“The rest of the chores can wait.  We need to get going.” Dad said.

With a bit of a rush, and a little bit of resentment, we went to work finishing milking, letting the cows out onto the fresh green pastures where they seemed to trot with a little more spring in their step.  We rushed through cleaning up the milking equipment, then headed into the house.

No shower this morning, just a quick change of clothes and a often times a light jacket.

Yup, the first unofficial day of summer, Memorial Day, and while our classmates were enjoying a few extra hours of sleep and maybe a day at the lake, we were rushing through chores, changing clothes, and rushing to the car much as we would on any school day.

Except we would have to come home, have breakfast, and do more chores when we were done.

“Come on kids!”  Mom would encourage us, “We’ll eat when we get home.  We want to go to communion.”

We were going to the Memorial Day Mass out at the cemetery.

St. Mike’s cemetery on the south side of Mahnomen was always looking its finest.  The rows of stone headstones surrounded by sprays of flowers, crosses, and floral wreaths.  The veterans graves were all marked with little flags, set in metal holders, fluttering in the breeze.  The grass was neatly trimmed, the planters all held pansies and geraniums.  The large white cross at the center usually glistened in the early summer sunshine.

We would park the car and walk as a family to the little table set up under the shadow of the cross where the good father, the local priest, would be setting up his make shift alter.

There, we would celebrate the Mass, as father would tell us, in this extension of the church, on this hallowed ground.  Our faith told us that our family and friends were not gone forever, but instead went on before us.  They were still members of the same faith, the same church, the same family.

Looking around, usually, we were the youngest people there…only at that point, it wasn’t the resentment as we rushed through chores, thinking of our friends at home in their beds, but instead, it was a privilege to be here with our folks, to be here with our community – the faces and names of the elders of our community.  We were the few, the happy few. 

What a great way to start summer.

After the Mass, we would chat a bit with friends and neighbors, then make our way through the headstones, listening to stories that Mom and Dad told of friends, neighbors, and relatives, all lying in rest from their earthly toil.  Through those conversations, they would lay out the touchstones of our faith as well – lessons in morality and responsibility.  They would also teach us our history.

Then we’d pile back into the car, head either to town for the Memorial Day service at the courthouse, were some of us kids had to play in the band, or home – for breakfast and a day or chores or field work.

Our earthly tasks remained.

While our friends rested up and slept in preparation for a long fun summer, our folks were making sure that we were preparing for the long hard journey of life, by remembering those that came before and what they stood for.

You had to give him credit for consistency….

“BOYS!”

Yes, very consistent, you could practically set your watch by him….

“COME ON BOYS!  TIME TO DO CHORES!”

Every morning, better than an alarm clock, Dad would holler up from his spot at the kitchen table where he would already be drinking the first cup of coffee.

Now, in fairness, it wasn’t it first warning…

Us boys spent most of our nights sleeping on one open area in the upstairs of our farmhouse.  For most of my youth, I shared a bed with my brother two years older than I am.  About the age of eleven, I was finally given a bed to my own – my brother and I continued to sleep in the same room, but separated by about ten feet instead of ten inches.

As Dad would walk by our room heading downstairs, he would give us a soft, “Boys – time to get up.  Time to do chores.”

We would muffle a reply and hope for a few more minutes.  If it was already a little late…Dad would flip the light on.  Not something that he liked to do, because he would know the resulting grumbling it would cause.

Nothing is so unpleasant at five thirty in the morning than a bright light shining in your eyes.

About ten minutes later, he would give us the first warning – as the first cup of coffee came out of the pot, he would move to the bottom of the steps and say with firmness but gentleness, “Boys!  Are you up yet!”

With near equal consistency, one of us boys would stick a foot out of bed and stomp a couple of times, our bedrooms were strategically placed directly above the kitchen, so it sounded like we were in fact moving, when nothing could be quite so far from the truth.

It worked better than a snooze bar.

