When you try to fit everything you are going to need for an entire year - what do you pack?  Clothes, books, important papers, electronics, filled raspberries, toiletries, journal, pens…wait a minute….filled raspberries.Oh yeah, filled raspberries.

Of all of the wonderful parting gifts that I was given, perhaps none has proved as useful as those two packages of filled raspberries that brother Tom, sister-in-law Mary, and nieces Abby and Sarah sent along.

I would have loved to have seen the security guards as they were rifling through my luggage…”clothes, books, and - hey, why would anyone take filled raspberries all the way to Australia?”

But those darn things are good, and nothing helps to celebrate Christmas quite like the taste of filled raspberries - they are a family tradition.

I had to protect them.  At my going away party, my brothers were eyeing the two bags covetously.  As I was putting them in my luggage to take to the cities my Dad said, “Hey, why are you taking my filled raspberries?!?!”

“My filled raspberries Dad.  My filled raspberries.” I replied.

The first bag was opened on the day that I arrived, a little late birthday, early Thanksgiving present, but I was determined to parcel them out, eating only two at a time.  Some days that meant about twenty a day, but NEVER more than two at a time.

By the first week of December, the bag was gone (which, to my credit, think shows great restraint).

The second bag was saved for Christmas.

After Midnight Mass, I walked into my apartment to find that Santa had already been there, so I had to make a harassing phone call to my nephews (”Its not FAIR that Santa visits Uncle Mark sixteen hours earlier then he comes to see us!) and gently packed the candies in my suitcase…

I celebrated Christmas in the Snowy Mountains, and while it was more rainy then snowy (it was a balmy fifteen degrees….Celsius….and the ham was a salty, the turkey a little processed, and the oysters and prawns…well, let’s just say I learned two important lessons, no seafood in the mountains and no seafood from a buffet…but rest assured I ate well on Christmas Day, for desert was a bag of filled raspberries!

We always had treats around Christmas time.  Everything from chocolates, some of them the plainest of the plain, some of them the best of the best, to homemade cookies and candies.  Mom even tried her hand at making her own homemade chocolates for a while, but the time and effort that they required made her realize that while they were very good, the time was better spent making those family favorites like date pinwheels, melt-in-your-mouth sugar cookies, and a host of other cookies.There was always fudge and peanut brittle too - all homemade as well.  Combined with that was the hard candy - the candy canes, the various hard fruit candies that would decorate the holiday candy dishes that were scattered throughout the house.

Mom knew that the hard candy was safe…as long as she didn’t put out the filled raspberries.

Truth be told, I’m not a fan of raspberries in any form - not fresh raspberries, not with sugar and cream, not baked in a cake, not put on top of cheese cake, not on pancakes, not on ice cream.  In short - there is no form that I like to eat raspberries.

With the exception of those darn, hard little filled raspberry candies that come out at Christmas time.  Those sweet but sour goo filled clumps of sugar.

And I’m not alone.

I don’t think anyone of us would admit it, more because we didn’t want Mom to think that those darn little things were going to upstage her delectible cooking, but they were (and are) good, and they were (and are) very adicting.

Sometimes as Mom would try to pour them into the candy dish, where there should have been the pleasant plinking of hard candy on glass, there was nothing…the hands of five children and one adult (Dad) where eating them as fast as she could pour them (perhaps some artistic liscense was used in that statement).

I really don’t remember any of us actually saying, “wow, these filled raspberries are good!”  But over the years, I’ve come to the conclusion that we all shared that feeling.

My oldest brother Tom has a candy dish dedicated to them - a big Santa Claus where his beard is where the candy is to go…always filled with the remnants of a bag of hard candy filled raspberries.

My brother John eats them by the handfulls.

The first Christmas at brother Jaime’s house had a great meal, all kinds of cookies, and only one type of candy…filled raspberries.

The only one that I ever questioned was my little sister - she would have her hand out when the bag was opened…but she never quite had the enthusiasm as the rest of us.  I found out why years later, tucked up in her room was a strategic reserve of filled raspberries.  Clumped together in their bags as they had slighted melted and restuck together (they don’t handle the heat of the Minnesota summers all that well…).

“Margaret!  What are you doing with these bags of filled raspberries in your room?  How long have they been up here?”  I gasped in amazement.

