(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) 

Darkness compressed the beam from the streetlight into a cone of yellow.  The rest of the neighborhood was shrouded in darkness.

Wisps of filmy clouds skidded across the sky.  The cold October wind whistled softly around the big old house.  Dry leaves made a raspy sound as they tumbled across the backyard.

The house was an inky-black shadow against the midnight-blue sky.  In occasional flashed of moonlight, I could see lace curtains outlined against the blackness beyond the windows.  I peered at the dark windows.  Was that a face behind the black pane in the attic?  Did I detect movement or a faint glimmer beyond the dark rectangle of the basement window?

As a moonbeam flashed through the clouds, a rabbit started from the bushes and scampered across the yard.  I gave a muffled yell and jumped about a foot off the sidewalk.

I laughed nervously,” That’s what happens when you take an overactive imagination outside late at night to make certain the garage door is locked,” I thought to myself.

I hurried up the sidewalk to our looming shadow of a house.

The moon was shining brightly through the windows now.  I moved through the house without turning on the lights, making one last check of the doors before going to bed.  With moonlight streaming through the windows and wind whistling around the eaves, it didn’t take a greats stretch of imagination to visualize an apparition gliding down the open staircase or a ghostly figure hovering a the other end of the hall.

Like any old house, ours has its own way of talking.  The windows rattle.  The floorboards creak and groan.  The pipes rattle.  It’s all a part of the charm of old house living.  Still, in the middle of the night the creaking of the floors easily becomes footsteps in the attic and the water-pipe-rattles become a chain-shrouded specter roaming in the basement I hurried up the stairs, anxious to get to sleep and forget about chain-shrouded specter and floating apparitions.  In reality, we’ve seen no ghosts, no objects levitating, or no unexplained unexplained phenomena.  As far as we know, the house is ghostless.

But then again, maybe our resident ghost is discreet.  Perhaps our spirit is lurking in that unlit room in the basement or in the boarded-up crawl-space in the attic.  Is it merely temperature and humidity changes that cause those creaks and groans in the floors and walls?  Is it air bubbles that make the water pipes shake?  Is it only the wind making those windows rattle?  Is it only the ancient boiler rumbling down there in the basement?

I hope so.

Have you listened to your house lately?  Maybe you should hope so too.  Happy Halloween.

 I’m never been much for costumes.   Growing up, we had a limited choice between the clown costumes, the Zorro cape – which doubled as a vampire cape, or the old suit jacket – used for both a hobo AND Abraham Lincoln.

But I remember seeing some dozzies out there.

There was my friend in elementary school who with the right mask and an old cane transformed himself into a cantankerous old man – hunched over and with a crotchy old voice to match.

There was the Santa Claus at the bar my senior year of college…but not just any Santa Claus.  This guy had antlers sticking out of his chest, an arm dangling from his side with the bone showing, his guts spilled out from his chest cavity.  From beneath the rib cage, you could see his heart still beating (though you could almost see the fingers moving inside of it).  I will admit, it didn’t seem to affect him as Santa continued to seem like a right jolly old elf.

The only time that I dressed up for Halloween was actually well into my adult life while working in small town Ohio.  I was informed that EVERYONE at the office where I worked dressed up for Halloween.  Children of co-workers would come around during the afternoon and trick-or-treat at the desks and it was expected that you would be ready with candy and wearing a costume.

What was a stoic – and cheap – farm boy to do?

Thank goodness for television.

A week before that beggars night, I was flipping through the stations…when the flash of inspiration hit….I knew just what I would do….

A quick  trip to Dayton, OH and the Halloween superstore for a ten dollar mask.  A trip to Wal-mart for a ten dollar shirt, a four dollar t-shirt to wear underneath, and a fifteen dollar pair of green dress pants, and a few other items thrown into boot from home and I was set to go.

As the day drug on, everyone was excited for the kids to arrive.  And they all accused me of being a spoiled sport for not dressing up.

