow, but big - careful to get every last drop of moisture that may makes it way into the shallow surface of the desert.

The saguaro can also seem to grow anywhere within the confines of the Sonora Desert.  In the barren rocks and sands of the desert floors, in the moistness of the seemingly dry river banks and creek bottoms, amongst the oaks, and elms and cottonwoods, on the vertical cliffs of the desert mountains, sometimes out of the very rock that make up the desert, the saguaro lives and thrives.

But like man, the saguaro, seemingly impregnable with its two inch spikes for protection, the saguaro is vulnerable.  If you transplant a saguaro, care must be taken to make sure that the sun side when growing continues to face the sun - or else the cactus will get sunburned.

While rising like posts in the desert landscape, the mountains protect them from the violent winds, with their shallow roots, they would quickly succumb to the gales and be blown over in a gale.

Perhaps most surprising, while scaling up through the canyons of the Sonoran Desert, a guide pointed out that while one side of the canyon was home to an innumerable host of these desert towers, the other side of the canyon was near void, with only one or two reaching to the desert sky.

Why on one side of the canyon do these majesties of the desert thrive and on the other do they wither and die?

The sun.  The warmth of the sun, hits the one side of the canyon in winter, allowing the saguaro’s to live and thrive, while on the other, in the shade of the towering rocks, the coldness of the desert winter is allowed to linger and the saguaro is unable to grow and prosper.

How similar to our own lives.  It is funny how sometimes we bask in the warmth and glow of friends and family, but other times, we wither in the cold.  We too seek the warmth of acceptance and approval, but are left on the barren hillside out of the warmth, looking longingly to the warmth of the other side of the canyon.

But it needn’t be this way.

In the end, like the ancient philosophers used to counsel, we must be the change that we seek.  We too have the power to give the warmth, to give the acceptance, to give the blessings of warmth to those cold souls in the narrow canyon seeking a better way.

(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)

My wife is mad, I tell you.  Mad!  Mad!  Mad!

She’s suffering from that basketball fanaticism know as “March Madness.”  She’s obsessed with basketball.  She spends every free minute scouring the papers for analysis on the next game.  In the meantime the television is blares out the scores of last night’s games and updates on games in progress.

I’m no sports fan.  I find most ball games (baseball, football, basketball, and racquetball) excruciatingly boring.  It was a trait that I used to have in common with Mary.  When the games came on television, we’d turn it off and break out the backgammon game, balance the checkbook or clean the kitchen.  We did everything we could to avoid watching televised sports.  Sports fostered togetherness and closeness in our marriage.

That was before she became involved in the “office pool” at work.  Now she eats and sleeps the NCAA tournaments.  Don’t try to tell me that college athletics are innocent, harmless recreation that builds school spirit.  I’ll show you a sport that has turned my wife into a gambler and a basketball junkie.

I’m a basketball widower.

“Why don’t I take you out for a nice romantic dinner,” I’ll say.

“Why don’t you throw some popcorn in the microwave while I watch TV for scores,” she responds.

“How was work today?” I ask.

“I’m still tied for the first in the pool, but if UNLV loses, I’ll leave most of them in the dust,” she replies with a gleam in her eye.

“How do you like my new shirt?” I ask, desperate for intelligent conversation.

“It makes you look like a referee.  And speaking of referees, did you see that call?  Did YOU?  Is that guy blind or WHAT?”

Sadly, her addiction is so complete that she’s beginning to sound like Johnny Orr.  My only consolation is that there are only two more weeks of tournaments left.  For her sake, I hope that she wins it all and she takes home the office pool.

In the meantime, I’ll just stand by her during this time of tension and crisis.  “I love you,” I’ll say.

“Yeah, sure.  Can you believe Kansas won?  I knew they were good, but I never thought they’d get this !@#$@ far.  And UNLV shouldn’t even be playing.  I’ve been robbed!  ROBBED I TELL YOU!..”

 We were about ten minutes late.  How bad could that be?  It was a perfect day in Tucson, Arizona, the sun was shining, it was 71F, and we were going to one of the first spring training baseball games of the season.

There isn’t many more relaxing things in life, even for a non-sports fan, then a nice day, a little sunshine, a good game, and a cold, frosty beverage.

Walking into the stands, the crowd was relatively quiet, both the Colorado Rockies fans (the home team at Hi Corbett Field near the heart of downtown Tucson) and the visiting Oakland A’s fans were more subdued then one would expect.  A quick look at the score board revealed the reason - with less than inning of play done, the Rockies were behind - five runs - and the way they were closing out this inning, it could mean a very, very long game…

We planted ourselves in our seats along the third base line and commenced to watch the game, enjoy the sun, and have some very good conversation, and wait for the next vendor carrying the adult beverage of our choice.

Even what appears to be a boring game of baseball can be an entertaining endeavor.  There is still the sights and sounds of the game.  The crack of the bat.  The smell of the hotdogs, the taste of a cold beverage on the tongue.  The site of the families on vacation, the young single women enjoying the game, the high school team coming to see their heroes play, the young single women.

