What was I doing?  I should be home milking cows, checking fence, getting ready to make hay.  It was prime June weather in Northwestern Minnesota.  The forecast was near perfect.  And here I was surrounded by people I didn’t know, traveling to a part of the state that seemed as foreign as Iowa.  For a well read, little traveled country boy, going to St. Olaf College in Northfield, Minnesota was no intimidating, it was scary.

But I was on that bus, heading towards American Legion’s Boy State, held every year at St. Olaf College.  It was an honor to be selected to represent my home town.  I enjoyed politics, I enjoyed current events, I enjoyed learning about and being involved in leadership activities.  In short, this seemed right up my alley…except for the fear factor.

Though I shouldn’t have been worried, everyone was almost in the same boat.  No one knew anyone and everyone was excited to meet others from other parts of the state.  Upon arrival on Sunday, they divided us up into “cities” - each floor of a dorm represented a different city.  Each city was to pick mayors and council men.  Each city would select Senators and Congressmen.  Together, we would elect a governor.  In addition, each city had to form teams, a softball team, a basketball team, a volley ball team, and two representatives for the Boys State newspaper.

Not much of an athlete, but not ready to sit behind a desk in nice weather, onto the volleyball team I went, where luckily, there was a whole team of us more interested in having fun then winning games or showing feats of athletic prowess.  It was going to be fun.

Monday was our first day to take the court.  Located in a bowl in the sports complex, they were simple dirt and grass courts.  Nothing fancy, but it got the job done.  It took some getting used to everyone on the court, but we did well - we won two out of three.

Monday night, we got an inch of rain.

We were back on the court Tuesday afternoon, the court a little soft from the rain the night before, but still firm enough.  Though we weren’t.  We went down two out of three.

Tuesday night, we got three inches of rain.

Wednesday, the courts were downright squishy.  Bits of mud and grass were getting stuck between our toes.  It was slippery too.  We won two out of three.

Wednesday night, a line of thunderstorms dumped four inches of rain.

The courts were now vast mud pits.  Three feet deep in some spots.  Wet mushy mud made with some of the finest black dirt in Minnesota and churned up by the teams that had played before us.  We were playing like animals.  Diving for balls and splattering our team mates in the process to great cheers.  Throwing mud at players that made particularly good plays to celebrate.  Throwing mud at players that made bad plays in sympathy and support.  Throwing mud at players that made mediocre plays for the sake of throwing mud.  The opposing team was aghast.  We won two games to none.  We celebrated with belly flops.  They looked on in disgust.

That night were the playoffs, and I’m afraid, we didn’t far too well.  They moved the courts in doors, apparently, people were complaining about the shape of the courts (to which I swear I heard one old Legionnaire camp counselor retort something about the complainers being, well a combination of a specific flowers and derrières).  Our team didn’t do well on an indoor court.  We lost in the first round.  But for sheer fun loving giddiness of the mud, our team definitely came in first.

Coming back home, I had to report to the American Legion and the American Legion Auxilliary on what we learned and our experience.  On telling the story of my athletic endeavors, I did have to point out, our volleyball team threw so much mud, it proved my entire volleyball team was qualified to be governor.

 Taking the subway from Grand Central Terminal down to Battery Park, at the very tip of Manhattan, we couldn’t tell how truly bad the weather was.  Coming out of the subway and into the park, the cold mist hit us about the same time that the wind did.  It was not a nice day.

Walking across the park, one of the first landmarks is the treaty sight - a monument recognizing the spot where the Dutch bought the island from the natives.  It contrasts sharply with the surroundings today - a small monument marking that spot in the wilderness where a simple transaction had taken place four hundred years ago - now one of the largest, most compact cities in the world.  Irony was as think as the mist.

The next sight made me shake my head a little.  A battered chunk of twisted metal - “darn modern art.” I thought.  Getting closer, you realized it was modern art, but not as expected.  It was the statue that at one point stood outside of the World Trade Center.  It was battered and twisted by the fall.  A small flame burned it front of it, remember those that had lost their lives.  The rain seemed to fall a little faster.