At 2:45…fifteen minutes before the little buggers were to arrive…I sat at my desk in the corner and slowly unpacked the items in my bag…

I had been wearing the green pants and the long sleeved green shirt…I put on my work boots…I pulled the oversized t-shirt on over top of my long sleeved green shirt…I put on my black vest…and I buckled up my oversized belt….

Still on my conference call with my cordless headset firmly in place on my head…I put on the piece-de-le-resistance…the Shrek mask.

Jerry was the first to look back in the corner and bust out laughing…and soon the rest of our small group was as well.  It didn’t take long for the news to travel through the entire office.

I will say, I made a darn good Shrek.  I have the build for it.  I have the good humor for it.  I have the bad breath.  I have the wit.  I love the mud.

More importantly the kids loved it – and that made my day.  I will say that some accused me of overdoing it.  It was almost looked a little too like that big lovable ogre…

What can I say, I’m an ogre achiever.

 (Scene one, act one, Cue the ‘Godfather Waltz’ from the infamous movie)

I am a Godfather.

True, I make jokes about coming from the largest Czechoslovakian crime family in Mahnomen County…even though we are one of the only Czech families in Mahnomen County…and aside from rumors about some family members making, fixing, and running a few stills during prohibition, we were really law abiding citizens.

I truth, I’m a Godfather in the old fashioned, noble sense of the word.

My first godchild was little Tommy, the second child of my good friends Dave and Traci.  Thomas is a hell on wheels two year old, always moving but with a attitude that says, “Sure, I may have broken my arm during that last fall, but I’ll be darned if I’ll cry.”

Tommy’s main partner in crime is his older sister and ring leader Katie.  Katie only seems to get irritated when she doesn’t get her way…which considering the fact that Tommy is about as stubborn, rarely happens.

I will admit, Katie and Tommy are two special kids.  Part of it might be the fact that their parents are such good friends, part of it may be that they are cute kids, and part of it may be that Tommy is my Godson and I feel responsible for the little guy.

Over the last month, my journeys’ as I prepare for my adventure down under has taken me to Fargo several times and has allowed me some good quality time with Katie and Tommy.

And boy did we have fun.

Pillow fights, wrestling matches, and rides around the kitchen floor on a blanket were the norm.

Mom and Dad just looked on shaking their heads…not quite sure who to scold, the kids or the adult.

I don’t know if I would have spent the time with the little half pints if I wasn’t preparing to head to Oz.  But I do know that I’m not going to see them for another year.  They may be too big to fit inside of the blanket for the spin around the kitchen floor.  They might not like being hit and knocked down with the pillows from the couch.

Like a good Godfather, I’ll just need to pray that they turn out right, that they don’t torment their good parents too much, that the next year – and the rest of their life, brings them blessings, a sense of what is right and wrong, and the courage to make the right choices…and also hope that they don’t hurt each other, or themselves, with the boomerangs that are sure to make it to their door.

(Door closes, cue the music)

 Excitement and fear are the words that would sum up the pending journey overseas.  I’ve traveled before – that isn’t a new experience.  I’ve lived throughout the Midwest.  I’ve visited Italy, Switzerland, France, England, Cuba, Korea, and Malaysia.  I’ve visited some of the remotest and most populous places in the United States – from camping in Death Valley to one of the finest hotels in Midtown Manhattan.

Yet the excitement and longing for worlds unseen is countered by the balance of the fear and trepidation of the world left behind.

Growing up, family and friends came after only God and Country in our listing of things that were important.  Contrary to many people from small town America that can’t seem to shake the dust off of their sleepy little towns fast enough; I have a fondness for the place of my birth.

That little farmstead on the prairie is a bastion of peace in the maelstrom of life.  That little church sitting in our little town was built by the hands of my ancestors.  The more I see and appreciate about the big world, the more I appreciate the simpleness of that life that was.

What if my friends don’t remember those good qualities that seemed to overshadow that mound of bad ones in their eyes?  What if there is no room for me in the lives of my nieces and nephews and neighbors and friends?  What if the world, the life, the friends, the connections that I enjoy and am blessed with today are wiped away in the sands of time?