But even a snooze bar only last so long…when the call reached a fever pitch and was loud enough – almost – to wake our mother (a night owl who likely went to bed only a few hours before) and our little sister (who could sleep through a cat fight…and if woken before her time, was about as friendly as an angry cat).

When the first long low bellow reached us…we knew it was time to jump…

“BOYS! COME ON TIME TO DO CHORES!”

And jump we did.  We could be dressed with boots on and heading down to the barn in about five minutes at that point.

Now I started doing chores outside in the mornings when I hit first grade, so about the age of six or seven, and that continued on until Dad sold the cows when I graduated, so a good eleven to twelve years. 365 days a year, in all weather. 

I have to admit, my sleeping habits haven’t changed much…as much as I’d like to sleep in, most days, my internal alarm clock has be awake about the same time each morning.

Some mornings, especially when I’m tired, I’ll still wake up with one foot out of bed in the morning, still trying to hit that old snooze bar.

This weekend will be a milestone.  My current car, a 2004 Chevy Trailblazer will turn the 150,000 mile mark.  Those that know me will tell you that I’m not much of a car guy.  I look for functionality and dependability, the rest of it just isn’t that important.

I also tend to use the buy and hold approach on my vehicles.  If it depreciates as soon as you drive it off the lot, why not just hold onto it until it dies?

I also tend to be a believer in history…and knowing the history of a car is important.  How else are you suppose to know all of the quirks involved?  I’ve had one of my brother’s tell me that my car was on the verge of dying for the last forty thousand miles…yet the thumps, whirling noises, and coughing are just par for the course.

I’ve actually sold the Trailblazer once to a good friend who bought it for his son going away to college as I was heading to Australia, only to buy it back upon my return.  Which technically makes it both the 3^rd and the 6^th car that I’ve owed (Pontiac Lemons 1994-1999, Pontiac Sunfire 1999-2006, Trailblazer 2005-2010, Jeep Wrangler 2010-2012, Dodge Durango 2012-present, Chevy Trailblazer 2012-present…for those keeping track at home).

It seems like only yesterday that I bought it….

Sunfire Semi-Retires, Trailblazer Called Up February 2, 2005, Sidney OH <OHIO JOURNAL>:

Sources confirmed Wednesday night that Mark Jirik’s 1998 Pontiac Sunfire was moving into partial retirement effective Wednesday evening.  The Sunfire recently passed 168,000 miles.  Jirik purchased the Sunfire in August of 1999 with 10,000 miles and has since driven the vehicle as far west as Sentinel Butte, ND, as far east as Wilmington, DE, as far north as Bottineau, ND, and as far south as Oklahoma City, OK.

“In theory, it still has 2/3 of it’s life left,” stated Jirik, “I mean, only three of the nine warning lights are on permanently.”

The Sunfire has been a dependable vehicle for Jirik, with only a few repairs over its life.  The most recent after the 140,000 mile mark when the Sunfire was brought back to a dealer for the first time since purchase.  Thanks to a recall from 2000, the car received a new transmission and head gasket courtesy of General Motors.

Jirik has purchased a 2004 Chevy Trailblazer to help fill the gap as the Sunfire moves into semi-retirement status.  Upon hearing about some of the features in the Trailblazer such as heated leather seats and power moon roof, Jirik’s wise father stated “you didn’t buy a car, you bought a catin’ machine.”

There has been reassurances that the Sunfire will still be in heavy rotation.  “It really only has 168,000 miles on it.  If I cross 239,000 I could say my car, in theory, could have driven to the moon.”

The Trailblazer should be more convenient for long trips.  The Sunfire, while dependable, reliable, and fuel efficient, was lacking some of the more modern creature comforts such as cruise control, power windows and locks, and side view mirrors.

Some concerned about the waning of Jirik’s traditionally frugal nature falling by the way side were issued some hope.  When asked if he was casting aside his lauded miserly ways, Jirik stated “No.”