We made our way to Fort Clinton, the very tip of the island, and one of the points of oldest defense.  The fort was once the bastion on the lower end of the island.  Today, it is the welcome center for Liberty and Ellis Island.  From the fort, from the park, we could look out across the waves and see her, standing tall in the harbor.  Welcoming.

She was impressive.

Buying our tickets about fifteen minutes before the first boat was to depart for Liberty and Ellis, we made our way through the two security check points and ran towards the ferry.  One employee yelling, “Come on, Come on” while another one told us, “Be Careful!  Be Careful!”  I guess they got themselves covered on both scheduling and safety.

As the ferry boat pulled away, we were one of many on the boat, stuck in the middle of the lower level, we couldn’t see out the windows very well.  Every once in a while, we would catch a glimpse of her, our lady.

Once we docked at Liberty Island, exiting the boat to slightly clearing skies…there she was, our lady liberty, the Statue of Liberty.  It was breath taking.  Standing their on her pedestal, her arm lifted high.

She was very impressive.

We made our way to the visitor center, and yet another strict round of security, and eventually, made it inside of her and in the museum, to see the story and the history of how she came to be, from her original design as a lighthouse in Egypt to a gift to America from France.  And how she almost didn’t get to be - with financial and political problems.  Perhaps most importantly, how she has come to stand for all that is good and right with America, despite all our flaws.

We made our way up to the pedestal and looked out at the harbor: Manhattan, New Jersey, Brooklyn, Staten Island, the ships and the industry, the homes, and apartments, the open water.  It was beautiful.

Walking back down the base, we stood at her feet.  Looking up, she was breath taking.

But in a larger sense, the Statue of Liberty pales in comparison to the ideal of Liberty.  She stands as a reminder, with her lamp held high, her book with July 4^th, 1776 emblazened on it, and her iron shackles busted around her feet.  But the idea, the concept, the truth of liberty - of freedom, far outshadows that dear lady.  It is the rights, it is the responsibility, it is the thing that those men in 1776 died trying to defend and create here in New York at the start of the American Revolution.  It is the thing that thousands died trying to protect during the Civil War when New York was called upon for thousands upon thousands of volunteers.  It was that concept, not the statue, that caused millions of people to leave their homes, their families, get on ships - thousands of ships, and leave all that they know to come here, to this land, to build a better life in a free country - blessed with Liberty.

She is breathtaking…the thought of Liberty, that is truly humbling.

 Directly across from St. Patrick’s Cathedral is the most famous Art Deco building, or rather, building complex, in America, the famous Rockefeller Center.

Build during the height of the Great Depression and the brain child of the son of the richest man in the world, John D. Rockefeller; it was a much needed boost for the city and country at one of its darkest hours.

At it still stands as a symbol of New York.

Every child has seen the famous Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree, every child has seen the ice skaters in the plaza, every adult knows of the beauty of the plaza.

The amazing thing is, in contrast to St. Patrick’s Cathedral, the Rockefeller Plaza is, well, underwhelming.  It doesn’t match the views on television.  It is small.  Beautiful, but small.

No wonder that Christmas tree always looks so big.

Don’t get me wrong, the complex is massive, and it is beautiful.  The beautiful gilded murals a top the doors, the statuary and details - all strike the imagination, all have a touch of nostalgia.  The murals above the doors facing 5^th Avenue - the tribute to the worker and farmer (almost Soviet in their imagery), the giant (and well known) statue of Atlas holding up the world and in all appearances struggling, as I’m sure during the Great Depression, it seemed like he was.  The trim lines and linear nature of the buildings themselves, massive, yet a simple beauty.  The ice rink, as I’ve already said is small, but it to has beauty.  Walking in from 5^th Avenue, framed by the first two massive buildings fronting the complex, guiding you in like sides of the runway, you are met by the famous statue that sites in front of the main building, and your path has fountains and statues running through the middle.  As you approach, the plaza opens, and the ice rink comes into view, sitting a floor below the plaza proper.  Here too are crisp lines - perfectly rectangular, surrounded by shrubs and flowers, surrounded by the flag of most nations of the world, the ice rink seemingly set comfortably below,

This was not my first time to Rockefeller Center; it was actually my third in my life.  Perhaps the most impressive thing to me of the complex, are the words of John D. Rockefeller, on a plaque in the plaza, overlooking the ice skating rink below:

“I believe in the supreme worth of the individual and in his right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. I believe that every right implies a responsibility, every opportunity, an obligation; every possession a duty.

