(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) 

Question:  What has more suits than Des Moines clothier Bill Reichardt?

Answer:  The U.S. Justice system.

It has more suits than it knows what to do with.  In fact, the justice system in this country is jammed by lawsuits.  People today sue at the drop of a hat.  Litigation has become one of this country’s most widely practiced indoor sports.  In many cases it’s even a spectator sport.

What a sad commentary on our society.  Our ability to work out our own differences seems to decline proportionately to the increase in lawsuits filed.  The courts are jammed with neighbors fighting neighbors, family members fighting family members and corporations fighting corporations.  Consequently, the important issues and criminal cases must wait in line with our petty differences.

At least two fellows are fed up with it all.  Rather than litigate, they will arm-wrestle to settle a corporate dispute.  Kurt Herwald is chairman of Stevens Aviation Inc. in Greenville, S.C.   His opponent will be Herb Kelleher, chairman of Southwest Airlines in Dallas.  The men are at odds over an advertising slogan.  The man who wins two of three arm-wrestling matches wins the exclusive rights to the slogan.

It’s not a bad idea.  In fact, it’s kind of appealing in an American-Gladiator sort of way.  Here is two white-collar guys settling a dispute in a down-to-earth-blue-collar manner.  Some of us can’t afford to hire attorneys for protracted legal battles.  We have to find other ways to settle our differences.  It’s about time executives and CEO’s learned how to do that.

Mike Mulvihill, a spokesperson for Helleher, told Knight-Ridder Newspapers, “More people should consider doing this.”

I’m inclined to agree.  I’m not advocating a return to dueling with swords or pistols here.  Nor do I think a bare-knuckle fight to finish is a viable alternative.  The competition would need to be more civilized than that and have little chance of physical injury.  Opponents would both have to agree on the competition and rules.  The competitors flip coins, draw cards, play poker or shoot baskets.  There are hundreds of options.  Feuding carpenters could have a board-swing contest.  Disputing musicians could compete to see who could play the Minute Waltz the fastest.

The results would be quick and clean.  There would be no appeals, no court costs and no waiting.  Judge Wapner would love it.  And maybe in the process we could learn how to resolve our differences without the help of a battery of lawyers and a fist full of legal briefs.

Still, one thing bothers me about these arm-wrestling airline executives.  Does this mean they are taking the law into their own hands?

 In hind sight, it was probably a dangerous thing to do.  Regardless the weather, regardless the time of day, regardless my mental state at the time, regardless of my finances, as an undergrad in college, I would hop in my car and drive home.

I will admit, by conventional definitions, there really wasn’t much to see.  If I took the back way home, there were times when I would scarcely see a car on the entire seventy-mile trek back home.  If I took the route along US 10, there would be more people, more traffic, more towns, but the beauty seemed to be a little less.

There was something about the open road, the open landscape, the fields being harvested in fall, the wind blown countryside in winter, the lush green of spring and summer, it can’t even be discribed.

There was something basic about that drive.  It was a time to think, to figure, to hope, to pray, and to put things into perspective.

There were some lonely drives.  Drives after defeats, drives after break ups, of shattered hopes, shattered dreams, doors closed, and goals not met.

There were some hopeful drives too – drives where I believed that all of the world would be my oyster.

But there was also something basic about it, something that marked the passage of time, that grounded me to reality.  I might have flunked that calculus of economics test in Thor’s class, but the trees are budding at that farmstead along highway nine.  I might have been rejected by that cute girl in my English class, but the colors along the Wild Rice by Faith were some of the most beautiful I’ve seen.  I lost the election, but I watched two deer graze on the remnants of a soybean field for ten minutes.

More of my problems, and the worlds problems at times, were solved on those back roads then I care to remember.

There was something so wonderfully familiar about it all too.  The same roads, the same farmsteads, the same fields, the same groves.  For four crop years, I could see the same fields – wheat, barley, alfalfa, soybeans, corn – and the rotation. 

