We walked in silence along the polished wall.  Small floodlights washed the monument in soft light.  In the hushed rustle of the wind, we reached out to touch the names etched in the wall.

It was a different generation than mine that fought in Vietnam War.  None of my friends or my family marched off never to return.  Before my visit to the monument, that war only lived in books, films, and grainy black and white pictures.

Still, the memorial and its seemingly endless list of names was a powerful monument to the gallantry and bravery of those who died in the far-off jungles of southeast Asia.

There were a few in our small group who had friends listed on that dark stone wall.  In the darkness, they reverently traced each letter with their fingers.  A man I didn’t know walked slowly out of the darkness.  He carefully sought out a name on the wall and touched the letters one by one.  The he stood there quietly.  I think he cried.

As he walked away, he paused at the monument’s statue of three soldiers.  He reached out and touched the carved hand of the soldier nearest to him and then he was gone.

Later, we climbed the broad steps to the Lincoln Memorial.  Inside, I was awed by the age and sadness and also the thoughtfulness that the sculptor was able to capture on Lincoln’s face

Slowly I read Lincoln’s eloquent Gettysburg Address chiseled into the stone of the memorials south wall.  On the north wall is his second inaugural address.  The powerful words spoke of trying times for the nation and its people.

From the steps of the monument, I could see the Washington monument gleaming in the darkness.  Its mirror image shimmered in the reflecting pool.  The dome of the U.S. Capitol glowed in the distance beyond the monument.  The design of the Washington Monument is simple, elegant and powerful.  The city is filled with fantastic architecture and beautiful sculptures, but none can compare to the emotional power of this monument to our first president.

I will carry and treasure the image of these monuments forever.

If Washington D.C. is a city of monuments, then the homeless that wander its parks, the crime rate that stalks its streets and the crack houses and slums that scar its neighborhoods are a monument to our nation’s problems and failures.  As I visited the city last week, I was struck by these examples pf what is right and what is wrong with our country.

If the news of crime, murder and poverty become too much for us to bear, we need only look to our monuments for hope.  We need to imagine what terrible uncertainty Washington must have felt as he helped forge a collection of colonies into a new nation.  We need to imagine the horrible sadness that Lincoln must have felt as our country tried to tear itself apart.  We need to remember the great sacrifices that our men and women have made to defend our country.

In each case, our country’s citizens have found the leadership, the perseverance and the spirit to succeed.  Our capitol city’s monuments and memorials remind us of that.  They should inspire us as a nation to seek the greater good for all and they should remind us that there is always hope for tomorrow.

 We’re heading up to northern Minnesota’s lake country for the holiday weekend.

I’m sure that hoards of other people have the same thing in mind.  So we’ll face a real snarl on the highways.  There will be boats and trailers, campers and motorhomes competing with the normal complement of cars and trucks.  It’s the curse of traveling on a holiday weekend.

It’s times like this that I wish I could put some driving strategies from the Boone Speedway to work.  Is that guy ahead of you going too slow?  Give him a little bump to encourage him to speed up or get out of the way.  Is the guy on your right crowding you?  Give him a bash on the door to convince him that you need some breathing room.  Think of how fast you could reach your destination if the speed limit signs read,” As fast as you dare.”

It’d be fun until an 18 -wheeler decides that you’re the one going too slow.

I took my first trip to the Boone Speedway last weekend for Race Days.  I was impressed with how well the races were organized and run.  The races were exciting and the competition among drivers was intense.

I can see why the sport attracts so many spectators.  There’s so much action on the track, it’s hard to take it all in.

And who hasn’t been stuck on a highway, creeping along in bumper-to-bumper traffic.  That’s when everyone dreams of tromping on the accelerator, careening around the corners and passing all of those boats and motor-homes until you cross the finish line to the frantic waving of the checkered flag.

Now that racing season is underway you know that the Boone County Fair can’t be far behind.  The Boone county Fair is rapidly building a reputation for featuring the finest in county music entertainment.   The Fair Board has developed a knack for picking rising stars.

Fair alumni now rank among the biggest names in country music. Ricky Van Shelton and Joe Diffee are two that spring to mind. Garth Brooks, another Boone County Fair alumnus, is THE name in county music today.  His concerts are sell-outs.  His albums sell millions.  He has a pickup load of awards.  He was recently on the cover of Time Magazine.

And you saw him here first.