I believe that the law was made for man and not man for the law; that government is the servant of the people and not their master.

I believe in the dignity of labor, whether with head or hand; that he world owes no man a living but it owes every man an opportunity to make a living.

I believe that thrift is essential to well-ordered living and that economy is a prime request of a sound financial structure, whether in government, business or personal affairs.

I believe in the sacredness of a promise, that a man’s word should be as good as his bond; that character-not wealth or power or position- is of supreme worth.

I believe that the rendering of useful service is the common duty of mankind and that only in the purifying fire of sacrifice is the dross (waste matter) of selfishness consumed and the greatness of the human soul set free.

I believe in all-wise-and all-loving God, named by whatever name, and that the individual’s highest fulfillment, greatest happiness, and widest usefulness are to be found in living in harmony with His will.

I believe that love is the greatest thing in the world; that it alone can overcome hate; that right can and will triumph over might.”

                                                                         - John D. Rockefeller, Jr.

 Waking early Sunday morning, earlier then I should have given our stay at the Irish Pub the night before; I showered and dressed in the predawn darkness, trying not to wake my friend on the cot, trying to slumber off the previous evening’s pints.

Quietly opening and closing the door behind me, I hit the streets about 6:30am to a grey, New York morning.  In contrast to the normal circus that seems to be taking place at all hours, Sunday mornings in New York are solitary affairs.  There is the odd young drunk, trying to make it back to their hotel room and a few early morning joggers, but otherwise, the streets are relatively deserted.  You get a different perspective looking at the slumbering city, like watching a normally active baby sleeping.  There is peace and calm, you can smell the ocean air; you can see the beauty of the buildings rising up to the heavens.

Moving through the deserted streets - walking through don’t walk signs and all, I made it to St. Patrick’s Cathedral with ten minutes to spare before the 7:00 am Mass.

Every time I’ve been in St. Patrick’s Cathedral, it has been awash in tourists, clicking their cameras or tourist groups jostling for position closer to the shouting tour guide.  On a Sunday morning, it too takes on a peaceful air, it is seen as it is meant to be seen, as a place of worship and contemplation, as a center of calm in a stormy world.

There weren’t many of us there for the early service, and many would have judged the service stark compared to the beauty of the building.  There were no choirs, or choruses, there were no shouting hosannas, or retinue of alter boys, it was the priest and the thirty or forty of us in the congregation.

Yet there was beauty in the simplicity surrounded by the sublime.  It allowed one to appreciate not only the grandness of the building, but the details as well.  The lines of the structure, the intricacies of the details, all pointing to the alter, all leading to the tabernacle.  It is the true epitome of a building built to receive people and make them look up to the heavens.  Like the Mass itself, as simple or as grand as the Mass is, it too always leads to the tabernacle. 

The building is truly magnificent, but pales compared to the simple service held there on a grey spring morning, in a slumbering city.

The last ten years, I’ve grown a great fondness for Ireland.  Part of it is that I’ve great friends that are Irish, part of it is it is such a warm and inviting culture, part of it is the beer.

Visiting New York City, you realize that this has been one of America’s greatest port cities for well over two hundred years, and as such, was also the gateway into our country for millions of immigrants, with the Irish being one of the largest and most storied.

Walking the streets of New York City, that culture is still alive and well.  It seems throughout Manhattan, there are a large number of Irish bars that seem to be always open, and always welcoming.  About 121 (yes one hundred twenty-one) Irish bars located on the island of Manhattan (the amber Isle?) serving up hearty Irish food and good stout.

We visited a few…from what I can remember…though only two really stick to my memory.

Late Saturday night, we arrived at a little bar tucked into the middle of a block, all wood paneling, a big classic, carved back bar with big bar mirror, and some great pints on tap.

The last was Sunday, as we were making our way out of town.  We stopped at Annie Moore’s, named after the very first immigrant to pass through the doors of the brand new Ellis Island immigration facility.  They served a mean fresh mozzarella and fish and chips - and as always - My goodness - a very refreshing Guinness.