I could see the changing of the seasons – the colors of fall on the northern prairie are understated, but as beautiful as anything I’ve seen anywhere else.  The white starkness of winter is at times very lonely, and at times comforting like a Norman Rockwell print.  The birth of spring is an affair for the nose.  The smell of freshly turned soil, the sight of budding trees and the sheen of green from the new growth of grass in the ditches and tree breaks.  In the summer, the heat and humidty would permeat my car, where a cold bottle of Mountain Dew would keep me cool and caffeniated.  The smell of corn, soybeans, and wheat would hang in the air.

Regardless what state I got into the car at – stressed or sad, frustrated or lonely, after those drives, a sense of hope would be there, my composure would be reborn on those back roads, a hope for things that could be, a thankfulness for the things that were.

As long ago as that was, as far as I’ve traveled, as many places I’ve been, those country roads still take me back and ground me to what is important.

 We didn’t rent movies all that often.  Between farm work, daily chores, school work, and extracurriculur activities, there just wasn’t time.  But occasionally, we would run into ‘Maggie’s Movies,’ the local video emporium – located in the back of a natural food store (both were small places – no more then ten feet square each), and pick out a title that would suit the whole family (which was another reason we so rarely rented movies, too many people with too wide of tastes).

“Hoosiers” was one of those movies.  I will admit, most of the family wasn’t keen on it, but my brother was a budding basketball star and insisted.  As the movie started to play, I’ll admit, I was hooked from the start.

The movie opens with an old car slowly making its way across the flat, windswept fields of central Indiana.  The star of the movie was making his way to the little hamlet of Hickory to take over teaching and coaching duties for the little farming community. That image was suppose to portray the starkness of the rural countryside.

It was the first time that I had seen something that resembled my hometown, my home country, depicted on big screen, and it still makes me a little nostagic for the windswept fields back home.

The purists will point out that central Indiana is much different then the plains and prairies of Northwestern Minnesota and Eastern North Dakota, snowy and windswept or not.

True, I know the difference, I’ve driven them both hundreds of times, but it doesn’t matter, there is something earthy, something fundamental, something so starkly beautiful about seeing those wide open fields, the cross roads in the middle, in the middle of nothingness in the spartan winter sunshine.

The story too speaks of the starkness of the land and its people.  They too seem frozen in time and place, and stuck with their old ideas and old ways of thinking.

But I know what lies under those lonely frozen fields.  Regardless if you are in North Dakota, Minnesota, Iowa, Missouri, Illinois, Indiana, or Ohio looking out over the stark winter landscape, at heart, we know that the starkness will give way to the gentle warming rains of spring.  That the summer seeds, grasses, and dormant seeds are only lying in wait under the earth.

Those lonely crossroads will be busy in the coming year as the corn grows, as the wildlife finds rest, and nurishment from the growth, as the wind rustles the leaves and the summer storm blows in from the west.

‘Hoosier’ is, and was one of the greatest sports movies of all time (I believe that it made ESPN and Sports Illistrated top 10), but it goes beyond sports, it goes beyond basketball.  You don’t have to be pulled in by the sport to see the story of redemption in the characters, of new birth, of hope.

As a kid that has criss crossed the heartland of the country, who has planted seeds, plowed the fields, and harvested the grain, and traversed those lonely, cold roads in winter, you know, like the little town of Hickory, that hope is only a season away.

 ”Don’t expect the 4^th of July, we just don’t do that sort of thing here.”

I was warned.  Australia Day would not be the 4^th of July that as an American I had come to know and love.  January 26^th is the national holiday in Australia where all Australians recognize the founding of the orginal colony of convicts and soldiers that touched base in Jackson Bay, in Sydney Cove – the first white settlers in the country now known as Australia.

