The work was hard at the golf course, but it beat milking cows.  Once Dad sold the cows, five days before high school graduation, I soon found myself underemployed, and the golf course seemed to be just the place for a former dairy farmer to get his fair share of manual labor.

I say underemployed because, technically, I had a couple of jobs.  First, there was feeding the youngstock in the feedlot on the farm.  Dad kept about twenty steers on the property to feed up and sell out once they were big enough.  Before leaving for work, it was my job to carry out the five gallon buckets of feed into the big wooden trough.  Once week, I’d grind the feed and put it in place in the old feed room in the barn.  In addition, the hay feeder always had to be stocked so that the cattle had both their grain and their roughage.

The other job was as a shift supervisor at the new sandwich shop in the hometown, Subby’s.  There it was all food service all the time, and I found myself working twenty to thirty hours a week, mainly from five until eleven each evening.

But that wasn’t enough to keep me occupied, but more importantly, pay my way through college.  Though a shift supervisor earned a handsome $5.00 per hour, that was not nearly as much as I thought I would need to get me through my first year at NDSU.

So off to the golf course I went, continuing the trend of manual labor, and this for a whooping $4.75 per hour (the pay was lower, but the hours were longer….).

The first couple of days at the course was an intense bout of very physical labor.  We had to aerate the greens.  At most golf courses, this job had been automated.  The labor involved in the process of making sure that the greens didn’t get root bound was fairly automated and scientific.

The simple process was a machine took plugs of soil out of the ground, the plugs of earth were gathered up and disposed of, leaving a green carpet of grass with quarter inch holes throughout.  A mixture of the right soil type to provide adequate drainage and support to the grass was then spread over the greens and worked into the openings.

On the surface, very easy – and on the biggest golf course, a very automated process.

On our little depression era golf course, not so easy.

The plugs were taken out with a 1960′s era machine that rattled and shook its way across the greens, like working a bucking donkey around the greens…backwards.  Then there was the issue of the plugs of dirt and grass.  These had to be removed from the greens.  We used snow shovels, something that there was plenty of in the far reaches of Minnesota.  Slowly, we scrapped the wet soil and grass mixture of the greens and into a waiting trailer (made out of an old pick up box of course…).

Then it was sanding the greens…which meant taking the old Farmall H with the loader with the manual dump, and filling the same rickety pickup truck box trailer (that had to be dumped and manually scraped clean) that had the plugs and filling it with sand (no analysis – the greens were clay and silt, they needed sand).  With the same snow shovels, we applied the sand evenly across the greens.

Then, the most automated part of the process – we attached a big broom attachment, five feet wide and mounted on a metal frame – to the back of a golf cart – then we proceeded to spin and sweep the sand into the holes in the green.

 ”This one goes on Uncle Frank’s.”  Dad said, pulling a plastic arrangement of flowers out of the trunk of the car as he continued to shuffle through the brown plastic bags that held wreaths, sprays, and crosses made of artificial flowers.

Taking it out of his hand, I dutifully walked through the quiet rows of stones to place the flowers on the final resting place of my Great Uncle Frank, his wife and one of his sons.  The VFW had been out already that morning, putting up the flags on the graves of all the veterans.  A small flag fluttered in the breeze near Uncle Frank’s headstone, a veteran of World War I.

“Here, put this one on Dad’s.”  Dad said, jutting out his hand with a wreath that said father in the middle, with red carnations surrounding it, and an American flag perched in the middle.  My grandfather, also a proud veteran of World War I, had passed away when I was little.  I didn’t know him in life, but I knew him through the stories passed on by my parents, aunts and uncles.  After struggling to get the thin wire placed in the hard clay ground, the wreath was finally in place.  With a sign of the cross and a silent prayer, I walked back to the car.

“I think we put this one on Uncle Charlies…and here, this big one goes on Grandma and Grandpa Stolka’s.”  This time handing me a cross and a large spray of flowers, I make the trek to the old section of the cemetery.

Slowly, all of the flowers are placed in their appointed place.  After Dad patted down the bags and sorted through the boxes, making sure that everything was empty, the official rounds and inspections would begin.