She looked at me with a cool stare…”Not that long…and get your hands off them.”

I believe it is necessary to make an important point of clarification.  A prior note made it sound like I was homesick.  It made it sound like I wanted to see the flat land of my birth, snow covered and glistening under the midwinter skys, with the shimmering snow glidding across the landscape in the relentless winter winds.It made it sound like I missed my family - the people that I’ve spent most every major holiday with since my birth, with all of their faults and failures, they are the most important people in my life - they are the ones that formed me and made me who I am.

It made it sound like I missed my friends and mentors - those people that give me advice and counsel or are just there for a beer or a phone call to pick me up.

It made it sound like I missed all of those things that I hold dear.  Which is absolutely correct - I do, and regardless where I wonder or roam, that simple fact will not end.  I go home to see Dad, brothers, sisters, cousins, and friends for one reason - I love them and care about them and that will not end if I am in Australia or Zambia.

But that doesn’t mean that I’m not enjoying where I’m at and the experience that I’m having.

Sure there are frustrations - driving on the oposite side of the road (with the steering wheel on the opositie side of the car), learning different words in the same language for the same thing (asking for a shopping cart will get you blank looks and a sharp reply, “You mean a trolley.”  They’ll sneer back at you…)

But life is filled with frustrations, regardless where you are at.

This experience has been tremendous.  While I missed family and friends for the holidays, seeing and expereincing this country and this culture has been equally facinating and exciting.  The people have been tremendous, and I’ve been humbled by the openness and the welcoming attitude.  From inviting me into their homes to explaining the finer points of Cricket (the game, not the insect) over a pint of Aussie’s finest.

In short, I came here in full anticipation that I would be home sick, that I would miss those raucus moments with friends at the bar or the exciting thrills of the Wild game, or teasing my neices and nephews, or cheering on my Bison to another win, or those quiet moments back on the farm with Dad.

With everything in life there is a price.

One of my favorite lines from literature is from the play, “Inherit the Wind,”  the story of the now infamous Scope’s Monkey Trial where creationism and evelution squared off.  The hero of that play, Matthew Brady discribed the process of discovery as like walking up to a counter and having a man saying, “You can have the automobile, but you will miss the joy of distance, and the quietness of the lanes. You can have the airplane, but the sky’s will smell of gasoline and the birds will loose their wonder.”

While I miss those things back home, I’m enjoying the life here in Melbourne.  The sights, the sounds, the foods have all been great.  I’m meeting new people and learning new things about myself, and about life in general.  As a child, I traced my finger across the globe, wondering what lay under my finger tips on the far side of the globe - today, I’m seeing and experiencing those things, and finding it very good.

With everything in life, there is a trade off - and while nothing will replace my family and friends, perhaps my friend and mentor Don Hansen summed it up best in his Christmas message to me: “Have a blessed Christmas, and savor the anticipation of being back with your family next year.”

In short, I miss all my friends and family, but this is a wonderful experience and one that I’m very thankful for - and truth be told, in my mind is going far better then expected.  When all is said and done, it is helping me appreciate my friends and family all the more.

Blessing and joy to all my friends far and near this holiday season!

PS - I’m running a bit behind with the postings.  You will likely be reading about some of my Christmas experiences sometime around Groundhog Day.  Think of it as Christmas season lasting all that much longer.  Still not happy with that answer?  Deal with it. 

PSS….my brother Tom once told me a crude, sick, and disgusting joke about a man that is afflicted with a condition where, every time he passes gas, it makes the loud sound of “HONDA!”.  While the average reader will be sick, disgusted, or just confused at the cause of this bathroom humor, I encourage you to ask about it next time you talk to me…if for no other reason then it will sure make me laugh….

That time between Christmas and New Years on the farm was the only real vacation that we got every year.  Sure, there was still chores to be done.  The cows still needed to be milked and fed, the youngstock had to be looked after, the manure had to hauled.  All of the daily routine would need to go on as before.But if we were lucky, and the snow was on the ground and it was cold, well, it was just too cold to do some of the more, well, how can I put this, do some of the stinky chores.  You know, things like cleaning out the calf pens (via pitch fork).