I had the chance to catch the excitement of Australia Day in the two preminant cities in the country, Sydney and Melbourne.  For the first half of the day, and in the festivities leading up to Australia Day (Australia Day Eve) I had the pleasure of spending time in Darling Harbor and the Circular Quay – and in the Sydney Cove, near the point of original debarkation of those first settlers.  Then hopping on a plane, headed south to the less known, but equally impressive, one time capital, and soon to be largest city, of Melbourne – walking up and down the Yarra River, watching the fireworks shooting from the buildings and landmarks up and down the river, and enjoying the festivities in Federation Square – the heart of the city.

I know tomorrow I’m going to be asked, “Well, what did you think?  How do we compare?”

I think both sides would be shocked to see how similar the celebrations are – Darling Harbour was filled with families and activities.  The museums, the resturants, the public performances were all packed.  Sydney Harbour had boat parades, boat races, and general merriment.  The beaches, even yesterday, were packed with holiday reverliers.

Melbourne was a little more subdued, but the fireworks, the public concerts, the river walk was all packed.  The city was dignified, but in a celebratory mood.  Bars and resturants were packed.  Families were out.

But there where differences too.

In both Sydney and Melbourne, Australian flags were present in abudance.  But while in the United States – where you see them flying from every house and every pole, here they were in the hands of children, painted on faces – much as you would also see in the states, but also worn as capes around the shoulders of the young.

In the United States, there is a certain amount of reverance to the celebration.  There is always that moment of silence for those that gave their lives for freedom and liberty.  Those that died so that we might be free.  There is quiet respect when the “Star Spangled Banner” is sung, hats off and hand over heart.  The two times that I heard “Advance Australia Fair” – hats stayed on and many didn’t even stand.

But in the United States, aside from the occassional “ooohhh” and “aaaawwww” at the fireworks display, in Autralia, there were near constant chants of “Aussie!  Aussie!  Aussie!” followed by the crowd’s reply of “Oy! Oy! Oy!”  The Australians could give us American’s a lesson in spirit and celebration.

Part of that is a nature of the history of the countries.  The United States fought a bloody war for Independence from Great Britian – the first of her colonies to do so.  We had that spirit of liberty and freedom ingrained into us.  We were tried in the crucible of Civil War.  It is like the first born child that tests their mother’s patience.  It is a painful process.

Australia is younger.  The first fleet, the motely crew of soldiers and convicts that settled in Sydney Cover, landed on that first Australia Day in 1788 – 12 years after the United States declared our independence.  But the young child has their responsibilites as well.  Australia had their nose bloodied in the Boer War, was subjected to the blood letting of World War I three years before the United States entered, and was directly attacked by the Japanese during World War II.  Then supported the mother country in a host of other twentieth century conflicts from the Malay penisula to Korea and Vietnam…and standing by the United States in a host of other conflicts.

In short – the United States does not have a monopoly on standing up for freedom and liberty – or for commiting blood to it when needed.

For all of the similarities – both former British colonies, the US had Native Americans, Australia had its First Peoples – both have dealt, or are dealing with their past.  Both enjoy liberty and freedom almost unheard of almost anywhere else in the world.  There are subtle differences too that create some fairly large differences in the social fabric of each country.

Perhaps what was most striking about the celebrations is that both countries, and perhaps are countries of the young.  Everywhere I went today, there were young people celebrating, eating, drinking, enjoying life, and proud of the fact that they were Australian.

As an proud American, I raised a glass tonight over a plate of Australian oysters and said a quiet toast to my temporary home – “Advance Australia Fair.”

(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’m a voracious reader. Or at least I’m a voracious subscriber.  Some magazine, newspaper or publication is delivered to our house almost every day.  I scan almost all of them.  I read the headlines and read more if an article seems interesting.

