(Tom Jirik’s columns orginally published in the Boone Today)My brother is a dear hunter.

He has a collection of guns that he uses to hunt deer.  He has camouflage clothing.  He has purchased a truck exclusively for deer hunting.  He subscribes to deer hunting magazines.  He studied books on deer.  He scouts out deer territory to learn of their trails, habit and migrations.  He wants to learn how think like a deer.

During hunting season, he endures hours, even days, in the freezing cold and pouring rain.  He treks miles through snow and mud for a shot at a trophy buck.

This man is obsessed with deer.  Basically he is a typical deer hunter.  And to hear him and the rest of his kind talk, you would assume that deer are shy, elusive, wily, smart creatures that only a few lucky hunters will ever see.

That’s one side of the story.  There appears to be another side to tell.

At Redeker Furniture last month, a deer jumped, unprovoked, through the front door.  The poor animal smashed lamps, furniture and knick knacks from one end of the store to the other.  This is a shy, elusive, wily. Smart creature?

Shortly before that incident, a deer ran into traffic at the busy intersection of Park Avenue and Story Street.  Is that the mark of a shy and elusive animal?

Travel any highway and you’ll see the shoulders, ditches and medians littered with deer carcasses.  Don’t they look both ways before crossing?  Or they a deer with a death wish?

And that’s not all; some farmers suffer tremendous crop losses to deer every year.  It seems that herds of the animals trample and eat hundreds of bushels of grain.  That’s right, I said herds.  I have actually seen herds of deer.

And these are not isolated incidents.

Almost every year, you hear stories about deer jumping into buildings.  A few years ago, one crashed through a window at Fareway and browsed the frozen food aisle.  Almost everybody has a story about a near-miss with a deer.

So, my question is, what’s the real story?  Are these deer that are jumping through windows and into traffic only the dysfunctional deer?  Are the rest of the deer really as smart and shy as deer hunters say?  And what about those herds of deer?  Where do they go during hunting season?

Do you really need camouflage, topographic maps and high-powered rifles to hunt an animal that makes a hobby of jumping in front of moving vehicles?

And one last question.  What kind of camouflage do you use to hunt deer in a furniture store?  Do you dress like a blaze orange recliner?  I’ll bet my brother knows.

(Tom Jirik’s columns originally published in the Boone Today)Less than a week before Fred Grandy became an official candidate for Governor of Iowa, he was in Boone with a rather unusual message.

Rather than bashing Democrats and running down his opponent, Grandy talked of building relationships and making changes in the Republican Party.  An unusually large crowd of more than 100 Boone County Republicans heard Grandy on Dec.10 as he outlined his plan for the future of the Iowa Republican Party.

“Our fundamental problem is not substance, it’s style. Grandy said “It’s not what we say it’s how we say it.  It turns people off before they have a chance to hear what we have to say,” Grandy said.

Grandy urged party member to become more aware of the growing number of blacks, Hispanics and other minorities in Iowa and find ways to serve these communities.

Grandy said the party needs to build bridges and work with opponents to find solutions to problems.  He suggested that the party needs to look at old issues and problems in new ways.  As an example, he citied the abortion issue.  “We’re not thinking of this issue beyond birth,” he said.  “We have no strategic vision of life.  We need to be thinking of this as a life and living person.”

Since Grandy first discussed entering the race for governor, Iowa Republican Party officials have been wailing and gnashing their teeth about how the primary race between Grandy and Governor Terry Branstad would weaken the party.

Grandy answered by asserting that “any primary fight that will divide the party will also expand the party.”

If Grandy is right, his candidacy may help entice minorities and other voters to become more involved in the political process.  If he is right, his candidacy may result in the development of new solutions for growing problems in Iowa.

How will Iowa’s governments and schools change to serve the state’s more multi-cultural society?  Is there a way for the state to address inner-city crime in Des Moines and
Davenport while continuing to enhance rural development efforts? How will Iowa deal with health care, substance abuse, transportation and tax issues?

After more than a decade in the Governor’s Office, no one could blame Branstad for sticking with tried and true ideas- the ideas and policies that put him in office and kept him there.  But to find truly innovative ways of addressing those issues, our state’s leaders may have to tread beyond politically safe territory and search for solutions that lie beyond the tried and true.

Whether he wins or not, Grandy’s candidacy may prompt them to do just that.  I certainly hope so.

(Tom Jirik’s column originally published by the Boone Today)Forget health care.  Forget roads, bridges, schools and universities.  Forget prisons, crime and criminals.  Forget welfare, health care and social problems.  Forget those petty concerns and let’s talk about the big issues.

