(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 and I are macho.

When the wind blows, we enjoy it. When the rain falls, we savor it.  When the snow falls, we revel in it.  When the temperature drops to below zero, we laugh.  Ha!  Ha!

We’re no weather wimps, that ‘s for sure.  Snow, wind, sleet and hail leave us unfazed.  But sometimes the summers really get to us.  We’re already dreading July and August.

For days and days on end the temperatures will climb to 90 degrees, 100 degrees and above.  The humidity will make the air so thick that you can scoop it with a spoon.  Heat waves will shimmer off the softening pavement.  Our tiny fans will do little to relieve the burning torture.  Our minds will begin to reel and we will go mad imagining that we are slowly being cooked alive. 

I really hate that.

But because we are macho, we’ve endured three summers here in Iowa with no air conditioning.  We’ve tried everything to keep cool.  We dampened our sheets in the bathtub before bedtime.  We slept with wet cloths over our faces.  We’ve experimented with our fans for hours, striving for optimum cooling air movement.

But mostly we just sit around, sweat a lot and dream about January.  It’s the macho thing to do.

Consequently, July and August are not peak months of marital harmony for us.  “Could you bring me some ice water,” I ask.  “I’d do it myself but I’m stuck to this vinyl chair.”

“Get it yourself,” Mary snaps in reply, “I’m busy sweating.”

And so it goes until the heat breaks sometime in September.

But we are macho, so we endure.  Our stoic resolve has been honed by Minnesota mosquitoes and North Dakota winters.  After those, Iowa summers should be easy.

But they are not.  The heat and humidity are too much.  Last week’s muggy weather sent our minds reeling.  We could not comprehend spending another summer here.  And in a moment of weakness, we bought an air conditioner.

I realize now that we are not macho at all.  We are weak and spineless.  In the face of Iowa’s heat, our stoic resolve melted like an ice cream cone that has been dropped on a hot summer sidewalk.

No, we are not macho.  We are weak.  We’re so ashamed.

But at least we are cool.

 Dad sold the cows five days before graduation.  We put the garden in the next day.  The yard was trimmed up for the graduation party over the next two days.  Without the cows things could get done quickly and efficiently with no two or three hour interludes to feed, milk, water, fix fence, wash milk room, pitch manure, feed calves, carry silage…and all of the other fun things that went with a dairy herd.

I already had one job lined up for the summer, a shift supervisor for the new sub sandwich shop opening in my home town, the first, and so far only, attempt at fast food in my small hometown.  My shift would run from 5:00pm until midnight, usually five days a week.

But it was pretty clear, with a looming college bill and no cows to milk to take up my free time, I was going to need another form of employment or risk driving myself, and perhaps my father, completely insane.

After graduation, the graduation party, and all of the pomp and circumstance, the house was quiet that Monday afterwards, it was Memorial Day and all of the company had gone home, my older brothers were gone, my sister was at friends, my folks too were out visiting.  I was opening my cards and pondering my future.

Then I remembered someone saying, “Tom at the golf course was still looking for a little help for the summer.”

The pay was good for that point in time, $4.75/hour, and my brother had worked at the golf course and had enjoyed it immensely two summers before.  A bit timidly (I am a reserved person…no really, I am), I called Tom.

“Tom?” I said.

“Yeah!” he said.

“This is Mark, Bob and Mary’s boy, are you still hiring out at the golf course?” I asked.

“Yeah!  Show up at about seven tomorrow morning.” He said.

The easiest hiring process I ever went through.  With that one phone call, it got me started on two summers of employment. 

Tom also turned out to be one of the best bosses I’ve had.  He trusted us to get the job done, and we did.  He was a friend to us, but also knew when he had to set us straight, but never scolding, always with anecdotes and understanding.

The first week on the job was hard work.  Hand aerating the greens almost right off the bat which entailed taking a belching, clomping hand pushed aerator across the carpet smooth bent grass of the greens and watching the plugs of earth pop out behind it.  Then following up with snow shovels and shoveling the plugs of earth and grass off of each green and shoveled into a rattle trap cart.  Following this, we had to bring sand over and spread across the green, then sweep it in with a large brush pulled behind the golf cart.  It was hard, back breaking work.

