(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 something wholesome about this flood we’re having.

It’s the social event of the season.  If you haven’t been out to see the flood waters yet, you’d better get moving.  But if you are like many of Boone’s residents, you couldn’t resist the temptation to wander down and take a gander at the flooding Des Moines River.  If you took a stroll down U.S. Highway 30 last week to get a better look at the flood waters there or drove down to the wagon wheel bridge on old highway 30, you certainly weren’t alone.

Hundreds of people were there chatting and strolling and enjoying the sunshine and a welcome break in the rain and humidity.  It was like taking a Sunday stroll in the park.  People were laughing and smiling and “oooing” and “ahhhhing” about the massive flow of rushing water.

There’s something strange and surreal about a flood that occurs when the sun is shining and people are out enjoying it.  The stereotypical flood is accompanied by thunder, lightning, rain and wind.  We visualize slicker-clad people grimly piling sandbags to save their homes and businesses.

But not during this flood.

The flood came with perfect spectator weather and television coverage directing us to the best viewing areas.  And it’s nice to see that people still know how to enjoy a cool summer evening outside (despite the mosquitoes.)  And it’s reassuring to know that Mother Nature can still stage a show impressive enough to drag us away from our air conditioning and televisions.

Speaking of shows, think of the all the hours of planning that have already gone into 1991 Pufferbilly Days, the Boone County Fair, Ogden Fun Days, and all of the other celebrations that will take place this summer.  We plan and work for months and months to stage the festivals, carnivals, fairs and events to attract spectators.  Ironically, Mother Nature attracts spectators without press releases, advance ticket sales, a designated spokesperson or promotional merchandise sales.

Somehow it puts life into perspective.

But i do not intend to make light of a serious situation.  There are homeowners, business owners and farmers who are suffering terrible, terrible losses.  They deserve and need our help and support.  But their need gives us an opportunity to show that friendship and neighborliness have not gone out of style here in Boone County.

Technically, Scott was my little brother’s little brother in our fraternity house on College Street.  In some families, that didn’t mean much - just another name, another person to carry on the family stories.  In our family, it meant that it was one more person to be tortured when we had one of our five am surprise breakfasts.  We weren’t in the fraternity at the same time - Scott a good four years younger then me, had spent his first year of college at that dreaded university north in Grand Forks.Coming back my first year at from graduate school, I remember asking one of my little brothers from the fraternity, and good friend, Dave, “How is the new little brother?”

“Scott is a good guy.  A really good guy.” Dave said matter-of-factly, no hesitation, no wavering in his voice.

Knowing Scott had spent time at the college up in Grand Forks, I remained skeptical.

Over time, a few early morning fraternity family breakfasts, and few meetings at homecoming, I grew to like and respect Scott.  He was a good guy.

It was really when we traversed the northern countryside to go from Fargo all the way to Ames, IA for a surprise four o’clock in the morning breakfast with our fraternity family, in the middle of a snowstorm, when Scott and I nervously piloted his car across icy interstates that I grew to respect and admire Scott enough to call him a friend (important lesson - it is not illegal to urinate on the side of the road in Iowa, it is illegal to stop on an offramp…)

I do have to say something about my fraternity family members, my little brothers, and my little, little brothers that they might not find all that flattering.  They all have very unique, very strongly developed senses of humor.  Often times, it is also very dry.  Shaken, not stirred.  It is a burden that I must live with, but one that I bear with strength and courage.  Scott fit right in.

Over the years, Scott and I visited often, sometimes he traveling to the cities to visit, and sometimes I’d travel to meet him including a memorable trip to Calgary (picture a rodeo, with attractive women, chuck wagon races, a rodeo, attractive women, massive quantities of adult beverages, the Canadian Rockies, and some attractive women thrown into boot…)

It came as a bit of a surprise when Scott made the decision to move back home and farm.

It came as a little surprise one weekend when Scott told me that he was traveling to the cities and wanted to meet for breakfast…he wanted me to meet Elizabeth.

Elizabeth seemed absolutely charming.  A good small town North Dakota girl, living and working in the cities, with only one flaw…a graduate of the University of North Dakota.  I will admit, I was skeptical at first, but she took all of the UND jokes in stride and did a great job of the verbal sparing - it was clear, she and Scott were going to get along just fine.

We met off and on when he would come to town.  His visits seeming to get more and more frequent, it came as no surprise when I got the call that Monday night in March - he had proposed, and she had said yes.  The day was set for mid June, only three months away.

