We initiated the camping season in style this year.

We went to Missouri in a huge motor home.  I couldn’t believe the size of that baby.  At 32 feet, it just bout filled the driveway of our duplex. It was decked out with just about every option.  There was a microwave, a freezer and refrigerator, a stove, a heater and air conditioner and a full bathroom.

Now’s that’s camping.

My wife, Mary, a long-time tent camper, turned up her nose at such luxury.  “Taking a motor home isn’t really camping,” she sniffed.  “You might as well stay in a motel.”  She reluctantly agreed to ride along anyway.

Mary’s mom and dad rented the big rig to haul the family to the Ozarks for a wedding on Easter weekend.  They picked up Mary’s sister and her husband, Joan and Chad, and their three-year-old dynamo, Amy, in the Twin Cities.

We joined the traveling fun show on Friday morning.  Life on the road was grand.  We played cards, talked and had great fun.  It was like traveling in your living room.  If you were thirsty, you could step over to the sink or refrigerator.  If you had a snack attack, you could crank up the microwave and zap some popcorn.  Not need for potty stops either.  You could do anything you wanted while cruising the interstate at 65.

I had some doubts about spending a long weekend in a motor home with all those in-laws and a toddler, but things went fine.  Amy was a great entertainment for most of the trip.  Her only major tantrum was when I snatched a chunk of cheese out of her hand.  I guess three-year-olds don’t understand the concept of “jus kidding.”  She cried her eyes out.  I sat there holding her cheese and feeling like a heel.

The motor home’s one disadvantage was that it shrank in the rain.  When we left on Friday, there was room to walk around and stretch your legs.  The motor home seemed huge.

It started to rain Friday night.  There was no campfire, no way to enjoy the outdoors.  We stayed inside.  When we climbed out on Saturday, I’d swear the camper was smaller.  We were bumping into each other and tripping over each other’s feet.  There wasn’t enough room in all the storage cupboards for the things that were stowed away neatly the day before.

It rained most of the day on Saturday and the motor home seemed smaller still on Sunday

 Not long ago, a great wailing and gnashing of teeth arose from the huddled masses of Iowa.

“What shall we do with our garbage?” They cried.  “What shall w do with our yard waste?” They wailed.  Landfills were filling up.  Recycling seemed impractical and impossible.  Recycling seemed impractical and impossible.  Composting was messy and inconvenient.

Since then, things are looking up.  Recycling bins are overflowing.  The people you thought were least likely to make any effort to save the environment are hauling their empty milk jugs and old newspapers to the recycling bin.  Everyday, people find new ways to use old things that normally would have ended up in the garbage can.

In Ames, recycling has taken such a toll on local garbage collections that the local resource recovery plant (a facility that burns garbage to generate electricity) is running out of garbage to burn.  Ames actually wants Boone County’s garbage!

In return, Boone County will provide a little space in its landfill for the Story County garbage that isn’t fit for the resource recovery plant.  It sounds like a good trade.  Ames gets enough garbage to fuel its electricity needs and Boone County attains a net reduction in solid waste flowing into its landfill.

There’s good news as far as yard waste is concerned too. 

People are learning that decomposed yard waste can be good for their yards and gardens.  For those who don’t want to deal with yard waste and composting, Boone County has started a large-scale composting operation.  The compost will go to help enhance plant growth at area parks and recreation areas.

Garbage haulers will pick up your waste and take it to the compost site for a fee.  The Boone County Humane Society is also gathering yard waste and taking it to the compost site.  The society sees the situation as an opportunity to help Boone’s residents and to raise money to support its shelter and other programs.

Only a year ago, we wondered how we would cope with new environmental demands and regulations.  We’ve made good progress.  Boone County’s compost site and its proposed agreement with Ames show that local municipalities can find unique and innovative solutions to tough environmental problems.  I’m sure we’ll see more innovative plans proposed in the coming months.

We’ve seen recycling efforts grow.  Your efforts at using less, shopping smart for environmentally friendly products and recycling everything else is paying off.

