(Tom Jirik’s columns originally published in the Boone Today)There’s nowhere to hide!

An earthquake rocked western Minnesota and shook my sense of personal safety too.
When I was a child, my mother would comfort me when lighting flashed and thunder shook our house.  I would ask her why we lived in a place where there was such terrible weather.

My mother, always the optimist, would reply, “Well, at least we don’t have to worry about earthquakes.”  Somehow that always made me feel better.

As a toddler, my brother was terrified of tornadoes.  Out farm had suffered damage from a couple of near misses, and John was convinced that the next one would carry us away.  As the winds lashed against the house and dark clouds boiled overhead, my mother would lift him into her lap and tell him that everything would be alright.

He would look up through tear-filled eyes and ask why we had to live where there were tornadoes.  “Because we don’t have to worry about earthquakes,” she would confidently reply.  He always saw the wisdom in that and he quit crying.

Midwesterners suffer through floods, tornadoes, hail, lighting, torrential rain, blizzards, sub-zero temperatures and ice storms.  Living in the Midwest means being exposed to an endless variety of these natural calamities.. Why live in such a place.  My mother had the answer.  “We don’t have to worry about earthquakes.”

Somehow that was very comforting.

You could watch the clouds and the television or listen to the radio and have some warning of a tornado.  We instantly knew what to do when we heard the civil defense warning on the radio or the fire station siren.  Seek shelter in your basement.  Huddle under heavy furniture.

When there is lighting, you unplug the television set and stay off of hilltops and lakes.  You move to higher ground when floods threaten.

You can dress warmer when the mercury drops below zero.  You can put chains on the tractor when it’s icy and you can stay inside as much as you can when there’s a blizzard.

An earthquake somehow seemed much scarier.  There are no earthquake warnings on the radio.  If your house crumbled when the earth shook, no place in your house was safe, especially in the basement.

Mother’s words, “At least we don’t have to worry about earthquakes,” somehow put everything back into perspective.  She was right, tornadoes and lighting aren’t so bad and things can always get worse.

And now they have.  Minnesota is having earthquakes.  The massive new Madrid Fault centered in Missouri threatens Iowa with a potential of a huge earthquake.  Geologists say the Midwest is crisscrossed with a network of ancient faults.  Nowhere is safe.

I called my mother to see if she could comfort me and settle my fears.

“It could be worse.” She said.  “At least we don’t have to worry about hurricanes.”

(Tom Jirik’s columns orginally published in the Boone Today)In the darkness of a suburban neighborhood, tendrils of fog drift among the damp blades of grass.  Rainfall and oppressive humidity nave turned the ground to oozing mush.  A musty odor clings to the soil.

Suddenly, the fog is whisked away by a gust of cool wind.  Overhead, clouds roll and boil, obscuring the moon and stars.  An inky blackness obscures the landscape.  A few raindrops begin to fall.  Then more and more plummet to the muddy ground.  The grass bends under the onslaught.

The darkness is broken by a flash of blinding light as lightning splits the sky.  Thunder rumbles.  The flashes come faster now, followed by violent claps of earth-shaking thunder.

High above the lawn, clouds churn as billions of invisible electrons build up a negative charge.  Lightning races from cloud to cloud, seeking a path to earth.  A bolt races out of the cloud ripping through the sky and into the grass far below.

A billion volts of electricity jump from sky to ground.  The point of impact is instantly superheated to more than 5,000 degrees.  Water turns to steam as the ground is torn by the combined effects of extreme heat and electricity.

Below the ground, insects, bacteria, worms, and plant matter recoil in shock.  In this boiling ooze of mud, water and steam, living organisms vaporize, cells, chromosomes and DNA dissolve and rearrange in a primordial dance of evolution.  Plants become part animal and animals become part plant as the tiny bits of genetic material fuse in the earthen cauldron formed by the lightning.

Gradually, the storm passes and the night calms.  Wisps of steam drift into the night as the ground cools.  Blades of grass are bent by a gentle breeze.  Under this quiet tableau, roots grow in a frenzy of activity, seeking nutrients and water.  Newly formed genetic codes demand growth and the roots respond, plunging deeper into the earth and spreading across the lawn and beyond.

As the sky begins to brighten over the eastern horizon, the blades of grass awaken.  Each becomes like a tiny solar panel, collecting energy to fuel the photosynthesis that will feed frantic root growth.