We supplement our home deliveries with judicious selections from local newsstands. I guess it’s no wonder that our house has been targeted by American Publishers.  Last week I received two notices that I am a finalist in the company’s $10 million sweepstakes.  I received one finalist notification at work and another one at home. In the notifications, Ed mcmahon said that I could make sure my sweepstakes reply received prompt processing priority if I agreed to subscribe to one or more of the magazines offered by American Family. What a selection!  I never knew there were so many magazines being published.  Everything from Astrology to Yankee was offered.  If you have an interest or hobby, there’s probably a magazine being published. If this offer had arrived before Christmas, I could have been spared the agony of Christmas shopping.   Brother John, who fancies himself a hunter, would love receiving Field and Stream or Guns and Ammo.  Brother Jaime, who will soon undergo surgery to repair tendons in his shoulder would probably enjoy his own subscription to Symptoms, Illness & Surgery.  Brother Mark is interested in current event and news.  A renewal to his Newsweek subscription would probably be a perfect gift. Barbie, Disney’s The Little Mermaid and Disney’s Mickey Mouse would be perfect for sister Margaret. For my wife, Mary, the selections are endless.   I could select Better Homes and Gardens or Cookbook Digest.  She might also enjoy Cross Stitch and Country Crafts or Working Woman. A perfect choice might be Kiplinger’s Personal Finance Magazine.  She’s always looking for ways to improve our financial lot in life. If I were to buy myself a gift, Home Handyman and Popular Mechanics could certainly come in handy around our old house.  A subscription to Rolling Stone might give me a hipper outlook on life. Playboy might be interesting, but I doubt if my wife or my mother would approve. I had dozens of those little stamps torn out and ready to paste on the order form.  I love to get stuff in the mail and I love to subscribe to magazines. 

Then Mary pointed out that I have two year’s worth of Time and Reader’s Digest sitting in a stack waiting to be read.  “Read my lips,” she said.  “No new magazines.” “When I wind that $10 million, “ I replied, “I’ll subscribe to any and every magazine that catches my fancy.” She says then, the only subscriptions I’ll be ordering are to Modern Time Management and Procrastinator’s Digest.  Those aren’t real magazines, are they? 

(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) 

In the cold days of December 1989, Chinese steam locomotive JS8419 took its first trip down the rails of the Boone &Scenic Valley Railroad.  With that trip, the face of Boone County tourism changed forever.

That was 13 months ago, and officials of the tourist railroad say they couldn’t be happier.  Despite rainy weather and mudslides (Including one that shut down the railroad on Father’s Day), ridership was good.  In fact, more passengers bought tickets at the B&SVRR depot last summer than at all the Amtrak depots in Iowa.

And “The Iowan” is performing beautifully.  I recently spent a morning down at the railroad’s heated shop crawling over, under and into the giant locomotive.

My tour guide was Mike Shearer, a volunteer at eh B&SVRR who makes sure the water that goes into the locomotive is treated with the proper mixture of chemicals.  The same minerals that make your bathtub look awful do nasty things to boilers, he said.  “The water in Boone is excellent water to drink, but it’s the worst thing you can put into a boiler,” Shearer said.  He should know.  His paying job is as an operator at Boone’s municipal water plant.

After the first year of operation, the boiler shows no build-up of scale, corrosion or other damage. “I knew that if I did my job right, nobody would know the difference, but if I did it wrong, everybody would know,” Shearer said.

We stared into the gaping maw of the locomotive’s empty cold firebox.  The heavy cast iron grates that hold the burning coal were warped, bent form the intense heat.  Apparently Chinese coal doesn’t burn as hot as the high-grade Kentucky coal the B&SVRR uses.

This winter, Boone’s Quinn Machine and Foundry will cast a new set of grates.  The foundry has already fabricated a set of brakes pads for the locomotive.  Mike Weddell, one of the railroad’s full-time employees and its chief mechanic officer noted that the railroad is used to looking locally for such expertise.  “If we need anything, we get it here if we possibly can,” he said.

Those purchases rapidly add up for the local economy.  The railroad spent about $35.000 just to operate and maintain the “The Iowan” during 1990.  That includes money spent for just less than a ton of coal and chemicals to treat the 1,500 gallons of water consumed each time the train makes the trip to Fraser and back.

