It sat in the back of our attic, a musty old picture that would loom out at us from the back corner of the area under the eaves where we would store Christmas decorations and the odd nick-knacks and brick-brack of our family.  The gilded frame and the dusty, faded print showed traces of what looked to be a once rich and regal portrait.

I will admit that through most of my young life, I envisioned it to be a picture of “Christ the King,” – some picture picked up along the years by my bachelor great uncle or some other family member.

Cleaning out the attic several years ago, the picture and frame saw the light of day for the first time in as long as I could remember.  The dust and grim of time and age hid from view the picture that lay underneath.  Over all of those years, I imagined that the lack of vision was caused by the darkness of the attic, when in reality it was the darkness and grim of time.

My brother grabbed the picture, took a glance at the state of disrepair, and threw it on the pile that was destined for the garbage heap.

“You are going to throw that are you?”  I asked incredulously.

“Its all beat up and you can’t even tell what it is.”  My brother replied.

“You could cut out the picture and keep the frame.”  My sister-in-law intoned.

I will admit I was aghast.  While my packrat nature may not match the skills of my father (who lived through the great depression), I do have a great love and appreciate for history – which also extends to family history.

Picking the picture out of the trash, I carefully laid it aside with my things and went back to work cleaning and sorting.

Part of my love of history extends to my family.  My father’s side of the family is very proudly Bohemians.  Now the largest area of the Czech Republic, Bohemia was a center of culture for centuries, both as a stand alone kingdom and later as a dukedom in several empires.  Rarely did my family discuss the history of their native land and most of the stories revolved around the family lore – the hail storm that was the straw that broke my great-grandfather’s back and pushed him to move to America.  The arduous journey by steam ship.  The trials and tribulations of settling in a harsh land.

But there were some hints of the ties to the new land.

Complaining about something to my grandmother in my youth, I remember her saying, “pray to the Infant.” What did she mean?  There is a famous statue in Prague of the Infant Jesus which has miracles attributed to it…and is said to protect the Czechs in their hour of need.

While singing the words to the famed English Christmas Carol called, “Good King Wenceslaus” my grandmother stopped me and asked me if I realized I was singing about not just any king, but the most famous king in all of Bohemian history.  A great leader, pious yet wise, caring yet regal.  A great roll model for any youth, but especially one that had 50% Bohemian blood coursing through their veins.

A close examination of the picture later in the day, once the dust of cleaning had settled, the dust and grim was slowly wiped away with the aid of an old sock/rag.  It was a king, the crown upon his head proved that.  He was a warrior – the sword showed that.  But the angel that accompanied him carried a martyrs’ crown.  In small letters, under the painting gave the name, King Vaclav….which to our English tongue translates, “Wenceslaus.”

On the back was cardboard, seemingly from a shipping package that had the year emblazoned on it, “1907″

My family thought enough of this King/Saint – a wise ruler, filled with charity and concern for others that they had a picture sent over (or as a gift) to remember.

Can I do any less?

Each year, on the Feast of King Wenceslaus, September 28^th, I raise a glass, eat a koblahey or two, and toast the saintly king, “Na Zdraví!”

(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) 

They’ve stolen the magic from our movies.

Movies used to be wonderful for helping you forget your worries and troubles.  Cowboys and Indians, detectives, bad guys, armored knights and damsels in distress, gangsters and G-men all worked together to take your mind off your cares.

Two hours in a soft seat in a dark theater staring at heroes on the silver screen did wonders for your outlook on life.

Some social commentators say the movie is dead.  Most movie critics seem to think so.  When the last time you read a review and the critic really liked a movie?  And if the critic liked it, did you like it too?  Usually a movie is too violent, contrived, boring or expensive for most critics.  If that’s not the case, then bad acting, a bad plot, bad timing, bad writing or bad production values spoiled the film.  And if the critics likes it, you probably thought the movie was too boring, too intellectual or depressing for Friday night escapism.

Some of what they say is true.  Too much sex, too much violence, too much bad acting and a lack of well-written, well directed films has taken its toll.   But the motion picture industry’s woes go beyond those concerns.  The biggest contributor to the motion picture industry’s decline is the impact of a movie on your pocketbook.