Scott has always been a bit of a dreamer, a talented singer, song writer mixed with good sense and hard work.  Elizabeth seems practical, intelligent, motivated, and hardworking.  Here was a UND gal and an NDSU guy making a life together.  Here is a farm boy from Aneta and small town girl from McClusky coming together to make a home.  Here are two great people coming together to build a life together.

This weekend, if you are passing through McClusky, ND and see a big celebration, stop in and wish a very special couple a lifetime of happiness together.

 Back home for a cousin’s high school graduation, Dad and I were visiting with some of relatives, when my third grade teacher came up and gave me a big hug.

“It is so good to see you!”  She said.

“It is great to see you too!”  I replied.

“Still teaching those kids how to measure?” my Dad asked.

You see, back when I was in third grade, what seems like ages ago, our teacher was a relatively new teacher, fresh out of college, right in the middle of the eighties recession.  She moved to our little town on the far reaches of the prairie and taught at our little Catholic school, which, sometimes literally survived on a prayer - in short, the teachers were paid….but so little it also had to be a bit of a labor of love.

And Miss Slausen loved it - like most of the teachers at St. Mike’s, she was special in her own way and managed to make do with little, while teaching us a tremendous amount.

She could play guitar, sing, find cool ways to teach us new and interesting things, would have interesting art projects, and perhaps most importantly for third graders, always tried to treat us like equals.  We looked up to her and never wanted to disappoint her, and she had a place in her heart for each of us.

My folks were pretty active in our little school, between them both, serving about twelve years on the school board, each taking their turn as chair at one time or another.  Knowing the situation most of the teachers were in - and how dedicated most of them were to us kids, they always tried to offer a helping hand.

This is where the measuring story comes in.

One Sunday, she was visiting with Dad after church and they started discussing her little house on the edge of town.

“You should really bank it up with some straw bales around the foundation, will help keep the heat in.” Dad advised.

“I don’t know where I’d get them from.” Miss Slausen replied.

“Well, it shouldn’t take too many, I bet we have enough to spare.” Dad offered.

The next Sunday, Dad asked her if she had a chance to measure her house.

“I did.  It is about fifteen of these around.” She replied, taking her arms and stretching them out as far as they could reach.

“That’s how you’re teaching my kids to measure!” Dad replied laughing.

To this day, Dad still won’t let her forget the fact that she teaches her students to measure in arm lengths instead of feet, yards, inches, or meters.

The part that I still remember is at that very time on her billboard in her class was a picture of Jesus on the cross that said:  “I asked Jesus how much he loved me, and he said, ‘this much.’ And He stretched out his arms and died.”

All in all, not a bad way to measure after all.

I’ve embarked on a journey of a different sort.  With the gauntlet thrown down by one of my co-workers, I joined eight other people on a weight loss challenge.  Between May 15^th and August 31^st, the nine of us will try to lose as much weight as possible.  The entrance fee was $200.  If we all lose 10% of our body weight or more, 25% of those funds will go into a community pool to be used to celebrate our success.  The remainder will go to the person that loses the greatest percentage of their weight.  If everyone doesn’t achieve at least a 10% loss, the winner will take all.In the end, I don’t want to win.  I don’t want to beat the competition.  I want to crush them.

People have asked what is my strategy?  My strategy is to win.  My strategy is to use brute force when necessary.  My strategy is to use intelligent thought.  My strategy is to carefully think out the plan of attack.  My strategy is to use all available resources at my disposal.  My strategy is to not only come out of top, but to fight with growing strength, to fight with growing confidence, to fight with greater motivation, day in, day out.

But I also have to remember that the race is a marathon, not a sprint.  That there will be times of disappointment, of discouragement, of unintended consequences, of unwanted change and hurt as well.  But there is no reward without risk.  There is no prize without sweat.  There is no achievement without the pangs of loss.

The battle will be long and hard fought, and like many things in this life, in the end, it will only be against myself.

 JFK Airport was packed.  We struggled making it through security.  When we made it to the ticket counter, we weren’t assigned seats - “seat assigned at gate,” is all that the ticket told us.

Great.

Rushing to the gate, we found we were thirty and thirty-first on the list of standby passengers.  They were asking people to give up their seat to make the next flight out…tomorrow morning.  They were offering up cash incentives, hotel rooms, and food vouchers.  But looking at the line of people, it seemed like thirty people off one flight was a bit overwhelming.

We were stressed.

Finally, our names flashed on the screen overhead - we could come up and get our seat assignments.

Whew.

Not only did I get a seat assignment, I got my favorite seat, right next to the window.  This meant I could curl up and get a good three hours of sleep on the way home.

Walking to my seat, there was someone just settling down into the window seat.

“Excuse me ma’am, but you’re in my seat.” I said calmly.