“That one is a little crooked.  Can you get it any straighter?  I remember when Grandpa Stolka died.  You know he rarely spoke English.  Lived with him and Uncle Charlie a while when I was in school….”  Quietly, the flowers a little straighter, we both made the sign of the cross and said a silent prayer….

“I wonder if Frank has been out?  Or did Albert put those on Grandma and Grandpa Jirik?”  bowing our heads, we said a little prayer and moved on….

Slowly, we walk through the cemetery, Dad checking on the work, and carefully pointing out where flowers look a little unstable, or a little too far above the earth, where a strong prairie wind will catch them and send them flying.

Dad recounting history – name, dates, stories, and lives of friends, neighbors, relatives, people that Dad grew up around, lived with, people that were integral to our lives and our families story.

We stopped a little longer at Grandma and Grandpa, Dad’s folks – and our last stop would be Mom’s.

As we got back in the car, we drove slowly out of the cemetery, the flowers, the green spring grass, and the fluttering flags gave the aura newness and joy.  We would be back again by the end of the weekend, for the Memorial Day Mass, where we would be remembered that these are our family, and though they sleep, they remain our brothers and sisters. We remember.

 The late spring air was still cool, but there were no longer worries about a frost.  The crops had all been in the ground, and the cows were enjoying their days outside after a winter of being locked inside the barn.

On this morning, as the cool moist summer air made it is assault against the still retreating coolness of winter and spring, fog covers the landscape.  The earth is shrouded in an ethereal mist.

Walking out of the house, going to do chores before class, the barn was hidden in the dark and dank of the spring morning.  The granary rose out of the fog like a spector. Walking down the hill, the outlines of the barn formed out of the mist.

Walking into the silent barn and clicking on the lights that line the main alleyway and the area in front of the mangers by the walls, the cats looked silently on, looking forward to their morning feeding once the cattle are milked.

With a rumble, the backdoor rolled open, letting the light shine out ending in the white stillness of the foggy morning. 

The neighbors probably heard the low growing sound that echoed through the morning, through the faint light, and cutting through the fog as the cows were called in for the morning milking. 

Like some ancient chant, the noise called the cows home, “Coommmmee BOOOOOOSSSSSSS.   Cooommmmmeeee BOOOOOOOOOOSSSSS, Cooommeee BOOOOOSSSSSS.”

The cows, grazing in some off corner of the pasture needed nothing more to get them moving home.  Generally, the time from when the call went out to when they would walk through the back door could range from five to fifteen minutes, depending upon their location in the pasture.

The cows, dutifully, always came to the call.  Though it had changed over time, from a light shrill call of a young boy, the youngest of the crew that were running around the barn, to now, the last one left on the farm, finishing his studies before he went on to college, and the cows moved on to greener pastures (or a families dinner plate).

Quickly, before the cows came in, a small pile of ground grain, protein, and minerals were placed in front of every stanchion, the stanchions were straightened and made ready, and easy for the cows to stick their heads through, and any other last minute chores that could be done before the cows came walking in, like a steady line of soldiers walking in through the darkness and fog.

Once they did, they came in slow but steady, each cow to their allotted spot, with a few occasional dissenters that would need to be rerouted with a firm push of their heads, out of improper stall and into the right one, until the last one came walking in out of the fog.

When they were let out an hour or two later, the spring sun would have managed to burn off the remaining morning fog, but they still come home once in a while, through the quiet fog of memories to the boy that used to call them home.

 I was just finishing up my Sophomore year at North Dakota State University, and money being tight, I took any jobs that I could, part of that was doing speeches on the mash potato circuit, the FFA, 4-H, Farm Bureau and Corn and Soybean Growers Banquets throughout Minnesota and North Dakota.

This speech, this particular speech, I remember it like yesterday…even though it was fifteen years ago, May 15^th.

I was scurrying around the old fraternity house on College Street after class, finding the jacket, the tie, and the clean pair of pants.  Rushing through the three basic “S’s” (two of which are showing and shaving), I managed to cut myself (shaving, not showering) and cursed like a sailor.  It hurt.

But I was in a hurry.  First of all, I needed to drive all the way from Fargo to Kimball, MN – a distance of about two hundred miles.  Second, I had to stop and meet a very important person, my niece, Abigail.