But at that point in time, it sure beat milking cows.

 It is the first unofficial days of summer.  Graduates, from colleges a couple of weeks ago, and from high school now in these waning days of May, are going to be leaving the halls of their respective learning institutions and looking out with fresh eyes on the world outside of their doors.

I’ve done the high school thing.  I’ve done the college thing.  I’ve done the graduate school thing.  I’ve been in the work force.  I’ve loved.  I’ve lost.  I’ve felt the pain of loss.  I’ve felt the pain of rejection.  I’ve felt hope.  I’ve felt love.  I’ve felt a deep and abiding faith.

I’ve spent my fair share of time looking for my future.  I didn’t find it in my hometown.  I didn’t find it working on my undergrad at North Dakota State in Fargo.  I didn’t find it when I got my master’s at the University of Illinois in Champaign, Illinois.  I didn’t find in my job in Kansas, or Ohio, or Minneapolis for that matter.  In the end, I’ve found that my future lays not in a place, but within.  It lies in my head.  It lies in the work of my hands.  It lies in my heart.  It resides in my soul.

I’ve spent my fair share of time looking for happiness.  I didn’t find it in money or riches.  I didn’t find it in travel.  I didn’t find it in stuff – in things – in electronics and gizmos.  I didn’t find it in any of the things that the world would associate with wealth.  Instead, I found happiness in family and in friends.  It comes from holding your new nephew’s little fingers for the first time.  It comes from a big hug from your nieces.  It comes from spending a lazy afternoon with friends – talking about everything and nothing at the same time.  It lies in giving of yourself for a worthy cause – giving of your time, your talent, and your treasure to something that you hold dear to you heart.

I’ve spent my fair share of time looking for the path that I should follow.  It isn’t the easy road.  It isn’t asphalt way marked with signs leading directly to your goal.  It is crooked and winding.  It has loops and double backs.  I’ve felt the feeling of getting lost – of losing my way more then once – reaching a place that seems like a dead end – only to find the most amazing place and to find the trail marker again saying to keep on, the best things lay ahead.

I’ve lost my faith a time or two, my faith in other men, my faith in my friends and family, my faith in mankind, my faith in all that is good, my faith in God.  Luckily, none of them have given up on me.  Luckily, they have all been there to lend a helping hand, a kind word, a pat on the back.

I’ve about given up on myself a time or two.  I’ve lost a lot of battles in my life, felt the sting of hurt, humiliation, defeat.  But what hurts more is the regret of having never tried, of giving up before you start, of listing to the critics and agreeing when they say something can’t be done.  Of never letting your boat leave the harbor and test itself on the open sea.

After it all, it doesn’t seem that long ago that I was one of those fresh faced young men looking out on the world, and that feeling is hard to hang onto.  It is hard to remember when you are in the trenches, day in and day out, that the life is short and the battle long – but most of the time, that battle is only with ourselves.

To the class of 2009, congratulations – good luck – and God speed!

(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) 

A crowd had gathered under the dim light of a few street lights.  Puffs of steam rose through the gently falling snow into the dark sky as people jostled quietly for a better view.

I slowly worked my way to the front of the crowd.  I stood silently then, amazed at what I saw.  “The Iowan” was steaming and smoking there in the dark, like some sleeping dragon.  I caught occasional glimpses of excited faces bathed in the yellow light of the cab window.

A gentle hum emanated from somewhere within the great locomotive.  It was a generator, I suspect.  The running lights cast eerie shadows on the massive red wheels and reflected off the polished metal of the connecting rods.

A red glow filtered out from somewhere underneath the giant boiler and behind those wheels.

The entire crowd was hushed.  People shuffled quietly around the massive machine speaking in quiet whispers to one another.  As one, the crowd jumped as the whistle blasted.  I wasn’t the least bit cold, but shivers tumbled down my spine as the sound drifted off into the night.

I don’t think I’ll ever forget my first sight of the Iowan on that cold December evening.  I’d grown up hearing stories about steam trains and the men who guided them down the rails.  But I never appreciated the size, power and beauty of those steam giants until that moment.