This year’s entertainment, the country duo of Brooks and Dunn, will ride a wave of popularity into Boone this summer.  Their recent release, Neon Moon, topped the country charts and is destined to be a country classic.

I expect country stars will soon be clamoring to perform in Boone.  Recent history indicates that singing here is a great way to boost your career.

 I’m in agony.  My mind is whirling.  My palms are sweating.  My face if flushed.  My stomach is upset and my head is pounding.

Our wedding anniversary is this weekend and I’m stumped for gift ideas.

I go through this at Christmas, at Mary’s Birthday, at anniversary time and at various other holidays and celebrations during the year.  My heart is in the right place, but somehow my gifts never live up to my intentions.  Mary’s always a good sport, but I wind up feeling lower than dirt anyway.

Last week, for example, I was in Washington, D.C.  I spent all week looking for the perfect token to bring home to Mary.  On my last day there, I was still looking.  I finally had to settle for a T-shirt at the last moment.  When I arrived home, I proudly presented it to Mary.  She took one look and pronounced k “It’s too small.”

Mary knows about my gift-giving predicament so last Christmas she started dropping hints before Thanksgiving.  I started keeping a secret list in my wallet.  As the holiday neared, I tried to narrow down the list and find the perfect yule-tide gift for my beloved.  On the weekend before Christmas, I wandered the malls, desperately seeking a gift.  Everything on my list was either sold-out or available in the wrong sizes.

I bought her a sweat-shirt.  At least it fit.

Now it’s anniversary time.  This is a major-league gift giving occasion.  I can slide through Christmas with a sweat-shirt.  I can slip by her birthday with a knick-knack.  But the annual Anniversary Gift has to be just right.

The gift has to be romantic to reflect my love.  It has to be durable to reflect the nature of our relationship.  It has to be lighthearted to appeal to our shared sense of humor.  It has to be affordable to appease our budget.

Diamonds a re romantic, but too expensive.  Wine is nice, but once it’s gone it’s gone.  I’d buy her a new dress, but I have a hard enough time buying clothes for myself, much less for someone else.  I could buy her something for the kitchen, but that would be too practical for our anniversary.  I could fill this column with syrupy sweet-nothings to mark the occasion but it would be embarrassing to expose our private lives like that.

I’ve asked her for suggestions and hints.  In response, she has been frustratingly vague and non-committal. “Use your imagination.  I’m sure anything you come up with will be fine,” she said.

I have my doubts that I’ll be able to come up with the perfect anniversary gift, but her comment got me thinking.  There must be hundreds or even thousands of gifts that would be appropriate if I approach this milestone in our lives with imagination and creativity.

Just the other day, I subtly asked what she would think if she received a shop-vac for her anniversary.

Boy, if looks could kill.

I guess I’ll keep working on it.

 For 15 years, Bill Cosby and my father have conspired to make my life miserable.  The two of them took every opportunity to make me feel guilty and ashamed.

But Sunday, Father’s Day, I finally redeemed myself.

Long before Cosby became an international television comedy on the air, he was successful stand-up comedian and recording artist.  My father was apparently a fan of Cosby’s.

Soon after I learned to work a phonograph, I found three Cosby albums in his collection.  I played them again and again.  I shared the records with my friends and we laughed until we cried as Bill told stories about Fat Albert, Weird Harold, Russell and the rest of his buddies.

We had “discovered” Bill Cosby and soon my friends were begging to borrow the albums.  One thing let to another and I eventually loaned them to another friend who loaned them to another friend and so on until the records became irretrievably lost.  I just sort of lost track of them.

My father never forgot.

Did you ever find out what happened to those “Bill Cosby records,” he would ask. “Those are probably collector’s items, you know.”

He asked the question every time we met.  And each time he asked, arrows of guilt pierced my heart, he had no idea how terrible I felt.  I had lost some of my dad’s prized possessions with no apparent way of ever finding them.  I was crushed.  It eventually became too painful for me to even watch “The Cosby Show.”

Not that I didn’t try to find the albums. I asked Roger and Jimmy and Steve and all the rest of my high school buddies about the albums, but none of them could remember where they were.  After all those years, the trail had grown stale and cold.

But my father never gave up.  Each time we returned for a visit, I waited anxiously for “the question.”  I knew he would eventually ask, “Have you ever been able to track down those Bill Cosby records?”  Each time I would have to admit that I hadn’t found them yet.

Finally, it dawned on me, if I couldn’t find the originals, I would track down replacements!  I began scouring the bargain bins at record stores.  I became a familiar face at used record shops in the area.