At Hi-Corbett Field, it has the added advantage of being located next to a large Air Force base, Pima Field.  The first time I looked up and saw the large military cargo plane hanging in the sky, it looked like a scene out of a science fiction movie - it looked like it was literally just hanging there from the clear blue sky - but soon, you could see it getting bigger, and bigger, and bigger as it lumbered overhead and dropped its landing gear.  While that was the first plane, it certainly wasn’t the last.  Throughout the next innings, more of the cargo planes would plod along overhead, interspersed with some fast, low flying F-16’s, always flying in tandem.

Perhaps the conversation was the best part.  We covered about everything.  High school athletics, colleges, scuba diving, work, families, you name it.  It was pleasant and free flowing.

The game picked up too.

Aside from their dismal first inning performance, the Rockies held their ground through in the second, and even managed to get one runner home in the third.  Thanks to an error filled play (Larry, Moe, and Curly were apparently suited up for the A’s), the Rockies got runner #2 to home followed quickly by #3 and #4.  By the end of the fourth inning, the Rockies were only trailing by one - we had a five to four ballgame.  Things were getting interesting.  

The Rockies opened her wide open in the fifth.  Another five runs in succession had the A’s reeling - and the bullpen looking like a turnstile.  The score was nine to five with the Rockies in the lead.

The game was about over by the end of the sixth, with more runs for the Rockies, we headed to the restrooms to get rid of some of our cold frosty beverages.  As we stood in the shade of the bleachers, enjoying our last beverage for the day, we heard the roar from the hometown section once more and knew the game was done.

As we walked to our car past the downtown golf course, continuing the conversation and the banter under the Tucson sun with the cool mountain breeze providing relief from the high mountain sun, we knew it was a great day to be alive.  Unless you were hoping for an A’s win.

Good game, good sites, good game.  Next time, a little good sun screen.

  South of Tucson, rising from the red earth and green, irrigated fields of the Papago Indian reservation fields is the gleaming white building of the Mission San Xavier.  One of the oldest, and most complete, missions from the original colonial period in the United States.

Originally conceived in 1692 by Father Kino, an Italian Jesuit missionary working in conjunction with the Spanish crown to bring the faith the native peoples, it was designed to serve as the base of operations for the Jesuit order in the Sonoran desert.  It was a large complex, located in a Papago Indian community, it included a chapter room - a room for the brothers to meet and discuss - a room usually only reserved for the largest and most prosperous churches, not just in the new world, but around the world.

The dream was ambitious, as the name might attest - Saint Francis Xavier, the namesake and patron saint of the mission, was perhaps the most productive missionary of the Jesuit order, converting thousands in Asia, his arm resting in gold and jewels at the Jesuit home church in Rome (Church of Jesu).  Why his arm?  That arm is said to have baptized more people than any other in Christendom.

Rebuilt in the late 1700’s, after the Spanish crown replaced the Jesuits with the Franciscan order, church served as an outpost for travelers, a center of faith, and an outpost of first the Spanish government, then the Mexican government.

Built completely of local material, it is an amazing structure - two towers, a full dome, and tall arched ceilings made completely without wood (with the exception of doors, windows, and balconies.  Its combination of differing building styles blend together to create something completely new - in a new land.

Walking up to the church, a visitor is struck by the articulate design and structure on the outside, the coat of arms above the door, the desert garden along the outside walls, mesquite wood work of the doors and balconies.

Walking in to the cool, hushed interior, it is like walking into a gilded European cathedral.  Intricate carvings, brightly colored paintings and design, simple, yet elegant woodwork, it all attacks the eyes, especially coming in from the hash desert landscape of the outside.   One truly feels in the presence of something old, something holy.  You can almost smell and feel the three hundred years of history wafting through the air.

All of this, designed by the priests and brothers, build with the hard work and dedication of the local Papago Indians.  From the archetecture to the acheivement of building this remarkable building with no lumber.  The artwork too, mixed with the icons and Holy and men and women of the Bible are the designs of the desert southwest.  Even in the alterwork - with the beaded vestments and the reed woven monstrance.

The only sign of the Spanish monarch are the mighty lions of Castille that flank the high alter.

Walking out of the church to the east is a small hill topped by a white cross.  Up the rocky heights, scrambling over the ancient lava rocks and the more recent broken glass bottles to the very top, the view of the mission surrounded by the combination of the earth toned desert and bright green fields is stunning.

Walking back to the car, what is perhaps more amazing is the thought that this isn’t a history site.  The Franciscan order still lives, still operates, still prays, still ministers out of this very ancient, yet very alive place.  Mass is still said daily.  Pilgrims still sit in the solitude of the chapel and pray.  The light of the alter is still lit.  The Papago Indians still call this their home, their land.  This may be history, but it is very much alive.