The thrill continued last weekend.  My wife and I accompanied “The Iowan” on its inaugural passenger run across the Des Moines River Valley.  Neither mud slides nor washed-out ballast could deter the Boone & Scenic Valley Railroad’s volunteers from making certain the trip was successful.

It was a thrilling trip.  The spring foliage was at its greenest in years.  Here and there vivid bursts of color punctuated the greenery as wildflowers announced their presence along the tracks.  Spectators and photographers waved at us from bridges, clearings, crossings and houses along the way.

The view form the high bridge was as breathtaking as ever, and thanks to requests from press photographers, we were able to enjoy the view four times.  The Iowan backed its cargo of dignitaries and contributors back across the bridge on its way home in order to take another run for the shutterbugs.

Passengers saw firsthand what two weeks of rain can do to the Des Moines River as the train passed over the bridge near the Y camp.

All the while, “The Iowan” puffed quietly and powerfully along at the head of the train.

It was like a beautiful dream but as the last echoes of the steam whistle faded away down the tree-lined valley, riders, railroaders, and spectators alike realized that it was no dream.

Steam railroading had returned to Boone and the Des Moines River Valley in a big way.

 There are songs that tell the tale of the New York nightlife.  The cars, the cigars, the rooftop bars – well, one of three wasn’t bad, not bad at all.

Friday night, we hit the town with our friends Jason and Mima.  Starting in a 17^th floor apartment about four o’clock in midtown Manhattan, sipping beers, shooting the breeze, and enjoying the sights of New York form seventeen stories up.

From there, we proceeded to the Rare View – a bar that sits atop a sixteenth floor of the Shelburne Murray Hill Building on Lexington in the heart of Manhattan.  We sat up top, drinking our beers, mohitos, rum and cokes, and margaritas under the New York sun on a beautiful spring evening.  Watching business men and women grab and beverage and enjoy a nice spring evening, we grabbed a corner table and watched the comings and goings.  Enjoying the sights and the conversation.

We were joined by Jason’s girlfriend and her retinue about eight o’clock.  Graduating that weekend, she had friends and family in tow.  As the New York skyline made the transition to dusk, the crowd continued to change and evolve.  The business crowd slowly thinned and was being fast replaced by the cool and well heeled, the young men and women out on the town.  We sat in the corner, watching, visiting and enjoying the evening.

One of the downfalls of a rooftop bar on the sixteenth floor is our party of nine was one person too big for the elevator.  With no line behind us, I gallantly offered to allow the party to continue below as I visited the men’s room.  To my horror, four minutes later as I walked out of the small shanty, I noticed, first the group of beautiful women walking past, second, my slightly ajar zipper, third, the massive line that had formed to get down in that little time.

As we would say on the farm, shucks.

A quick call to the party below and a ten minute wait had us under full steam again and off to an authentic Texas Roadhouse…in Midtown Manhattan, complete with feed and seed signs, people in boots and hats, and plank floors.

The food was good.  The company was good.  Feasting on some Fajita’s (while New Yorker’s don’t refer to them as Fa-Jita’s, they think it is pretty funny, but not as fun as Quesadillas being pronounced Que-si-dillos (rhymes with armadillo).  The Fajita’s were washed down with some of Brooklyn’s finest, Brooklyn Lager.

About midnight, talked out, well fed, and well watered, we were ready to rest.  Walking back to the hotel, it struck me, here I was, a guy from a town of twelve hundred people, living the high life.  The Minnesotan part of me remembered the hard fought battle to get where I was and it tinged me with a bit of guilt.  The world traveler in me felt very satisfied.  The young single male part of me was ready to hit it again the next night!

(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) 

Upon reading last week’s column, my wife said,” You ain’t seen nothing yet.”

In last week’s column, I wrote about all those crazy names that designers, artists and marketing specialists have come up with for colors and patterns.  We covered colors like “wild strawberry,” “brick red,” dandelion,” “vivid tangerine,” and host of others.  I also touched on carpet and fabric patterns like “monk marble,” “mystery pacific,” and “round-up red.”

I thought those were pretty wild, but Mary told me that those hues and patterns were just the tip of the iceberg.  I challenged her to track down more unlikely names for colors and patterns.