As my tour continued, I marveled at the size of the eight massive drive wheels.  They are 54 inches in diameter. Shearer explained the array of controls in the cab.  There are controls for applying sand to slippery rails, for automatically feeding sand to slippery rails, for automatically feeding coal to the firebox, for expelling scale and other contaminants from the boiler, for getting rid of the ash and for wetting that ash to make sure hot embers are extinguished.  Then there is another set of controls for operating the train itself: the throttle, brake, Johnson bar and a host of others.

Everything relies on steam.  But with steam the locomotive can generate 2,270 horsepower.  The locomotive was built to haul heavy freight.  Shearer and Weddell admit that the B&SVRR will seldom use more than 20 percent of the locomotive’s potential power.  Fireman on the train shovel coal rather than use the automatic stoker because it takes so little fuel to run the train.

The locomotive is fascinating and amazing.

But what is even more amazing is that a battery of volunteers maintains and operates the giant locomotive.  The labor supplied by Weddell and the handful of other paid employees is only a drop in the bucket when you consider that it takes one man nearly 40 hours each week just to lubricate JS8419.  But volunteers do it all.

“Some people think that there’s an exclusive group that does this or that, you have to be a special member to get involved here,” noted Shearer.  “But that’s not true.”

Weddell agreed.  “Anybody anywhere who is interested can come down here. There’s something for everybody.”

 It was bright.  Very bright.  The sky was brilliant blue.  The sun shimmered on the January snow.  But there was a reason for the brightness, for the shimmering sun, for the brilliant blue sky – and it was spelled out in the sun dogs – those bright rainbows that radianted out from the sun, and the blowing snow that chased along the ground.

It was cold.

Not the normal winter time cold, this was bitter, bone chilling, absolutely horribly cold.  It was the type of cold that literally took the breath out of you.  There are always the days during winter when your sinuses momentarily freeze together, but this time the sinus’s froze, then burned.  There was no moisture in the air, the sun dogs, those multi-colored rings around the sun, was literally ice crystals floating in the air where clouds should be – the air was too cold for clouds to form.

But the chores still needed to be done.  The cows fed and milked.  The calves bedded and cared for.  The youngstock watered and given their grain and hay.

Morning chores were a struggle.  Between trying to do the normal chores, fighting with equipment that just wouldn’t work right, and keeping pipes thawed, it wreaked havoc on the daily schedule.

And that was in the barn.  The chores outside had yet to be done.

After a hearty breakfast, we suited up for chores outside.  Several layers of t-shirts, seatshirt, hooded sweatshirt, insulated coveralls, wool socks, insulated boots, face mask, stocking hat, mittens, big leather ‘chopper’ mittens, and for Dad, his big ‘bomber’ hat and a scarf, for me the snowmobile helmet.

We went out to brave the weather.

While I trudged around the farmyard, opening gates, piling bales on the loader, Dad was running the loader tractor – taking the bucketful of hay to the feeders and scoopes of silage to the gates that I would open.

And it was cold.  I’m not sure what the actual tempurature was, but dispite all of the clothing, the wind still cut through.

We finished up in time for dinner (the noon meal on the farm), and dispite the visual beauty of the day, we stayed inside the warm house until evening chores and milking, just trying to get some warmth back into our bodies.

At the end of the night, after all the chores were done and we were eating a late supper.  I was rubbing my fingers – still tingling from the cold (frost bitten years before – and still sensitive to the cold), meanwhile, Dad was complaining about his eyes, they just wouldn’t stop watering.

As luck would have it, his eyes – the only thing that either of us had exposed that day (I had the face shield on the snowmobile helmet) and the only thing that ended up getting frost bitten that day.

It was that cold.

 The young forget.  We all forget.  We remember what we want to remember.  Our memories become foggy with time.  Our history is studied, read and forgotten.  We look ahead without looking at the paths behind us.