“Nope, this is my seat.  My stuff is here.”  She said indignantly.

“I’m sorry, but that is seat ‘A’ not seat ‘C’ and my boarding pass says ‘A,’” I said.

“The stewardess said I could sit here.”  She replied.

A stewardess came back, “Ma’am, this is seat ‘C,’ ‘A’ is by the window.”

The woman pouted.

“You know what, this is fine.” I said.  Sitting down into the aisle seat - the three hours of sleep seemed so close, but the gentleman in me wouldn’t let me fight with a woman about an airplane seat.  Sitting in the aisle, with people walking by, stewardesses pushing carts, I knew that shut eye was going to be next to impossible.

“She never asked.”  The woman in the middle said, “You should have made her move.”

“If it is that important to her, I’m fine with her sitting there.” I said.

But I was mad.  I sat their simmering as the plane took off into the air and as I took my book out to read.

Soon the same stewardess that had came to resolve the dispute came by with the cart, handing out cookies and beverages.  Cracking jokes as she came down the aisle to people that really didn’t seem to care.

As she gave me my cookies and tomato juice and I said my please and thank you’s, she said, “You have such a nice smile!  Thanks for being so polite too!”

She stopped back a time or two and made small talk each time she passed.  Based in Idaho, they were on the second to the last leg of a three day stint.  She had a husband and two teenagers waiting for her at home.

As the flight was prepared for landing, she came up to me and said, “Thank you for making this flight so pleasant!  It has been a pleasure having you on board!”

For a flight that had started so poorly, so stressful, and putting me in such a foul mood, it turned out to be one of my best.  All because of the difference of one person.

What a way to go home.  What a thought to leave me with.

(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) 

Ever since we lift on vacation, my wife’s been reverting to her childhood. 

She has fond memories of childhood vacations with her parents as they scooted off to Florida and California and points in between.  On those long trips they apparently passed the time and miles by singing strange little songs and playing strange little games.

I’m unfamiliar with such travel pastimes.  My own childhood vacations were limited.  My father was a dairy farmer, so our travel destinations were seldom more than 100 miles distant.  We needed to be able to return in time for evening milking.

Still, I have good memories of those short trips.  And they taught me that you don’t have to travel far and wide to find interesting things to do.  But out family was never much for travel games.

Well. My wife is taking great glee in teaching me their traditional travel songs-great tunes like “Little Red Wagon” (Wheels are busted and the axel’s saggin’”), Up the River,” and “I’m a Beaver, You’re a Beaver.”

But her favorite travel game is “slug bug.”  I’m finding that it’s a primitive and obscenely violent game.  The object of the game is to watch for Volkswagen Beetles along the road.  The first person to spot a Volkswagen screams “SLUG BUG” and punches his or her travel companion.

Her enthusiasm for this game is becoming somewhat disturbing.  She knows of every driveway in Boone with a Volkswagen parked in it and she goes out of her way to drive past them. 

She also makes up rules as we go along.  “Slug Bug” she screams, as she adds another

Bruise on my arm.

“That wasn’t a slug bug,” I protest.

“But it looked kind of like a slug bug,” she said.  “So it counts anyway.”

I’ve been forced to begin playing the game with her just to defend myself.  And it’s already almost gotten me in trouble.  I caught a ride to work one day last week with a neighbor.  On the way we met an old Volkswagen.  My neighbor doesn’t know it, but I almost punched her.  I can’t imagine trying to explain that to her.

My wife and I are planning a trip to Des Moines later this week.  I can hardly wait.

The downpour on Friday evening flooded our street.  We watched pensively as the water inched up the tires on my pickup that was parked in the street.  Finally, when the waves were lapping at the bottom of the doors, we decided that we should go out and move it to higher ground.

I slipped off my shoes and socks and went wading.

A short time later, a car came barreling through the water. It only made it halfway before it stalled.  It was a nice car and we could see that the occupants didn’t want to open their doors and let the water come pouring in.

We were already wet, so we waded out and pushed them down the street to higher ground.

I haven’t been out frolicking in the rain for ages.  It was kinda nice.

 Riding on the subway from Battery Park back to Grand Central Station, the subway was packed.  In addition to several different festivals and gatherings, the Sunday had turned out to be cool, but very pleasant, so there were many families out enjoying the day.

I stood, to allow the families a place to sit.  At one of the stops, an elderly lady, two small boys, and a man about my own age got on and sat down directly in front of me.  The lady was obviously the mother to the man and the grandmother to the two small boys.  The man my age was belligerent towards his two small boys - may be four and six years old.