 As a simple country boy, used to the sights and sounds of the rising sun over the fields and the sounds of crickets chirping the welcome of the dawn, the hustle and bustle of Times Square can be down right intimidating.

Car horns, shouting people, street corner bands and performers, huckersters pawning twenty dollar Rolex’s, police and fire sirens all seek to compete for attention from the passer-byes.  The sight of a teeming, churning mass of humanity pitching to and fro like waves of the ocean stretch forward, hemmed in by the tall buildings covered in flashing neon signs, huge billboards, shining store fronts overwhelm the eyes.

Then there is the feel of Times Square, actually being a part of that teeming mass of bodies.  It is a hot sticky feeling, not for the claustrophobic.  People stepping on your feet.  People darting in front of you.  People running.  People walking.  People jostling.  In all of the crowds I’ve been in, in all of the countries, never have I had an accidental cigarette burn from someone passing by - but it happened right outside of Times Square by a lady that really didn’t seem to give a damn at the people passing by as she sashayed forth for an evening on the town in all of her finery.

It was truly overwhelming.

But also something so reassuring about it too.  This was New York.  This was the hustle and the bustle that people come to see.  This was the vibrancy of the capital of the world, the mass of people representing almost every country, every continent, every ethic group being jumbled and garbled here in the center of the city.  It was very human.

Luckily, we spotted our intended destination right off of Times Square, the new Famous Dave’s resturaunt.  Grabbing a seat in one of the open doors/windows leading back into the maelstrom, we ordered a pint and seemingly literally watched the world go by.  With pint in hand, we watched the multitudes pass by, taking it all in, one sip at a time.

 The Chrysler pulled up on the road with Mom at the helm.  I was walking the fence line across the ditch from the road, checking for a short in the line and trying to figure out where that one heifer was getting out every day, seemingly miraculously, from out of the electrical fenced pasture.

“Come on, your Dad found a deer in the hay field!” Mom yelled the window at me and turning back to the farm, I could see the pick up turning out of the driveway too, Dad only recently coming in from finishing cutting the forty acres of alfalfa about a mile down the road.

Crawling under the electric fence and threw the ditch, I trotted towards to the idling car as Dad drove by in the old Ford.  Mom followed in hot pursuit with me riding shotgun and Margaret in the back.  It was the summer between my freshman and sophomore year of school and the first cutting of alfalfa in early June.

Driving out into the freshly cut hay field, we noticed one little tuft of hay sticking up, obviously missed by Dad - something rarely done.  As Mom parked the car beside the pick-up, Dad was already out and leaning on the box.

“I’m lucky I didn’t hit it!  I saw the doe pop up, and she hung around a while until I got close, then she just ran towards the tree line down in the ditch.  You can still see her watching us down there,” he said, pointing towards the distant tree line.

Proudly, Dad lead us over to the tuft of alfalfa and there, lying in the grass, was a new born fawn, obviously a little scared, but otherwise, seemingly none the worse for wear.

“I almost got it!  I didn’t see the little thing until I was darn near on top of it, had to swerve a little and lift her up just as I got up on her.  It could have been ugly…”  Dad exclaimed excitedly, his voice trailing off at the end as we all imagined the horrible picture of the little fawn hitting the cutter bar of the hay bind, then the big metal reels, and finally the rubber rollers that crimped the hay and aided in the drying process.

It never would have made it.

We watched the little fawn for while, marveling at this miracle of nature.  Then Mom pulled out the camera.

“Careful and don’t touch it, we want the doe to take it back and she might not if she smells human scent.” Dad warned.

Mom captured several pictures of the fawn, huddling in the hay, then of Margaret, then me, posing carefully behind.

Realizing the danger this fawn might be in, I quizzed my folks a little, “We need to rake and bale in the next two or three days, what do we do if the doe doesn’t move it?  What do we do if she won’t take it back?”

“We just have to trust that she does,” Mom replied, with the wisdom of a mother, looking off at the doe in the tree line of the ditch, still watching us intently.