Her list started off more like a menu than a list of colors.  She began with a splash of mauve called “raspberry wine.”  Then she served up a brown called “toffee swirl.”  Next she spiced things up with “cinnamon glaze,” and “ginger gold.”  One of her favorite entrees was a pink we mentioned last week called “salmon.”  Then, to cleanse the palate, she brought out a red called “”raspberry sorbet.”

As if those colors weren’t rich enough for my taste, she brought out a brown color called “mocha torte.”  Also mentioned last week was a perfect after-dinner treat, a green and white fabric pattern called “North Star mint.”

By that time, I was so hungry, I had to take a snack break before we covered “lemon peel,” “nutmeg brown.” “peach frost,” “grape nectar” and  “wild plum.”  I guess you could say colors and patterns like that are a real feast for the eyes.

But designers and marketers haven’t forgotten the powerful sense of smell.  “Swiss pine” is actually a shade of green not just the odor wafting down the slopes of the Alps.  “Old spice” may remind you of ships and the sea and the way your father smells, but it also a shade of brown.  “Canyon Charcoal” may make you think of hamburgers cooking on an open flame, but it’s actually a nice gray color too.

And with spring coming, you may want to give your house a nice coat of “lavender sachet,” “lilac blossom,” “tropic surf,” or “purple pansy.”

You’ll notice that all of those names have a nice ring to them.  I wonder what the list of rejects looks like?  Was there a shade of green called “refrigerator mold?”  What about a blackish-brown color called “burnt-burger?”  Perhaps there should be a gray called “gutter slush.”  Will we ever see a carpet pattern called “five o’clock shadow,” “driveway ruts,” 9rn “compost pile?”  What color would “tuna helper ” be?”

And thinking about that makes me believe we should just be happy with “lilac blossom.”

“You have to see the Frick Museum,” my friend intoned, “if you do one thing in New York City, the Frick is it.  It is the Frick home that has been turned into an art museum.”My friend was born and raised in New York City, is an active connoisseur of the finer things in life, specifically art and wine, and being a simple country boy looking for a little culture in the big city, I felt obliged to listen.

Off to the Frick we went.

I will admit that I had some expectations.  As a student of history, I had heard of the Frick name before, the strong arm of Andrew Carnegie.  The man blamed for the violence and bloodshed during the Homestead strikes in 1892, the reputation of the man was not high in my eyes.  The coke magnet, instrumental in developing the steel industry – a captain of industry during the United State’s transition from rural to an economic power house built on the back of steel.

Walking out of Central Park, we were met by a classical Mediterranean style building, with granite walls, metal gates, pillars and porticos.  It looked like a museum.

Walking through the massive doors and into the reception area, we were intrigued.  For a house, it was like nothing I’ve seen.  With classical Roman style, it had a lavish interior – marble, statues, and fine details throughout the entrance.  The entrance fee would be well worth it.

We were met in the first hallway with some of the finery of the gilded age – French furniture, romance paintings, the knick-knacks of the rich and famous.  Walking into the first room it looked like a room fit for a king.  Because it was.  The wall paneling, all specifically painted, the furniture, the fireplace and mantle, the paintings on the wall, were all once a part of King Louis the XIV’s summer residence, specifically comissioned by his last (and favorite!) mistress.  Carefully packed and brought here, to one of the kings of the gilded age in the United States.

Each room, each massive room, had its own surprises.

The drawing room where I came face to face with my very first El Greco painting – and while not an art fan – even I could tell the brilliance in the color, in the broad strokes, in the passion that the paintings represented.

The intricate detail in the wood paneling and ceilings, each carefully carved and put in place.

The study, where one of my personal hero’s portrait hangs – the famous painting of Sir Thomas Moore, the right hand man of King Henry VIII, who helped rule the kingdom, but was killed for standing by his principles.  This painting I’ve seen so often staring back at me in books and museums was now in front of me.

In the library, an intricate mantle piece, stretching floor to ceiling, all hand carved.  On the opposite wall, with many other works of art, hung one of the original paintings of George Washington by the famous Gilbert Stuart.

The details, the artwork, the overall feeling was overwhelming.  Here was a man who had designed a home to be used for a museum, to house his precious works of art, so that all could see and enjoy.