Let’s talk dancing.

A bill was recently introduced into the Minnesota Legislature that would make the square dance the Offical State Dance of Minnesota.  That’s right.  The square dance.  That’s the dance where partners do-si-do and swing their partners around the room to the auctioneer-like chant of a “caller.”

One of the legislators backing the bill said in an interview that the square dance deserved to be the Minnesota State dance because it was so “wholesome.”

In most other states, the notion of making the square dance the Official State Dance would either prompt laughter or apathy.  In Minnesota, the move prompted controversy.  The state’s many polka fans are outraged.

A few years ago, there was a move a foot to make the polka the Official State Dance.  That bill was defeated.  Undoubtedly, the polka proponents were disappointed, but being polka-ers, they probably went down to the dance hall, danced their troubles away, and forgot about the whole deal.

Until those rotten square dancers reopened all those ugly wounds of the past.  So now Minnesota’s formidable group of polka dancers are up in arms.  By golly if the polka doesn’t deserve to be the Official State Dance of Minnesota then the square dance sure the heck doesn’t either.

And so it goes round and round.

But dance fever isn’t evident only in the Minnesota legislature.  Here is Iowa, legislators are pondering dancing of more adult nature.  Lawmakers are trying to figure out what to do about a loophole in state law that allows totally nude dancing in clubs where liquor is served.

Ames is host to Iowa’s first “juice bar,” an establishment that serves nonalcoholic drinks while patrons watch exotic dancers peel down to their birthday suits.  It’s a show for mature (?) audiences only and the legislators don’t like it.  Or at least that’s what they have to say in public to keep their jobs.  So they’ve been making a big show of arguing about how to close the loophole while the owner of the juice bar argues that nude dancing is a constitutionally-protected form of free speech.

And some people say lawmakers aren’t afraid to tackle the big issues.  Maybe the sidestep should be the Official Dance of the State Legislature.

(Tom Jirik’s columns originally published in the Boone Today)Driving my old pickup is a lot like watching “The Twilight Zone.”  You know something weird and scary is going to happen, you just don’t know what and when.

Once recent evening I was traveling down Highway 17 at the posted speed limit (at least).

Cars in the other lane were zooming inches away.  The ditches were filled with snow, ice, telephone poles, mailboxes, culverts and other hazards.

And that’s when my lights went out.

Usually I enjoy driving the pickup.  There’s no power steering and no power brakes.  It’s just a man, and his truck and the open road.  The rusted holes in the floorboards only serve to enhance that oneness with the pavement.

And then there’s that exciting sense of unpredictability.  Will it stall at the next stoplight? Will it start again when you shut it off?  Will the heater work?  My old truck is full of surprises.  Fortunately, when these things happen, a little tinkering with a screwdriver, a pair of pliers, a pocket knife and some electrical tape will probably get me home.

On this night, everything was as it should be.  The engine purred perfectly and all of the gauges soon showed normal readings.  I was a few miles out of town when I eased back in the seat to enjoy the ride.

That’s when the lights went out.  The dash lights, the tail lights, the headlights and the parking lights all went black at the same time.  A normal person may have panicked.  A normal person may have slammed on the brakes.  A normal person may have steered for the side of the road.”

Not me.

I’ve been driving that truck so long, that I know how to deal with these things.  I calmly reached under the dash and grabbed a handful of wires and gave them a shake.  The dash lights came on.  “We’re making progress,” I thought.  I shook them again.  This time the dash lights went off and the headlights came on.  “I can live with this,” I thought.

I released the wires just as I drove over a frost heave in the highway.  The dash lights came back on, but the headlights went dark.  I slammed my fist onto the dash.  All the lights came on again.  I leaned back into the seat with a sigh of relief.  All of the lights went off again.

Cars in the other lane were flashing their lights at me.  A glance in the rearview mirror showed a giant truck rapidly approaching.  In desperation, I grabbed the wires again.  The lights came on.

I didn’t dare let go.  What if the lights went of and stayed off?  Would I be involved in terrible accident?  Would I careen off into the ditch to meet my maker in the form of a utility pole?

Then like an oasis of light in the desert of darkness.  Luther came into view.  I pulled into the well-lit parking lot of the convenience store there and conducted an under-the-dash inspection.  I found a loose connection at the back of the light switch.  I cleaned the contacts with the blade of my pocket knife.  I slid the plugs back together and secured them with electrical tape.

I pulled the switch and the lights came.  I rocked the truck on it old shock absorbers.  The lights stayed on.  My latest trip into “The Twilight Zone” was over and I’ve had enough.  I’m ready for calmer driving.

