I didn’t understand them at first, little comments on Facebook, some emails, a few text messages, a few dropped hints on phone calls with family and friends….

So yes, I’ve got a confession to make…I’ve fallen behind…a two week vacation has now stretched into over a month of limited posting.

But, like a child, I’ve got some excuses…and some good stories.

Camping near Ninety Mile Beach, watching the mighty Snowy River head out to sea, losing two tires on one trip, going through the ancient Iron Bark forest, a day at the races, a trip to Singapore, Chinese New Year….and a whole host of other stories and observations, as well as stories of growing up on the wind swept plains of North Minnesota…

By the way, did I mention that I was beginning preparations to move back to Minnesota?

Yup, for those who haven’t heard, I’ll be heading back to Minnesota in about four months time…just in time for summer.

So I’ve got a little work to do, hopefully you’ll be coming back to check in now and then.

(Tom Jirik’s columns originally published by the Boone Today)I awoke with a start.  I instantly new that someone was in our house.

I instantly knew someone was in our house.  I could hear footsteps and rustling sounds from down in the living room.

Keeping in the shadows, I nervously tiptoed down to the living room.  The room was bustling with activity of nearly a dozen tiny little men.  They had long beards, tiny little hard hats and pointy little shoes.

Several were busy stripping and sanding the painted -over woodwork in our living room.  Others were repairing our sticky double-hung windows.  They worked silently and efficiently, using the latest in pneumatic sanders and nailers.  Several of them had cordless drills holstered on their hips.

I slipped past them and ducked into the kitchen, only to find another industrious group at work.  They were busy replacing chipped and cracked ceramic tile.  Several others were intently working to replace some sticky drawer glides in our kitchen cupboards.

To avoid notice I crept through the basement door.  I crept down the stairs and found another crew of workers there.  One crew was jacking and reinforcing sagging floor joists while another was mixing concrete to shore up our crumbling basement walls.  Yet another group was stringing new electric wiring across the ceiling to replace the aged wires there.

Suddenly, a large figure whisked past my hiding place in the shadows.  He wore red coveralls, trimmed in white.  A heavily-loaded tool belt encircled his waist.  He strode in purposeful strides across the basement in shiny, black steel-toed work boots.  A face marked by twinkling eyes and white beard was capped by a cherry-red hard hat.  He stopped and had a brief discussion with the workers who were working on the floor joists.  He unrolled a set of blueprints on top of the furnace and made a few notations with a pencil that he pulled from behind his ear.

I closed my eyes.  My mind was reeling.  Dozens of little carpenters, electricians and plumbers were at work in my house on Christmas Eve.  Was I having some kind of dream?  A hallucination?  Did I have too much eggnog?  Was it just me or did the foreman look suspiciously like Santa?

I stumbled up the stairs and out the door.  I needed air.

Outside the world seemed normal.  The air was crisp and clean.  The stars twinkled brightly. The neighborhood was quiet and dark.  All was as it should be.  Then I remembered an odd encounter from weeks earlier.

As I was exiting the hardware store, I collided with a man in a Santa suit. “Ho! Ho! Ho! Young man,” the man said.  “What do you want from Santa this Christmas?”

“I wouldn’t mind having some help fixing up my house,” I replied jokingly.

“I’ll visit with my elves and see what we can do.  Ho!  Ho! Ho!” he said, and then walked away down the street.

 A noise from the roof drew back to the present.  There in the moonlight stood a sleigh surrounded by eight lounging reindeer.  A portable generator and air compressor purred away quietly in the back of a red sled.  A tangle of hoses and power cords snaked across the roof and into the chimney.

Suddenly, dozens of tiny workmen scurried from the chimney.  They coiled the cords and hoses and packed away their tools.  Finally the foreman climbed out of the chimney, dusted off his coveralls and climbed into the sleigh.  As the reindeer began to take up the slack in the harness, the foreman turned and looked down at me from the roof.  He tipped his hard hat and said with a voice that boomed across the chilly rooftops, “Merry Christmas, Tom!”

And with that he snapped the reigns, and reindeer and sleigh flew off into the night.  As they disappeared into the darkness, I noticed the sign on the back of the sleigh. “S.Claus, general contractor.  Call us for restoration, renovation or remodeling.”

I awoke with a start as Mary planted an elbow in my ribs.  “What was that for?” I asked as I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes.

“You were yelling in your sleep,” she said.  “You kept saying, “Thank you, Santa!  Thank you, Santa!”