Sure enough, Mom was right.  The next day when I went out to rake hay, that tuft of hay was empty, the fawn and doe no where to be seen, probably moving to the safety of the river bottom a mile away, or perhaps as close as the barley field right next to us.  Like so much in this world, residing so close, and yet unseen.

 The Mighty Minnesota Twins are my team.  Born and raised on the farm, we finished milking cows in the summer time to Herb Carneal calling the Twins games on the radio.  The Twins were our excuse for going to New York.  They were playing the evil and hated New York Yankees.  The big budget team that had the money, the clout, and fans that made them the seemingly best loved ball club in New York…but perhaps one of the hated the rest of the country.

The new Yankee Stadium was impressive, but so was the game.  Just like they tried to maintain the traditions, the look, the feel, the intimacy of the old Yankee stadium, so it was clear that the fans were determined to bring the age old customs with them into the new stadium.

As the Yankee’s took the field and the Twins came up to bat, the role call started.  One by one the fans called each players name on the field, not stopping until that player acknowledged the fans in the outfield - the cheap seat fans - the base.  Each in turn turned and doffed a hat, gave a wave, or merely waved a finger, it the end, it was enough…though the fans were more excited by the bigger acknowledgements from the players, they were satisfied when it was done.

One of the things that I feared was the reception that fans from Minnesota would face in this center of Yankee kingdom.  I should not have been concerned.  There was a little banter, but more good baseball discuss, more stadium discussion, more helpful advice about where to get cheap beer and where to go when the game was done.

The Twin’s players didn’t fair as well.

They were constantly tormented with cat calls, whoops, and whistles.  Each error, each weakness was exposed.  Mistakes from games past came back to haunt them as the fans remembered the Yankee win from the night before.

There were characters everywhere.  From camera man sitting in front of us decked out in New York Giant’s gear, (”I come here because they pay me too”), to the aged hot dog vendor (”There are too many seats in this new place - I’m either going to be in the Tour de France or the Hospital by the end of the season.”)

From our seats in right field, we also had a clear view - and perfect audio - of the grandstand, ie, the cheap seats, in center field.  Some of the funniest calls came from that direction.  Some of the most rambunctious behavior.  At one point in late in the game, our attention turned from the game to the sound of the chant, “Let him stay!”  Turning our eyes to the cheap seats, we saw a string of security and police officers making their way to some unruly fans near the front.  Soon, the entire stadium was chanting, “Let them stay!”  Either in deference to the crowd (or fearing a riot), no one was escorted out of the stadium that day.

The game, that fans, the stadium were all marked with a bit of New York pizzazz.  From the guy cutting steaks next to the food stand in the concourse behind home plate to the massive screens in the outfield - to the rumble of the passing subways - this was what I imagined a Yankee’s game and Yankee’s stadium to be like - except the fans were nicer.

It was near perfect experience.

It only would have been better if my Twins would have won.

But my Twins held off the Yankee’s until the 11^th inning that warm Saturday.  As we began to exit the stadium into the street and eventually the subway beyond, the entire stadium was pumped full of the sound of Frank Sinatra singing, “New York, New York.”

It was classic.

Don’t call me a Yankee’s fan yet…but they are no longer my most hated team in sports, or even baseball for that matter.  Start spreading that news.

 When the subway doors opened at the stop outside of Yankee stadium, the smell of hotdogs drifting through the humid spring air hit our nostrils before we could see or hear anything among the jostle of people waiting to exit and spend a splendid day at the new Yankee Stadium.

As we exited the car among the throng, the sight that met our eyes was like a scene out of Americana, the subway, really not a subway at this point of the Bronx since it is elevated over the streets exited down to storefronts and pubs with throngs of people cheering for their beloved Yankees.  Hardly a car to be seen, the sight liked like it could have been lifted out of the late 1800’s or the beginning of the last century, with the sights, sounds, and smells all jumbled together - people hocking their wares, the smell of hotdogs, roasted peanuts, and stale beer, and the looming sight of the Yankee Stadiums…old and new looming only a block away under the clinking and clanging of the subway system.