Henry Clay Frick, the man that bloodied Homestead, PA, was also an art lover and a generous man.  Do the two conflict?  Can a man who gave so much really have planned to ruin the lives of so many?

That is a question to be pondered as you circle the magnificent home, given as a museum, by Mr. Frick.

“Here, these go on Uncle Frank’s,” Dad says matter of factly, pulling the bright plastic flowers out of their boxes.  “Then you can run these over and put them on Grandma and Grandpa Stolka.”Dispatching me across St. Michael’s Cemetery, the low to the ground plastic arrangement is carefully placed next to Uncle Frank’s, my great uncles, tombstone.  Turning, Dad has the arrangement going on his grandparent’s stone in one hand waiting for me to take it as he digs through the others.

“Didn’t we buy another one for Uncle Charlie’s last year?”  he muses to no one imparticular, then, as I grab the arrangement out of his hand, he takes out another arrangement, a small wreath with bright red carnations, “and you might as well take this one and put it on Uncle Charlie’s, we’ll put that little cross on there too.”

Slowly, we’ll go through the list of relatives, four generations scattered throughout the quiet hillside nestled among the farm fields.  Over a hundred years of family, resting and at peace in among the fields they had wrestled from the wilderness.

Grandpa and Grandma Stolka – the true pioneers, bringing their five children across the ocean and half way across a continent, hoping for freedom and a better life.

Uncle Charlie, their bachelor son, who cared for them, farmed one of the biggest spreads in the county, and was one of the favorites among his nieces and nephews (and great nieces and nephews).

Uncle Frank, Aunt Mary, and their son, Little Charlie – resting together, none of their children living close by, Dad still makes sure they are remembered.

There are a handful of other relatives that we check on, making sure that they have flowers on their graves, just in case a relative couldn’t make it this year.  I think also Dad checking to make sure that we children remember where those relatives are, so that one day, when we pick up the mantel, we will know who to watch out for, who to remember.

Dad will help place the last one’s himself.  First, the ones that say “Mother” and “Father” and a another small wreath will go between them – next to the headstones of his parents.  Taking his dress feed cap off and sliding down over his heart, our heads are bowed and a silent prayer is said.

The cap goes back on and we walk back to the car to grab the last arrangements.  Slowly, we walk over to Mom’s stone.  Kneeling, we put the arrangements into the soft spring soil, standing up, Dad slides the cap down over his heart, and we both bow our heads again in silent prayer.

As we drive away, the stories start flowing.  Uncle Charlie hung over for the big family reunion when Uncle John came to visit.  The stills that Grandpa made.  Uncle Frank’s farm up on the other side of highway 200.

On Monday morning, we’ll be back in the cemetery, for the Memorial Day service.  For as long as I can remember, that is where we have been on that sacred morning.  Remembering.  Honoring our loved ones and their memories.  Honoring the brave men and women who gave their lives for our freedom.  Remember who we are, as a family, as a nation, as a people.

 Who would have thought that you could find tractors, combines, and cows – herds of them – in the very heart of New York City.  But find them we did, in the very heart of the city off Fifth Avenue, at the magical place called FAO Schwartz, that famous toy store where wonder can be bought by the bagful.

The doors are guarded by a real life toy soldier (ok, a guy dressed up like a toy soldier).  Once inside, we were met by a wise cracking employee.

“You can’t get in without your toy passport!”  She stated to us matter of factly as we walked in and adjusted our eyes to the sights (the life-sized plush dragon, the life-size characters from Harry Potter built completely out of Lego’s).

“We need a membership card to get in?” I asked incredulously.

“Naw, but I thought it would be fun to say!  Enjoy the store!”  She laughed.

We laughed too, though more at our gullibleness then her sense of humor.

Enjoy it we did.

As we started our stroll through this rollicking emporium, we were first met by rows and rows of stuffed animals – lions, and tigers, and bears (oh my!), giraffes, dogs, cats, monkeys, hippos, elephants – a real cotton stuffed menagerie. 

Then came the smaller knick-knacks, trinkets, and games – monkey’s in a barrel, pick up sticks, wind up rubber band airplanes, and a man demonstrating the most amazing gliders to a group of excited children (ages one to ninety) – with the gliders flying and spinning over the heads and back to the man with ohhs and ahhs from the crowd.

