(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 Fall 1987)

The grass along the road exploded in a flurry of wings and feathers.

The large bird narrowly missed my windshield as it flew up and over the road.  I was so startled, that the bird was gone before I even realized what it was.

As startled as I was, I was glad to see the pheasant.  Even though the first pheasant had shocked me out of my travel-time daydream, I almost overlooked the second pheasant hiding in the brown grass of the ditch a mile later.

It was a beautiful fall day as we drove along a gravel road near Ledges State Park.  We came upon a group of cars stopped in the road.  Not wanting to block traffic, I eased past them.  We strained to see what had caught the eyes of these other fall drivers.

We collectively caught our breath.  In the middle of a grassy field, about 20 deer made their way cautiously toward the shelter of the trees.  As we drove around the corner away from the cars, a buck bounded gracefully across the road, his tail flashing white.

A quiet fall drive along the Des Moines River was brought to a halt as my passenger hissed,”Stop!”  He pointed to our right and a group of wild turkeys were just disappearing into the brush.  Their brown feathers made them instantly invisible.

It’s nice to see Boone’s wildlife flourishing.  Not long ago, fence row to fence row planting, excessive use of chemicals and a lack of knowledge about game management made wildlife sightings pretty uncommon.

Conservationists have done a good job. The beautiful large and small animals that once ranged far and wide across Iowa are returning.  Once again shelterbelts and fencelines are becoming havens for native animals.  It’s because people are again caring for the land and its wild residents.

The largest part of the conservations groups’ job has been education.  They taught farmers that some of these animals help to control rodents and insects.  They taught hunters that responsible hunting means game limits and wildlife management.  They taught hunting opponents that no all hunters are irresponsible and that hunting can be a part of conservation.

They taught politicians that wild game and habitat are important features of the Iowa life and that they deserve state regulation and preservation.  They taught land owners that brush, long grass and tall trees are not eyesores, but housing for furry and feathery neighbors.

So as the green leaves turn to brilliant orange and fiery red, stop and take time to enjoy the Boone area’s natural; wonders.  Take a ride on the Boone and Scenic Valley Railroad.  Drive through the river valley.  Walk through mchose Park or amble through the ledges or stroll along the shore of Don Williams Lake.

Remember to take time to look at the colors and the creatures.  Notice the texture of the bark on the trees and follow the animal tracks in the mud.  Remember how Boone County must have looked before fences and railroads and highways.

But most of all, enjoy.

ThisCountryBoy.com made its first official post one year ago today, November 18, 2007.  Since then, there have been over 250 posts and we are now being read almost 150 times a week.  For the regular readers - thanks for your support and for coming back week after week.  If you have thoughts and suggestions for improvement, please shoot me a line at: Contact@ThisCountryBoy.com. 

(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, October 21, 1987)

Dear members of society, please, please, PLEEAASE, forgive me.

I’ve committed a terrible transgression against the good people of Iowa.  I’ve betrayed your trust.  Destroyed my credibility as a citizen.

And worst of all, I got caught.

I got a speeding ticket.  I’m sorry.  I’m soooo sorry.  In fact, I’m $33 worth of sorry.” My wife, my family and my friends have been warning me.  “One of these days you’re gonna get caught,” they said.  “Maybe you should get a radar detector,” one well-meaning friend suggested.

I know they were right.  I tried to slow down.  Honest I did.  I drive a ‘68 Ford pickup, and that baby doesn’t like to go any slower than 70 mph.

I’d carefully adjust my speed so that I was only going 55 or for certain no more than 58.   Then I’d look up at the beautiful Iowa scenery, and the next time I’d glance down I’d be cruisin’ along at a comfortable 70.

I was headed up to Algona on Highway 169 when I finally got nabbed.  It was a dreary cold fall day.  A light rain was falling.  I had been concentrating on keeping my speed down for the whole trip.