Pulling out of town in my little red Pontiac LeMan’s (only one letter difference to a lemon) I pulled into the parking lot of St. Luke’s hospital right off of Broadway in Fargo.

Our family had been through a lot over the last three years – my mother’s battle with cancer and subsequent passing on, Dad, Margaret and I working through life post Mom, me starting university.  I think we were all looking forward to a little good news, and little new life in the family, the first grandchild for Dad, the first niece or nephew for the rest of us.

For Abby’s folks too, it had been a time of change.  In addition to the rest of our families struggles, they had decided to move from Iowa, back to the Fargo area…and only then finding out that their first child was on the way.  It prompted one of the best Christmas letters on record from my creative brother Tom, something along the likes of, “Tom went forth with his wife Mary, who was with child…..” made all the more funny as the couldn’t find a house so they put all of their things in a storage unit, which made for a very funny picture to accompany the Christmas letter.

I’m not sure what I was expecting walking into that hospital room, but this cold, hard heart melted when they placed her into my arms.  Her tiny little fingers wrapped around my fingers, it was pretty clear that it was my niece that would have her uncles wrapped around her fingers.

She provided hope to a weary family!

I remember the spring drive down to Kimball FFA Banquet, through the farm country as tractors rolled through the fields.  The speech and the banquet were great – the students and people of Kimball giving me a great welcome.

The speech was one of my best.  Though the basic framework was the same, the content changed with the audience, the news of the day, and theme that the teacher wanted me to address. 

I have to admit, the impact of holding my niece for the first time was recounted to entire audience.  The story of gently holding her, rocking her, the feeling of euphoria, how this promise for the future was in all of our hands – how the world that we created was not just for us, but for the future generations, those little ones like Abby.

Our families been blessed with Sarah, Matt, Nick, Parker, and Trevor – and the feeling of joy with each of them was the same as Abby.  With each additional niece or nephew, the yoke of responsibility feels a little heavier.  First, to teach them the old, “pull my finger” routine, but also to live up to those ideals that I talked about so long ago at an FFA Banquet in Kimball, MN.

 Senioritis:  A common malady affecting students most commonly during the last months of there educational terms, but can start anywhere from days to years prior to completion of studies.  Symptoms commonly include lack of focus, changes in energy levels, alternating euphoria and terror, sudden life changing decisions, much wasted time, and reminiscing.  Highly contagious.

It was an illness that I told myself I’d never suffer from, senioritis.  I’d seen its impact during my final weeks of high school and managed to stave off the infection with heavy doses of farm chores, trying to secure financing for university, family obligations, and preparations for my graduation party.

It wasn’t pretty.  The devil may care attitude was a shock coming from normally stoic students of Northern Minnesota stock.

During my college years, while dozens of memorial moments stemmed from people with serious infections (normally sane people doing some pretty crazy things), but I swore it wouldn’t happen to me.

Pride goes before the fall.

I noticed it the second to my last semester walking the hallowed halls of NDSU.  My attention started to wander.  Studying for test, my job on campus, getting assignments done…it was getting harder….  Normal tasks that would normally be fairly easy to complete were now requiring a greater degree of discipline. “Must. Not. Watch. Dukes. Of. Hazard. Reruns….” was a common mantra after suppers as other members of my fraternity crowded the couch in front of the big screen.

When the spring semester rolled around, it got even worse.

Still waffling on my life’s directions, I applied to graduate schools, full time jobs, and seriously considered just finding a hut to live in.

Grad school won.  But that was more on a whim than anything else, and there were a lot of people telling me that I was making the wrong move.  Symptom number two – life altering decision on the spur of the moment.

And there were alternative moments of euphoria and terror.  “I have to study for this test or else I’m going to fail the class!”  One minute….  “Who cares!”  The next.

And boy was there reminiscing.  I’d come through my four years with a good group of guys surrounding me, we all started in the Reed-Johnson cell block…sorry, the Reed-Johnson dorms on campus, and our old breakfast group all ended up joining the same fraternity – and the bulk of us were all graduating together.  For four years, these were the men that I’d celebrated, mourned, travelled, debated, talked women, pulled shenanigans with.  We were friends for life, and we recounted, with surprisingly frequent regularity, many of the antics and situations we were involved in the last four years.