Could you tell me how to get to “Sesame Street?”

(Tom Jirik’s columns originally published in the Boone Today)The basement of our old house is dark and dreary.  And that’s on a good day.

At night, it’s positively depressing.  Dusty pipes criss-cross the ceiling.  Cobwebs span the distances between the ceiling joists.  Among the webs, pipes and joists is a tangle of new and old wiring and a few scattered bare-bulb light fixtures.  Crumbly, dusty bricks form the walls. A huge old furnace lurks in the center of one of the rooms.  “Truly dingy and disgusting, but with that uncomfortable, not-to-be-lived-in feeling,” as the writers might say in Metropolitan Home.

I had just finished putting some tools by the light of the single light bulb when I caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of my eye. I turned around to take a better look and saw a bat swooping toward me out of the darkness.

A scream and two seconds later I was upstairs with the door slammed shut behind me.  I do not care for bats.

I am an educated person.  I know that bats eat mosquitoes and other insects.   I know that I should be thrilled to have been able to see one of nature’s more mysterious creatures up close.

Yeah. Right.

I was not thrilled.  I somehow forgot how wonderful bats are when I met Mr. Bat in my dark, dungeon-like basement. When you’ve seen a bat swooping toward you out a dark basement room, you’re in no mood to consider how lucky you are.

I gathered my wits and my wife about me and headed back down to the basement. Armed with flashlights and brooms, we crept around the dark corners, looking for Mr. Bat.  But Mr. Bat was being coy.  We couldn’t find him anywhere.  “Now what are we going to do?” I asked in exasperation. 

“He’ll show up again,” Mary assured me.  “They can hide almost anywhere and if he’s still here, we’ll see him again. Don’t worry.”

My wife is such a kidder.  There we were, creeping around in the dark recesses of our basement, play hide-and-seek with a potentially dangerous creature that can fly in the dark and she tells me, “Don’t worry.”

Yeah.  Right.

The next evening our bat made another appearance.  This time he was upstairs zooming from the dining room to the living room and back again.

Once again, he caught me off guard, but I quickly recovered my senses. By the next time he came swooping in I was ready.  He came swooping in.  I made a few thrusts with the broom.  He zoomed back into the dining room.  Zoom.  Zoom. Thrust. Thrust. It was like some kind of bizarre and horrifying dance.  It was as if he was teasing me.

Finally, I followed him into the dining room, but when I arrived he was nowhere to be found.  We looked under and behind the furniture, behind the curtains and behind the heat radiators. 

“He could be anywhere.  We’ll just have to wait for him to show up again,” Mary said after we completed our search.  “We might as well go up and get some sleep.” 

Yeah. Right.

(Tom Jirik’s columns originally published by the Boone Today)It was 3:30 a.m. and my wife and I were huddled together in the walk-in closet of our bedroom

Despite the fact that I was wearing only my alluring Mickey Mouse boxer shorts, this was no romantic interlude.  No, we were huddled together in fear as an intruder invaded our home.  I cracked the door and slammed it again,” He’s still out there,” I said.

As the panic subsided, I realized that as the man of the house, it was up to me to defend it.  I frantically rummaged through the clothes and debris in our closet, looking for a suitable weapon, Mary handed me a wooden hanger.  “Here,” she said, “just bop him with this.”

“No way!  I’m not getting that close to him,  I want something with more reach!”  Aha!  A laundry basket!  With a weapon in hand, I hiked up Mickey, gathered my courage, gave Mary a farewell kiss, grabbed the doorknob and said,”I’m goin’ out.”

Zoom!  The bat came screaming at me with super-sonic speed.  I made a gallant swing with the basket.  Whoosh!  “Did you get him?”  Did you get him?” Mary squeaked from the open closet door.

The bat made figure-eights around the ceiling fans in our large bedroom as I pranced around in my Mickey Mouse skivvies trying to stun him.  Zoom! Zoom! Whoosh! Whoosh!

Only moments before, I had been dreaming blissful, batless  dreams when Mary, on a return trip from the bathroom, announced,”There’s a bat in here.”

“No, there’s not,” I said hopefully without opening my eyes.

“Yes, there is,” she said, more urgently this time, “Look!”  I pulled the covers up under my chin and cracked my eyelids.  A black shadow swooped over the bed.  I was instantly awake as my brain went into panic mode.  I slid out of bed and went into my “soldier-crouching-to-avoid-enemy-fire” pose as the bat whizzed and zoomed overhead.  “Get him!” Mary urged from the safety of the closet.