That’s not to say there couldn’t be more improvements.  We still throw away too much stuff.  Too much cardboard, glass, food and paper still ends up in the garbage.  Too many cars are still too inefficient.  Too many industries still discharge pollutants and produce too many tons of waste during the manufacture of their products.

But this local good news gives us hope.  It goes to show environmentalism does indeed begin at home.  And it makes more sense and does more good then wailing and gnashing your teeth.

 Tax time.  I hate it.

Paperwork to find.  Difficult forms to fill out.  Convoluted instructions to understand.  Taxes to pay.  There seems to be no end to the frustration.

And it starts so soon.  I haven’t even recovered from Christmas and 1099’s, 1040’s, Schedule C’s and W-2’s are arriving everyday.  It seems like such a cruel joke to receive tax forms in a mailbox that was so recently filled with Christmas cards.

Taxes.  I hate ‘em.

And I’m not alone.  There are tax protestors, Iowans for Tax Relief, and tax evaders.  Professional tax prepares get rich because other people can’t stand to prepare their own taxes.  Professional tax prepares may be the only people who actually like taxes.

But I suspect that they secretly wish they piloted jet fighters or hunted big game instead.

Mary and I do our own taxes.  We always have.  Even the year when we had to file in three states.  No kidding.

What does it take to do your taxes?  It takes personal courage, sound financial management skills, determination and a knack for organization.  That’s why I turn everything over to my wife and let her fill out the forms.  “Your handwriting is so much neater,” I say sweetly.  She falls for it every year.

She hates taxes too, but she does them anyway.  I guess it’s because she loves me.  Either that or she’s worried we’ll go to jail if I fill out the forms.

She did a preliminary run through last week.  Why so early?  Because every year, we try to adjust our withholding so that the April 15^th tax bill doesn’t bust our budget.  Every year, we wind up writing a check to the IRS.  If we figure things out in January, that gives us more than three months to save the necessary cash.

I could tell by Mary’s wailing and gnashing of teeth that the tax news for 1991 wouldn’t break the trend.  She scribbled and scratched, erased and calculated.  Just watching her made me a nervous wreck.  She moaned and groaned at each step along the way, cursing the Internal Revenue Service and its apparent bias against the middle class.  All the while she cursed the government for spending money on defense, housing programs, road-building programs, savings and loan bailouts, congressional salaries and air sickness bags with the presidential seal on them for Air Force One.

Call it a wacky feeling, but I could sense that the news wasn’t going to be good.

Then suddenly there was silence.  She shuffled the tax forms.  “This can’t be right,” she said.  She scribbled, erased, calculated and scribbled some more.  Suddenly she stood up and exclaimed,” I don’t believe it, we get a refund!”

Tax time.  It’s not so bad.

 Seasoned homeowners look at our new home, shake their heads and mutter, “It’ll be a lot of work.”

They look at the old three-story home we purchased last month and see hours of fixing, maintaining and improving ahead.  “It’s a never-ending job,” they warn.  Their comments aren’t very encouraging, but they’ve done little to dampen my enthusiasm for home-owning.

I’ve already done a little do-it-yourselfing.  I fixed a toilet, took care of some leaking shower faucets and replaced a bracket on a drawer glide.  I’ve enjoyed every minute of it.

I spend all week writing and rewriting and editing.  It’s my job and I enjoy it and take pride in it.  But there are days when I come home with a compelling urge to make something with my hands, to fix a sticky door or to repair a flickering light.

For years, i’ve been stifled by landlords who kept our rental homes in good repair.  I’ve done as much tinkering as i’ve dared, but always with the nagging concern, “What will the landlord think?”  Also, tinkering costs cash and investing in somebody’s else’s property goes against my better judgment.

But now I’m a homeowner and free at last to tinker to my heart’s delight.

Last weekend Mary and I tackled our biggest project to date.  We built and installed some new doors on our garage.  They are simple plywood doors and designed to serve only until we can afford to fix the entire garage up properly.  Still, I had loads of fun.  I hauled a load of lumber home from the lumber yard on Saturday and spent the rest of the weekend measuring, cutting and screwing all the pieces together.  When the job was finished, there was little lumber scraps scattered about and sawdust covered everything.  It was hard work and the humidity didn’t help any, but when I swung those doors closed for the first time, I felt wonderful.