That one week between Christmas and New Years was our chance to enjoy winter.

If weather permitted, it meant playing out in the snow, building snow forts.  Large complexes carved into the snow piles or snow drifts, or if the wind had packed the snow especially hard, you could cut out blocks from the drifts and pile them up in the front yard, making a fortress.  If the snow was especailly deep, you could have drifts six feet deep or more back behind the woods and using shovels and broken sickle sections, you could tunnel into the drifts, making rooms and chambers into the white, hard packed snow.

Then there was the three wheeler and the suicide sled.  Several afternoons would be dedicated to nothing but trying to do serious damage to ourselves riding the thin piece of plastic behind our Honda 185 three wheeler as it did fifty-five miles per hour across the frozen prairie, paying no heed to dead furrows, buried farm implements, or fence posts - those were the risks we took to enjoy ourselves (or die trying).

Inevitably, some of those days were spent in the warmth and security of the house.  Of all of the days, those are the ones that I remember the best and with the fondest memories.  Mom was usually busy in the kitchen, cooking, cleaning, or otherwise just making sure that the house was functioning.  Dad would be napping in his chair, mindful that chores were only hours away and he would have to lead us back out into the cold of the Northern Minnesota winter to take care of the herd.  Us kids would be scattered throughout the house.  Playing with our new toys that Santa had left under the tree.  Maybe it was that new remote controlled car, the new farm play set, the contructor set, the electronics kit, listening to the new CD, or reading the new book.

Some afternoons, and some evenings after milking and supper, we would gather around the kitchen table and play a game.  Kings Corners, Crazy Eights, Thirty-One were all family favorites.  Or maybe one of the board games - Clue or The Farming Game.  If Tom and Mary were still home, we would use one of their games - maybe Trivial Pursuit or Scategories.

That one week out of the year was kind of our week of freedom on the farm.  In the dead of winter, when night stretched from about four o’clock in the afternoon until after eight o’clock in the morning, the light could still be seen shining out from the little farm house on the priarie, for one of the brightest times of the year.

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

My brother is a moron.

John is five years younger that I am and lives in Rochester, Minn.  We gave him a ride home to northern Minnesota to celebrate an early Christmas with the rest of our family.  Mary and I saw this trip as an opportunity for our family to celebrate a special holiday together.  John saw it as an opportunity to win big at Minnesota’s newest set of slot machines.

Minnesota, as you probably know, allows its native American population to operate casinos in the state.  Our home town, Mahnomen, is home to the state’s newest casino, The Shooting Star.

As veterans of Iowa’s riverboat casinos, we lectured John on his futile plans of winning big.  “It’s hopeless,” we told him.  “On the riverboats you can at least watch the scenery.  You can’t do that at the Shooting Star.”

My parents, being the responsible parents that they are, also lectured him.  “It’s a waste of your money.” They said.  “You have things to do with your hard-earned cash.”

Even Grandma got into the act.  She laughed the way Grandmas do when they disapprove and then scolded him, “You don’t want to go in there.”

Does John listen to us?  Does he heed the wisdom of his elders?  Does common sense dissuade him from feeding his hard-earned cash to an evil, one-armed bandit?

Nope.

The bum walked into the casino, dropped three quarters into a slot machine, pulled the lever and cash came pouring out the bottom.  That pretty much described his luck for the rest of the evening.  With that meager investment, he parlayed his winnings into $300.

At 3 a.m. He came home bouncing off the walls.  He woke my other brother from the depths of slumber to flash his wallet in his face.  “Ever seen this much money before?”  He asked.  The next morning he told his tale to all who would listen-especially those of us who warned him not to gamble.  “I guess I’ll have a Merry Christmas,” he said with a grin.

What a moron.

(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) 

Santa made his way gingerly across the roof.  He’d learned long ago that a steeply pitched roof was no place for daydreaming.  The reindeer shifted nervously in their harnesses as he pulled the big book out of its pocket alongside the seat of the sleigh.

His gloved finger traced down the column of handwritten names in the giant volume.  He knew the list by heart and he knew that he had been to every home in Boone, but he checked the list- just to be sure.  He’s never missed a deserving home before, he wasn’t about to start now.