“With what?” I asked as I stood up to show her I was unarmed and unclothed except for those Mickey Mouse boxers.  The bat was headed my way again so I went into my crouch and scurried over to join Mary in the closet.

The next thing I know, me and Mickey, armed with only a big blue basket, were defending that scared institution, the home, against bat.  Zoom! Zoom!  Whoosh!  Whoosh!

A slight correction in my timing was all that was needed.  As the bat came in for another pass, I swung a split-second soon.  Bonk!  He nosedived into a blanket at the end of the bed.

“I got him!  I got him!”  I shouted jubilantly.  Then I dumped bat and blanket into the basket and set the whole works outside on the porch.

I swaggered a manly swagger as I headed back up the steps.  I was feeling good.  The bat was gone.  The danger was past.  And my castle, my wife and Mickey were safe again.

(Tom Jirik’s column originally published in the Boone Today)It’s funny how little things trigger memories.

Driving across the countryside near Webster City this week, I noticed how combines and tractors were working furiously to harvest soybeans before this weekend’s rain.  Today’s farm equipment is an amazing blend of diesel engines, hydraulic power and electronic controls.  When the combines roll across the fields, they really move.

Then among all these modern mechanical wonders, I spotted an old Farmall tractor with no cab creeping across a long field, pulling a plow.  The scene seemed odd, like a photo from an old magazine.

When’s the last time you saw a farmer out doing field work with a tractor with no cab?  It was a common sight 20 or even 10 years ago, but most of those tractors are relegated to farm shows or “chore” duty now.

I’ve seen every acre of my dad’s farm dozens of times from the seat of a Farmall Super M and his Ferguson Super 90.  And seeing that fellow out there in his field triggered an avalanche of memories.

I could almost smell the odor of freshly turned soil seasoned with the aroma of grain dust, grease, gasoline and hot exhaust.  I remember the comfort that two pairs of coveralls, a jacket, a stocking cap and two pairs of gloves could give during dawn-to-dusk plowing or corn chopping in October. I remember how a hot engine could warm numb fingers.

I remember how I became tuned to the sounds of engine, transmission and other moving parts so that I could tell, just by the sound of things, when something was amiss.  There were no tachometers and no electronic monitors to tell you when something wasn’t as it should be.  And I remember that I had to lean over the steering wheel, open up the gas cap and peer into the tank every so often or I was likely to be walking home.

I could remember my face would burn after a day in the cold wind.  And I remember the deep and satisfying sleep that comes after breathing fresh cold air all day.

I doubt that anyone wants to farm that way they did 10 or 20 years ago.  Farming’s still a tough, physically-demanding business and there’s nothing wrong with a few comforts.

And there is no denying that a tractor cab with a heater, a radio and a plush seat would have been awfully nice on those cold October days.  But on these cold October days, it’s awfully nice to have those memories to keep me warm.

Especially now that I don’t have to plow acre after acre in October on a noisy, smelly, old tractor without a cab.

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

Whip out that accordion!  It’s accordion awareness month!

If you are an accordion player, an accordion lover or an accordion music aficionado, now is the time to come out of the closet and profess your avocation to the rest of the world.

There’s even an organization for you.  Secretive squeeze box players may want to get in touch with a group called the Closet Accordion Players of America (or CAPA).  The group even has a newsletter called the CAPA Times.

The CAPA Times has several recommendations for celebrating Nation Accordion Awareness Month.  The group says you should take your accordion to work to entertain co-workers or offer to play your accordion for an aerobics class.

If you are a male, the group recommends that you show off your bulging pectoral muscles and explain that you bulked up by playing the accordion.

CAPA Times recommends that you take your accordion to the supermarket and start a polka in the produce section.  (Wouldn’t that cause a stir down at Hy-Vee!)

Finally, CAPA recommends that you take your accordion out of the closet and put it in the living room during June so everyone can appreciate it.  Regular readers will know and the rest of you may have guessed that I am an accordion player.  I am not skillful or talented.  A friend, grasping for a compliment after one of my performances, once commented, “You sure are…loud.”

Consequently, I don’t have the nerve to pump out a polka in the produce section.  And I suspect my co-workers wouldn’t particularly savor a squeeze-box serenade during their coffee breaks.

Then again, there are places like Story City, where they even encourage accordion players.  A few years ago, the community played host to Myron Floren, the king of accordionists.  This year for Scandinavian Days, Story City hosted a group of young accordion players called the Accordion Ambassadors.