But there are things that we must remember.  As citizens of the world, as people in the western world that enjoy the blessings of liberty, forged with the blood and raw courage of the people that came before us.

It is easy to look overseas to the horrors of the Nazi regime in Germany.  To the millions of inocents whose blood was shed out of ignorance and hatred.  It is easy to look at the barbarism of the Soviet Union and to the millions of people that died in gulags of Siberia.  It is easy to look to the cultural revolution in China, where people were “re-educated” or died in the process.  It is easy to look to the “ethnic cleansing” of the former Yugoslavia and Rwanda and numerous other places in the 1990′s.  It is easy to look at the evils of apartheid in South Africa or colonial repression of Ireland, or the fuedel system of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, or the evils of the colonial powers of eighteeth century.  We can even look in our own back yard – the cruelty of slavery in the United States is less then 150 years old.

We can count ourselves lucky that we, the youth, or the relative youth, of our day have not had to deal with the scourges of bigotry and hatred.

But it wasn’t that long ago, less then fifty years ago, when the cruelty of near apartheid existed in most of the western world.  Where people – men and women, were denied the basic, fundamental, God given rights that we claim to hold so dear.  When these people were viewed as something less then human.

And it was in our lifetime, or our parents lifetime.

With any of these atrocities, it took men and women of courage to stand up and say, “This is wrong.  These things should not happen.”  These men and women stood up, and in the midst of the horrors and injustice did the right thing.  Maxmillian Kolbe, Martin Luther King Jr, and the thousands of men and women who died fighting left their blood on the alter of freedom.

Freedom and liberty is paid, not just with courage, but with hero’s blood.

In the United States, we honor Martin Luther King, Jr.  His stand for civil rights, his belief in non-violent protest, his belief in the vindication of right over might, his belief in the compassion and love in the human heart should serve as an example for all.

But we remember him in vain if we don’t live his message.  If we don’t strive to right the wrongs and make a world worthy of our children and our children’s children.

The cruel truth of the matter is, that the cruelty of injustice, the horrors of hatred, are not dead.  They exist in our midsts, in our laws, in our institutions, and tragically, in our very hearts.

Do we work to tame the bigotry in our own hearts?  Do we strive to help the poor, the marginalized, the unloved, the unborn in our towns and communities?  Do we look to how we can help the developing world?  Do we speak out to those who hate or scorn?

I can point to times in my life when I’ve laughed at a joke that wasn’t funny, but cruel.  When I’ve said a thing, or made a comment that was just inappropriate, but helped to fuel and prolong the hatred in society.  When I haven’t thoughtfully cast my ballot for the candidate that believed in right and justice for all.

We need to think about the past, but we also must look and focus on the future, and the things we must fight for, and the world we want to create.

I was not looking forward to leaving the mountains, the cool breezes, and the misty scenery, but the Christmas holiday break was over, so on Monday morning – I packed up, and looked for a gas station in the resort town.

There were people everywhere now, the mountain side was full of bikers.  The roads packed with hikers.

I was told that there were two gas stations in town, and though I still had over half a tank…I figured it was better safe than sorry given that the closest town was almost one hundred kilometers away…and  I wasn’t sure what was going to be open or not…

Pulling into the Shell station, I was met by two guys that seemed less than happy to see me.  “I think we are out of gas.”  The one said that seemed to be the manager, “see if you can get any into a pail or if we are really out.”  He said to his assistant.

There was a line up of bicyclists waiting for air for their tires, new chains, or otherwise trying to speak to the mechanics.

The guys were rude, to say the least.

“I need air for my tire.” One kid asked.

“What do you want me to do, the compressors on the side,” he growled.

“The lights out on my bike,” another commented.

“So what would you like me to do?” He asked.

“Could you please help me fix it?” the kid asked.

With a sigh, he took a look at the light, “You know, I’m out of this one, but I’ve got a spare for my bike I’ll give you.” He said.