Suddenly, I was headed downhill just south of Humboldt.  There were beautiful fall colors on either side of the road.  The sun broke through the clouds and I was jammin’ to the tunes on the radio.  I was just soaking it all up.

But not the highway patrolman coming toward me.  He had his attention centered on that little radar gun of his, and it said I was enjoying all the scenery at 67 mph.

I know that I couldn’t have going any faster than. say…67, I guess.

Suddenly, his lights were flashing and he was pointing at me and motioning for me to pull over.  I knew that I had four choices.

1. Make a run for it. (Stupid, but dramatic).
2. Try to lie my way out of it.
3. Beg for sympathy.
4. Sit there and let him write the ticket.

Okay, I’m a wimp.  I chose D.

So now I have a speeding ticket on my record.  My children’s children will remember grandpa Tom who brought such shame and disgrace on our fine family name.

My wife said, I told you so.”  The folks at the office here in Boone are having trouble believing it.  “You got a speeding ticket?” they keep asking in astonishment.

My brother John, teenager who has had several scrapes with the law but has never gotten a ticket, snickered and rubbed it in.  “At least I never get a ticket.”

I’m so ashamed.

My own Mother laughed at me.

My wife said.” I told you so.”

(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 November, 1988)

I called my brother at college last week.  “Is John there?” I asked his roommate.

“Oh, you mean the Great hunter of the Far North who is one with the wolf and at peace with the wild?” John’s roommate asked.

“Well? I guess so,” I replied.

It turns out that my brother really is the Great White Hunter. After three years, two rifles, 642 rounds of ammunition and four blaze-orange coats, he single-handedly brought home his first deer last week.

He did get one last year, but it was a community effort.  It was near the end of the season and John and the rest of the frustrated hunters in the area teamed up. They surrounded a small wooded area and opened fire.  They continued shooting until large trees began to topple.  Then they went in, counted the dead animals and divided the booty.  Not pretty, but effective.

This year, John landed one all by himself.  All summer, he scouted areas that deer might be likely to frequent-areas such as tickets, brushy areas, river bottoms and dimly lit highways.

He decided it is too tough to get a clear shot off in thickets and brushy areas.  Hunting along the highway is unsafe and illegal.  So all that was left was the river bottom.

So John went out and found a nice clearing with some signs of deer activity and set up a stand.  With his stand built high above any typical deer’s line of sight, he was ready for the hunt.  Less than an hour into his first day out, a group of deer came walking by.

My words here could not relay to you the drama of the hunt and the thrill of the kill.  I will let John tell you in his own words.  This is his story-

I had arrived shortly before dawn.  I was there, not specifically to kill, but to feel the thrill of the hunt.  As I sat there in the pre-dawn darkness, I felt long-buried instincts come alive.  My senses were heightened.  The sun began to rise.

I could sense the deer before they appeared.  I could not see them.  I could not hear them.  I could not smell them.  But I knew they were there.

Then they came into view.  There were a dozen of them.  Each was a magnificent creature with towering antlers and rippling muscles.  I trembled with excitement.  I could feel the cold steel of my rifle as I raised it my shoulder.

NO! I could not shoot.  A gun, with its harsh noise and smelly powder is not the way of the wilderness.  I was one with the wild just then and I knew I could never use a gun to kill one of these creatures.  The kill would have to be more of a challenge than that.

I quietly placed the gun on my stand.  The deer heard the quiet rustle of my jacket, but they did not bolt.  They paused, acutely seeking some other sign of my presence. 

Slowly, I reached to my belt and clutched the big knife.  It felt comfortable in my hand- as if it were an extension of my arm.  I had sweated and toiled to forge that knife the winter before.  I had spent hours hammering and honing until it was keenly sharp and perfectly balanced.

Now I took aim with that knife.  The 18-point buck was an easy target, but I did not aim at him.  He had lived too long and proudly for a mere youngster like me to kill.  I did not aim at the does.  They must live to bear fawns for future hunts.  Instead, I took aim at the young six-point buck.  He was young and haughty like myself.  He and I would challenge each other.  His speed and senses would be matched against my aim and strength.