I almost always enjoy movies more when I see them at reduced price at the Boone Theater.  Travel to Ames or Des Moines and you’ll pay $5 or more per ticket to see a movie.  How can you enjoy a movie if you spend the whole time wondering if you’re getting your money’s worth?  The trauma is even worse if you take your significant other of your family.  Heaven help you if you invest in soft drinks and popcorn.

Critics and social experts say cable television and video tape rentals have stolen the mass market audience from the motion picture industry.

It’s no wonder.  If you wait six months or a year, you can rent the movie for $2, make your own popcorn, stop the tape for potty breaks and replay your favorite parts.  Wait a few months and you can probably see the film on network or cable television for free.

Film purists complain that great movies lose much of their artistry and power when shown on a television screen.  They say interrupting the action for a commercial or a trip to the refrigerator disrupts the movie’s flow and detracts from the “theatrical” experience.

If movies are too expensive to see in the theater and lose their drama and power on a television, what’s the alternative?   Until movie prices come down, where can you go to find a good plot, intriguing characters, fast action, comedy and romance at an affordable price?

I know the best bargain in town.  Last time I checked, library cards and imagination are still free.

(Tom Jirik wrote columns in several newspapers in Iowa from the late 1980’s to the mid 1990’s.  This column originally appeared in the The Boone Today) 

I hefted the watermelon in my hands and then glanced over the railing at the concrete floor three stories down.  I hefted the watermelon again.  I couldn’t keep from grinning.

It was 6:30 p.m.. I had just returned from a trip to one of Iowa State University’s field stations.  The manager there sent a watermelon back with each of us as a souvenir of our trip.  I was on my way back to my office on the third floor of Curtiss Hall.

Curtiss Hall was built in the grand old tradition of public buildings. It has high ceilings, impressive stonework, giant pillars out front and a four story circular atrium at the building’s center.  The atrium is surrounded by a railing on each floor and capped by a domed skylight.

Since moving into my office on the third floor last fall, i’ve been fascinated by the atrium.  I occasionally stop along the railing to watch the comings and goings of students and faculty on three different floors.  I’ve thought abut dumping a little water on them from my cup three floors up, but never had the nerve to do it.  I once discreetly dropped a penny over the rail to watch it fall.

A mature, responsible staff member would never, ever even think about dropping a watermelon down through the atrium.  But suddenly I was obsessed with the idea.  In my mind’s eye I could see the green orb plunging ever faster until it exploded in a wet impact with the floor far below.  Green and red watermelon fragments would fly everywhere.  It would be like a watermelon bomb.

As I pondered that thought, I knew that the chances of me getting caught were slim.  The building was practically empty and I could easily duck into my office to hide out for a while after the dirty deed was done.  I knew it would be crazy, irresponsible stunt, more likely to be perpetrated by college students letting off steam than by a married, mature staff member.  But still….

I hefted the watermelon again.  It was a nice round one, small by watermelon standards, weighing about 12 pounds or so.  But it was about perfect for the job at hand.

Did I hurl it over the edge?  Did I toss the watermelon in a symbolic gesture against the continuing onslaught of maturity and adulthood?

No. I wimped out.

I’ll probably always wonder shat that melon would have looked like as it smashed into the floor.  I’ll probably always wonder if I could have done it without getting caught.  Sigh.

Maturity is safe, but oh, so boring.

 September, especially the end of September, was that strange transition period.  As early as Labor Day, you could feel fall coming on, the turning of the leaves, the smell of the earth in the air, the dust of wheat and barley harvest still turning the setting sun a bright red in the western sky.

It was always sad to see summer go – and those September days in the 80′s or 90′s would give you one last flirt with the warmth of sun…

But waking up in the blackness of early morning, you could already feel the coolness of fall in the air of the house.

Meandering into the brightness of the kitchen, we would mumble a greeting to Dad as he drank his coffee in the pre-dawn darkness. It was hard to believe that only two months earlier, the sun would already be chasing the eastern skyline at five thirty in the morning.  We would stumble into the entry where we would don our boots and rubber and overshoes. 