Each blade stretches and tums, straining to catch the sunlight.  As the wide labyrinth of new roots gather food and water, the blades grow wider, taller, stronger.  Within the plant, photosynthesis and the other chemical reactions that fuel growth reach a fever pitch.  Roots and blades grow at a rate previously unknown in nature.  A rabbit, pausing at the edge of the lawn, is suddenly alert.  Its feet feel the tremors caused by growing roots.  Its ears twitch and turn, hearing the barely audible creaking, cracking and groaning of growing leaves.  In alarm, the rabbit scurries away.

In the center of the lawn is a house.  At a second story window, a man brushes the sleep from his eyes and pushes back a curtain.  “Look at that damn lawn,” he mumbles.  “I just cut it yesterday and it already needs mowing.  It just ain’t natural.”

(Tom Jirik’s columns originally published in the Boone Today)She’s friendly.  She’s dainty.  She’s anti-violent. 

She kicks in doors. She is my wife.

It’s a pleasure being married to Mary.  It’s been nearly eight years since we said “I do” and I don’t have a single regret.  But that’s not saying we always agree.  In fact, our disagreements can sometimes get pretty intense.  And sometimes, as in any marriage, it’s the little things that drive us crazy.  “Sometimes I think your favorite hobby is to find new ways to annoy me!”  Mary blurted out recently.

Thankfully, no hint on violence has ever entered into our relationship.  But now I reason to start being a lot more careful about how annoying I can be.  Mary has started kicking in doors.

While I was off at a meeting Omaha recently, Mary accidentally locked herself out of the house.  We don’t have a key hidden under the welcome mat or anywhere else.  Her keys were locked securely in the house and my keys were with me in Omaha.  What’s dainty little gal to do?  Kick the door in of course!

“I only bumped it a little to see if I could pop it open,” Mary told me over the phone.  “And it broke.”

When I arrived home, I found the door in shambles.  The knob and lock mechanism were on the floor, bent broken and useless.  The door was broken and cracked in several places as was the door frame.   “What did you do?” I asked incredulously.

“I only bumped it a couple of times,” she insisted.

“With what?” A battering ram?” I asked.  I looked at the shattered door again and then I looked at the cold glitter in Mary’s eyes and I decided not to the push the issue any farther.  “We needed a new door here anyway,” I said nervously.  “You probably did us a favor,” I added with my winningest smile.

So now we have a shiny new STEEL door on the back of our house.  “Let’s see you ‘bump’ this one open,” I grumbled under my breath as I nailed the frame in place with the biggest nails I could find.

“What did you say, dear?” Mary called from inside the house.

“You’ll like the way this one opens,” I called back.  My Mary is a kind, gentle, loving spouse.  But when you’re married to someone who can kick a door open like Kojak, you can never be too careful.

(Tom Jirik’s columns originally published in the Boone Today)In items of enjoying all the good things that Boone County has to offer, 1993 has not been a good year, not a good year at all.

Ledges State Park, one of Iowa’s most popular and beautiful state parks, has been devastated by this year’s flooding.  It’s almost a year since anyone’s been able to travel unimpeded through the park.  It will take years and lot of dollars to fix the damage.  Some of the damage is so severe, it can never be repaired.

Drive Boone County’s back road and you’ll see how miserable area crops look.  Most corn is stunted and yellow.  Beans don’t look much better.  Fields are pockmarked by ponds.  An early frost is a growing threat.  This fall’s harvest promises to be slim- if farmers can make it through the mud and water to harvest at all.

The Boone & Scenic Valley Railroad has suffered a year of setbacks too.  Because of a change in railroad regulations, the railroad’s giant steam locomotive, the Iowan, has been torn apart for inspections for most of the summer.  Then floods wiped out huge sections of the roadbed.  In addition to those huge expenses, one recent estimate put lost ticket sales at $60.000.

On a more personal scale, 70 percent or more of Boone’s residents suffered flood damage or sewer backups this summer.  Although the biggest hit came two months ago, many of our neighbors are still struggling to get their basements and bank accounts back in shape.

In addition to that, the weather’s been just plain lousy.  Miserable.  Rotten.  Awful, in fact.

There’s a temptation to forget about Pufferbilly Days this year.  After all, there’s not much to celebrate about life in Boone County this summer is there?

Think again.

What makes Boone County a great place to live and Pufferbilly Days a great celebration is people.  We’ll recover from this summer’s disasters in fine shape.  In fact, we’ve learned just how lucky we are to have neighbors who lend a helping hand in times of need.

Pufferbilly Days offer a great opportunity to celebrate with those friends and neighbors who have helped us, cried with us and laughed with us through this summer’s trials.  It’s also a chance for us to reflect that Boone County is still a great place to live and things will be better next year.