Now the knife was poised.  I threw!  And what a throw it was.  The knife whistled through the air, straight and true.

The rest of the herd thundered away, but my buck lay there, his life-blood pumping from his cleanly severed jugular.  At 50 yards, it was a clean and skillful kill.  It had been a good day hunting.  The family will eat well this winter.

That’s John’s story.  I must say it’s pretty impressive.  However, he also mentioned something about six shots and a 12-point buck that was too far away.  He didn’t talk much about those things so they couldn’t have been too important.

(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 fall of 1987)

Did you miss it?

Tucked in there between election day and Thanksgiving is Veterans Day.  It was Nov 11 if you didn’t notice.  Maybe you didn’t.  Unless you worried about your mail not being delivered or your banking not getting done, it might have slipped right by you.

It’s kind of an ambiguous holiday.  What does it all mean- this holiday called Veterans Day?  Veterans Day and Memorial Day are losing some of their significance.  Norman Rockwell scenes of parades and banners and speeches and patriotism are scarce.  At times, the flags are more of an advertising gimmick than the proud standard of a nation.  Old uniforms hang in back closets or lay folded in dusty steamer trunks.

Has it been that long since the members of our armed forces have engaged in battle?  Are we forgetting what these days mean.

Once it seemed that everyone had a grandfather who fought in the war to end all wars- World War I. Everybody had an uncle or a father or a brother who fought in Europe or the Pacific during “the Big One”- World War II.  Our fathers, brothers and sons served in Korea and Vietnam.

For me once those wars are only scenes in scratchy old news reels or long forgotten memories of a child who didn’t understand what was happening on TV’s evening news.

We’re a nation of forgetters.  Wars are unpleasant.  Parades and uniforms are inconvenient and holidays interrupt our daily lives.  Let’s forget.

But we can’t afford to forget.  The price was too high.  Men and women were willing to give their lives for a country and a government that few of us pause to appreciate now.  They fought so we could chose our next president, congressional delegates and legislators.  They fought so we could have the freedom to live as we chose and to control our own destiny.

Want to know about a veteran’s day?  Talk to the woman in the nursing home who’s son “never come home from the Pacific” in 1945.  Or the man who remembers a day in 1919 when he cried at the sight of the Statue of Liberty.  Talk to a grandfather who remembers black nights in a troop transport trying to cross the channel as shells burst overhead.  Ask a father why he seldom talks about what he saw in Korea after the “police action.”

They will tell you why it’s important to remember Veterans Day.  Memories of war and pain and hatred aren’t pleasant.

They bought us the freedom and prosperity we enjoy.  If we forget we may become reckless as a nation.  Our leaders must think deeply before making threats and promises.

 (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 on November 4, 1987)

Elections are over.  Ho-hum, big-deal, whoop-dee-do.

Now the real business of government can resume.

Most people I know don’t take local officials very seriously.  They think of them as glory seekers and ax grinders.  “That so-and-so on the city council has mush for brains.  All they want to do is raise our taxes,” is often heard.

As for school boards, “They don’t care about our kids.  All they want to do is raise our taxes.”

No wonder people don’t want to run for government seats.

They certainly don’t do it for the huge salaries, although the Boone City Council recently doubled its pay.

As a member of the press, I attend more city council meetings and school board meetings than most people and get a chance to watch these people work up close up.

I think a small-town city administrator said it best when he told me,”It’s easy to get frustrated and criticize these people, but they are honest people who really do work hard to try to provide what is best for their town.”

I admit that I am one of the worst culprits when it comes to criticizing our local officials for holding long and boring meetings. But if long and boring is what it takes to provide what is best for our community and children, then long and boring if fine with me.

Today’s city officials are strapped by financial constraints and governmental regulations.  It is not their fault that they no longer wield as much political power as our city fathers once did.