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The ice went off the lake this last week, fishing opener is behind us, Mother’s Day has come and went, we are in the middle of university commencements, and road construction has started.  Clearly, it is a sign that we are in the full throws of spring and summer can’t be far away.  Indeed, an early morning walk up in the north country had daylight peaking over the horizon

I’m a big fan of Minnesota, it is where I was born and raised, and one of the prime reason’s is the diversity of the seasons.  But let me tell you, there are ___ reasons that I’m looking forward to summer this year:

1)      I bought a bike.  It has been years since I rode bike.  When I did, I enjoyed it.  It was great exercise and, not surprisingly, faster than walking.  My muscles (and butt) need to get used to riding again.  I’ll admit that I’ve got high hopes that the summer will give me plenty of opportunities to get out and enjoy mother nature and fresh air this summer…what better way than a bike?

2)      4^th of July – I haven’t had a full week of vacation in well over a year.  It seems like every time that I try to take some time off for a little R & R, either work or personal things get in the way.  Several years ago, I bought a ‘rustic’ cabin on a lake in Northern Minnesota, close to where I grew up.  It isn’t home, but it is close.  The fireworks on the 4^th are spectacular on this lake, and I’ve only gotten to watch them once – so I’m looking forward to one whole week of biking, reading, swimming, and entertaining.  If you need me the week of the 4^th, you’ll find me at the lake.  Bring beverages.

3)      Spending time at the cabin – it was a lifelong dream to own a little spot of the Minnesota dream.  My cabin isn’t much, but it gives access to the water.  As much as I enjoy the sun rises, the sunsets, and the time in the water, the greatest joy is watching my nieces, nephews, and friends enjoy it.  We used to look forward to getting the invite to go out to a relatives cabin on the 4^th of July…now I’m that relative.  See kids enjoy the water, splashing around, throwing them off the end of the dock, watching them catch fish, building sandcastles on the beach – in short – just being kids – well, there isn’t many better things in life.

4)      WeFest – it might seem strange that a guy that never went to a music festival in his life is looking forward to the largest in the country…well, it is a mile walk from my cabin.  It wasn’t the reason that I bought it, but it is a good time.  The last couple of years have been trying.  Let me tell you, nothing relieves the stress quite like 80,000 people cheering to some of the best country music that the world has to offer.  In short, I’ve had a ball the last two years and looking forward to this year!

5)      Farmfest – coming right after WeFest, this is the blockbuster of the summer.  Walking around the grounds of the Gilfillan Estate in Redwood County, Minnesota.  As a farm kid and in the agriculture business (in more ways than one) it is great to get out and see the latest and greatest in farming technology.  As a political junky, the big tent usually has all of the state and federal office holders and their competitors haggling about the best way to run the country and farm policy.  There isn’t anything better.  In between sessions and meeting with suppliers, I enjoy a great porkchop sandwich served by the local FFA Chapter.  There isn’t anything better – but the annual banquet that night at the Kaiserhoff in downtown New Ulm is pretty close.  Food, fun, and political banter.  Summer at its finest.

6)      The Minnesota State Fair marks the end of summer.  I’ve been going to it for almost 20 years.  With a few exceptions, I’ve tried to make it every year.  In fact, there were a couple of years when I could say that I literally lived at the fair.  A lot has changed for the fair – and for me – but it is still great to go walk the barns, visit the miracle of birth center, sit out and watch acts at the Lenie Bandshell, drink a milkshake from the Gopher Dairy Club, have some cheese curds, and if I’m really lucky – go to a concert at the Grandstand.  Isn’t anything better in late August/early September.

Well, that’s six things that I’m looking forward to this summer…but I have to admit, that is far from an inclusive list.  There are also all of those little moments with family and friends.  The sights, the sounds, the smell of summer – fresh cut hay on a summers day, loons gliding across an open lake, the green of the grass after rain, the rustle of corn, the laughter of good friends, the stories over a camp fire….

Summer 2013 – welcome.