(Tom Jirik’s columns originally published in the Boone Today)Filled with the joy of the season and flushed with the excitement of finding that perfect gift for my spouse, I penned some new words to that old Christmas favorite, “Santa Claus is Coming to Town.”  If any of this sounds familiar, please sing along.

You better go out
You better go shop
The gift that you buy
better top last year’s flop
My dainty wife has laid down the law.

What’ll I buy?
What will I shop for?
I’ve already been
to two dozen stores.
Tell me what’s a guy supposed to do?

The guys down at the hardware store
Had a laughing jubilee
When I said she wants a cordless drill
With an extra battery!

Well, the socket set’s out
And the power saw too
forget the pipe wrench
and the sledge hammer too
I’d love this stuff if I were my wife.

No crow bars to pry
No chisels to hit
Whatever I buy
She won’t like a bit
I tell ya, shopping drives a guy nuts!

She’s vetoed all the good stuff
Perfume and lingerie’
And if you buy me tools
Then you’ll die on Christmas Day.

So I better go shop
Come up with a plan
To find a better gift
Than Santa Claus can
My tiny wife is counting on me.

Yes, I better go shop,
find that one perfect gift
That’ll warm Mary’s heart
And give my marriage a lift
Or I may not live to see the New Year.

(Tom Jirik’s column originally published by the Boone Today)Jumped out of bed.  Still dark outside.  Hopped in the shower. Grabbed a little breakfast and started the day’s work.

I washed dishes.  Scrubbed floors.  Hung decorations on the outside of the house.  Adjusted the lights.  Drug the ladder out of the garage so I could hang the big wreath over the door.

Dashed uptown to grab some new light bulbs for the Christmas lights.  Circled the block four times to find a parking space.  Battled the crowds.  Tried three stores before I found the bulbs I needed.  Scowled at the person ahead of me at the checkout counter.

Came home, moved furniture to make way for the Christmas tree.  Swept up the dust bunnies.  Carried 10 boxes of Christmas decorations down from the attic.   Carried six boxes of accumulated decorations from Halloween and Thanksgiving back up to the attic.

Had lunch of left-over turkey.  Again.  Only thing left to drink in the refrigerator is egg nog.  I hate egg nog.

Took the truck out to the tree farm.  Is everybody is the state here?  Can’t find that perfect tree.   I stomp around in the snow in a foul mood.  My wife and I scowl at each other.  We finally find a tree.

At home, the tree won’t fit in the stand.  It’s already dropping needles all over the place.  Do I smell cookies burning?  My wife mutters in frustration as she scurries to the kitchen, leaving me to struggle with the tree alone.  And hour and a half later, the tree is up.

We review our Christmas list.  Too may gifts.  Not enough time.  Not enough money.  What do those people want, anyway?  We’ll never find the right gifts.

I growl at my wife in frustration.  She growls back.  She cleans the kitchen.  I sweep up pine needles. Again.

We trudge up the stairs and collapse in bed.  Exhaustion sweeps over us.

There in that twilight between sleep and sleeplessness, memories began to flash in my life.  I remembered my family together at Christmas, laughing, sharing, loving.  I remembered how carefully and joyfully I selected gifts for each of them. I remembered the excitement of receiving an unanticipated gift.  I remembered going to church and singing hymns and celebrating the birth of the savior.  I remembered the wonder I felt at hearing that familiar story.

And there in that twilight between sleep and sleeplessness, I vowed to wipe the scowl from my face and make this Christmas more like those Christmases. I promised to make this Christmas more a celebration and less of a burden.  And just before I drifted off to dreams of Christmas bliss, I vowed to remember what Christmas is really about.

Do you need to make that vow too?

(Tom Jirik’s column originally published in the Boone Today)Snowflakes glide down from a dirty gray sky.  Dark trees shake their empty arms in despair against the bitter north wind.  There’s no doubt that winter is on Iowa’s doorstep.

Evening steals more and more of the day.  Dusk envelopes us as we hurry to finish our late-afternoon tasks.  A full moon oversees the frost of brittle grass and leaves.

Birds have flown south.  Squirrels have tucked away goodies and are fat with heavy fur.  Vegetation is dormant for the coming season.

Late minute work on insulation, weather-stripping and storm windows is the order of the day.  We scramble to find the weapons of war against winter weather.  Where are the mittens, the hats, the windshield scraper and those tangled jumper cables?