So they do the best they can.  They sit through hours of hearings, meetings, all for the good of their cities.

They take the heat when they do something people don’t agree with, and they are seldom praised for a job well done.  When a city council or school board member tells you it’s a thankless job, you probably don’t know the half of it.

I’m not saying that our local elected officials are perfect, nor should they be immune to criticism.  Officials must rake responsibility for their actions.

What I am saying is that our elected officials are giving of their time in service to their communities, and we should give them a little more of what they really deserve… respect and thanks.

Moving into a town with established history and traditions like Boone is not all a bed of roses, especially for a news reporter.  People assume that I know things that I don’t know.  Consequently, I pretend to know most of what they assume I know so that people don’t correctly surmise that I am actually quite dense.

Assuming too much often leads to a display of y stupidity in print.  For example, just because I usually see Any Knudson behind the counter at the Pester Derby I assumed that she was a clerk.  Wrong.  She is the manager. 

Sorry Andy.

I also assumed that there had only been two children from Columbia adopted by Boone county parents.  Wrong again.  Eric Kline of Madrid has joined the ranks along with Kasi Rungee and Amy Platter, both of Boone.

Eric’s mother, Linda, courteously informed me of my error.  Linda tells me Eric is getting along fine with dad Alan and sister Brenda and at 11 months is a very active resident of Boone county.

(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 October, 1988)

I peered out the window.  It was drizzling outside and cold raindrops made tracks in the dust on the opposite side of the window.  I huddled thee in the darkness of the haymow, knowing that he would be there soon.  I pulled my fingers out of their individual compartments in my gloves and curled them against the palms of my hands to keep them warm.

I was growing impatient.  If he didn’t show up soon, my entire plot would be ruined.

Then I saw a shaft of light flash from the door of the house across the yard.  Then it was gone.  Someone had come out of the house.  In the harsh light cast by the yard light, I could see someone trudging toward the barn.

The figure was too small to be Dad and the wrong proportion to be my brother, Jaime.  That meant it had to be …. Yes!  It was my brother, John!  Things were going perfectly!

I scrambled away from the window.  I didn’t want him to see me.  That would ruin everything.

I could hear the door to the barn downstairs roll open, then closed.  Light flashed up through the hay chutes as John turned on the lights downstairs.  I could hear him rattling around down there.  The, suddenly, he called out for me.

Did that mean he knew I was there?  Was my plan spoiled?  No! Not now that I was so close.

I didn’t answer.  I held my breath.  I heard John swear.  I took a cautious breath.  His curses meant that he thought I should be doing our chores and he couldn’t find me.  He was angry, but I was glad.  He didn’t know I was there.

I heard the door roll open and closed again.  I quietly dashed to the darkest corner of the haymow.  I hunched down behind a tumbled pile of bales.  The aluminum ladder banged in the darkness as John angrily stomped up to the haymow.

He was framed at the top of the ladder for a moment in the open doorway.  He paused, then went to work.  I watched silently as he sent four bales tumbling down the front chute.   The last one wedged itself in the opening.  John was really steaming now.  He stomped around, kicking at hay bales, mumbling to himself.  Finally, he dislodged the bale.

I sank down behind the bales even farther s he approached.  H e tossed two bales down the rear chute.  I could hear his angry mumbling clearly now, “I don’t know where the heck that Tom is,” he said to himself.  “This is supposed to be his job, I don’t know why I have to do it! Cripes!” He added.

I grinned to myself.  This was great.  He was so wrapped up in his anger, he wasn’t aware of his surroundings at all.

He moved closer to me. We were both in the darkest shadows of the haymow.  He was just on the opposite side of the bales, working to pull one loose from the pile.  I could hear his heavy breathing as he mumbles and worked to pull the bale loose.

I had to wait for just the right moment.  Not yet.  Not yet.  Not yet.

NOW!

I jumped over the top of the bales with my coat held out like a pair of giant bat wings.  I screamed at the top of my voice,”AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!”