Driving back from a meeting in Iowa, I chose a different path.  Rather than going the well travelled route, I chose the back roads. Partly it was to see different country, partly a sense of adventure.  Partly due to flat out chance.  But on this rainy Saturday afternoon, I took to the roads of northern Iowa and crossed into Minnesota.

Turning onto the little main street of Sherburne, it was like driving through the mists of time.  The old store fronts, the street signs, and even the strange corner on the south end of town.  It all looked like a classic Midwestern farm town, but it looked eerily familiar.  It was like a sense of déjà vu.  I could trace the little town in my memory.  I knew that street and the buildings like some long lost recollection in my mind…but I couldn’t quite place it.

I had to turn the car around and drive down that main street again.

It was only after driving out of town closer to the highway that it struck me, as I saw the building with sign out front that said, “Martin Country West High School.”

Then, it all came flooding back.

Back in my FFA days, as a state officer, I was required to give quite a few speeches to banquets and meetings.  Now, southern Minnesota had good coverage of state officers, and being the least well known before my election and from the wilds of far northern Minnesota, it was rare that I was invited to speak deep in the south.

But one student at Martin County West High School heard me speak, liked my story, and enticed his classmates to invite me down. 

Now, this was a five hour car ride down from Fargo – and back in the same night.  Over three hundred miles of driving – one way.  But I’m a sucker for driving, and even more for giving a speech.  Though a strong introvert, there is nothing like the adrenaline rush that I get from standing in front of an audience and holding them captivated. 

Arriving in the little town of Sherburn about two hours early, I got out and walked the main street, at the stately mainstreet, just a little past its prime.  Over and over in my head, I rehearsed the speech.

Arriving at the banquet in a church basement was overwhelming.  It was a packed house.  The local officers and advisor put on a top show.  The food was outstanding – though I hardly touched a bite as my stomach was churning due to the nerves.  

I don’t remember the introduction…but I remember thinking that they were building me up way more than they should.

Then, for the next twenty-minutes, I held the audience spell bound.  I’m not sure where it came from, but it was perhaps one of the greatest moments of my life.  The timing was right.  The tempo.  The jokes.  It was serendipitous.

I sat down to a roaring crowd and a standing ovation.

If it would have ended there, I would have said it was a perfect evening…but I would have missed the next act when a barbershop quartet of FFA members got up to perform an accapella version of Eric Clapton’s ‘Tears in Heaven.”

That made the event perfect.

I’m glad that I had five hours in a car – my adrenaline was pumping so hard I don’t think I could have slept anyway.

The mother of my friend sent me a newspaper about a week later…I was the front page – the whole front page – of the local paper.  It was humbling…and exhilarating all at the same time.

Over the years, I lost contact with my friends in that area, but there is no wonder that little main street that I hadn’t seen in eighteen years seemed so familiar…and so friendly.

“You’d be surprised.  I’ve heard that it is a lot harder moving back from overseas than the first move.”  Said my friend.

I nodded politely, but viewed the advice with skepticism.  After all, what could be better than moving home?

My departure from Australia was a whirlwind of suppers, parties, and farewells.  I’d never been toasted so much in my life.  I’ll admit, I had it pretty planned out, starting with an adventure in late March covering a big swath of Victoria and South Australia – following the coast around to Adelaide and up into the outback and the barren lands of the Flinder’s Ranges and on to follow the mighty Murray River.

I completed my tour of the Victorian coastline, scratched one more capital off my list, and also, more or less, followed the path of the mighty Murray.  In short, I closed a lot of loops.  Then, about a month away from my departure date, the lunches, the suppers, the beers and wines flowed.  The events reached a crescendo the last several days in Australia – a night out on the town with my immediate work team, a party in the office with all of the co-workers, and moving to the bar where we were met with people from the industry.  Finally, a private party of about twenty-five good friends that sent me off in style.

I was ready to go home.

But in hindsight, it was pretty exciting to see what I’d done in two and a half years with the help of a good cadre of good friends.  Both work and personally were tremendous experiences.

All that said, I had big dreams and high hopes returning to the US one year ago today as I boarded that plane.