Most of you would be appalled to invite even one accordion player to your town.  Can you imaging inviting a dozen or more teenage accordion players?

Because Boone is not as tolerant or as progressive (accordion-wise) as Story City, my accordion will stay safely in the privacy of my own home during National Awareness Month.  For some of us, playing the accordion is a very personal and private pastime.
But even at home, my accordion is not always particularly welcome.  “Remember it’s accordion awareness month, not appreciation month,” my wife likes to remind me.

(Tom Jirik’s columns originally published by the Boone Today)Winter’s coming.  Squirrels are hoarding nuts.  Leaves are falling.  The wind carries winter’s bite.  And my brother, Jaime, has a beard again.

Not me, though.  I’ll have to use a warm scarf to keep my face warm. I have bald spots on my face that prevent me from growing a beard.  If I tried to grow a beard, it would look like this year’s corn crop: short and stunted with lots of big empty spots.

I tried to grow a mustache once, but it was a miserable failure.  After two weeks, someone finally noticed my effort.  “What’s on your face?” my boss asked one day.  Then she covered her month to stifle a giggle.  “Oh, it’s a mustache.”  Despite this stinging blow to my male ego. I persevered.

A week later, however, I arose sleepily one morning and accidentally shaved half of my nearly-visible mustache off before I realized what was happening.  It was my first and last effort at growing decorative facial hair.

For Jaime, who is nearly a decade younger than I am, growing a full set of whiskers is effortless.  He’s been shaving since junior high school.  He showed up last winter with his first beard.  This was no little goatee, it was smooth and full, gently filling out the contours of his face.  It gave him a gentlemanly, distinguished look.

Everybody liked it, except for my grandmother.  “It makes him look like a hoodlum,” she said sternly.  A spring turned to summer, Jaime’s beard grew too hot to bear and he shaved it off.  Both he and grandma were happier.

Last week, Jaime showed up on my doorstep, unexpectedly sporting a full beard again.  “Look what I grew last week,” he said as he stroked his luxurious whiskers.

“You grew that in a week?” I asked incredulously.

“Well, no.” he admitted.  ”It’s been about 10 days.”

It’s really not fair, I thought as I looked at Jaime.  With his tall, lean frame, the beard makes him look like a young Abe Lincoln.  It’s stylish, fashionable beard commands respect.  All that and it keeps his face warm too.

If I tried to grow a beard, I’d look like a renegade from “America’s Most Wanted.”  Instead of respect, any beard of mine would command laughter.

My only option is to remain clean shaven.  The world will never know what Tom Jirik looks like with whiskers.

But that’s O.K., because my grandma still loves me.  “You’ll look like a hoodlum like Jaime does,” she said.  Any everybody knows, you shouldn’t argue with your grandma.

(Tom Jirik’s columns originally published in the Boone Today)The room had once been the nerve center of our home.

It was a comfortable place to gather.  It was a bright and cheerful room.  We discussed the day’s business and planned our tomorrows there.  It was a glorious haven to us.

But gradually, almost imperceptible, things began to change.

The room began to close in on us.  It didn’t seem as spacious or welcoming as it once had.  We began to feel as though we were competing for space with someone or something. It became less bright and less cheerful.

We hardly noticed the changes at first.  But gradually we became aware that we were spending more time in other areas of the house and less time in “the room.”

Soon we began to avoid “the room” as much as possible.  We dashed in to get what we needed and dashed back out again.  We avoided looking in the dark corners, afraid of what we might find.

We began to sense that there were things in there.  Things that were alive and growing.  Things that were gathering strength and power.

Soon we began to notice “the room’s ” odor.  It was foul, dank and evil.  “Don’t make me go in there anymore.” Mary pleaded with me.  “I…I’m afraid.”

We silently hoped it would go away and that “the room” would somehow be restored to its former, cheerful state.  But that was not to be.

“The room” only grew worse.

And now, whatever occupies the room has begun to spread to the rest of our home.  First we began to sense the odor. Then the darkness and filth that had stolen our beautiful haven from us began to creep into other rooms as well.

We’ve come to the horrifying realization that if we don’t cast this demon out of “the room,” it will eventually dominate our entire lives.  We’ve also realized that this awful job must be accomplished as soon as possible before the task becomes too overwhelming.

That’s why, on this Halloween weekend, the most terrifying time of the year, I will be cleaning and washing the mountain of dirty dishes in there.  I’ll be casting out the twin demons of mold and mildew and repurifying our haven with the magic elixirs of Mister Clean and a mild bleach solution.

Wish me luck, because I’m gonna need it.