The last week or two as my time wound down, I think it was official, I had a full blown case of senioritis.  And I don’t think I would have changed it.

(Tom Jirik’s columns originally published in the Boone Today)Graduates take note.

There are no tests on the material that will be covered in the graduation speeches given this weekend.  You won’t need to memorize any key passages.  And you won’t have to recite any part of them by heart.  But listen anyway.  Open your hearts and your minds and listen for what underlies the words.

In Boone and across the nation, millions of seniors will hear their name called:  they’ll cross the platform, receive diplomas and suddenly become graduates.

My brother Mark, will experience the “Pomp and Circumstance” this weekend in Minnesota.  Ranked academically near the top of is class, Mark will be speaking to his fellow graduates at the commencement ceremony this weekend.  I know he’ll give a fine speech.  He is a gifted and experienced speaker.  But what will he say?

Will he dwell on those wonderful days past of high school and grade school?  Will his speech be one of fond remembrances?  I doubt it.  He is too forward-looking, too much of a planner, a leader and a doer to become bogged down in sentimentality.

No, I expect that Mark’s address will focus on the future and what it holds for the Class of ’94.  I expect he’ll exhort his classmates to achieve greatness, to work hard, to live life fully and to accomplish much.   I know that’s what Mark plans to do, so it stands to reason that he’ll expect his friends to do the same.  It’s pretty standard commencement fare, but I know it will be spoken from the heart.

Then Mark will finish and step away from the podium, his words ringing in the gymnasium as the crowd applauds. But then what?

Each member of the Class of ’94 will cross the stage, grab a diploma and walk out of a warm gymnasium full of hope, fears, ambitions and dreams.  Some will fail.  Some will succeed beyond anyone’s wildest dreams.  Others will plod through life meeting life’s trials and tribulations on a mundane, day-to-day basis.  How many will remember those ringing words of encouragement and excitement in five years?  In ten?

What matters, of course, is that they remember the spirit of the words, not necessarily the words themselves.  In stuffy gymnasiums everywhere, every word of every speech will be punctuated by the enthusiasm of youth.  Listen closely, you’ll hear words driven by dreams and ambitions that haven’t been buffeted and bruised by the trial of daily life.  You’ll hear that cocky “we can do anything” attitude.  You’ll hear whispers of dreams that haven’t been stifled by too many  “you can’t do that’s” and “that’s not alloweds.”

Every heart of every graduate swells with those thoughts, those dreams, those ambitions and those attitudes on commencement day.  But as the days, months and years after graduation slip away, those emotions fade and life can weigh heavily.

So, Class of ‘94, listen well.  Listen well, so that years from now you’ll be able to think back to a warm May weekend and the spirit behind those ringing words.  It’s spirit that will serve you well in the years to come.

(Tom Jirik’s columns originally published by the Boone Today)

Life is a series of phases.

Ask any parent.  If their kid is wetting the bed, parents explain, “It’s just a phase.  He’ll grow out of it.”  If the kid is gnawing on the furniture, toys and other children, parents explain, “It’s just a phase.  She’ll grow out of it.”  Some phases are short.  Others, like my own “clumsy phase” go on and on and on.

I’ve discovered that phases don’t end with childhood.  Remember junior high and all that worry over the first date?  Remember puberty?  What a phase that was.  Remember all those wild times when you first struck out on your own after graduation?  Just another phase. Remember learning how to write a resume?

I remember when everybody I knew got married, seemingly in the same summer.  Mary and I got married about the same time.

I also remember when those same people started finding jobs and moving away.  A few of the friends I made in Fargo, N.D., still live in North Dakota and southern Minnesota.  We moved to Iowa.  Other friends went to places like southern Minnesota, Colorado, Florida and Texas.  All that moving was a phase too.  There were only a few changes to the address list this year. 

Then came the “buying our first home” phase.  It seemed like all our friends were sharing war stories about closing costs, mortgage insurance and interest rates.  We all survived that phase too.