Pufferbilly Days is also an opportune time for us to salvage some fun from an otherwise rainy summer that is drawing too rapidly to a close.

With all that in mind, let’s all go out and enjoy Pufferbilly Days 1993.

Now, if only the weather will hold.

(Tom Jirik’s columns originally published in the Boone Today)A good salvage yard is a treasure.  It can be a source for useful and valuable material and is an old and efficient form of recycling.

As the owner of a collection of old tractors and other aging farming equipment, my dad was a regular at area salvage yards.  He knew that a used part was often just as good as a new one and sometimes cost less than half as much.

He’d toss his big tool box into the back of the pickup and off we’d go. We’d drive past hundreds of aging, rusty tractors in various stages of disassembly, seeking one that would match the make and model of the one we were repairing.

It was a thrill to remove a still useful part from another wise useless hulk and use it to bring our ailing equipment back to life.  From watching my dad, I learned that the key was being able to tell the difference between the useful items and the worthless junk. 

Those salvage yard memories haven’t faded.  As relatively new owners of an old house, my wife and I have recently discovered that there are salvage yards for houses too.

House parts have a habit of disappearing over the years.  Others break or fall prey to rot or insects.  And when you build on or remodel your old house, where do you find materials to make sure the house maintains its charm and character?  Where do you find replacement parts for that old furnace or hardware for those old cabinets?   Once place to start is an architectural salvage yard.

We recently visited several Minneapolis and St. Paul architectural salvage yards.  We found windows, ornaments, trim, light and plumbing fixtures, doors, flooring, cabinets, hardware and a million other things too odd and numerous to mention here.

Like tractor salvage years these architectural salvage firms each have a personality.  Some are neat and orderly.  Parts are cleaned, cataloged and organized.  You ask for what you want at a counter and a polite knowledgeable employee shows you their selection.

Others fit the salvage yard stereotype.  Dusty doors and windows are stored in racks and piles outside.  Bins overflow with doorknobs and hinges.  To find what you want and need can be a real hunt, but diligence and dirty fingernails may be rewarded with a unique treasure at a bargain price.

We came home with a small bag full of hardware to replace some that was missing from a door in the dining room.  Our salvage yard visits also gave us a new appreciation for the people that built our house and the materials they used.  Building a house today isn’t easy.  Think of how difficult building was before power saws, power nailers and drywall were invented.

But those old building techniques and materials are often what gives an old house its charm and beauty.  Salvage yards offer an opportunity to use authentic materials to enhance and restore that charm and beauty.  You may also be able to incorporate a bit of history, a door from a local landmark, or a window from a famous house, into your own house.

But as with tractor parts, the key lies in distinguishing the treasure from the trash.  Fortunately, that’s also what is the most fun.

(Tom Jirik’s column originally published in the Boone Today)Some eat it back and forth.  Some eat it around and around.  Some eat it randomly.  But everybody eats it.

I’m talking about sweet corn, of course.

It’s Iowa’s delicacy- a seasonal culinary treat.  There are few people who can resist a tempting ear whether it’s been boiled, steamed or roasted.  If our love for sweet corn draws us together, then it is our corn-on-the-cob eating and preparation habits that set us apart.

Some people slather a pat of butter on each of their ears with a table knife.  Others use extra on the first ear then just dip subsequent ears in the overflow that remains on the plate.

Others have a danty little brush that is specifically reserved for the neat application of melted butter to sweet corn.  In a catalog we received recently, I noticed a little gadget that has a cup for the butter on one side and a cob holder on the other side.  To apply butter you place your ear in the middle, squeeze and slide the ear through.  “Your delicious ears of sweet corn receive a uniform coating of butter every time!” according to the catalog.

I know one family that slices each row of kernels before eating so that “those little thingies don’t get caught in your teeth.”

Some people have those little handles that they poke into the end of the cob so the they’ll be neater eaters.’

Next time you’re enjoying an ear of sweet corn, pause to watch the eating habits of your companions.  As I mentioned earlier, some folks always eat across the ear, from left to right in a typewriter fashion.  Others prefer to harvest the kernels from the ear in a more round-about fashion.  A few take bites randomly.  I had a brother who tried eating in a barber-pole pattern once, but he soon returned to his normal left-to-right habit.

‘I think corn-eating style may be genetically-controlled-like eye color.

Ask your friends how they prepare and eat their sweet corn.  I’ve found that most will eagerly explain their methods and the reasons why their way is “the” way to prepare and eat sweet corn.

I eat left-to-right.  And forget those little handles and other methods of trying to be neat.  Accept the fact that sweet corn is a rather messy food to eat and enjoy it.