At night we wake to the sound of the furnace rumbling in the dark and wonder,” Is there enough antifreeze in the car?  Did I drain the faucets on the outside of the house?  Where’s that extra blanket?”

By day, we cannot avoid the annoying refrain of electronic Christmas ornaments in local stores.  Wasn’t it just yesterday that lawn and garden merchandise filled those shelves that now hold holiday decorations and festive wrapping paper?

There have been a precious few golden autumn days. Days for romping in the leaves, walking among the trees and admiring the multi-hued splendor of an Iowa sunset.  It’s easy to imagine those days lasting for weeks, but the sudden coolness of a shadow is a nagging reminder that bitter days are ahead.

Weather prognosticators predict a big season for snow.  Considering the weather during the rest of 1993, heavy snow seems like a safe bet.  Is this the year to buy a snowblower?  Where is that shovel?

So far, all we’ve seen are flurries, only yesterday a relatively few short-lived flakes.  We close our eyes and wish that somehow this year will be different, that the snows won’t come, that the winds won’t blow and temperatures won’t drop.  But deep down we know that it’s an impossible dream

We know it’s going to snow and snow big.  We know it’s going to blow.  And we know it’s going to get colder than a glacier’s bottom.  We live in Iowa after all.

And because we live in Iowa, we may as face up to it and stop dwelling on how terrible this winter is going to be.  We can brood on it and pout about it all we want and it won’t change a thing.  So we may as well get our minds off it and start thinking about something else.  Like spring, for instance.

(Tom Jirik’s Columns Orginally Published by the Boone Today)I love winter.  I love it when the temperature dips below zero.  I love it when it snows and snows and snows.  But most of all, I love to gloat.

Cold is a relative term.  Most Iowans don’t mind it too much when the temperature drops down to 20 degrees or even 10 degrees.  But when the mercury drops down to zero or below, you all start whining and crying.

“Oooohh!  It’s soooo cold,” you complain.  “I think we’ll all freeze to death,” somebody else says.  And as a native of Minnesota, I can’t help but laugh at you just a bit.

Mary and I spent the week before Christmas in the wilds of northwestern Minnesota.  On Christmas Day, the temperature in Mahnomen registered 20 degrees below zero.  When we left on the 26^th, a bright crisp day, the thermometer showed that it was 21 below zero.  Across the state in Minnesota’s Iron Range, the national weather service had an unofficial reading of 50 below in the tiny town of Tower.  Now that’s cold.  And none of the natives were complaining.’

We walked into Mahnomen’s Red Apple Café and mentioned how cold it was and everybody looked at us like we were off our rockers.  My own mother rebuked us, saying, “What did you expect? It’s December.”

That’s when I remembered that cold isn’t something to be suffered through until the next warm front shows up. When you live in Minnesota, cold’s a way of life.

It’s 20 degrees below the doughnut.  So what?  You shop.  You feed the cows.  You go to church.  You do everything you normally do, except you dress warmer and you plug in your car and your tractor before you go to bed. Life goes on and so does the cold, so there’s no sense complaining about it.

And you remember that things can always get worse.  Like my dad said when he came in from doing chores on Christmas morning,” At least the wind’s not blowing.”  And my grandmother added, “At least it’s a ‘dry’ cold.”

So while the rest of you are shivering through this current cold spell, wondering if you’ll survive, I’m out enjoying it.  In fact, I’m savoring it because I know that cold is a relative term and where I come from, five below is relatively warm.
And it helps keep my mind off the coming summer and the accompanying heat.  It gets soooo hot here. And the humidity!  I don’t know how anybody can deal with that kind of humidity.  I just don’t know if I can stand it for another year….

(Tom Jirik’s columns originally published in the Boone Today)I was beginning to think I would be cold until next summer.

In early August we drained the water out of our furnace and removed two of the old cast -iron radiators from the rooms we were redecorating.  We planned to have the radiators sandblasted and painted.

We only recently managed to get the sandblasting done.  Then we had to wait for warm days to get the painting done.  Meanwhile the nightly temperatures dropped lower and lower as the pile of blankets on our bed grew higher and higher.  “I want my heat back,” Mary said one morning as her breath rose in little puffs of steam toward the ceiling,

So I enlisted the help of some friends and we wrestled the radiators back up the stairs and into place.  There were pipes to tighten and valves to install, so we lived without heat for a few days more.  Finally, all that remained was to refill the system with water and turn on the thermostat.