As he suspected, he’d been down every chimney in town.  He reached inside his big red coat and pulled out his big pocket watch.   He smiled.  It wasn’t often on these trips that he was this far ahead of schedule.

His runs through Denver, Minneapolis, and Lansing, Mich., have gone smoothly.  There had been a few sleepy youngsters stumbling upon him in the darkness. There had been no near-misses with airliners.

And the reindeer seemed to have extra stamina this year.  Maybe it was that new oat bran diet.  Even now, Donner was looking back and giving that odd reindeer snort that meant he was ready to go.

He had also been pushing himself to get ahead of schedule.  He had hoped to have a little extra time for a side trip by the time he was in Boone.

He made sure all of the toys were secured and settled into the seat.  He picked up the supple leather reigns and to his team gave a whistle.

The sleigh dipped slightly as it slid off the edge of the roof.  Then Santa, reindeer and sleigh began to gain altitude.  Before he could pull on the reigns, Rudolph began a gentle banked turn that would take them to Ogden.  They certainly knew the route.

He tightened his grip on the reins and pulled them back into a looping left turn that took them back over South Story Street.  The light display at the Iowa High School Athletic Association flashed under the sleigh.  Just as quickly, they passed the lighted sign atop Citizen’s National Bank.

With another pull on the reins, the reindeer headed west along the Chicago and North Western’s main line.  Santa pulled back hard on the lines now to slow in the snow of the dark shadows along the Boone & Scenic Valley Railroad.

There wasn’t much time to waste.  He jumped nimbly from the sleigh as he looked around just to be certain no one had seen their landing.  The coast was clear.

Using the same technique that allowed him to get into millions of homes each Christmas Eve, Santa quickly ducked inside the darkened locomotive building.  He had taken a lantern from the sleigh and he held it aloft now.

A low whistle escaped from somewhere within his bushy white beard.  It had been a long time since he had seen a locomotive as grand as  “the Iowan.”  He remembered how years ago he had marveled at those wonderful steam locomotives as they sped across the darkened landscape below, belching clouds of smoke and steam.

Many times he had looked down to see similar locomotives whisking along, their trailing Pullmans filled with sleeping travelers.  The sight had always made his own Christmas Eve journey seem less lonely.

He climbed in the cab.  He touched the throttle and the brake and the many valves lightly.  He noticed now cold the boiler and fire box seemed on this wintry night.  How wonderful it would feel if they were red with heat now!

The gentle, but impatient, pawing of reindeer hooves reminded him that he was no longer ahead of schedule.  He climbed from the cab and turned for one last look.  In the flickering light of the lantern he noticed that the locomotive sported a bright red and white paint job.  Those colors looked equally nice on a locomotive or a sleigh, he observed to himself.

“Mrs. Claus and I don’t get out much anymore,” he thought as he climbed into the seat.  “Well, this summer going to be different.”

He recalled the fun they had on their visit to New York and the Statue of Liberty back in 1976.  That time they had gone posing as tourists from Oklahoma.  In all the teeming throngs of New Yorkers, no one had recognized them as Mr. And Mrs. Santa Claus.

Certainly, no one in Boone would realize they were anything but visitors from Ottumwa in town for a ride on the B&SVRR and the fun and frolic of Pufferbillly Days.

 David Jones stores are an Australian institution.  Founded by a Welsh immigrant in 1838, the David Jones franchise is one of the largest retailers in Australia with thirty-seven stores.

And boy, do they do Christmas right.

Each year, at their main store in the heart of downtown Sydney, they use their store windows to bring the magic of Christmas alive.  This year was no different, and indeed, it was impressive.

The theme was “Christmas Carols” and through the use of machines and marionettes, the Christmas Carols literally almost seemed to come alive.

The first song represented was the German classic - Silent Night, with the full Nativity scene, complete with moving kings and head bobbing sheep.

The Little Drumer Boy was the next classic to be represented in the line of windows.  Fairly classic - with the drum sticks moving up and down and the towns people swaying to the beat…but the sight of three blind mice also swaying told me that these were not all going to be conventional displays….