Mary and I brushed a coat of pain on them late Sunday afternoon.  As the sun settled behind the horizon, we stepped back to admire our handiwork.  Even the neighbors said they were impressed.  Call me a sentimental fool, but that was a beautiful moment.

I guess that‘s what people mean when they talk about pride in ownership.

I’m looking forward to our other plans. We want to add a bathroom and remodel the existing one.  The house has a huge attic that cries out to be finished and the basement could use some new wiring and a few other improvements.  Then there are all those sticky doors, flickering lights and leaky faucets.

Visitors look at it all and mutter,” It’ll be a lot of work.”

I smile and say,” I know.”

 Tomorrow at Sunday dinner, take the opportunity to celebrate National Agriculture Week.

It doesn’t really matter what you’re having.  Any meal will do.   From steaks to chicken and from lettuce to pickles, you have agriculturists to thank.  Considering the variety, quantity and affordability of food that we have available to us, National Agriculture Week is something to celebrate.

In Boone County, agriculture’s significance reaches far beyond the products on the shelves at the grocery store. The county’s 1,010 active farms are the foundation of the county’s largest industry. According to Boone’s county’s Iowa State University Extension Agriculturist, Dave Quilan, those farms grew corn on 115,000 acres and soybeans on another 110,000 last year.  County farmers also raised more than 10,000 acres if oats and other forage crops and about 2,000 acres if wheat.  The seed, fuel, equipment, fertilizer, chemical and other inputs needed to grow crops mean big business for Boone County agri-businesses. The employees of those businesses spend their paychecks at other local businesses.  A successful harvest means more money to fuel all sectors of the local economy.

There are also about 180,000 hogs and 22,000 head of cattle in Boone County, those hogs and cattle help fuel Boone County’s economy by changing low-value locally produced products (corn and soybean meal) into a high-value product (meat) that easily can be shipped and marketed around the world.

Statewide, for every person involved in agricultural production there are at least two people employed in agricultural input industries.  If that holds true in Boone County, more than 3,000 people here depend directly on agriculture for some portion of their income.

Agriculture in Boone County, like elsewhere is facing challenges.  Its political influence is shrinking at a time when clashes between rural and urban concerns occur with increasing frequency.  The industry faces environmental and economic concerns.

But there is reason for optimism too.  Researchers are finding new ways to grow crops and raise livestock that are more economically and environmentally sound than ever before.  New markets are opening.  Local crops of corn and soybeans are finding their way into an amazing array of products.  More and more printing is done with soybean ink.  Your soda is probably sweetened with a corn sweetener.  That degradable garbage bag in your kitchen is probably made from corn starch.  In years to come, both corn and soybeans will be used in more food and non-food products.  A host of foods and non-food products.  A host of food and industrial products are being developed in laboratories across the nation.

And it all starts right here on Boone County’s fertile soil.  Now that’s something to celebrate.

And speakijng of celebrations, the Boone Area Chamber of Commerce is hosting its annual Agriculture Appreciation Breakfast on Thursday.  The doors to the Community Building at the Boone county Fairgrounds open at 6 p.m.  Until 8 a.m. You can have the best omelet in town for a $1 donation.  Lee King, long-time WHO-radio farm broadcaster, will be on hand greeting listeners and taping interviews.

(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) 

March begins tomorrow.  Fix-up season is already underway.

Last week in was in the local hardware store, killing time on Saturday afternoon, I was just wandering around in there.  I wasn’t looking for anything to buy, I was just admiring the hardware.  Fingering the stove bolds.  Sizing up those strap hinges.  Checking out some hardened-steel, counter-sunk corner braces.

Suddenly, realizing what I was doing, I said, “This is pretty strange.”  I said it to myself.  You don’t just go talking to yourself in the hex-head bolt aisle.

Then I looked outside.  It was sunny and the snow and ice were showing signs of melting.  That’s when it began to make sense.  It was the beginning of fix-up season.