After removing the radiators, carting them off to have them sandblasted, painting them, hauling them back up the steps and reinstalling them, I thought that refilling the system with water would be the easy part.  I obviously have a lot to learn about old furnaces.

I crept through the dust and cobwebs behind the furnace until I could see the water valve in my flashlight beam.  I gave the valve a couple of turns.   Our water meter usually measures our water usage in slow, even ticks.  When I turned on that big valve, the meter buzzed like a fishing reel after a strike from a trophy bass.

Back upstairs we began to bleed the air out of the radiators.  Finally the first radiator stopped hissing and a trickle of water leaked from a bleeder valve.  As air hissed out of the next radiator came to me:  “If water is rushing like gang busters into the furnace and air is bleeding ever so slowly out of the radiators, where is all that water going?”

My worst fears were realized as I rushed up stairs.  The newly refinished floor in our spare bedroom and the new vinyl floor in the bathroom were covered with water.  The bleeder valves on the radiators were shooting water like the business end of a super-soaker.

I quickly turned the valves shut.  As we frantically mopped up the water, another thought occurred to me:  “If water is rushing into the furnace and all the bleeder valves are closed, where is the water going now?”

I rushed to the attic.  There was no hint of burst pipes or leakage.  I rapped on the side of the overflow tank.  It was full to the top.  A pipe led from the top of the tank to the wall.  But where did it go from there?

I ran back down the attic steps, down the main hallway, through the kitchen and down to basement steps.  Water was shooting out the end of a pipe in the basement ceiling like it was coming from a fire hose.  I could hear water rushing through the boiler and in the background, the water meter was buzzing like crazy.

I sloshed though the water on the floor, crawled behind the furnace and cranked the valve shut.  The water meter gradually quieted and the flow of water across the floor soon abated.

In the end, our house suffered no permanent damage from our furnace fill-up.  For future reference, I learned that I should make sure all the bleeder valves on the radiators are closed before I start refilling the furnace.  And I now know where the overflow pipe is for the furnace.  All that and we have heat too.

Still, there is a price to pay for this educational experience.  I’ll let you know what that is after I see my water bill.

(Tom Jirik’s columns originally published in the Boone Today)It’s surprising how much we can find to be thankful for.

I’m especially surprised this year, a year that has been tough for the Jirik family.

Back in April, my mother suffered a stroke.  Doctors later discovered that a brain tumor had caused the stroke.  She underwent brain surgery to remove the tumor which was found to be extremely cancerous.

The shock of those events shook my family like never before.

My family has been my strength and my rock.  I knew I could always count on my mother and my father and my siblings no matter what.

My mother was my confidant for everything from romance to career changes.  The thought of losing her was nearly unbearable.  What would happen to my 13-year old sister?  What about dad?  And my brothers?

In April, I would have predicted that I would not have very much to be thankful for on this Thanksgiving.  How wrong I would have been.

Of course in April I could not have known that family and friends would offer so much help and support to my family.  How could I know that neighbors would help bale the hay, harvest the crops, do the laundry and clean the house?  How could I have known that the freezer and refrigerator would not have been empty since April thanks to the generosity of friends and neighbors?

I could never have predicted how many people would make the trip to Fargo to visit my mother in the hospital.  Some of them made the trip again and again and then continued to visit once she returned home.

I could not have known how many friends and family would open their arms and their hearts, offering ears for listening, shoulders for crying and hearts full of compassion.

And how could I know about the kind words from doctors and nurses that made all the difference in the world for my mother and the rest of the family?

Even here in Boone, I could never have imagined that friends, co-workers and acquaintances, most of whom never met my mother, would respond with so much support and concern.  And the events reminded me again of how much I count on my better half, Mary, for her love, encouragement and wisdom.

I will never know of all the prayers offered for my mother and the rest of the family.  But I do know those prayers and our faith in God have given us the strength we needed to cope with this year’s terrible chain of events.

My mother’s illness has allowed me to see a part of my father that I have seen too rarely.  I have seen the concern and worry etched in his face, but I have also seen the love in his eyes and the tenderness in his touch.

How could I know that something like this would make my family closer than ever before?  I sense that we talk more often, listen more carefully and care more deeply about each other.

My mother will undergo her last chemotherapy treatment in December. To date, there has been no resurgence of the cancer.  That is a good sign, the doctors say, but it is too early to know what will happen in the coming weeks and months.

The uncertainty is difficult, but my mother is alive and doing as well as can be expected and we have been given a unique opportunity to see people at their best- when they are caring, sharing and loving.  And for these reasons, we can truly be thankful.