Good King Wenceslaus was the next carol…and boy, did it have the creatures.  A Lion and his family represented the good king, feasting at his royal table.  The potatoes….singing at one end of the table seemed like they might be a bit undercooked.  Obviously, there was no ham on the menu…as the three little pigs dinned on EACH side of the table (drawback to clonning) and the mice ate underneath (wonder if they lived by St. Agnes Fountain?).  Penquins were serving the fine meal, and off to one side, with no tie in to the scene at all were the tortoise and the hare…oh yes, and the blind cat playing the fiddle.

I guess you could call that one a bit…bohemian in style….

“I Saw Three Ships” was the next carol on the docket.  This one was visually striking.  The ships seeming to “float” on the water.  The fish swimming under the mock water, the towns people lined up to cheer on the three ships, Faith, Hope, and Love.

The “Holly and the Ivy” was a bit, well enviromentally friendly for me, what with the dancing rabbits and smiling trees.  Bring on the ATV’s….

The last window was an encapsulation of all of them, and in the secular society that Australia has become, you have to hope that the city that is at the center of the scene is Bethlehem - the point where all the characters are looking, where the ships are sailing too, and where Santa and his six reindeer (maybe two got a flat?) are heading too.

Overall, a very impressive display from David Jones.  Not that I did any shopping there.  I’m a guy, it was hard enough to look at dancing marionettes.

With three days before Christmas, there was no Christmas spirit to be found in apartment 2708A Harbour Esplanade, Docklands, Victoria (ie Melbourne, Australia).As wonderful as the experience has been in my first forty days in Australia, things also haven’t been perfect…as a matter of fact, they have been far from perfect in some cases.  In that stoic style I learned back on the farm, you keep the good, throw out the bad and you move on.

But the bad does remain lurking in the background….and it builds.

For someone more accoustomed to shoveling snow around Christmas then slathering on the sunscreen, there is a cultural shock.

But part of it too is the time difference.  It is hard to keep up the old friendships and relationships that I’ve held so dear for so many years.  To cap it off Christmas was days away, and it made the desire for home, for family, and for friends, all the more urgent.

Don’t get the wrong idea, things have been great - the people have been great, but small things, like trying to find the grocery store, learning to drive, learning a city, learning a culture, learning where the churches are, trying to fit into a new culture, trying to work through the beaucracy of a new office, trying to fit into a new role, email that works sporadically, cell phones that work sporadically, not seeing family and friends for extended time - all of them create a little stress that adds up.

I haven’t made things any easier either - the time differences and hassles of trying to get things done in a world working sixteen hours behind hasn’t been fun either.  Time slips away.

I noticed it first this weekend…three wonderful Christmas parties.  One a work party on Friday night (with an after party in my apartment that almost welcomed in the sunrise), and two barbeques on Saturday in the beautiful Melbourne weather were heart warming - both for the people (I have no less then five invites for Christmas dinner) as well as the food (fresh oysters, shrimp, beef tenderloin, salmon….you get the idea).

On Sunday, I was feeling a bit meloncoly.  At work on Monday, I didn’t feel well.  A doctor could have made the diagnosis…I was homesick at Christmas time.

But I was no doctor.

Today, three little things in succession about threw me over the edge, and for the first time in forty days, I thought to myself, “What in the world am I doing here…I should just go home.”

Just as I said those fateful words, I got a call from the receptionist, there was a package for me at the front desk.

Figuring it was yet another in an endless string of forms and packets that I needed to fill out, I walked a bit half heartedly to the front desk.

There was not a package of paperwork sitting on the desk, but a big box, from Claremont, Minnesota.

Taking it to my desk and cutting it open, there I found a one foot Christmas tree, a set of lights, decorations, a cross, Christmas candy, and spagehtti (long, funny story - for another time), and a little mistletoe (wish I had THAT at the after Christmas party).

I will admit, that is when the guilt came over me.

I’m not sure what I’ve done to deserve the friends and family that I have…but surely, surely, I knew better then to doubt the friendship and the sincerity that comes with the years.

As I walked home in the warm afternoon sunshine, I watched the busy shoppers pushing through the shops and stalls along the bustling streets of Melbourne.  Happy that I had a little Christmas in that pack on my back.