Since we bought our house, we’ve been waiting for the next phase to arrive.  Maybe we’re just at that “awkward in-between” phase.”

Recently we’ve noticed that all of our married friends are having children.   We’ve been sending out baby gifts right and left.  Last weekend, our close friends Matt and Brenda Trewet from Iowa City were blessed with a baby boy. Carter Joseph.

That really struck close to home.

Could it be that the next phase is the “having children phase?”  the peer pressure to conform is phenomenal.  There is also unrelenting encouragement from parents and grandparents who seem especially eager to enter the “grandparenting and great-grandparenting phase.” Friends and family members delight in giving us sly winks and saying, “Now that you have a house, you’ll have to fill it up.”  They must be in the “subtlety phase.”

If this having children thing is the next phase we face, it’ll be the scariest one yet.  We realize that raising children can be a wonderful and fulfilling experience.  We don’t know anyone who is sorry they’ve had children.  But we don’t know a thing about children.  And what we do know is terrifying.  To buy a house is one thing, but to take responsibility for the growth and development of a brand new human being is almost beyond comprehension.  They don’t even come with warranties.

Mary and I as parents?  I just don’t know what to think.  Maybe it’s just a phase and we’ll grow out of it.

(Tom Jirik’s columns originally published by the Boone Today)Some say that free enterprise is dead.

Mergers and buyouts have taken their toll.  Conglomerates operate branch offices, pushing millions of local businesses out of business.  Business leaders claim that regulation and taxation are slowly strangling the business economy.  Pessimists claim that America is no longer the home for free enterprise.  Economists will tell you that the New York Stock Exchange, the Chicago Board of Trade, the Minneapolis Grain Exchange or other similar institutions are the only true examples of free enterprise left in the world.

Apparently those pessimists and economists have never been to a garage sale.

Spend any Saturday cruising the streets of suburbia and you’ll find that the entrepreneurial spirit is alive and well. The streets and alleys are full of people who are honing their skills at marketing, promotion, pricing, bargaining and customer service.  And nowhere is the merchandise selection more diverse.

If you’re in doubt, peruse the back pages of this newspaper.  You’ll find dozens of tempting sales going on right here in Boone even as we speak.  There are garage sales, rummage sales, yard sales and moving sales.  And don’t dawdle.  The best bargains often go to those who shop early.

And rummage sales are the most environmentally sound form of enterprise.  The seller has a garage full of stuff that would undoubtedly be destined for a landfill if not for the garage sale.  When the seller gets together with the buyer, everyone benefits.  The seller gets a clean garage and a little cash.  The buyer usually gets a bargain.  And the rest of us get a little more breathing room in our local landfill.

And there’s a social aspect to these sales as well.  You’ve never seen social give-and-take and communications until you’ve seen buyer and seller dickering over the price of a 20-year-old sport coat.’

We are fortunate that this American Institution is alive and thriving.

If you want to see the biggest and best rummage sale spectacle of the all, you’ll want to check out the Boone County Humane Society’s Annual Rummage Sale next weekend at the Boone County Fairgrounds.  Bargain hunters will find a car, clothes, exercise equipment, appliances, storm doors, books, antiques and other items far too numerous to mention.

Organizers expect to sell $10,000 worth of rummage.  Each year, as donations pour in, we wonder,”Where does all this stuff come from?!”  Some of it, I suspect, we’ve seen a time or two before.  It’s an amazing sight to behold, even if you don’t buy anything.  But who goes to rummage sales and then doesn’t buy anything?

The sale is open for early birds from 5 to 9 p.m. Thursday with a $3 fee.  The sale runs Friday from 9 a.m. until 9 p.m. and again Saturday from 8 a.m. until noon with free admission.

(Tom Jirik’s columns orginally published in the Boone Today)Congratulations graduates.  We’re all counting on the class of ’93 to achieve great things.

It’s been more than a decade since I graduated from high school.  Some days it’s hard to believe that it’s only been that long.  Other days it’s hard to believe that it’s only been 11 years.  What perspective can I share after 11 years out in the real world?

Chances are that everyone you know is telling you what you should do with your future.  I’d like to give you a few don’ts.