But then I am reminded of the old axiom, a ship in harbor is safe, but that isn’t what a ship was built for.

I am reminded of my grandparents that set sail with nothing but a couple of dollars in his pocket, a steamer trunk, and five children in tow.  Lead only by the faith in their own abilities and a hope of a better life in a free land.  They would laugh at my fears – they would think me lucky to have two suitcases!

I think of my father who shipped out in the army, headed to basic training and a tour of the Korean countryside.

I think of my mother, who loved to read books about far away places, but never lived to see them.

I think of my own wanderlust, the hope of seeing the world, yearning to meet people, see cultures, see the glories of nature and overcoming those inborn fears that tell us that the world is flat.

It’s going to be work.  I’m going there not as a tourist, and not as a student, but filling in for nine months for someone who has a real job, and real responsibilities.

But in a larger scale, I am going as a tourist and as a student.  Regardless if we travel to the next county or across the globe, that sense of wonder, that sense of the new, that sense of unknown must continue to move us forward.

Australia, here I come.

“Do you want to go down for coffee and rolls?” My Dad asked after church. ”Sure!”  I replied.  Regardless what they served in the church basement, it was almost guaranteed to be top notch. 

And they didn’t disappoint.  The caramel and sweet rolls were fantastic, melt in your mouth good.  The coffee, more then likely not the old traditional ‘egg coffee’ that the Ladies Aid used to make, was good nonetheless.

But this was merely the appetizer…the real treat would be the conversation that I knew was coming.

Sitting down at the table with friends and neighbors, the names and faces that I’ve known for years – one of the guys that Dad has ushered with for almost seventy years, the couple that live the road a piece, the father of some of the kids I went to high school with and one of my Dad’s cousins rounded out the table.

It was a good general conversation about the weather, crops, the latest updates about who was sick or in the nursing home.  Somehow, the conversation got turned to our local history.  Soon names and dates were being thrown back and forth across the table.

For the next fifteen minutes, it was a virtual historical account of the county and the township government, and the township history.

“Our township records go back to about 1896.” One said.

“County didn’t break away from Norman County until 1908.” Another chimed.

“Wasn’t old man Hansen the township clerk back then Bob?”

 ”Not our records, they are real clear.  Better then that stuff they teach in school today!”

“Herb, who was that guy that was out in your township back in the ‘20′s then?”

“Well, the family didn’t move up here from Stearns County until the late 30′s, early 40′s.” Herb replied.

Are you ready for it – this is the transition to the next part of the conversation…

“Oh yeah, that is because they used to run shine!”

For the next fifteen minutes the conversation was an in depth analysis of the whiskey trade in Stearns and Mahnomen County, the known runners, the known makers, and the suspects.

“Oh yeah, but when the influenza hit, hardly anyone in Stearns County got sick because they were all self medicated”

Here comes the next transition….

“Mark, what did you guys read that old recipe book of your grandmothers yesterday?”

“Cure for asthma is a fresh muskrat pelt applied to the throat and chest.”

“Oh yeah!  That works, no one believes that stuff anymore, but ya know what we used to use for the cough?”

“Skunk lard and Watkins’s Liniment applied by a poultice.”  Someone replied, “And that stuff smelled, you just got better so that you wouldn’t have to smell the darned stuff anymore.”

For the next fifteen minutes, we covered all things skunk and skunk related.  How to trap, how not to trap, how to poison, how to not remove the smell, (“Did you hear about Old Nedved – got sprayed and tried to bury his cloths? Stank worst when he dug um up!”).

As they cleaned up the dishes around us, I left the table satisfied.  Partly because of the great caramel roll, the seconds that they brought around, and the coffee…but mainly by the fill of stories, history, and fellowship.

(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) 

Kids that I used to know in high school used to think that FFA (Future Farmers of America) members were kind of nerdy.