For months, it was a fruitless search.  I began to appreciate how right Dad had been.  Those records were collector’s items.  Finally, as despair began to cloud my outlook, I located one of the records in Des Moines.  My search gained new vigor.

My quest for the remaining two albums was long and arduous.  I was nearly prepared to offer the single album to Dad as a token of my sincerest apology, when, on a side street in Marshalltown, I found that a tiny record shop has connections to a network of used-record dealers.

I don’t know where luann at D.J.’s Tapes and Records found them but the albums were in beautiful condition.  When she finally laid the two albums on the counter in front of me, I could hardly believe my eyes.  After 15 years of guilt induced by Bill Cosby and my father, the ordeal was nearly at an end.

The price of the albums was no less that you would expect for such collector’s items, but I paid it gladly.  I would have paid twice as much (but don’t tell luann).  I carefully padded and packaged all three albums up and sent them off in plenty of time for Father’s Day.

I called Dad on Sunday.  “How did you like your present?” I asked.

“I was listening to them when you called.  Thank you,” Dad said sincerely.

Those were the words I’d been waiting for 15 years to hear.  Now Dad has his albums back and I’m free of my guilt.  I don’t know which one us received a better gift on Sunday.

 Hello, and welcome to your new Saturday paper.  If you are already reading this, you can see that my weekly column is still in the same place as it has been since the paper printed its first edition back in August of 1987.  You’ll be reading me here instead of in Wednesday’s paper from now on.

Because I’ve written a column for every Boone TODAY but one that means you’ve been subjected to roughly 200 of them.  Some of them have been fun to write and some of them have been agony.  I imagine that reading them has been a similar experience.

If you are a regular reader, thank you.  I hope that I’ve been able to make you think about some of the issues that we face here in Boone. And I hope I’ve been able to make you smile or brightened your day once in a while.

When I see you around town, many of you stop to comment on a column that I’ve written.  There has been praise and criticism.  I appreciate both, so don’t be shy.

If you’ll keep reading, I’ll keep writing.  And I’ll try to keep improving so that my Saturday columns are better than my Wednesday ones were.

A couple of weeks ago in my column, I related how I spent much time and effort during the last couple of months rounding up Bill Cosby albums for my dad.  I lost the records when I was in junior high and dad never let me forget.  I finally located the records, purchased them at a premium price and gave them to dad for Father’s Day.

Since that column appeared, at least a half dozen people have commented, “If I known you were looking for Cosby albums I would have let you look at mine.  I have a bunch of them in a box that I never listen to anymore.”  I never knew there were so many fans of Cosby’s old comedy routines.

Thanks for the sympathy.  And thanks for your concern.  But where were you a month ago?  After paying top dollar for those albums, I don’t want to know if you have Cosby albums to give away.  In fact, hang onto those old vinyl comedy disks, they may just help you put your kids through college some day.

My parents and my in-laws were both here for visits recently.  We took both sets of parents on trips to the Amana Colonies. My father-in-law, and engineer for the Minnesota Department of Transportation, gave us a running commentary on the road construction going on along the way.  We learned about re-bar, traffic control and paving methods.  It was a very educational trip.

My dad, a farmer, gave us a running commentary on the crops, livestock and farms along the road.  He told us about weed problems, water-stressed crops, overgrazed pastures and beef breeds.  That trip, too, was educational.

But what will happen when I have adult children and we go for a drive?  What will we talk about? What educated things can a writer say about what he sees along the roadside?

“Boy!  The grammar on the billboard is awful!”

 Spotlights traced figure-eights on the clouds.  Highway patrol officers directed the onslaught of traffic.  Slot machines churned 24 hours a day.  Coins jingled.  Tuxedo-clad dealers slid cards across the green felt.

Where did I spend Memorial Day?  Vegas?  Atlantic City?

No.  I found all this activity in the tiny Minnesota farming community where I grew up.  My hometown, Mahnomen, is now the home to the Shooting Star Casino, one of the more than a dozen gambling palaces that Minnesota Indians tribes plan to open.

Iowa’s first Indian casino opened in the western Iowa community of Sloan.  Another is planned for Tama.  Some Iowans argue that casino gambling could bail out Prairie Meadows, Polk County’s failed race track.  Iowa and its Indian tribes should watch what happens in Minnesota.  Will casinos bring their promised economic boom?  Or will problems outweigh any benefits?

