Several times a week, I call to get an update from back home.  The conversation is usually pretty much the same.  “Hey Dad, how are you?  So what’s new?  Anybody sick?  Anybody die?”Usually, I get pretty standard responses “I’m good.  Not much.  Not that I know of.”

Occasionally, he will throw out names of people that I don’t know or vaguely recollect.  Sometimes, the information is a little dated.  “I told you about so and so that died two week ago right?”  Sometimes, even when the names are a little vague, they still catch you off guard.

Most people won’t remember or note the name of Wendell Vlasin.  I will admit, even I didn’t know him all that well, though he was a fixture in my hometown the entire time I was growing up.  Not until I read his obituary did I realize the impact he had in the lives of people in our community.  Mr. Vlasin was the founder of the local Quarterback Club, leader in the Boy Scouts that saw eight young men achieve the rank of Eagle Scout, and a military veteran.  Mr. Vlasin was also a huge supporter of the football and basketball teams, neither sport that I participated in.

But somehow, Mr. Vlasin still knew who I was.

Once or twice, I got a card from Mr. Vlasin telling me he had seen me in the local paper and I should be proud of my accomplishments.  I’ll never forget my senior year at the FFA banquet.  Handing over the gavel at our banquet was a bit of a defining moment for me, the tying up of one more loose end in my high school career.

Mr. Vlasin was there too.  He walked up to me, shook my hand, told me that he was proud of what I had done, handed me a thick envelope, and walked away.

Inside that envelope where three small books, “Thoughts of Friendship,” “Thoughts of Laughter,” and “Thoughts of Wisdom,” - words of wisdom and comfort from ages of men and women.  St. Jerome, Benjamin Franklin, Robert Burns, Lewis Carroll, Isaac Newton - thoughts and words for the ages.  Books that still sit on my desk.

“Why me?” I thought.

Every town, every city, every country needs a few more Wendell Vlasin’s.  Providing that quiet support for their fellow man.  A quick note of encouragement, a word of thanks, a little gift that will stick with hearts and minds.  I know that I wasn’t the only one that got the note or gift from Mr. Vlasin, reading his obituary made me sure of that.

I don’t know that I ever really thanked Mr. Vlasin.  Never told him that those small gestures of good will, those small words of encouragement would mean something even fifteen years later.  Somehow, I think he knew.  One of the quotes, one of the sayings in one of those little books sums it up best:

            Through this toilsome world, alas!

            Once and only once I pass

            If a kindness I may show,

            If a good deed I may do,

            To a suffering fellow man,

            Let me do it while I can.

            No delay, for it is plain

            I shall not pass this way again.

                                               - Anonymous

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

I am a beer drinker.  My Bohemian-Swiss-Austrian-German roots almost dictate that I have an adult malt beverage once in a while.  There are even rumors that hospitals in the modern day Czech Republic hand babies a stein of beer as they slide out the birth canal for a celebratory toast as they enter the world…while that fact isn’t true, it would keep them from crying…

I wasn’t always a beer drinker.  As a matter of fact, my first brush with alcohol went horribly wrong when I was four (family reunion, brothers, cousins, keg of Old Style…a good story in and of itself), left me with zero hankering for the amber fluid well into college.

In addition, I had too much going on bother with alcohol, at that point in time in my life, I didn’t feel that I had the maturity.

There was one time however, when I made quite the drunken scene in my fraternity house…without having a drop of anything stronger then a Mountain Dew.

Four of us had to a casino about seventy miles from Fargo, ND.  As we were nearing the good old fraternity house on College Street in Fargo, ND about ten o’clock in the evening, I announced to the Jason, Chris, and Jed that I was going to be drunk that evening.  I don’t think they grasped what I was saying.

As we walked into the foyer of the fraternity where we lived, my speech started to slur, I began to stumble, and I became very, very jolly.

Chris and Jason laughed at me and went to bed.  Jed stayed behind what I believe was perhaps one of the greatest performances of my life.

It was a well know fact that I had no objection to drinking, but chose not to do so myself.  The first people to walk past were Jim and Ryan, and while thought it was extremely funny to see me drunk, but also very skeptical.  Until I grab the phone out of someone’s hand as they were talking to their girlfriend and started to rant and rave.

Jed laughed.

Then “my stomach didn’t feel right” at which point they panicked, they could just see me launching the contents of my stomach across the foyer and they quickly escorted me to the bathroom, laughing in newfound belief that I was in fact drunk.

“Kneel on the toilet,” Jim and Ryan said.

So I did.  I got up and kneeled on the toilet seat head looking down at the tank as the word spread.  This guy was really drunk.  The audience grew.

Jed laughed harder.

For the next hour, I ranted and raved about everything.  My face was flushed.  I stumbled around.  I feel down small flights of stairs.  People laughed.  Jed harder then anyone.