Walking out the door, the smell and feel of autumn would hit us.  The crunch of the leaves, the smell of decay wafting from the dying leaves, the tilled soil, the dead grass, the drying corn in the field, the cool moisture from the slough next to the house, would combine to form the scent that was fall on the northern prairies.

My brothers and I would quickly…but groggily head to the barn.

Opening the big barn door that opened to the pasture out west, we would peer out to see if we could make out the cows over dark horizon.  The lights from the barn would shoot out rays into the darkness, illuminating the pasture for one hundred yards.  To the north it would light up the dead elm trees on the western edge of the grove.  To the west it would shoot out over the ditch and into the field on the other side.  To the south, it would hit the pole barn in the feed yard, over the manure pile, and into the feeding area for the cows.

If there was no sign of them, we would take the chance and guess that they were far out in the big pasture, beyond the light of the barn, beyond Uncle Hank’s woods, into the swampy, unbroken land that was the summer pasture for the cows.

We would let out a long, low, loud call:

 ”Coooommmmmmeeee Boooooooosssssss!”

“Cooooooooooommmmmmmmmmeeeeeeee Booooooooossssssssssssssssssss!”

“Coooooooooooooooooommmmmmmmmmeeeeeeeeeeeeeee Booooooooossssssssssss!”

Then we would proceed to feeding cows – putting a third of a five gallon bucket of grain and feed mixture in the cement stalls in front of each stanchion.  Checking each drinking cup in the barn to make sure the cows had good fresh water.  Getting the milking equipment ready for action.

Most times, about the time we were finishing up with preparations (sometimes sooner – which threw us into a panic…sometimes later which would necessitate a search party sent out looking for the bovines) the cows would cross into the light of the barn, single file, looking for their breakfast, looking for relief via milking.

From the darkness of the pasture, even the cows seemed to carry with them the smell of the fall into the light of the barn.

I was never a football player.  Part of it was I had a broken arm when starting seventh grade, the first formative years of organized football.  Part of it was that one of my older brother’s played football, and there was an unwritten, and unspoken, rule on the farm – though shall not have all of the boys gone for chores.  Part of it, and perhaps the biggest drive, was that I just didn’t have that much interest.  Being a bit of a loner, track and field were more my style.But football was still a dominate force in my hometown.  Even for those of us who didn’t play football, Friday nights were the social center of our world.

For those of us that had to milk cows before going to the game, the experience was a bit abbreviated.  We would get there just in time (or sometimes late) for the pep bands opening salvo.  The goal was always to make it for the Star Spangled Banner…sometimes it happened, other times, you hoped for half time.

Going on to college, even at the football powerhouse that is North Dakota State University, football took a backseat to going home, helping on the farm, and studies.  Sometimes we would go to games (student could get in with merely a student id); sometimes we would watch from our fraternity house…less then a mile away from the stadium.

Students and fans alike would walk into the Fargodome before the game and quickly disperse after the game.

I didn’t really catch the football bug until I went to the University of Illinois.  There was something about Big Ten Football.  I will admit the first game that I went too was less then enthralling…it was the first home win in two seasons and the students rushed the field…but there wasn’t enough to get the goal posts down…  Girls sunned themselves in the upper levels of the stadium.  Corn husks floated across the field from the South Farms.  But still, the carnival atmosphere was infectious, the tailgating, the band playing, the families and friends enjoying the fall weather with grills and tossing the pig skin.

I became a fan of Big Ten football.

While my efforts and focus was turned squarely on the Big Ten (five of eleven stadiums under my belt), something peculiar happened on the campus of North Dakota State University.  With the announced move of the program from Division II to Division I-AA, a new level of excitement filled the stands of the Fargodome.

A couple of key wins and near misses in the first year of the move quickly grew the fan base…and a decision to allow tailgating outside of the Fargodome quickly turned what were normally mild mannered students, alumni, and supports into a rabid band of super fans comparable with any school on the map.

Buses, RV’s, customized trailers, and tents all pack the Fargodome lot on game day.  The smell of burgers, brats, and other, more exotic fare, waft through the crisp fall air of Red River Valley.  Footballs flying through the air, a carnival atmosphere through and through.