I can’t thank everyone - but there are people back home that have certianly made my burden a little lighter here in Australia.  To Tom, Mary, Abby and Sarah…thanks for the Christmas shopping, calls, letters, and prayers.  To the entire Woerner clan - Pat, Kattie, Kyle, Jim, Trish and the Kragers - can’t thank you enough for the help and support.  To the Peterson’s - glad I saw the Opera House and glad I’ve gotten the emails.  To Matt, Stacy, Lincoln and Zander - the phone calls are are always welcome.  To Dave, Tracy, Katie, and Thomas - still think of the send off and laugh.  To the Maxwell’s for support and techincal assistance.  To Mary Ann, Nate(s) (Smithson and Jansen), Helvig, Daninger, and all the men of the U of M FarmHouse - keep the updates coming. To Jed, Shannon, Gavin, Kyra, Carley, and Reagan for bringing a little Christmas to an old Grinches heart.  To all of the friends and family that are keeping me in their thoughts and prayers this holiday season - can’t tell you how appreciated it is.

Will say that as I put up the tree this evening and put up the small nativities that I bought for Christmas…but were still sitting in their wrapping…the first song that I chose to play on my computer/stereo was “We Need A Little Christmas” which seemed all together fitting for the evening…

The second was a random pick that the computer made, “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day.”  The song about a man who doubts his faith, but is reminded by the church bells peeling on Christmas Day that God is not dead, and doesn’t sleep.  In a few days, we will all be celebrating His birthday, but it is clear, that He isn’t dead, and doesn’t sleep…He comes, and He does His work in each of us, in the most remarkable of ways.  Sometimes even a simple box of Christmas cheer.

From Melbourne, Australia, wishing you and yours a very merry Christmas.

Mark’s Christmas Tree - A Gift of Faith from the DeWitz Family.  Peace on Earth! Good will to Mankind!  Melbourne, Australia.

 I’m going to make a confession.  Some of you may laugh, some might be startled, some might be alarmed, it may make some eye brows raise around the water cooler….

I like Christmas Carols.

I know, I know - for a good old farm boy from the prairies of Northern Minnesota, a hockey fan, a world traveler, a man about town, this may be a little…well, unusual, but for one month out of the year, they are my preferred choice of music.

Typically, it is not about the music, it is about the story.

There are the old classics that I copied off of my folk’s records and transferred to my computer.  The classic Bing Crosby singing “White Christmas,” Johnny Mathias smoothing singing, “The Christmas Song,” Andy Williams belting out, “Do You Hear What I Hear” and Dean Martin crooning about “Winter Wonderland.”

Those are the ones that take me back around the tree on that farmhouse on the prairie.  That is the music of my parents.

Then there are the old classics…

Canadian Brass playing “O Come, O Come Emmanuel,” a Cathedral Choir singing, “I Saw Three Ships,” the lone soloist reverently singing the “Coventry Carol,” and the classic “Lo, How A Rose E’re Blooming,” and the Abbey Choir singing the English classic, “The Holly and the Ivy.”

Then there are the more modern, sometimes slightly off beat variations.  The singers, most contemporary, and the songs - some classics, some decidedly not.  There is just something about George Strait singing about “Christmas Time in Texas,” and Suzy Bogguss encouraging people to “Two-Step Round the Christmas Tree,” that just brings a smile to my face along with Kenny Chesney requesting, “All I Want For Christmas Is A Real Good Tan.”  Garth Brooks rocking rendition of “Sleigh Ride” and “Go Tell it on the Mountain.”

Brooks and Dunn always take me home with their “Cabin in the Valley,” and a singer named Rhonda Vincent sings “Christmas Time at Home.”

Marty Stuarts song, “Even Santa Gets the Blues,” and even the immortal band leader from Strasburg, North Dakota make my play list with the little known, “Santa From Santa Fe,” (it is a Christmas Song AND a polka!).

A couple of years back, some friends from college put together a Christmas Album as a singing Christmas Card - it was so popular, they came back and did a total of three - so Talespin Acoustic holds a special place in the playlist.  They do justice to the classics like, “O Holy Night,” but it is their original compositions and little known hits that really make the sound, songs like the Bluesy “Run, Run Rudolph,” and the island sound of “Santa’s Off Season,” mix on their album with the sacred like, “Mary Did You Know,” “It Wasn’t His Child,” and “What A Wonderful Beginning.”