For preparation, our family has a tradition of using waxed paper.  Fold the wax paper in halt.  Place a pat of butter in the waxed paper and then pull your ear of corn though a few times.  The method is neat, easy and fast.

Try this at home, but be prepared, once you’ve tried the Jirik wax-paper method, you’ll never go back to those tedious, inefficient, messy methods you used to use.

(Tom Jirik’s columns originally published by the Boone Today)I have a secret recipe for pancakes that calls for ashes, embers, rust and baked on black goo.

I’ve had dozens of pancakes at dozens of places.

I’ve had pancakes in my kitchen, my mother’s kitchen, my mother-in-law’s kitchen and my grandmother’s kitchen.  I’ve had pancakes at Perkins and Country Kitchen and plenty of other restaurants that specialize in breakfasts.  I’ve had some pretty good pancakes.  But none of them compare to the pancakes that are prepared with my secret recipe.

You might find my recipe a trifle unusual.  You might find the ingredients unappetizing.  If that is the case the you probably don’t camp much.

You see, my secret-recipe pancakes must be prepared immediately after you climb out of a tent on a camping trip.  You must build your own fire to cook these pancakes and they must be fried in a blackened, slightly rusty, cast-iron skillet.

Now those are pancakes.  It’s a foolproof recipe. (Mary says that’s why I get to make the pancakes when we camp.)

We cooked them several times at Yellow stone National Park last year and they were wonderful every time.  We’ve had them at the Rocky Mountain National Park in Colorado, in South Dakota’s Black Hills, at the Ledges and at Itasca State Park at the Headwaters of the Mississippi.

No matter how black the edges get and no matter now much unidentifiable “stuff” gets in the batter, the pancakes are always delicious.

We had our secret-recipe pancakes at Fontenac State Park in southeaster Minnesota last weekend.  The park is at Lake Pepin, the widest point in the Mississippi River.  The campground was located at the top of a forested 400-foot bluff near the river.  Several thrilling vantage points were within a short hike from our campground.

From the overlooks we watched sailboats chasing each other on the lake.  A tugboat pushed its load of barges toward the lock and dam at Alma, Wisc.  A brilliant sunset behind us, painting the clouds, the river, the bluffs and the forest in brilliant hues of lights and shadows.

The views were spectacular.  The weather was nearly perfect.  And a couple of the pancakes burst into flames.  The rest of them were the best ever.  I wish we were there again this weekend.

(Tom Jirik’s columns originally published in the Boone Today)A little excitement stirs inside when you say, “Montana.”
Visions of cowboys, explorers, pioneers, buttes, mountains and untamed wilderness flash through your mind.  It’s a big state brimming with big adventures.

Take it from someone who’s been there:  big is the operative word.

This summer we combined a business trip to Spokane with a vacation to the great American west.  After a visit to Devil’s Tower in Wyoming, we crossed the border into Montana.

How was it?  It was beautiful.  The mountains were spectacular.  The buttes were magnificent and the plains were breathtaking.  But mainly, it was big.

I liked everything about Montana, except that there was just so much of it.  We crossed the state twice during our vacation and both times, I didn’t think we’d ever see the end.

Heading west, U.S. Highway 212 carried us across the southeast corner of the state.  And carried us.  And carried us.

Highway 212 is a two-lane ribbon of asphalt that runs from Alzada to Custer Battlefield National Monument.  If you like antelope, sagebrush and cattle this is the road for you.

“Are you sure we’re on the right road?” Mary asked as we started our third hour of travel down the road.  I gazed across sagebrush covered flatlands and the buttes beyond.  “The right road?   This is the only road!”  I replied.

We followed the highway for hour after hour.  Only occasionally did a house or a barn break the horizon.  During the four hours that we traveled on Highway 212, we passed through less than a dozen towns.  Only a few of them were larger than Luther.   None of them as big as Ogden.

We were traveling on the Fourth of July, so most of the businesses along the route were locked up tight.  As the sagebrush and buttes slipped by, the needle on our gauge crept ever closer to the “E.”

We finally linked up with Interstate 94.  At the intersection was an open gas station and the Custer National Cemetery.  We stopped for gas, refreshments and an assessment of our situation.

“We must be more than half-way to Idaho,” Mary observed.   But when we found our location on the map, we were less than a third of the way across the state.  “It’s a big state,” noted Mary.  We had a meeting to make in Spokane the next day and there was a lot of Montana between there and where we were.