Mahnomen is an Ogden-sized community located in northwestern Minnesota’s White Earth Indian Reservation.  Although the town is the county seat and home to the county’s largest school system, it has been shrinking steadily as businesses closed and people moved on.  Then last year, the White -Earth Band of the Chippewa Indian Tribe announced that it would build a Las Vegas-style casino there.

The announcement threw the town into an uproar.  Citizens worried about crime, alcohol abuse, and other problems often associated with gambling.  Every small town craves economic development, but at what cost?

Land values jumped.  Traffic became a concern.  Out-of-town visitors fill bars and restaurants that once held only familiar local faces.  As hotels, restaurants and other new developments were planned, the city clashed with the adjacent township over zoning and annexation issues.  Racial tensions between Indians and non-Indians have never been smooth on the reservation.  So far, the casino has done little to improve them. 

As the casino began hiring employees, local businesses were forced to hike wages to remain competitive.  Would increased wages and development mean more money in the local economy?  Or would they force long-time enterprises out of business?

Some worry that the casino’s success may be short-lived.  The casino must compete with lotteries, riverboat gambling, charitable gambling, horse races, dog races and a host of other casinos.  Can they all succeed?

Last weekend, the $17 million casino and resort held its grand opening.  The giant complex has 850 slot machines, 24 blackjack tables and video keno and poker machines.  The place was packed.  There soon will be two restaurants, hundreds of hotel rooms, an RV park and dinner theater.  Lee Greenwood, Jerry Reed, T. G. Shepard and others are booked to perform at the complex this summer.

In this once-quiet town, the casino has been an unsettling influence.

Will the casino bring a long-term boost to the ailing local economy?  Or will crime and unrestrained development destroy the quiet quality of life that exists there?

It’s too early to tell if this gamble will pay off for the residents of Mahnomen.  But Iowa communities and Indian tribes should study the situation carefully before they wager their own futures on casino gambling.

 I need to get my affairs in order.  I need to prepare a will.  It’s time to say goodbye.  If the doctor’s are right, I’m practically a goner already.

The Physicians Committee for Responsible Medicine recently announced that mild is bad for you.  One of the group’s prominent member’s, Frank Oski, director of pediatrics at John Hopkins University School of Medicine said Tuesday that “We should all stop drinking milk today, this afternoon.”  He noted that cow’s milk is “for calves.  It was not designed for humans.”

If that’s so, I must have one foot in the grave already.

I’ve grown up on cows’ milk.  I drank the stuff straight from the cow, too.  None of that mamby-pamby pasteurization and homogenization for me.  That was real milk, not the skim or 2 percent stuff most of us are used to.  The milk we drank as kids continue nearly 4 percent butterfat.  It was thick and rich and creamy.

With 30 cows and a couple of hundreds gallons always readily available on the farm, we never worried much about limiting our intake.  We drank milk by the bucketful and then came back for more.

Who knew we were poisoning our bodies and destroying our health?

Even today, I’m a milkaholic. Milk’s usually the first thing I drink in the morning and usually the last thing I drink at night.   My favorite way to top off a night of beer-drinking?  A tall glass of milk and a big bowl of chili.

Now doctors tell us milk’s unhealthy, even dangerous.  Say it ain’t so.

Is this the end of milk’s wholesome image?  What drink could possibly replace milk?  Will television ads soon proclaim, “Milk, it does a body …bad?”

The American Medical Association in not convinced of milks’ danger,  “There is absolutely no scientific proof to support the claim that milk is dangerous,” the AMA said.  I hope the doctors are right.

Still, the milk-white image of milk has been stained.  Is this the beginning of the end for milk?  Will we eventually see a ban on milk sales?

Imagine how terrible it would be. Cheerios or Rice Krispies without milk?  Unthinkable!  No more milk and cookies?  A tragedy!  No more milkshakes?  How awful!

I can’t think about it anymore.  It’s to depressing.  I think I’ll just sneak down to the refrigerator and drown my sorrows in a tall cool one.

And if I die as a result of my obsession, do not weep for me.  Cry only for those who have never know the joy of dairy products.  For to weep for me, would be to only cry over spilt milk.

(Editor’s note:  Tome Jirik’s original comments were far more extensive than those that appear here.  However, we were forced to edit them because he milked this topic for more than it was worth.)

 My insecurities are seeping to the surface.