Then there are those that hold a special place in my heart - Mom’s favorite, Sandler and Young’s version of “Jingle Bells.”  Bing Crosby recorded the only version of “Good King Wenceslaus that I’ve ever heard - but the story and the fact that he was a Bohemian King (being a Bohunk myself) make it have special significance…and the fact that my sister-in-law Mary and my niece Abby both play it for me anytime upon request.  “Adeste Fidelas” (”O Come, All Ye Faithful”) was the first Christmas song that I memorized…and sings about the true meaning of Christmas.

But no song summarizes the joy, the confusion, the hustle and bustle of the holiday season quite like, “What Child Is This?”  Like the people two thousand years ago, we get so busy in our everyday lives, that we too ask questions - why are we here, what is there to celebrate, and like the shepards and wise men of ages ago, we continue to find the answer in the surprising form of a baby in a manager.

(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) 

Jerry calmly adjusted his two-way radio as he careened along the ice-covered streets of Minneapolis.  He was carefully checking his mirrors as he sped through a gap in moving traffic that couldn’t have been more than eight inches wider than his car.  He combed his hair neatly as he crossed five lanes of interstate highway traffic and zoomed up an exit ramp.

We knew his name was Jerry because we could read his name on the taxi’s license stuck into the headliner about my seat.  The only time he talked to us was to ask us “Where to?” And announce our fair as “$7.45.”

Jerry was not a talkative guy.

But that guy sure could drive a taxi.

We were visiting Minneapolis with some friends just before Christmas.  We wanted to take in the sights and sounds of a big metropolis during the holidays.  Unfortunately, those sights and sounds included blaring horns and shouted obscenities.  At least that’s what we heard while I was at the wheel attempting to negotiate the streets and alleys of Minnesota’s largest city.

In short, my traveling companions were less than impressed with my big city driving skills.  I guess Boone-style driving doesn’t fit in the Minneapple.  That’s why we elected to take a taxi to our evening outing to the Guthrie Theater production of “A Christmas Carol.”  I say elected because it was a democratic process.  I lost.

Any any rate, Jerry screeched to a halt outside our motel after just a few moments wait.  The four of us climbed inside and Jerry asked us, “Where to?”

We told him and off we went.  At every turn of the wheel and at every stomp of the accelerator, my wife’s vise-like grip on my leg tightened.  Thank goodness it was only a 10-minute trip.  When he did the last U-turn outside the theater, I was sure my leg had been severed just above the knee.

“Here so soon?” Rasped Mary in a voice strained by tension.  “I was just starting to relax and enjoy the ride.”  She managed a smile-just so Jerry wouldn’t feel bad.  Matt and Brenda, our co-taxiers, seemed unfazed.  They’ve had previous taxi experience, I guess.  I was too busy trying to get feeling back into my leg to say anything.

On our return trip, Mike served as our fearless driver.  He slouched sideways in the driver’s seat as if to portray an image of cool professionalism.  It worked.

The trip was fast and ferocious, but reduced traffic made it less eventful than our earlier journey with Jerry. 

Mike looked as us tentatively a couple of times in the rearview mirror.  He turned on his radio on, then off, then on again.  Finally he turned it off again.  It was as if he wasn’t sure if theater-goers would appreciate his taste in music.

Mike also talked more,” What show did you see?” Mike asked.

“A Christmas Carol,” we replied.

“Did you like it?” Mike asked.

“Yes,” we replied.  It wasn’t much, but it was a friendly conversation compared to our exchange with Jerry.

At the end of the trip our fare was nearly a dollar less and Mary’s smile was less slightly less strained.  I guess Mike’s conversation skills must have put her mind at ease.

As for me, I was taking mental notes the entire time.  I soaked in as many of the techniques and the tricks of the trade as I could during our two 10-minute trips.

The next morning, as I guided our little car out of the motel parking lot, I adjusted my mirrors and tuned in the radio.  I stomped on the accelerator and our tiny tan car surged smoothly into morning rush hour traffic.  I roared through a yellow light so I could swerve around a truck that had stopped to unload its cargo.  With a delicate flick of the wrist, I zoomed up an entrance ramp and onto the freeway.

“Where to?” I asked.