(Tom Jirik’s column originally published in the Boone Today)There’s a disturbing trend becoming evident in Iowa’s economy.

In fact, it’s evident right here in Boone.  How many of our local stores are locally owned?  Boone is blessed with a number of good, solid local entrepreneurs, but I’d wager that there are fewer than ever before.
The Des Moines Register’s copyrighted Iowa Poll recently showed that only 49 percent of Iowans would work for themselves if they could choose.  That’s down six percent from 1985 and down 30 percent from 1947.’

A large chunk of that decline reflects a reduction in the number of people who want to farm.  That means a continuing trend toward larger farms and fewer people served by Iowa’s towns.

But that’s another issue.  Let’s look at what the poll means for the local business economy.  If larger corporations are taking up the slack, what’s the problem?

The problem is that larger corporations funnel cash away from Boone.  The high-paying jobs are likely to be located somewhere else.   These companies aren’t likely to be as responsive to customers as a locally-owned firm would be.  It means that you have to drive to Ames or Des Moines to find the merchandise or service you want.

A more serious, but less evident problem is that small businesses have traditionally created the bulk of Iowa and U.S. jobs.  When IBM lays off a thousand workers or Maytag hires 200 employees, it makes news.  But what you don’t read about are the thousands and thousands of jobs created every day by new and growing small businesses.  Where will tomorrow’s new jobs come from?

And the desperation created by trying to keep your own business afloat is a powerful stimulus for creating new services and new products.  If fewer people are in business for themselves, will that creative drive be lost?

So why don’t more people want to be self-employed?  Competition is keen.  Insurance, taxes and reams of laws and regulations can take the thrill and excitement out of owning your own business.  The freedom of owning your own business just isn’t what it used to be.

What Iowa needs to do is find ways of clearing away the red tape for small businesses.  How can we put the fun, excitement and profit back into starting and owning a business?  Could the huge grants being used to lure large manufacturers into the state be used in ways to make Iowa a haven for small businesses?  It’s something to think about.

In the meantime, 51 percent of Iowans still harbor some desire to be self-employed.  That’s encouraging.  And those budding entrepreneurs can look at the enterprising business people of Boone for inspiration.  They prove daily that owning your own business can be both fun and profitable, despite the odds.

(Tom Jirik’s column originally published in the Boone Today)I’m getting tired of being mister nice guy.

I’ve tried to be kind to the woodland creatures, but I draw the line when they invade my home.

So far this year, we’ve had birds in the attic, a bat in the basement and hordes of insects everywhere.   I’ve tried to be patient and calm.  I shooed the birds out the window.  The bat disappeared by himself and a can of bug spray and quick shoe has solved most of our insect problems.

But this week, the squirrels moved in. 

One morning as I was getting ready for work, a furious scratching and rattling erupted in the ceiling above my head.  Then I could hear the unmistakable sound of little feet running across the ceiling.

Wasting no time, I headed to the attic to investigate.  Nothing.  There were no birds, not bats and nothing else.  As I stood quietly pondering this puzzle, there was a suddenly a noise under the attic floorboards.  And before I could say, “Drop that nut!” a big red squirrel appeared in a gap in the floorboards across the room.

If you’ve ever spent time watching squirrels, you know that their faces can be very expressive.  This one gave me a look of such contempt that I could read his mind.  “What are you doing in my attic!”  Frankly, I was thinking the same thing.

Somehow, cute little squirrels look larger and a lot less cute when they’ve invaded your home.  And with my recent experiences with bats, birds and bugs, I guess I just snapped.

“Outta my house, ya fuzzy little creep!” I yelled and the chase was on.   We must have looked like a spin-off from “The Road-Runner Show,” as he easily eluded my outstretched hands.

We were on our second circuit of the attic when I realized that I had no idea what I was going to do with a squirrel if I caught one, especially with my bare hands.  Finally, rational thought returned and I opened the window and I attempted to shoo my furry nemesis toward it.

He didn’t need much encouragement.  He bolted toward the window at top speed and launched himself into space without even touching the windowsill.  We’re talking about a third-floor window with nary a tree or bush to break his fall.

Unfortunately he survived.

I’ve seen him giving me the evil eye when I’m out working in the back yard.  He does a little squirrel swagger along the limbs of our big walnut tree and gives me a look that says,”Just you wait.  I’ll be back.

I hate that furry little guy.