To the middle of the store we went – the candy section, where my sweet tooth just ached looking at the rows and rows of boxes, packages, containers, and cartons of candies, all guarded by a seven foot high toy soldier statue…made entirely of candy.

Skipping over the rest of the main floor (baby toys and kids clothes, we proceeded upstairs via the escalators…past the life sized plush toys seeming from a kid school version of an African safari, and on to the second level of magic…literally…into the wand shop from Harry Potter.

We left the wand shop to be met with more rows of stuffed creatures and out into the adventure series collection.  Outback adventures, train sets, electric race tracks, and believe it or not…farm toys.  Rows and rows of small rubber animals (much like you would find at a Fleet Farm or a Tractor Supply Company, only at New York prices).  We could have stocked a full farm from their collections, Holsteins, Brown Swiss, Angus, Herefords, Dairy Goats, Rhode Island Reds, Durocs, Hampshires, Morgan Horses, Tennessee Walkers, Collies, German Sheppards, Ducks, and Geese…and a whole host of other animals, both domesticated and wild.  Around the corner was even a complete farm play set, barn, tractor, farmer and family and all!

Perhaps more impressive, even then the rows of old Smurf figurines and the giant piano, perhaps even more so then Lego version of Chewbacca the Wookie and Darth Vader, perhaps even more so then the mighty Muppet exhibit, were the farm tractors, combines, and displays from their toy vehicle collection (Hotwheels and Ertle these were not) – precision toys all, with all the finest details (for a very fine price…for them…).

Perhaps the most impressive thing, catching my eye from afar as we were leaving, was the life sized plush Holstein mounted high above the floor in her own glass display case, slightly behind and over the plush, life size dragon, ruling above the mayhem with a calmness only a contented Holstein could.

I almost thought I saw her chewing her cud.

 For a Minnesota farmboy, nothing is quite so sacred as breakfast – the meal that comes right after the cows are milked and all the livestock are fed.  In New York, I ate breakfast under a bridge in New York City.  The Park Avenue bridge to be exact.

But this was not your normal bridge…nor was it your average eating establishment.

Pershing Square, named after that famed general from the War to End all Wars, is directly in front of Grand Central Station.  Park Avenue doesn’t stop at Grand Central – it flows directly over the massive granite building, with engineering marvels and sheer human might, they redirected traffic up and over the imposing building with metal beams, concrete, and massive hand hammered rivets.

And like anywhere in New York (and the bridge over Grand Central is a good example), they don’t like to waste space.  What can you do with that piece of property under the bridge, directly across from Grand Central?  Start a restaurant of course.

The Pershing Square Café has the iconic look of small town diner that just happens to be wedged under a bridge.

Walking in, it does not look like you typical small town diner.  It is framed by the massive steel beams that hold up the tens of thousands of cars that pass overhead each day, each beam and each rivet painted dark hues of red and green.  The wood that is present is dark and finely finished and is spread throughout the building, from the railings to the intricate bar that covers one side of the structure (it doubles as a fairly popular happy hour location for businessmen needing a break before catching their train back home).  Thrown all throughout are massive glass windows that overlook the busy streets on each side and the hustle outside of Grand Central.

The only things that seemed out of place was the floor and the ceiling.  The floor for the tired granite tiles under our feet…part of the original street the waiter informed us.  The ceiling because it looked like cork tile…as we sat through our breakfast, the need for the cork was evident with the steady hum of traffic over our heads – it was a soundproof…or nearly sound proof – paneling.

And the breakfast, well the breakfast would make any Midwesterner proud, eggs over easy, a hearty helping of hash browns, think sliced bacon, two pieces of toast, fresh squeezed orange juice and a cup of coffee.

The one part that didn’t seem very Midwestern was the boast on the menu, “best cup of coffee in New York.”  That just didn’t seem to fit with my humble Midwestern style.  Upon tasting it, while I couldn’t confirm it, it probably wasn’t boasting, it was probably just being honest.

The next time I’m in New York, I think I’ll stop by for another good farmer…er…New Yorker breakfast, under the bridge, with the best cup of coffee in New York