FFA’ers wore those blue corduroy jackets.  The men had to wear ties to their meetings.  FFA members always conducted their meetings in strict adherence to Robert’s Rules of Order.  They studied plants and soils and machinery.  No, FFA didn’t have a very hip image.

What a difference a decade makes.

At their national convention recently, FFA members had to decide how to cope with demand for their trademark jackets from political figures and celebrities.  George Bush wants an FFA jacket.  So do a host of country singers, including Garth Brooks and Ronnie Dunn of “Brooks and Dunn.”

Suddenly FFA is cool and blue corduroy is hip.

FFA hasn’t changed all that much.  Its members are usually well-dressed and neatly groomed.  They still know Robert’s Rules of Order inside and out, and they still study plants, livestock and machinery.

So what happened?

Maybe the world is realizing what FFA members have known all along:  that taking pride in who you are and what you do is an important step on the road to excellence.  That diligent study, hard work and team work can help you accomplish just about anything.  That applying mathematics, science, English, public speaking and critical thinking skills to real world problems in agriculture make those skills an concepts easier to learn and easier to remember.

In college and in organizations since, i’ve noticed that a large number of leaders are former FFA members. Former FFA members know how to analyze problems and think creatively to solve them.  They know how to motivate co-workers and how to organize tasks.  Hey know how to motivate co-workers and how to organize tasks.  They may not wear blue jackets anymore, but the skill they learned at chapter meetings and in the classrooms and fields are still serving them well.

For years, FFA has fought to maintain its programs and memberships.  A shift of population from rural schools districts to the suburbs has made it difficult to maintain interest in agriculture-related programs.

As a result, FFA has had to change.  Its programs now apply the latest in science to agriculture.  Lessons focus on biotechnology, genetics, engineering and environmental conservation.  Even urban students can recognize how important those topics are to contemporary society.  Consequently, membership appears to be on the rebound.

With that kind of history, tradition and progressiveness behind it, no wonder FFA jackets are in demand.

To their credit, FFA delegates at the national convention took the demand for the jackets seriously.  “It’s the pride of every FFA member,” Laurie mccormick, an FFA delegate from California, told Kansas City Star.  In the end, the group agreed to issue jackets to public figures and celebrities selected by a special FFA team.  The jackets will be clearly marked with the word  “honorary.”  It seems like a common-sense approach.

I guess that’s what you’d expect from the FFA.

(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) 

Have you asked anyone what time it is lately?

You’re likely to get an answer that you’d expect forma radio announcer.  “It’s twelve forty-three,” they might ay or maybe, “Two twenty-nine.”

That’s what digital watches and clocks have done for us.  They’ve put us on the same unforgiving unyielding schedule as television newscasters and radio announcers.

We used to tell time as, “quarter to,” or “half past” and “quarter after.”  If you were two or three minutes early or late it didn’t matter that much.  Tell a 12-year-old that it’s quarter after and he or she is likely to look at you like you’re talking French.

And while digital watches became so common, wind-up watches all but disappeared.  Now you’d be hard pressed to find a good wind-up watch.

Now those were watches.  They were cheap and reliable and never needed batteries.

My dad lost a $15 wind-up Timex once while he was baling hay.  He looked all over the field but couldn’t find it.  The next winter when he was feeding cows, he noticed a glint of metal in a bale of hay.  There was the watch.  The crystal was scratched and it was caked with dust and alfalfa leaves.

He wound it up and it keeps good time today.   He wore it everyday until the little gripper grooves on the knob wore off.  The only way you can wind it now is with a pair of pliers.

Once a year when mom cleans out the kitchen junk drawer, she finds the watch.  “Here’s the watch you lost in the baler,” she says.

Dad finds a pair of pliers, winds it up and say, “Look, it still works.”  Then he tosses it back in the drawer.

Find me a digital watch that can match that.

All today’s watches, even the ones still have hands, run on batteries.  The miniature power source keeps your personal time-piece ticking right along.  It’s never fast or slow until the battery runs down.  When that happens you’re stuck, until you buy a new battery you feel disoriented because you’re not quite sure if it’s three twenty-three or three twenty-two.