Don’t forget your friends.  It sounds strange now, but you’ll be surprised how fast you’ll lose touch with the old gang.

Don’t let your old friends prevent you from making new ones.  Some of the best friends you’ll ever meet in college or on the job.

Don’t stop brushing your teeth.

Don’t be afraid to fail.  You can always recover from a failure, but you ‘ll always suffer from the “I wonder if” syndrome if you never try.

Don’t stop learning.  Your mind will stagnate and you’ll get boring.

Don’t pick fights with professional wrestlers or American Gladiators.  (Don’t ask me how I know this. I just do.)

Don’t forget about now.  Some people spend so much time thinking about the future or living in the past that they never enjoy the present.

Don’t skip your ten-year class reunion.  If you do, you’ll regret it.  I do.

Don’t use bleach when you do your laundry unless you know what the heck you are doing.  Trust me.

Don’t mail your laundry home and expect your mother to wash it and mail it back (unless you like liver and onions for Thanksgiving dinner.)

Don’t hold grudges.   Most of those really obnoxious people from high school will turn out to be reputable citizens.  You’ll be surprised.

Don’t miss an opportunity to say money.  A wise man told me recently, “You’ll never say, ‘Darn! I saved too much money.”

Don’t hesitate to offer your opinion.  It’s valuable and it’s important.

Don’t talk so much that you forget to listen.

Don’t say “hey!  Egghead!” when addressing a college professor.  They really hate that.

Don’t forget to thank your parents, your teachers and your friends.  They’ve invested a lot in you.

And most important, don’t ever forget to subscribe to your hometown newspaper if you move away.  I wouldn’t want you to forget about me.

(Tom Jirik’s column originally published in the Boone Today)Thee must be a special place in heaven for mothers.

Certainly no path in life offers the opportunity for so much emotional pain, worry and sacrifice.  And amazingly, I’ve never heard a mother regret the path she has chosen.

My mother guided five of us through childhood and adolescence.  Each of us, from the youngest to the oldest, offered new challenges.  We each had our own quirks and idiosyncrasies.  Yet, she was thrilled with every accomplishment and encouraged us to do better.   She helped heal the hurts, physical and emotional, that came with being a child.  Thee can be no doubt that each of us holds a special place in her heart.  It’s my unbiased opinion that my mom is the best ever.  You may have a different opinion, but I know I can find at least four people who agree with me.

A few years ago, I watched as my sister-in-law handed her tiny one-year-old daughter over to the heart surgeons so they could repair a serious heart defect.  I could read the pain and worry in her face.  Today her little girl is a health five-year-old and has a tiny baby brother.  I know Joan wouldn’t trade either of them for anything.

Today friends and classmates are having babies of their own.  Years ago, or even months ago, I could never have pictured any of them as mothers.  Today they seem as if they’ve trained for it all their lives.

Charlie, Joel, Nick, John, Signe, Alexander, Amy, jack, John and Carter are just beginning their lives.  They are so very young, fragile and innocent.  But they are lucky to have moms like Krista, Candy, Nancy, Kirsten, Joan, Jean, Ann and Brenda.  With moms like those, I’d say the odds are stacked in their favor.

And if you watch how each of those moms look at their children, you can see the pride, the love, the hopes and the dreams in their eyes.  There’s something indefinably special about the bond between a mother and child.

She knows the potential hidden in that tiny body and mind.  She knows that great things lurk within.  She knows.

That’s why moms are so special.  Sometimes it seems like they know everything.

The Boone Area Right to Life organization will be selling carnation corsages at Wal-Mart, Hy-Vee and other locations around town this week.  Buy one for your mom and remind her of how thankful you are for all the things she’s done for you, but especially for bringing you into this world.

Often lost in the news of political debate, arrests, protests, assaults, and court cases are the voices of everyday citizens who oppose abortion.  These people, your friends and neighbors, are convinced that every spark of new life has a purpose and potential.  They are to be commended for defending such a noble cause.

There is nothing as defenseless, delicate and fragile as an unborn child.  But there is also nothing infused with so much potential for love and achievement.  Is it any wonder that so many members of local right to life organizations are mothers?  They know.