By this time, they had confirmed that they were out of gas.

“Where is the closest place to get gas between here and Carryong?” I asked.

“Jindabyne.” The owner commented.

Then I proceeded to walk to the wrong side of my car, much to the amusement of the owner (the steering wheel is on the opposite side of the car as in the US).  To make matters worse, I knew that Jindabyne was the exact opposite way from Carryong – it might be the closest place to get gas…but it wouldn’t get me any closer to home.

As I pulled out and worked slowly up the road, the kid with the bad light road fast to catch up to me, “Hey, Jindabyne is the wrong direction – that guy just hates people from overseas.” The kid said.

“I figured as much, but I really appreciate you racing me down to tell me – means a lot mate.” I said.

“No worries, we all came from somewhere.” The kid said as he sped off.

Now there is some wisdom.

(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) 

Food critics dine at the best restaurants, eat from the finest china, receive the most attentive service and eat only the most delectable morsels.

I’ve been hanging out at school cafeterias, eating from plastic trays, taking my turn in the lunch line and drinking milk straight out of the carton.  Such is the life of a local columnist.  I’m not complaining.  I like it.

Rose Wilson, a fifth grade teacher at Sacred Heart School recently invited me to taste the school’s macaroni and cheese.  Suddenly I was nervous.  As a Catholic school graduate, could I be truly fair and unbiased?  As a member of Sacred Heart Parish, would there be personal religious repercussions if I wrote a negative review?  Could a negative review prompt these Catholic grade-schoolers to abandon their religious-based education in search of superior macaroni and cheese.

Sometimes being a local journalist is a very heavy burden.

Regular readers will remember that last fall during National School Lunch Week, I wrote about the macaroni and cheese at my old alma mater, St. Michaels’s Grade School.  In subsequent weeks, cooks at Boone High School and United Community School invited me to taste their dairy and pasta creations.

A week ago Friday, I found myself seated with Sacred Heart’s fifth grade class.  Dining with fifth graders is great.  I was the most popular guy in the lunchroom.  I could hardly take a bite without landing an elbow on one of the 22 fifth-graders. Luke Rickertt, Chris dekovic, Chris Doss, Abbey Hagen and Cung Tran, all politely informed me that the cafeteria’s pizza is their favorite dish and is far superior to macaroni and cheese.

Luke allowed that the macaroni and cheese was OK, but noted that the cafeteria’s tuna and noodles dish is even better.  Somebody who likes both macaroni and cheese and tuna and noodles must really enjoy those meatless days of Lent.  Here’s a guy who belongs in a Catholic school.

Least favorite meals?  Several of the students couldn’t think of any.  I’d count that as a vote of confidence in the kitchen staff.  Chris Dekovic cast an unhesitating vote for meatloaf.  Cung Tran made a face to express his distaste of macaroni and cheese.  I guess fine dining isn’t for everyone.

Cafeteria manager Diane Wickman noted that crispitos and other Mexican dishes are favorites along with breakfast dishes such as pancakes.  Wickman share kitchen duties with Barb Elsner who does the baking and Rose Smith who handles the serving for the 150 students who eat in the cafeteria.

The macaroni and cheese?  Let me say this.  The cooks at United Community and a BHS should be darned proud of their macaroni and cheese and the students should be darned happy to be able to eat it.  But, since I’m the official mac and cheese food critic, I have to cast my vote for one and Sacred Heart’s is undoubtedly the best.  The Sacred Heart dish was thicker than United Community’s and cheesier than BHS’s.  And when you leave a cafeteria with that sticky, cheesy film on your lips and teeth, you know you’ve had a truly great macaroni and cheese.

I think Sacred Heart School principal Paul Hillyer may have discovered the real reason behind this series of macaroni and cheese columns.  “You know,” he said to me as I worked my way through the lunch line, “it seems like some guys will do anything for a free meal.”