Then reality hit.  In Australia, I started with nothing.  In the US, I was starting with thirty-five years of history and a two and a half year gap in memories.  While people living their lives in the US seemed to view each day as slowly passing, the accumulated change over almost three years was staggering.

Births, deaths, moves, jobs all changed – and even the more mundane things like weather and players on my favorite sports team all changed.  There were almost three years of collective memories that I was just missing.  Relationships changed and were strained as people were expecting the same old me, and I was expecting the same old world I’d left.

Add in the cancer diagnosis and passing of my father – my close friend and confidante, and the first year back from Australia has proven to be one of the most challenging I’ve experienced.

But it was from my Dad that I learned that there is no growth without challenges.  The struggles make us stronger, and if we have faith, hopefully more compassionate.  My basic morals and characters didn’t change, the values that I was raised with, the love for what I hold dear still beat strong.  But at the same time – I was a different person than the one that left on that plane two years earlier.

While it was a different year back than planned, it was not a failure – indeed, there has been a host of pleasant surprises and successes. I count myself lucky to have good friends that stretch around the globe.  In some ways, perhaps that was the greatest lesson of the last year – it is about the people and the experiences and the difference that we make that counts the most in this life. 

While the big plans and high hopes of a year ago might have been delayed, they haven’t died.  The vision of what could be is as strong as ever.  A year ago, I was somewhere over the wide Pacific Ocean – dreaming of the world that could be.  The dream is still there.

A recent visit to a Twins game in a middle of a spring that seemed more life winter deserves a brief mention…with any luck, in another week, spring, will in fact, be here….

A recent trip to see my beloved Minnesota Twins take on the New York Mets was a bone chilling experience.  In the new outdoor stadium, a magnificent place to watch a ball game, was a little chilly on this spring day that seemed much more like winter.  With highs that barely reached 40F and flurries in the air, the boys of summer were more like the boys of the Artic.

But they played ball nonetheless, and we watched them with gusto…and gloves.

As I was watching the game in the frigid air, it got me to thinking how this all might have sounded back on the farm, in the am radio that was tucked up in the rafters, as the voice of the Twins, Herb Carneal, who never lived to see the new stadium, might have done the play-by-play…

“Good afternoon everyone!  This is Herr-rr-rr-rr-b Carr-rr-rr-rr-neal br-br-broasting live from this chilly April afternoon in the cold snowy heart of Twins territory.”

The Minnesota Twins are playing hockey…er…baseball today with the boys from the New York Mets who would probably rather be in New Jersey today then playing ball here, and you could say that here in this beautiful outdoor ballpark, one of the nicest in professional baseball today, they are turning blue with envy…well, actually just blue here today…

The Met’s actually have a few former players for the Twins on their team, a few players that came, thawed, and transferred.  The temperature today is a brisk 37F at the start of gametime as the pitchers defrost in the bullpens.

There is a good crowd out there today that have come on to cheer on their Twins in this beautiful open air stadium.  We should see a great game of baseball today as the snow comes down, this should be where the elite meet the sleet today.

We have about fifteen hundred fans in the stands today, where I’m sure many are cold, but few are frozen…and they are currently being treated by the crack medical staff from Fairview Hospital – and official sponsor of our Twins, and experts in hypothermia and frostbite..which will come in handy here this afternoon.

There is an additional five thousand fans packed into the bar above the first base line, about thirty-five hundred more than capacity.

Our designated hitter today is local boy Joe Mauer, who got his start right across the river and between the frostbite, the fans, and injuries, he is proving that if you survive in Minnesota, the rest of the world is easy. 

There is a chill to the air as we watch a flock of geese heading north…no wait…that is definitely south here today.

With the anthem over and the players taking the field, they are knocking the ice of the bases and prepare for the opening pitch.  Twins take to the outfield where they are saying it is time to glove it or leave it here today.

And with that, it’s time to pl-pl-pl-play b-b-b-b-b-ball!