The grandmother was obviously distressed with her son, but she didn’t, probably couldn’t, stop the verbal abuse he was plying on his two sons.  It was quiet enough so that most people couldn’t hear it, but load enough so that myself and a few others standing around me could hear and understand it.

It was heart breaking.  The boys were just that, boys.  And their father was using curse word after curse word, and heaping on emotional abuse.

I wasn’t sure what to do, and so, did nothing.

I was still reflecting on this scene when we hopped the train from Grand Central to get to JFK Airport.  There, sitting across from us was another man about my own age (maybe a little older), this time with four boys with ages ranging from about four up to ten.

I cringed.

This time, there were only about eight of us in the car.  I saw visions of what I had just witnessed flash before me again.  Here was another man going to verbally abuse his children.  The children looked exhausted, and they sat silently.  The oldest the farthest away from the father, and their ages decending as they got closer to him.

It started off ominously.  The father sat eating candy out of a bag with one of his sons asking for a few pieces.  He rebuffed them.

“How cruel” I thought, “Here we go again, what do I do?”

I watched.

Soon it was clear, this situation was very different.  All of a sudden the father stopped eating and said to the son that was begging.  “If you would have saved some of your candy instead of eating it all right away, you could still be eating it.  Just because you have candy, doesn’t mean you have to eat it right away.”  Then he gave the last couple of pieces to his young son.

Upon closer inspection, his children were all carrying little bags from the Museum of Natural History.  They were all obviously very tired.

The second in line put his head on his older brother’s lap and shut his eyes.  The third in line put his head in the lap of his younger brother and shut his eyes.  Only to have his father gently poke him, “Hey, you’re the older brother, you need to take care of your little brother, why don’t you let him sleep on your lap instead of you in his?  You need to take care of him and you all need to take care of each other.”

As they hunkered down to rest, the father started quizzing his older son on the subway stops, “What is the next stop son?  Read off the signs to me.”

As his son tried to make out the complex names listed on the map, his father would gently correct him and help sound them each out.

As they got up at their stop, I looked at him and said, “You’ve got a pretty good bunch of kids there.”

What a difference two fathers make.  What a difference my viewpoint had when looking at each.  How much did I let my past experience, my bias, cloud my vision?

 We walked through lower Manhattan.  Through the old streets, the original streets, of New York, passing many of the historic sites along the way, Wall Street, Trinity Church, and the site of the house where both George Washington and the British called their headquarters during the Revolutionary War.

We were walking towards the hallowed ground of the September 11^th terrorist attack, the former site of the World Trade Center.  As we were crossing a square, about a block from the construction site where the new Freedom Tower is to rise in place of the two landmarks, there were two Good Humour ice cream trucks preparing for a day plying their wares to the tourists.

My first thought was, how tasteless.  They were going to hock ice cream bars and popsicles right next to the spot where thousands lost their lives in the worst attack on American soil.  Part of me said this was just the wrong place for vendors to be.

But life goes on.

As I reflected, I thought about the men and women who had died in that dastardly attack.  I think they would have approved.  Life goes on.  Normalcy must return.  We must never forgot those that lost their lives, but so too must we make sure that life continues, that we enjoy the simple things in life - a walk through the city, an ice cream bar every now and then.

If we don’t, that is when the terrorists truly win.

(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) 

Terry hopped a plane to Chicago and then another one to Washington to meet with Dick, the top guy at the Ag Department, and Ron, the top, top guy.  Terry told them it’s dry in Iowa.  Meanwhile Tom and Chuck were over on Capitol Hill, telling all of their cohorts that, yes, it’s dry in Iowa.  Most of the folks from the Midwest farm states joined the chorus.

“It’s dry in the Midwest farm states.” They said,

“We demand that something be done about this!” They exclaimed in outrage.  “Something must be done.”

Meanwhile, Bob Beangrower and Cal Cornfarmer over from Ogden shook their heads in disbelief.  Bob looked at the sky and said,” We sure could use some rain.”

“Yup,” agreed Cal.

At the state capital and in Washington, the Democrats and the Republicans stomped around in their polished shoes on polished floors.  The Republicans knew the Democrats weren’t at fault and the Democrats knew the Republicans weren’t to blame.

But there had to be somebody to blame.  “This can’t go on!” They cried.  “We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

So at the statehouses in Des Moines, St. Paul, Bismarck, and Helena and under the white dome in Washington, politicians gathered to do something about the “Great Drought of ‘88.”

Folks were gathering down at Faaborg’s Bakery in Madrid too.  “Sure could use a couple of inches,” said Cals cousin, Carl.

“Sure could,” agreed Bob’s brother, Buck.