So we headed off toward Billings and Bozeman.  The speedometer said we were going in excess of 65 miles per hour, but our map showed that we seemed to be making only the barest amount of progress.  Finally we reached Billings.  We traveled on.

As the sun slipped behind the western horizon we cruised through Livingston and pushed towards Bozeman.  In Bozeman, we agreed to stop for the night and tackle the rest of the state in the morning.

“How much more of Montana?” Mary asked.

I checked the map.  “Good news,” I said.  “Only 300 miles to go.”

(Tom Jirik’s column orginally appeared in the Boone Today)Have your picnic.  Take your trip.   Go to the beach.  By all means, enjoy this holiday weekend.

But don’t forget to think about what it is all about.

Freedom.  Independence. Liberty.

The Declarations of Independence was signed 217 years ago on Monday.  Who knew then what a fateful document it would be?  When Jefferson, Washington and all the rest stepped up to the table and dipped the quill in ink, did they really know the significance of what they were doing?

We may never know.   But thank goodness for risk-taking, idealistic revolutionaries.

Our country has its flaws and problems.  The economy seems to ebb and flow out of control.  Social injustices and societal problems seem to perpetuate themselves.  Our form of government often seems slow, inefficient, unresponsive and unjust.  And that’s on a good day.

Still, when you look around at the other forms of government that there are to choose from, democracy’s the pick of the bunch.

We can choose where to go, where to live, what to do, who to see, what to spend our money on, where to go to school, what to read and where to go to church.  It’s obvious that we take off that too much for granted.

On this Fourth of July, we could take a little inspiration from our country’s fathers.  Declare your independence.

Declare your independence from self-centeredness.  Do something nice for someone just because.

Declare your independence from the pursuit of money.  Spend a little cash making the world a better place.  Or better yet, take some time off from work and lend a hand to someone in your family or neighborhood who needs it.
Declare your independence from trash TV and talk radio.  Read a book.  Spend some time reminiscing with older members of your family.  It’ll liberate your mind.

Declare your independence from air conditioning.  Open your windows.  All this rain has made the world smell absolutely terrific.

Declare your independence from negative thinking.  Don’t say, “I can’t.”  Say, “I will!”  Don’t say, “It’ll never work.”  Say, “That’s a great idea! Let’s make it work!”

Independent thinking like that led to the formation of this country and brought us to where we are today.  If we foster that kind of independence in the future, the next 217 years will be as fantastic as the last 217.

That’s the end of the lecture.  Have fun.

(Tom Jirik’s columns orginally published in the Boone Today)Each day, day after day, the rain washes down from the sky.

In recent past summers, rain has been a welcome visitor, dampening the parched earth, washing the dust from life and cooling July’s hot days.

We looked to this rain to nourish our crops, fill our lakes and wells and keep our gardens and lawns green.

Not this year.  This year, the rain has worn out its welcome.  Who would guess that we would remember drought-stricken years with longing?

As I write this, rain patters on the roof and streaks down my window pane.  Normally, a dark, rain-filled day, summer day would be soothing.  Not this day.  I run to check.  Is the roof leaking again?  How damp is the basement?  How deep is the pond surrounding the garage?  Meanwhile the rain continues its gentle, yet relentless attack on my home, washing down from the sky.

When was my last normal conversation?  Friendly discussions focus on sump pumps, gutter down-spouts, sewer drains and how many inches in the rain gauge today.

Mary and I are lucky.  We only need to cope with a few small stains on our ceiling and a trickle of seepage in the basement.  Neighbors tell horror stories of sewers reversed, floating furniture and water -logged appliances.

But even they are lucky.  Newspapers and television show collapsed basements, crumbling foundations and water to the eaves of some homes.  It seems strange that the pictures are from Ames and Des Moines instead of some far away state or city.  How odd to see pictures of familiar sites and haunts turned somehow foreign by a river gone mad.

Newscasters talk in serious tones of levies turned to mud, roads turned to rivers, rivers turned to lakes, homes turned to debris and lives turned upside down.  In the background water sloshes by and the rain washes down from the sky.

Perhaps faces tell the story best.  There is a weariness in the faces from St. Paul to St. Louis and even in Boone.  “When will it end?  When can we stop worrying?” the faces seem to ask.  “How will we rebuild?” and “Where will we find the strength?” are other questions you can find there.  The faces are filled with a desire for the trials of everyday life.

The faces turn to the sky, looking for relief.  Occasional flashes of sun offer brief moments of hope and relief.  Does this mean sun will return and the rivers will swim back within their banks, or is it only nature cruelly teasing?  Mostly, the faces find only clouds of worry and even more rain washing down from the sky.