It was at a reception on Sunday night in conjunction with the Minnesota FFA Convention that I saw my old friend, mentor, and advisor walk up to me, and while I haven’t seen him in years, there was no doubt that he would have some words of wisdom for me….

“Do you have your speech done for tomorrow?” He asked.

Gulp.

Now, a little back story, I’m not sure what they were thinking, but perhaps in a momentary lapse of judgment, the powers that be at the Minnesota FFA asked me to give a keynote address at one of their luncheons, focusing on ‘career success.’

It’s been ages since I’ve given a speech like this to a group.  I’m out of practice and out of the loop.  Most days, I’ll admit, I feel like less something much less than the model for ‘career success.’

But in truth, his words sent me back twenty-three years to another Minnesota FFA Convention.  As a freshman from the little town up on the edge of the prairie and the woods of northwestern Minnesota, I had the chance to participate in the state extemporaneous speaking contest.  A contest that my nemesis and his advisor informed me that I had ‘gotten lucky’ by winning at regions.

Well, that is a confidence booster.

But here I was, representing my chapter and all the folks from Northwestern Minnesota in the state.  As a freshman, I felt more than a little pressure to perform. 

“Well, are you ready?” Asked my chapter advisor, Mr. Erickson.

“As ready as I can be.” I replied.

“Wait a minute – where are your black shoes!” he said with some anxiety in his voice, with the contest slated to start in an hour or so and me in as complete of black dress as I could muster – a borrowed FFA jacket, my Dad’s white shirt, a tie that was owned by my chapter, a black pair of jeans and my standard white tennis shoes.

The only other pair of shoes that I owned at that point where my work boots.

Erickson puzzled for a minute before turning to one of the other members there, who feet looked about my size.

“Scott, take off your shoes, you and Mark are going to swap.” Said Mr. Erickson.

They weren’t a perfect fit, but growing up with three older brothers, I’d worn worse matches.  And with that, I was off to compete for hometown pride and prove the distractors wrongs….

Snapping back into the present…I answered a little unsteady, “It’s still a work in progress.  But don’t worry, I’ll be ready.”

I survived the speeches, both the one twenty-three years ago and the one today.  I’m still not sure what I know about career success, but I think I put sentences together in a logical fashion and at the very least didn’t collapse on stage.

And this time, I was wearing my own shoes.

Friday morning came early, part of it was the excitement of the move from Ohio back to Minnesota.  Part of it was that the April weather was so nice, it was hard to sleep in.  Part of it was the fact that I was an early riser thanks to years of milking cows in the mornings of my youth.  Part of it was the fact that at 5 o’clock in the morning, Dad was already up and at them and trying to figure out my television and being pretty loud in the process.

Stumbling into the living room of my Ohio house, the first almost new house that I’d owned in, actually, the first almost new house that I’d ever lived in, with its wide open ceilings, fireplace and wood work, Dad was trying to get my television to work. 

“I just want to watch the news!” he said with some frustration.

“I just want some coffee…” I said, taking the remotes in a zombie like trance….

“Yeah, that’d be pretty good to!” Dad said.

As Dad watched the US Farm Report, I made coffee, then a good breakfast of omelets, one of the few things that I can cook…then we planned out the day.

It would be my last full day in Ohio, and my last chance to take the things that the moving company wouldn’t pack up for me or that I’d need in the month before they packed me up.  This consisted of my computer, clothing, propane tanks, and a large stock of wine and booze (because they wouldn’t move the stuff…not that I’d need it…).

But first things first…we needed to be tourists, I hadn’t flown Dad all the way to Ohio to just help me move.  We had to see a bit of the country.

We took the back roads down through the Ohio country side, true farm country that you read about in the books and farm magazines.  This isn’t the barren landscapes of our home country, but little farms and homesteads tucked back in picturesque valleys and ravines.  Neat barns and houses painted and cared for.