In the days of wind-up watches you could wind your watch up and ask somebody for the time.  “It’s about half-past three,” they’d say and that would be close enough for you to set your watch and get your life back on track.

And it’s not just watches.  Everywhere you look you find digital clocks.  They are on your alarm clock, computer, microwave and VCR.  All of them keep our lives scheduled by the minute until the power goes out or their batteries run down.

California based Hewlett-Packard Co., recently announced that it has developed a new atomic clock (digital, I’m sure) that is so accurate that it only loses a second every 1.6 million years.  Just think, with a clock like that, you’d never be late for work.

But I do have to admit, even at $54,000, a clock that is accurate to within a second for 1.6 million years is pretty impressive.

Still, I wonder how it would stand up if you ran it through a hay baler.

(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 learned a new dance this week.

I was working down in the basement on a little home-improvement project when I hit my thumb with a hammer.  Wham!  I clobbered it right on the thumb-nail.  This was no glancing blow.  It was a full-swing bullseye.  I couldn’t have scored a more direct hit if I had been aiming.

The pain was excruciating.  It hurt so bad that I even forgot to swear. I flipped the hammer across the room and did the dance of pain.

First I walked around in a little circle, moaning with my thumb in my mouth.  Then I jumped up and down a few times waving my injured hand in the air and yelling.  Yaaa!   Yaaa! Next I gripped the injured thumb with my uninjured hand and bobbed around like a chicken, bending repeatedly at the waist while groaning, “Ow!  Ow!  Ow!”  Then it was back to waking in a circle with my thumb in my mouth.

I’m sure it would have been very entertaining if anyone else had been in the basement with me.

Finally, the urge to dance subsided enough for me to go upstairs and pour a bowl of ice water to soak my thumb in.  The water was crystal clear with big ice cubes floating in it.  I was sure it would soothe my damaged digit and prevent it from swelling.  So I plunged it in.

That’s when I did my encore dance of pain right there in the kitchen.  As soon as it hit the water, my thumb felt as if someone had whacked it again.  It felt ice-cold on the outside and red-hot on the inside.  To make matters worse, the thumbnail was beginning to turn yellow and black.

For a time, I thought I was going to die.  I was certain the thumbnail was going to fall off.  My thumb throbbed with each heartbeat.  The pain extended down through the knuckles and into my wrist.  My entire hand stiffened.

It’s been almost a week now and I think I’ll live.  In fact, I don’t think I’m even going to loose the thumbnail.

Hitting your thumb with a hammer is a lot like biting your tongue or tripping over a crack in the sidewalk.  It’s hilarious in cartoons and in the movies.  It’s even amusing when you see someone do it in real life.

But when it happens to you, you realize how excruciating it can be.  And the worst part of it is the lingering bruise it leaves on your ego.  People struggle to suppress a giggle when you tell them,” I hit my thumb with a hammer.”

But even my bruised ego seems to be healing.  I’ve been consoling myself with thoughts of good fortune.  At least no one saw me do the dance of pain.

(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) 

While browsing through an antique store recently, a brightly colored tin caught my eye.  Its bright pattern of red, yellow and black made it standout from the other antique product tins on display.

I picked it up.  It was heavy, as if something was inside.  I pulled the lid off and there inside was a slimy yellow-red substance that smelled something awful.

I couldn’t help but smile.  I had found a genuine tin of cow salve.

Whatever happened to cow salve?  If you become sick or are injured, there’s never been a better time than today.  There’s an amazing array of medical products out there designed to treat just about any malady.  But sometimes it seems that medical science has taken us too far.

What happened to the all-purpose cure-alls that used to lurk in every medicine cabinet?

As a young farm boy I suffered through a variety of bumps, bruised, sprains, scrapes, rashes, pimples, boils, punctures, pinches and burns.  They were no worse than those suffered by boys of that age.

Parents 20 years ago seemed less prone to rush their children to the doctor than parents of today.  My parents relied on three tried -and-true curatives: black salve, udder cream and cow salve.