At the statehouses and the national capital, politicians gathered for long hearings and debates on the “Great Drought of  ‘88.”  Night and day, they discussed what could be done.

“Let’s take a survey!” Called out someone from the back of the room.  “Yes, let’s,” agreed the politicians.  They shook hands on the idea in front of 12 television cameras.

Cal and his wife Connie saw the handshake on the 10 o’clock news.  “Sure wish they’d get done shakin’ hands.  I’d like to see the weather,” Cal said impatiently.

“Hope there’s some rain in the forecast,” piped up Connie.

The next day Cal and Connie, Bob and Barbara, Buck and Bonnie and Carl and Cathy received the USDA surveys in the mail.  “Check here,” the surveys said.  “if it’s dry in Iowa.”

They checked.

The politicians anxiously poured over the surveys when they came back in their self-addressed, postage-paid envelope.  From North Dakota, Missouri, Wisconsin, Montana, and Pilot Mound, the surveys poured in.

The concerned-looking politicians shook hands on TV and issued a report.  In 654 pages it said, “It sure is dry in the Midwest farm states.”

“We’re studying the drought situation to assess the extent of the damage and we’ll do everything we can as soon as further information becomes available,” the politicians said in prepared statements to newspapers, radio stations and TV cameras across the land.

More committees and task forces were formed.  More official statements were issued.  More official reports were published.

Bob, Buck, Carl and Cal changed the air filters on their tractors an extra time in June because it was so dusty.  “Never had to change air filters twice before in June,” noted Carl over coffee at the bakery. 

“Me neither,” noted Buck between bites of a jelly donut.

On Saturday, Cal and Connie, Bob and Barbara, Buck and Bonnie and Carl and Cathy all got together for a picnic.  “Sure is dry this year,” noted Cal.

” Sure is,” agreed Bob, Buck and Carl.

“A good rain would set us up right through….” Said Buck.

“The corn’s already set back, but my beans’ll be O.K. if it rains,” Carl pointed out.  Buck, Bob and Carl nodded in agreement.

Back in Washington the official “Task Force on the Great Drought of ‘88″ issued this statement:  “After much discussion, study and expense, the task force has reached a consensus that ‘this sure is a dry year.’  Although information is still inconclusive at this time, the task force said precipitation would probably provide assistance to those areas suffering most from inadequate moisture.  However, further discussion, study and expense must be spent to quantify this opinion.”

Meanwhile, at the picnic Bob asked,” What do you suppose the government’s gonna do about all this?” Asked Bob.

“Don’t know,” replied Carl with a wry grin, “But I sure wish they could make it rain.”

 It was a small berth that our ferry pulled into at Ellis Island.  A small berth with a powerful history.  At this same berth over a span of fifty years, millions of people had pulled in as well.  Had walked down gang planks with nothing but a few belongings and pangs of anxiety about the loved ones they had left behind, and probably some real fear about what lay ahead.  People that had nothing.  These were the people that Emma Lazarus had been referring too when she had written her sonnet in honor of the Statue of Liberty: “Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!…Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

While my family came in through Baltimore Harbor, and not New York, I wondered if the experience was really all that different.  They too would have been poor, not knowing the language, not knowing the customs, not knowing what lay ahead of them.

Walking through the exhibits, I saw faces of the immigrants that came through.  Saw the tests and the bureaucracy that they had to face.  As much as we say we are a country with open doors, it was hard for people to get here, and getting here didn’t - and doesn’t - guarantee that they get to stay.  How fearful was my Great Grandparents that they and their brood of five children might have been the 1% that were sent back?  How scary would it have been for my grandmother, less then one year old at the time, to experience that hustle and bustle of immigration?  Was it terrifying for my great uncle Charlie, only about four, to see and experience.  Was it exciting?  Thrilling?  Happy?  Or was it just hopeful for a better life in front of them?

Walking from exhibit to exhibit, room to room, seeing what those people, our not so distant anscentors would have seen and experienced.  It brought a great deal of humility to me.  The freedoms, the liberties, the opportunities that we have today came from the courage of those that set forth from their homes and braved the unknown.  It came from them stretching forth and trying to make it new life.

It was overwhelming.

Staring into the picture of a refugee from Bohemia, the same area that my family had left, seeing the signs of poverty, seeing the signs of neglect, seeing the signs of weariness, but also seeing the steely resolve in the eyes - the eyes had hope.

It struck me then, that we too must earn this.  As they had the courage to change their lives to make them better for themselves and their posterity, so we have that same challenge.  We too must venture forth and try to build better lives, we too must have hope in better days.  We too must push ahead for justice, freedom and liberty in our time, in lives, in our country.

It made me proud of my family.  It made me proud of America.