Out on the farm, winter takes its toll on things.  Windows get broken.  Door and gates and fences start sagging.  Things get rusty.  Plenty to fix up before spring field work starts.

So while it’s still cold enough to turn your fingers blue, farmers are out puttering around the farmstead.  “Won’t have time to do all this stuff once we get in the field,” they say.  They have a point.  It’s also therapy for somebody who’s itching for spring planting.

Aside from all those fix up tasks there is a job of bringing all those machines back to life after winter’s idleness.

At home, as fall’s first snow flakes began to drift down, we furiously pumped oil into the carburetors until engines began to flood and exhaust pipes belched blue smoke.

We put old soup cans on the exhaust pipes to keep the snow out.  Disconnected batteries to keep them from going dead.  Took the canvasses off the windrower to keep them from stretching and rotting.  The same goes for the belts on the windrower and combine.   Covered the knotters on the baler.  Greased cutterbars and plow moldboards.  Cleared the summer dust and chaff away to keep it from trapping moisture next to rustable metal.  Drained the water or added anti-freeze to keep engine blocks from cracking.

There wasn’t enough room inside for all those machines so we had to prepare them the best we could for a long winter outside.  It was a big job, but bringing all those machines back to life was always more challenging and exciting.

Would pistons stick inside of cylinders? Did belts rot or will they last another season?  Did moving parts rust solid?  Will the baler tie knots or will it pump out banana bales or little squares of hay with no twine at all?  You just never knew.

The Farmall “Super M” and the “H” would come to life with the help of jumper cables.  Their tinny roar echoed in the clear spring air.  They sputtered a little until electrical contacts cleaned themselves and the remnants of last fall’s oil treatment cleared away.

The big Farmall “806″ cranked over reluctantly, the starter straining to crank the six big cylinders.  It would finally rumble to life with a throaty roar, smelling of diesel fumes.

So, in the early days of March until tractors started crawling in the fields we’d clear away the dust and grit left behind by winter storms.  We’d oil and grease and adjust and fix for days.  It was, and still is, a spring ritual.

Just like browsing through the hardware store.

(Tom Jirik wrote columns in several newspapers in Iowa from the late 1980’s to the mid 1990’s.  This column originally appeared in the The Boone Today) 

I was born too late.

And because of my unfortunate timing, I drive a 1987 Mercury Lynx.  It’s dependable.  It’s economical.  It’s comfortable.  But that’s about it.  It’s a dependable, economical, comfortable unromantic, unexciting way to get from point “A” to point “B”.

I want fins.  I want chrome.  I want electrical gadgets, convertible tops and wide tires.  My trip to the Tall Corn Swap Meet and Car Show last weekend left me yearning for the automobiles of yesterday.

I have an old Ford pickup, but it’s not quite old enough.

It doesn’t have enough rounded edges, gentle curves and sweeping expanses of chrome to make it classic or collectible.  I’ve heard that restoring and collecting old cars is like a disease: once you catch the bug it stays with you forever.  It’s no wonder.  Compared to most of today’s cars, yesterday’s Chevys, Fords, Packards, and Studebakers could be compared to works of art.  Thank goodness for people like the members of the Tall Corn Antique Automobile Club who care enough for these old treasures to spend the hours necessary to repair, restore and preserve them.

Their care and dedication was evident at the car show Sunday.  The variety and quality of the cars was spectacular.  The swap meet was interesting too.  Hundreds of enthusiasts nosed around amid piles of rusted and greasy parts, looking for that one special taillight, hubcap or transmission.

I saw a few old pickups there that reminded me of my dad’s old farm truck.  It’s a 1947 Ford.  I used to bounce across the grain fields with it during harvest, trying to keep up with dad on the combine.  The paint was faded by years of sun and the interior smelled like moldy grain.

But there was something special about that old truck.  The huge hood narrowed down to a point.  Pressed into the metal on either side was the word “Ford” in intricate letters.  Great sweeping fenders covered the giant wheels.  The tiny instrument cluster also carried the intricate “Ford” logo among other lines and designs.   And there were gauges there, no idiot lights.