Believe it or not, I haven’t always been handsome, successful and debonair. Back in high school, I ranked among the nerds.  I avoided sports, hated physical education classes, didn’t hang around the “in” crowd and had greasy hair most of the time. I had the fashion sense of a grub.  When you wanted to find me, you looked in the library, not the gym or the ball field.

I was a geek.

Don’t worry, I’m all better now.  I’m happily married.  I like my job.  I have a great car.  Life is good. (Actually, my car is merely adequate, but life is still good.)

So what’s my problem?  My high school class is having it 10-year reunion in June.  I’m worried that I might have a relapse.

The reunion should be nothing to worry about.  We’ll spend the weekend together reminiscing, catching up and meeting each other’s spouses.  It should be fun and relaxing.  After all, many of these people were my best friends for 12 years.

But I’m worried.

It’s taken me a decade to get where I am now.  My wife and I have a lot of time and effort invested in the “new me.”  My clothes fit and are in style.  I have found a hairstyle I like.  I’ve leaned to converse intelligently with other people.  I can even talk about sports if I have to.  My skin has cleared up.  I no longer worry about hanging around with the “in” crowd.

But what if reuniting with all these people from high school triggers some psychological response and brings out the “hidden nerd” in me?

Will I get nervous when I have to talk to the girls?  Will I hide so I don’t have to talk about football with the jocks?  What if my pimples come back?  My scalp could suddenly begin secreting gobs of oil again.  My stylish new pants could shrink.  I can hear my classmates now,” Nice Dockers.  Expecting a flood?”

Perhaps worst of all, the reunion schedule includes a golf tournament.  A golf tournament?  I can’t play golf any better than I could play football or basketball.

I can see how this class reunion could be a major trauma for me.  If I come back to Boone as a restored geek, my entire life will be destroyed.  Business associates will shun me.  My social life will become nonexistent.  I’d become a recluse.  Or maybe I’d have to change my name, move on and start over.

My wife says I’m being a dork about the whole thing. She tells me that i’ve made far to much progress to sink to those levels.” Everyone changes and grows,” she assured me.  “All those silly high school cliques and idiosyncrasies are long gone.  You’ll be fine.”

She’s probably right.  My classmates and I are mature adults now.  I’m an accomplished professional writer now and there’s little danger that I’ll regress to my nerdy high school persona.  I think I’ll go to that reunion and show everyone how well i’ve done.

I may even buy a new pocket protector for the occasion.

 For those that were worried - wondering why the posts stopped - rest assured it was merely a trip back to where I was born and raised.

20,000 miles in the air, 2700 driving miles, countless friends and family, seemingly unlimited barbeques, and a solid reconfirming of that fact that I’m a very blessed individual later, I’m back in Melbourne - not quite rested, but very happy.

Expect the posts to be back on track this week - and a full recap of the events of the last two weeks.

(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) 

May and June are here.

It’s time for love.  It’s a time when flowers bloom.  Trees get buds and leaves.  Young plants spring from the ground.  It’s a time for beginnings.  It’s time for weddings.

In Boone and around the world, men and women will look longingly into each other’s eyes and say, “I do.”  It’s all so sweet.  It’s all so wonderful.  But are they really in love?  Will it last until “death do they part?”  When they say, “I do.” Do they really?

We were married during July.  And when I said,” I do,” I meant it.  But I really didn’t know what I was in for.  It’s been nearly three years since then and it’s official now.  Now I know I love her.

I guess I probably knew it before last weekend, but now I know for sure.

I bet I know what you’re thinking.  The romantics out there are thinking,”Oh, they had a wonderful romantic weekend alone with candle-light and dancing and long talks until dawn.”

Wrong.

Those of you who watch made-for -TV movies are thinking, ´”They suffered through some kind of terrible tragedy.  Perhaps one of them was in an accident and their love for one-another was the only thing that pulled them through.”

Wrong again.

What really happened is that Mary came down with the flu Friday night.

Her life was never in danger and she wasn’t in the mood to do anything by candle-light.  But we did have one romantic exchange.

I looked longingly into her eyes, reached out and touched her cheek and asked her,” Are you O.K.?”

In response, she shot me a withering stare and, mustering as much sarcasm as she could in her weakened state, replied,” I just threw up.”  So, what do you think?”

Which brings me to the point I’m trying to make.  Love comes easy with moon-lit nights, flower blossoms, proms, frilly dresses and freshly pressed tuxedos-especially in May and June.

But you know you really, really love someone when you wake up willingly and completely at 4 a.m.- just to hold the bucket.