Last weekend, as we grilled pizza on the charcoal grill, told stories about our lives as college students and relived the agony and ecstasy of the previous weeks game, surrounded by good friends and good people in a sea of Bison green and gold…this is football, NDSU style, Big Ten Style, Midwest Style – unique, but common – but always giving the best of the bounty, always believing that one more victory is only a tailgate away.

(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) 

As I type this, every key stroke sends agony up through my arms.  Under the keyboard, my knees are becoming stiffer by the moment.  Each turn of my head sends pain shooting down my neck.

That’s what I get for spending my Saturday walking around with a recliner on my head.

I reluctantly agreed to help out at Redeker’s Furniture during their Crazy Days sale.  My wife, a full-timer at Redeker’s, told me that the store was short-staffed in its warehouse and she convinced me that it would be “just swell” if I could come down and help out a little bit for Crazy Days.

The trepidation began to build when she rousted me out of bed at 4 a.m.   Somehow I knew it was not going to be a good day.

When we arrived at the store an hour later, customers were already rummaging through the discount tables, and I was soon helping the rest of the staff.  We seemed to be intently emptying the entire store onto the front sidewalk.

I’ve never considered furniture-moving to be my strong suite.  I’m out of shape, and grace is not exactly my middle name.  Suddenly at 5:30 a.m. I found myself carrying sleeper sofas that weighed hundreds of pounds over and around thousands of dollars worth of end tables, vases and assorted other furniture.  “Is this stuff insured?”  I wondered to myself.

By watching the regular employees, I soon learned that if you flip a swivel rocker or recliner over your head like a hat you can carry it very conveniently.  I soon became quite adept at the maneuver.  My confidence was severely shaken though when the legs of the recliner on my head crashed into a door frame.  It nearly fractured my neck.  Then I noticed that most of the other guys carrying recliners on their heads were somewhat shorter than I.

At 7 a.m. The storm clouds began rolling in from the west.  Joe Redeker looked over the sofas, recliners and swivel rockers that we had carried outside.  Then he looked skyward and announced, “We might have to carry this stuff back inside in a hurry if it starts raining.”  I began looking for an escape.  But we were spared any heavy rain and the subsequent hurried heavy lifting.

As customers purchased chairs and sofas, we carted them away to the back room.  We plucked new ones from the showroom floor and hauled them outside.  It was a vicious circle.

At 11:30 Mary and I slipped away for a quick lunch.  “Are you having fun?” She asked cheerfully.  I was too exhausted to scream, but I can scowl very well when I’m exhausted.

The furniture grew heavier and heavier as the afternoon progressed.  My neck began to stiffen.  My arms seemed to turn to lead.  I was certain that by the end of the afternoon, my fingers would be dragging on the ground as I walked.

At 4:30 p.m. The clouds began to roll in again.  We hurriedly pulled the remaining merchandise inside the store.  The clouds opened up as we closed the doors.

It was more than 30 hours ago that I moved my last recliner, but as I write this my joints seem to be getting worse instead of better.  I can’t bring myself to go near the sofa in our living room, and I have an uncomfortable urge to flip chairs upside down on my head.

I do have a newfound appreciation for my career as a writer.

But don’t let me dissuade you.  If do want to try that inverted-recliner-on-your- head trick, do it.  But take a tip from a former furniture mover:  Don’t wear one of those baseball caps with the itsy-bitsy button on top.

(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) 

As a kid I always enjoyed a trip to the landfill.

We would drive down into a giant man-made hole and unload our cast-offs.  I always imagined that the Grand Canyon must look something like the big pit at the landfill- only bigger.  Giant yellow earth-moving machines crawled about, covering up trash and carving out niches for more.

It was always muddy, sometimes dusty and always smelly.  Sometimes you could see ooze and slime seeping out of the hillsides and ground.  Often plumes of smoke and tongues of flames leapt from even deeper pits in the earth.  I remember thinking with youthful fascination that hell must be a lot like the landfill.

Maybe I lived a sheltered life, but I really loved a good trip to the landfill.  Perhaps even more exciting than the descent into the pit, more thrilling than the smell and more fascinating that the bulldozers was the chance to see what other people threw away.  The same morbid curiosity that forces us to look at traffic accidents made me cast furtive glances at other people’s garbage.