Under that long hood rumbles a fathead V-8 engine.  Although the engine burned oil by the quart, it sounded like I imagine an engine should.  When it idled, the engine rumbled, not loudly, but in a way as to make the ground shake slightly under your feet.  And when you stepped on the gas, it wounded as if it really meant business.

When you step on the gas in my little Lynx it sounds like a beehive or a really loud sewing machine.  There’s not much romance in that.  But it is comfortable and economical and it’s reliable enough so that I know I’ll be able to use it to get to the car show at mchose Park during Pufferbilly Days.

A fellow I know has been forced to play a public version of the name game against his will.  Graig Taylor (pronounced like Greg but spelled almost like Craig) is an All-Star little league pitcher.  Consequently, his name or something close to it, finds its way into the paper fairly often.

Most recently, this newspaper called him Craig instead of Graig on the front page of the sports section in last Saturday’s paper.  I sympathize with you, Graig, I really do.  Try living with a name like Jirik for awhile and see how people mess it up.

My advice is to keep improving you ball game and pretty soon everybody will know how to spell your name.

Either that or get a job at the newspaper so you can write it yourself and deny everybody else the chance to mess it up.

(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) 

There was anger and outrage over what was allowed to happen at a “puppy mill” near Madrid.  When law enforcement authorities and volunteers removed the remaining dogs from the facility on June 2, they were amazed and horrified by what they saw.

Animals crouched in small, filthy cages.  There was little shelter for them from the elements.  Some of the dogs were sick, most were extremely dirty and all had been deprived of the care and love that most people provide for their pets.

Since then, two of the nine dogs taken to the Boone County Humane Society’s Shelter have been euthanized.  The dogs were too terrified and disturbed to ever be able to adapt to a  “normal” pet’s existence.

“How could anyone treat animals like that?” Was a common question.  People were stunned and amazed that anyone could treat animals so cruelly.

The publicity surrounding the event obviously stirred deep feelings in Boone.  The week after the Boone County Humane Society participated in the removal of the dogs, 10 dogs were adopted from the shelter by local families.  That’s at least twice the normal level of weekly adoptions.

Sadly, “puppy mills” like the one near Madrid represent only a small portion of the animal cruelty that occurs in Boone County.  Perhaps the largest example of that cruelty is the reluctance of pet owners to have their pets spayed or neutered.

Each year hundreds of unwanted puppies and kittens are brought to the Humane Society’s shelter.  They are the lucky few.  They receive daily feedings and care.  The society’s employees work hard to keep the healthy and to find good homes for them.  Unfortunately there are far more unwanted kittens and puppies than there are good homes.

But even in death, the animal’s brought to the shelter are fortunate.  After a relatively painless injection, the animals drift off to sleep.

Many unwanted pets are not so lucky.  Many are eventually abandoned.  They create traffic and health hazards.  They scavenge for what food and water they can find.  The can terrorize livestock.  They can carry diseases to other livestock or other pets.

Many die under the wheels of cars and trucks.  Others meet their end in the jaws of predators.  Still others die a slow death by starvation or sickness.  Some are sealed in boxes and left by the side of the road.  Others are killed by gunshots, clubs or drowning.

Daniels Woodland had about 200 dogs at his Madrid “puppy mill.”  Last year more than 1,000 animals were brought to the Boone County Humane Society or captured up by the society’s employees.  Many others never made it that far.  Who committed the larger crime, Woodland or the negligent pet owners 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) 

It has a reputation of being big, brash and bold.  Carl Sandburg called it “Stormy, husky, brawling” and “the city of big shoulders.”  For years, Mike Royko has immortalized its dirty politics and colorful characters in his straight-talking newspapers column.  The Sears Tower.  The Chicago Board of Trade.  Al Capone.  Mrs. O’Leary’s cow.  These things are Chicago.

Chicago, with it s Midwest mystique, has always seemed to be a far away place.  Despite what the map said, it had always seemed to be a distant big city of endless business and activity.  It was a place to read about, to wonder at and to visit if you were lucky.