As I crashed into him, John’s eyes grew to four times their normal size and his face turned white in the darkness.  He just kind of gurgled for a moment until a scream of his own erupted form his throat.

I collapsed on the hay, laughing so hard that I couldn’t catch my breath.
John was lying limply across a bale nearby, taking ragged gasps of air as he tried to recover his composure.

I jumped up, yelling,” Happy Halloween!  Happy Halloween!  Happy Halloween!”  As I scrambled for the ladder, I could hear John running after me.  I couldn’t quite make out what he was screaming, but I think it was something about how much fun it was to be my brother.

Halloween was so much more fun when I was 15 and had a 12-year-old brother.  I haven’t scared anyone like that in ages.  Shhhhh.  Is that my wife coming?  Yes!  This is perfect!  I’ll just unscrew this lightbulb and get down behind the couch….

(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) 

Tom Sutherland isn’t bitter.

He was held captive in Lebanon for more than six years.  He was chained to a wall.  He was beaten.  He was isolated from his friends and family.  His diet for all of those years consisted of bread, rice, water, tea and cheese.

But Tom Sutherland isn’t bitter.  Not at all.

“Bitterness is a very destructive emotion,” Sutherland said.  “I could spend all my time being bitter and those guys over there in Lebanon wouldn’t even know it.”

Instead of being bitter, Sutherland is having the time of his life.  He says everyday is like spending another day on a honeymoon with his wife, Jan.  This spring and summer have been the most beautiful he can remember.

“We’re the luckiest, happiest people in the United States or the world, for that matter,” he said.

I’ve seen Sutherland speak several times since his release in November.  Each time I’m impressed, and awed by the strength, insight, and wisdom he seems to have gained from his ordeal.

Monday morning in Pittsburgh, I saw Sutherland appear before the American Society of Animal Science at the group’s annual meeting.  He greeted his colleagues with sincerity and charm.   There was no doubt that he is a man who is thrilled to be alive and enjoying every minute of it.

Sutherland received a master’s degree in animal science for Iowa State University in 1956 and a Ph. D. In 1958.  His wife is an Ames native.   He was kidnapped by armed gunmen while being driven from the Beirut airport to on June 9, 1985.  He was on leave from Colorado State University at the time and was serving as dean of agriculture and food sciences at the American University in Beirut.

“Our very survival depended on not dwelling on the negative aspect,” Sutherland said of his captivity.  “The experience has given me a renewed appreciation for the simple things of live-like sunlight.”

Sutherland said he knew there were risks in Lebanon.  The embassy had warned him of the dangers.  The president of the American University in Beirut, a friend of Sutherland’s had been assassinated only a few months before the kidnapping. “I stood over the pool of blood on the sidewalk and knew I had to make some decision,” Sutherland said.

Sutherland attributes his decision to stay in Lebanon to his Scottish stubbornness and a commitment to the educational ideals of the American University in Beirut.  It was a decision that cost him more than six more years of his life.

Still there is no regret and no bitterness.  Tom Sutherland is too busy enjoying a life of freedom to worry about those things.

(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)

A brilliant blue sky arcs over acres and acres of golden wheat and barley.  The grain shimmers and tosses in the relentless wind.

The Red River Valley is a spectacular sight this time of year.  If you can appreciate an endless horizon and the thrill of solitude, it’ll leave you breathless.  There’s really nothing like it.

Except maybe our backyard.  Recent rains have had dramatic effect on our lawn’s productivity.

I stepped out the back door last week and I could have sworn that I was looking across the prairie outside of Fargo.  My sidewalk was like a mini I-94 with the rolling waves of grass stretching off into the distance on both sides.

As a farm boy from wheat country, I felt a pang of homesickness somewhere in my heart.  It’s August and the combines are beginning to roll across fields at home.  Looking out across my lawn, I felt a need to harvest.