Non-working appliances, out-of-date clothing, broken toys and ruined tools became a bit more fascinating in the strange atmosphere of the landfill.  Bottles and cans gave me a glimpse of other peoples’ dietary habits.  Did someone actually eat the sardines?  Look at all those bottles.  Somebody must have had a heck of a party.

I took a business trip to Boone County Landfill last weekend and found that the landfill’s just not what it used to be.

There were no black clouds of smoke and leaping flames.  Recycling has left garbage devoid of cans and bottles.  I saw very little slime.  There is a separate drop-off site for appliances and tires.  I assume they’ll be shipped of for recycling too.  The odors were less intense and diverse than those I remember.

Still, the pit looked about the same as the one I remember and big yellow earth-movers still shook the ground as they buried my junk under tons of Boone County clay.  It was enough to shake loose my childhood landfill memories.  I told my wife how nifty it had been down at the landfill, but she just didn’t seem t understand.

“You’ve been talking about that landfill all day,” Mary said.  “You must have really liked it down there.  It sounds disgusting to me.”

“Hey,” I told her,” It’s a nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live there,”

 ”When you walk in, just think about how much grain you could put in there.  Or think of how much hay you could stack in there.  Kind of a waste of space.”  My brother John said between bites of food.

The Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome was the home of the Minnesota Twins and the Vikings.  It was relatively new to the state that summer, only four years old in June of 1986, and would get to go to my first Minnesota Twins game.

As a member of the St. Michael’s School Patrol, the local American Legion was supplying us with a trip to the cities to see the best major league team in Minnesota play in the best major league baseball park in the state.

That may sounds like an hour, to be a member of our hometowns finest crossing guard…until you realized that everyone in my class of ten was a member of the crossing guard…as were all our future classmates down the road at the public school.  Oh, and it was also the only major league team and the only major league park, but I digress.

It was merely a five hour drive down from our little town on the edge of the prairie to Minneapolis-St. Paul in a school bus whose suspension was years past its prime.

At six o’clock in the morning, I climbed onto the bus with my classmates and started the journey, with a twenty dollar bill in my pocket and happy in the knowledge that I would get to miss morning chores…and evening chores for that matter.

We stopped for breakfast about eight-thirty in Alexandria, at the Hardees right off of I-94. The manager must have smiled when he saw the bus of mainly drowsy kids stumbling off the bus with their money in hand.  The employee’s must have winced.

The bus rumbled down the road, heading for the game.  We started seeing the outskirts of the city about eleven – and hit it in full force shortly there after, pulling through the labyrinth of streets that were Minneapolis about eleven-thirty – just in time to buy a dome dog and find our seats for the one o’clock start.

I remember the smell of hot dogs and peanuts wafting through the crowd.  The vendors calling out as they walked up and down the stairs.  The call of the announcing saying the names that I heard on the radio over the din of the milking machines – Kent Herbek, Greg Gagne, and the infamous Kiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiibbbbbbbbyyy Pucket!.  I remember spending that precious twenty dollars on a miniature baseball bat and ball…on top of the breakfast and the hot dog, it left nothing left for supper that night.

I don’t remember much about who won, who got on base, or who the hero of the game was.

I do remember sitting at the Hardees in Clearwater, Minnesota, eating a one dollar hamburger thanks to a buck I borrowed off my friend Matt.  I remember holding that baseball all the way home, and thinking about the swing of the bat, and the sheer size of the place.

You could fit a heck of a lot of hay and grain in that thing….

 It was my second year of grad school, and being the sucker that I am, I was serving as the vice president of the departments graduate student organization.  Part of me liked being vice president – not just of this, but any organization…after all; all you had to do was wait around until the president was shot.  And the likelihood of that happening was pretty slim.

Our grad student organization didn’t do much, a few pot lucks, a few meetings, some grad student faculty commissions – probably the most important job was the one that organized the brown bottle seminars on Friday nights at one of the local watering holes.

But one of the traditions was the annual barbeque for the students and staff.  The president of our fine organization said that he would have everything taken care of – all we would need to do was show up to help grill.

His intentions were good.  He wanted to use one of the large grills that the city park provided to grill the hamburgers up right.  Charcoal, lighter fluid, the whole nine yards.