We made it down the steps and onto the street, my farm boy eyes as wide as saucers taking in the mass of humanity seeming to be living modern history.  A Minnesotan by birth, and certainly no fan of the dreaded New York Yankees, part of me felt the history, but of me felt the discomfort of being the stranger in a hostile land.

Proceeding directly to the stadium to try and get seats in the new and improved Yankee Stadium, we didn’t wait in line long before we had our tickets in hand - and a significant amount of cash left behind at the counter.  We were a bit concerned as our tickets clearly said, “Obstructed View…”  We worried what we were in for.

The new Yankee Stadium was said to have cost $1.5 billion.  It is clear, they tried to leave nothing out.  Huge colonnades, intricate stone work, detail and tradition dripping from each wall and each corner - it was the modern day equivalent of the traditional house that Ruth built.

All along the concourse were tips of the hat to Yankee teams of the past - like walking back in time, decade by decade, to see the storied figures that have worn the pinstripes.  Grabbing a Yankee’s hat - we were their to cheer on our beloved Minnesota Twins, but a free hat is still a free hat - a program from their inaugural season in the new stadium, and an ice cold ten dollar Coors light, we made our way to our seats.

Quickly, we found that our “obstructed view” seats were in the third row, two rows up from a camera man that was definitely not in our line of sight.  This was going to be a good game.

Before the game started, we drank in the sights of the field.  There seemed not to be a detail neglected.  Lattice work all along the top, dazzling white paint, the outfield cheap seats, the grandness of the stadium mixed with the closeness that it seemed every seat had to the field.

The day was hot and humid, but the cool breezes off the Atlantic somehow managed to make their way through the stadium and the maze of buildings outside to find us there in the right field seats.

As the anthem was played and the players were introduced, we exchanged greetings with the Yankee fans around us, explaining we were Twins fans and they welcomed us kindly.  As the sun shone down on us, we pulled on our Yankee hats to keep the sun out of eyes, sipped on the ten dollar beers, and realized that for the Yankee’s, the $1.5 billion might have been money well spent as the rattle of a passing subway sounded behind us.

(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) 

You’re going where?  Fargo?  The one in North Dakota?

Ha!  Ha!  Ha!  Ha!

And so it goes.  A mere three years ago I graduated from North Dakota State University in Fargo.  As a result, my wife and I know a large number of people there.  So, about twice each year we pack up the car and head to Fargo for a visit.

We did just that last weekend.  We took in commencement exercises at NDSU and had a grand time.  But as usual, our Iowa acquaintances had a hard time understanding why we would ever want to go to Fargo.

“They still have snow up there, don’t they?” Asked one.  “They don’t have any trees there, do they?” Chimed in another.

After listening to comments like that for the past three years, i’ve developed what I call the Iowan’s definition of North Dakota.  Here it is:

“North Dakota is bounded on the east by the forests and lakes of Minnesota, which come to an abrupt halt at the border.  From there, the bleak nothingness of North Dakota stretches 800 miles west to the Rocky Mountains, where Montana begins.  North Dakota has no redeeming social values, unlike Canada to the north, which has Mounties and South Dakota to the south, which has Mount Rushmore.  A couple of hundred people live there, I guess, but I don’t know why.”

Stop and think about what you’d say about North Dakota if you were asked.  I’ve hit the nail on the head, haven’t I?  You don’t know much about North Dakota, do you?  You only know what the weather-man tells you about wind chills and snowfall amounts.  And that can be summed up in two words-cold and deep.

But before you begin feeling too guilty for having failed your North Dakota geography exam, let me console you.  If there’s anything more pitiful than an Iowan telling all that he knows about North Dakota, it’s a North Dakotan telling all he knows about Iowa.

“Iowa is bounded on the north by the lakes and trees of Minnesota, which just stops at the border.  From there, the cornfields and hog lots of Iowa stretch south for a couple of hundred miles.  When you run out of cornfields and hog lots, you’ve run out of Iowa and you are in Missouri.  A few hundred people live there- I guess somebody has to take care of the hogs.”

If you don’t think people think those kinds of things about Iowa, think again.  Let me give you an idea of how a few of our conversations went in Fargo.

Where do you live?  Boone?  Where’s that?  Iowa?  You live in Iowaaaay now?  Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!