My 20-inch push lawn mower is a far cry from a massive John Deere 7720 combine or a big Massey Ferguson 860 harvester, but it does the job on my spread.  I felt a familiar tingle of excitement as I prepared to fire up that hefty 2 ½  Briggs and Stratton engine and do some serious farming.

But it was not to be.  “You have writing to do,” Mary reminded me.  “I’m going to mow the lawn today.  It’ll be good exercise.”

To say that I was crushed would be an understatement, but she was right.  I had more important things to tend to.  Still, I was disappointed that for Mary, the mystical thrill of harvest meant no more than an opportunity to tone some muscles.

I retired to my keyboard and Mary headed outside to do the mowing.  It was nearly impossible to concentrate as the mower roared by the windows.  I wanted to be out there.  I needed to be out there. 

I crept to the window.  There was Mary working like crazy, sweat pouring off her face.  It was good to see her getting in touch with the land.

A little later, I peaked through the curtains again.  Now she is trudging back and forth across the backyard, pushing the mower through the thick grass.  Her face was red and droplets of perspiration left streaks in the dust on her face.

Suddenly, I felt better for having sacrificed for Mary.   I knew her life would be enriched by this experience.  She was learning the thrill of the harvest that all farmers feel.  She was becoming intimately acquainted with our little corner land that we nurture so that it sustains life.

As I looked out at my sweaty wife trudging across the lawn, I knew someday she would thank me.  Probably not soon, but someday.

If she’s lucky, maybe I’ll sacrifice for her again next week.

(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)

Some of us envy the easy life that farmers lead.  A farmer has no boss, no clock to punch and no crops to tend in the winter.

Tractors and combines with climate-controlled cabs add some luxury to what used to be dusty, noisy uncomfortable jobs.  And those tractors and combines are bigger and faster than ever before.  A farmer can harvest more acres in a day than his grandfather could harvest in a week.

“How nice it must be to enjoy the solitude and fresh air for farming life,” we think.  Sometimes we laugh and say,”That’d be the life.”

Think again.  Boone County’s farmers deserve better from us.  We are very selective in what we see and remember.  If you’ve watched closely during the last few weeks, you noticed that life is not easy down on the farm.

It was difficult not to notice the combines, trucks and tractors that seemed to be in every field and on every road in Boone County during most of October.

No matter when you looked, farmers seemed to be on the move from early in the morning to late in the evening.  Those kind of hours are not for people who enjoy sleeping in or like to relax and watch an evening of television.

At the same time, you would have noticed that repair shops and implement dealers were especially busy.  Harvest’s pace puts a stress on machines as well as their operators.  Be glad that the drive belt on your lawnmower doesn’t cost $170.

A week ago, we drove through north central Iowa.  As the radio told us about the rain that would move into the area on Sunday, we watched as combines and tractors crawled through muddy fields trying desperately to harvest the rest of this season’s crop.  It was late on a Saturday evening, but lights blazed on either side of the highway as farmers struggled in the darkness.

Three weeks ago, and ice storm knocked out electrical power for thousands of Iowans.  For many it was merely an inconvenience.

It meant no hot showers, no television and a difficult time keeping the house warm.

For farmers, it meant finding alternative ways of feeding and watering livestock while electric feeders and pumps remained silent and useless.  The ice meant struggling to maintain proper ventilation and temperatures in livestock confinement buildings.  Failure could have meant the deaths of hundreds of valuable animals and a devastating financial loss.

Those with tractors-powered electrical generators were more fortunate.  But those tractors needed to be monitored and fueled.  Generators are seldom powerful enough to operate all the electrical equipment on the farm, that means rationing power to each job individually.  Morning chores stretched to fill the entire day.

There’s no denying that farming can be rewarding as a business and as a way of life.  That’s why some farmers will do almost anything to keep farming.  But that’s not to say that it’s an easy life-style.

In Boone County, many of us have farmers as friends and neighbors.  We all rely on them for the health or our local economy and the food we eat.

They deserve our respect.