Problem was, just as we started to get the coals going, the torrential down pour started…and it just wouldn’t stop.

We were about 30 minutes from go time and the coals were still cold.  Turning to the president, I said, “Look, we are going to have over one hundred people here expecting burgers here in about half an hour.  We gotta do something.”

He looked at me and tried to light another water soaked match.

Racing to my car, I grabbed for my little table top gas grill and my small canister of propone…about a quarter full.  I set it up on a picnic table and saw some of the other graduate students that were helping us set up start to snicker.  The thing was tiny…two good sized steaks would be hanging over the sides.  The most burgers we could do was about six at a time…eight if we were lucky.

But we needed to have some burgers fried.

Firing it up, I started grilling, six burgers at a time, and placing them into a tinfoil lined pan to keep them warm.  We had about thirty done when the line started.  The others were still fighting with the coals under the rain.  I cooked on.  Six at a time.

I grilled that day.  The gas gave out at burger number seventy-two.  I could hear the whoosh from the burners under the grill.  But it didn’t stop me.  By that point in time, the raging grease fire burning in the bottom of the grill could cook anything that we would want to throw on it, or near it.  Flames would reach up to the top of the picnic shelter as I opened the lid.

I cooked on.

Hamburgers, hot dogs, all fried well…and the hamburgers added just a little more fuel to the fire.  Some of the last people in line were the vegetarians, asking for their soy burgers…I didn’t have the heart to tell them that they were cooked over a roaring grease fire…but they did tell me they were the best soy burgers they ever had.

By the end of the night, almost one hundred and fifty burgers were fried.  Over one hundred people were served.  The charcoal fire never did get lit.

And what was the casualty report?

My grill took the brunt of it.  It melted one of the handles on the end.  The other end’s handle merely melted slightly, so it now has a contorted, pained looked to it.  The grease fire seared the paint off the bottom of the bottom and one side of the grill…where the fire was the hottest.

And as for me, the eye brows and arm hair grew back.  The burns on my hand healed.

But we could never get that charcoal grill going.

(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) 

We’re buying a house and I’m happy about it.

I think it’s because I’m basically a happy guy.  I have mood swings just like everyone else.  I get angry, depressed and sad.  But in general, I’m a happy guy.  I think house-hunting has been something of an adventure.

On the other hand, house-buying is driving my wife out of her mind. 

She’s a worrier.  Sometimes I think Mary can only be happy when she’s really worried.  “What are you smiling about?” She’ll snap.  ”Nothing in particular,” I’ll respond.” Well cut it out,” she’ll say.

That’s not to say that Mary’s an unpleasant person.  She’s a gem.  And if she didn’t worry about paying the rent, balancing the checkbook and keeping appointments, we’d both be in a heck of a fix.  I guess our personalities balance each other out

Over the past few months as we’ve been house hunting and visiting with real estate agents trying to find our dream home, Mary’s been in her prime.  She’s been worrying about everything from the daily interest rate fluctuations to the condition of the plumbing of the homes we’ve see, Never has any one person worried so much about so many things.

That kind of stress is contagious and I’m sure a lesser man would have caved in under the pressure by now.  But not me.  I’ve been married to this worrier for six years and all of that past experience has prepared me for the trials of the past five months.

Not only that, I grew up with a worrier.

I have a brother who loves to worry more than Mary.  John’s 23 and already has ulcers.  When he was in grade school, he’d get so nervous about school events and birthday parties that he made himself sick to his stomach.  He’d vomit and the teachers would send him home.  He was in sixth grade before he made it thru a Christmas party.

If Mary and John would ever get together in the same room alone, things could get pretty weird.  They’d get so worked up that I’m sure one of them, or both, would have a heart attack.

Now, after being run through the real estate mill and the home financing wringer, we’re on the verge of buying our first home.  I’d think Mary could quit worrying any time now.

“Our offer is accepted.  Our financing is set.  Our down-payment is secure,” I assured her.  “Relax. What else is there to worry about?”

“Are you kidding?” She replied.  “What if our stuff falls off the truck when we move?  What if the roof falls in?  What if weeds take over the lawn?  What if….” She went on and on.

Personally, I don’t think I have anything to worry about.  Mary’s doing enough for both of us.