Black salve’s appearance lived up to its name.  Its curative powers were as potent as its odor.  A liberal amount smeared on an inflamed pimple, boil, cut or splinter “drew the infection out,” according to my mother.  An application of black salve quickly reduced inflammation and swelling.  Infections seldom lingered long after a treatment.

Udder cream was a pasty, blue salve designed to keep cows’ teats and udders soft and supple.  It could easily do the same for chapped hands and other irritated skin.  The label read,” Not intended for human use.”  What would my dermatologist say?

Cow salve was the most mysterious of these remedies.  The slave was in a red can so caked with dust that the label was no longer readable.  The can rested on a ceiling beam in the barn, nestled between two haymow floor joists.

On these rare occasions when a trip to the house to visit “Dr. Mom.” Was impossible or impractical, Dad would reach up and pull down the can of cow salve.  The stuff smelled foul and looked worse.  It was reddish yellow and greasy.  A wound treated with cow salve could repel water for days.  It seemed to work best for burns and bad scrapes.

The smelly can in the antique store reminded me how effective these mysterious medicines could be when they are applied with a little love.  Did I buy the cow salve from the antique store?  No.  I thought the price was a little steep.  Besides, if I ever really need any, I know exactly which ceiling bean to look on.

 It is a ratty old atlas.  By looking at some of the countries listed on the map (example: Belgian Congo), and deciphering the Roman Numerals on the corner, it says it was published in 1959. It was a discard out of our little library in our school.  It was missing the cover and the first three pages…and the last three pages. 

This ratty old atlas was the first map that I owned. 

The classrooms in my little elementary school on the prairie had maps, big wall maps that rolled down from their perches on the walls.  From our little outpost the world seemed like a big, big place.  But this atlas was the first map, the first real chance that I got to study the world.

I remember pouring over its pages.  Learning about bays, cities, plains, and rivers.  Looking at the political and physical features of our country along with those of the other strange places around the globe.  I remember making connections between the map and the news events of the day.  I remember tracing my finger along those places that seemed far off and exotic…Rocky Mountains, Chicago, Texas, Atlantic Ocean, New Orleans, China, Africa, Rome, London, India, the Alps, Rio, Peru, and Australia….

For a kid whose biggest adventure was a trip or two to St. Paul to visit relatives, those were all, including Chicago, exotic locales.

I remember visiting our little public library in my hometown.  The one located in the city hall, an old WPA project, build of field stone and sitting in the center of town like an old castle tower, with the old bell tower for the fire department stretching over two stories in the air.  It was the tallest building on main street.  It was here that I found the series of books on countries around the world.

Soon, every Tuesday, I’d walk from our little elementary school to the library.  Each week, I’d check out a couple of books on another country.  I don’t know if I hit every country, the library was on a budget so they had to spread their resources.  But I remember some of the most interesting ones to me: Czechoslovakia, Cuba, Canada, Vatican City, South Africa, Australia, and Switzerland.

I remember cross checking the locations of each country that I’d read about with that worn out old atlas.

Cleaning up my house and sorting through old books and papers, I came across that old atlas.  Surprisingly in a little better shape then what I remember.  The world has changed even more since the last time that I read it.

But so have I.

I’m no world traveler by most accounts, but I’ve seen and experienced more then I ever thought possible.  My life is richer for having seen a sunrise over the Rocky Mountains as I rolled out of my sleeping bag…and for having seen a sunrise over Lake Michigan as I was getting ready to go to bed after a good St. Patrick’s Day in Chicago.  I’ve been charmed by the food in the market in Kuala Lumpur, and spoiled by the nuns at a guest house in Engleberg, Switzerland.

And what is the biggest surprise?  The people.  In my limited travels through the United States, Europe, and Asia, I’ve found that people are generally good and trustworthy.  Most people care for the stranger.  It was true in my hometown, it is true in New York, London, Rome, Seoul, or Kuala Lumpur.

In some ways, maybe my little hometown on the prairie isn’t that far away after all.