Then we neared the industrial city of Dayton, home of tire manufacturing, but also the home of the Wright Brothers – the home of flight.  Most people overlook Dayton when they think of Ohio – Cleveland gets all of the press, both good and bad (the place where the river caught fire in the 1960’s and burned for months).  Cincinnati is a great town with a great history (the leading American city back in the 1850’s and 60’s), Toledo has both the history of the buckle on the rust belt and the home of MASH’s Klinger (a show that my family was especially fond of thanks to my Dad’s time in Korea), and Columbus was both the Capitol City as well as the home of THE Ohio State University.

But Dayton has a history in its own right – founded in 1796 by a band of settlers moving up from Cincinnati, today it is a metropolis with a combined total population of almost 1 million people.  It is also a home of innovation, ranking among the top places for patents awarded in the country.

Personally, I like Dayton because it fits so well into one of my more humorous Ohio jokes.  There is also a town called Marion, OH.  I loved walking around our office asking people if they knew where Engagement, OH was….I was always met with baffled looks…to which I’d respond, “It’s right in between Dayton and Marion!”  There are still a few people that are trying to find in on a map…but I digress…

It is not surprising that the Air Force has one of their major bases in the cities, after all, it was the home of the experts.  But it also no surprise that it is the home of the Air Force museum.

We had fought about this the day before, Dad’s lungs were already in bad shape and he feared walking around the big hangers.  I’d promised that I’d push him in a wheelchair if needed.  It turned out that the museum was well equipped to handle people with limited lung capacity. 

“Do you have wheel chairs we could borrow, my Dad has a hard time breathing.” I asked as we paid our admission.

“Well, we do, “ said the ticket taker, “But we also have a bunch of these motorized carts too…”

Dad, not a fan of being pushed in a wheel chair, was all too eager to take one of the three wheeled carts for a spin – it turned out that I’d be chasing Dad through the three massive hangers that made up the museum for the balance of the day. 

Not that either of us minded in the least.

In theory the flight was booked….in the wisdom of the airlines, the cost of a one way ticket from Fargo to Dayton via Minneapolis was slightly more expensive than a round ticket from Fargo to Dayton via Minneapolis.  Why that is the case, I’m not sure.  I’ll blame it on some logarithm in the system…or maybe the fact that they hope to sell every returning passenger an extra beverage.

However it worked, my only fear was that for some reason, Dad would be banned from ever flying on Delta again.

“Where else am I going to fly to?” Was his response.  Dad, normally a stickler for the rules, was ready to flaunt the Delta rules.  So the tickets were booked and only a few weeks later, I was getting ready to make the move, packing, sorting – and finally – making the forty mile trek from Sidney, OH to the Dayton International Airport.

Dad landed in Dayton on Thursday evening, and I was there to meet him as he came out of the terminal.  His flight landed early, so I met him just as he can powering through the terminal, his loyal guide from the Dayton airport, pushing him in a wheelchair smiling at me and waving me forward – he was in a hurry, he was going hell for leather, and Dad seemed to be enjoying it.

I rushed to the car, opened the door and he deposited Dad about two feet from the car.  As I threw the bag in the back of the car, he shook Dad’s hand and was off with a flash.

The grand adventure began.

Dad and I got on the interstate and headed north, back to Sidney.  Now Dad was a well travelled man in some respects.  He served in the army and was stationed in Korea and spent time in occupied Japan.  He travelled throughout the upper Midwest and a little bit out east in Pennsylvania.  I’d made a few trips with him before.

But it still always amazed me – his love of the land, his interest in farming, the way that he viewed the landscape with a bit of wild eyed wonder.

Just in time for supper, we pulled into the picturesque town square of Sidney, complete with the city hall in the middle with ample green space.  After a long day of travel for Dad and a day of work, packing and worry – we deserved a good meal, and for that, we would go to the finest restaurant in Sidney, Toone P. Wiggins.

The fine restaurant with a finely carved wooden bar, and served good steaks and good salads.  Where the owners knew regulars by name.  Over a steak and a beer – Dad and I caught up, and made our way back home to watch the news and prepare for my last day in Ohio.