Somehow, it seemed odd that we could drive from Boone to Chicago in only six hours.  Conversation with friends made a trip go quickly and soon we were winding our way through the concrete spaghetti of downtown freeway interchanges.

We cruised into Chicago at midnight a week ago.  The city glimmered around us and above us.  Beyond Lakeshore Drive, Lake Michigan stretched into the darkness.  It looked as if it went on forever.

Chicago was everything we expected and more.  It was loud and rude and big and exciting.  Its lights burn all night.  At 3 a.m. Taxis race through the streets and revelers wander the sidewalks and clog the cafes and nightclubs.  When do they sleep?

The architecture is spectacular.  Old stone buildings and their ornate features reflect the wealth that grain, banking and shipping brought to the young city.  Among these older gems, towers of steel and glass punctuate the skyline, monuments to the newer business of trade, finance and retailing in Chicago.

True to its reputation as the windy city, the lake whips through the canyons created by the towering buildings.  Waves crash onto the shore and piers stretch like fingers into Lake Michigan’s blue depths.  Beyond the shore and the piers the lake stretches to the horizon.

We found the excitement intoxicating and invigorating.  Chicago’s museums, galleries and night spots tempted us and teased us.  There was so much to do and the weekend was so short.  We stretched our days into the wee hours of the morning to try to cram it all in.  Still, Sunday’s departure came much too soon.  We pointed our car toward the end of the downtowns canyons, wound our way through the concrete spaghetti and headed back to Boone.

We’ve been to Chicago and come home again and the windy city still seems as if it is much farther away than six hours.  Compare the city of Boone or even Des Moines and the differences is like night and day.

You’ll find no towering building here.  The only night life here at 3 a.m. Is the rumbling of trains.  Ironically, most are probably headed to or coming from Chicago.  There are no honking taxis, few hustling street peddlers and only a few people who could be considered brash and rude by Chicago standards.

Chicago is a wonderful place to visit and I’m sure we’ll go back.  But Boone is an even better place to come home to.

(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) 

My wife loves me.  I know because she helped me put a rubber donut in our sewer pipe.

We’ve been working on a bathroom project in our house and finally last weekend, it was time to install a new sewer pipe.  The new plastic pipe had to be fitted into the old cast-iron pipe in the basement floor.  The key element in this operation was a rubber donut.  The plastic pipe fits into the donut hole and the donut fits into the cast-iron pipe.

The theory behind the assembly is simple, but the installation proved to be a challenge.  The donut is designed to provide a very water-tight fit.  We tried wedging it in.  We tried prying it in.  We tried pounding it in.  We used soap to try to slip it in.  We even soaked the donut in hot water to make it more pliable.  No matter what we tried, the donut would not fit into the cast-iron hub.

Finally, as a last resort, we hauled out the big sledgehammer.  The big hammer is a handyman’s dream At eight pounds of solid steel and with a 30-inch hickory handle for the ultimate swing, the hammer is perfect for those delicate jobs like knocking down walls, braking up concrete or encouraging reluctant rubber donuts to slide into cast-iron fittings.

Unfortunately, the donut and the fitting were located below in a hole in the basement floor.  There was just no way to bring the hammer directly in contact with the donut.
“You’ll have to hold this chunk of two-by-four against the donut, while I pound on it,” I instructed Mary.

“Are you sure this will work?” She asked.

“I’m a perfect shot with a hammer,” I replied.

“Speaking of being a perfect shot with a hammer, how is your thumb?” She asked.

“Just hold the two-by-four,” I said.

She did and I started pounding.  The donut began sliding into the fitting.  Mary moved the two-by-four around the edge of the donut as I slammed the hammer down time after time.  Each time the hammer fell in that cramped corner of the basement, it was only inches away from Mary’s hands and face.  She never flinched.  It was one of the most stunning displays of marital trust that I had ever seen.

It was then I realized that sometimes love has more to do with sewer pipes than candle-lit dinners.  All told we spent more than an hour fighting with that rubber donut in the dirtiest, darkest, smelliest corner of our basement.

Call me a romantic fool, but if that’s not love, then I don’t know what it is