About twelve thirty, the bar crowd showed up.  Seeing me drunk was funny enough, but it was funnier if you too were drunk.  I was laying on the steps in a fake drunken stupor.  One of those that had just came fresh from the bar came up and grabbed my arm to drag me down to the kitchen to make grilled cheese.  I sat up, stuck my finger in his chest and said, “you’re a hairy little man.”

The guy went back and wound up for a punch.  Perhaps, just perhaps I said, I had taken this drunken act a little too far.  That is when this same guy said. “My God, he really is drunk.”

Everyone laughed.  Jed laughed harder.

At that point, about four people reached out for me, it was clear I wasn’t going to be able to navigate stairs, so they were going to carry me downstairs to make the traditional grilled cheese.

By this time, I was tired.

So I promptly stood up and said to the twenty people standing in the foyer of our fraternity and announced, “Thanks guys, this has been a lot of fun, but I’m getting tired and really should be off to bed.”

With that, I turned on my heels and marched up the steps.

No one laughed.  No one laughed at all.

Well, except for Jed, who was in on it from the start…he was laughing so hard he was on the ground in a fetal position gasping for air.

The beauty of it all was, I didn’t even get a hang over…

(Note: I had heard rumors that there were “drunken pictures” of me floating around on the internet that my good friend Jed had posted, this written in defense of myself…I should never have worried.  His version of events are almost identical (though better written) then mine - thanks Jed…his version can be found at: http://youreahairylittleman.blogspot.com/ )

I’ll admit that I like this time of year.  When fall and winter battle it out and temperature swings from warm to cold, as the sky fluctuates from sun to rain to snow - inevitably, we know that winter will win out in the end, but for me, the battle is fun to watch.Most people become a little depressed around this time of year - the trees go into slumber, the final work of fall needs to be completed before the snow comes to stay, the last of the crops need to be brought in.  There is a lot of work.  In addition, the nights are long, the sun is seldom seen, most of the waking hours are spent in work or school.

The days just aren’t long enough.

There is the pungent smell of decay in the air that tugs at our primordial senses, now is the time to prepare for hibernation.

But yet, I remain hopeful.

Part of that is that this is also the time of the year when I turn the page in my life from one year to another.

Birthdays were never a big thing in my family.  Mom always baked our favorite cake, we usually got our favorite meal the night of our birthday.  Sometimes this was over strenuous objections from other members of the family.  I have always been a fan of cherry chip cake, but my Dad and two older brothers were in love with chocolate.  They would heap scorn upon me for choosing cherry chip cake, they would implore Mom to please bake a chocolate cake - because I didn’t know what was good for me.

Mom would never give in, there was always a cherry chip cake waiting for me on my birthday.  A little ice cream, a little singing, and the birthday was darn near perfect.

There were a couple of memorably bad ones too growing up.  The year that Mom had to go to an event in the cities, but made sure that my favorite pizza was in the freezer for my birthday dinner - and my Dad and older brother John smothered it in mushrooms, one food that I hated the most (if I wanted a fungus, I’d get athletes foot).

But there were more good ones then bad ones, spent in the warm embrace of my family.

After my seventeenth birthday, things changed considerably.

My seventeenth birthday was marked with the first birthday cake not baked by my Mom, as she was struggling with cancer.  But my sister-in-law Mary stepped up to the plate and we celebrated together, with cherry chip cake and ice cream.

I think I’ve only had one cake since that birthday, and while many of them have passed with little notice or note, they all remain memorable.  My 20^th at Paradiso in Fargo, ND - dancing with a sombrero and fried ice cream with a candle, My 21^st in Kansas City running for National FFA Office, my 22^nd birthday spent with an ice cream pail filled with my favorite alcoholic beverage with friends in college in Fargo, ND, my 23^rd with new friends in Champaign, IL, my 25^th with a group of very good friends and co-workers in Wichita, KS, my 32^nd over a home cooked meal with a small group of very good friends.

I believe this year, we will celebrate with a small group of friends at a favorite little haunt in Minneapolis.  A good beer and a good burger.  At some point in the evening, I will raise a glass and toast to all of the very good friends that I have had the chance to meet and celebrate with over the years, I will toast my beloved family and the memories of birthday pasts.  And though there will be no cherry chip cake and ice cream, the same warm embrace of family, friends, and home will stretch across the ages once again as I mark the passing of time from one age to another.

The first day in Cuba, I was amazed.  I had been to third world countries before, and while there is extreme poverty, there is also a humbling feeling of people working to make their lives better, of friendliness.  Driving through Cuba, that first day from the airport to the hotel then out to the fair grounds outside of Lenin Park, it was a bit awe inspiring to see the hustle and the bustle of the streets and the communities.  The hotel was impressive.  The people were kind and friendly.

The second day in Cuba, you started to see some of the strange things.  The policemen stationed along the country road between Havana and the fair.  The groups of soldiers lurking in groves of trees and vacant lots.  You saw some of the desperation of people looking for a hand out at the booth, “please, a notebook for my son for school.”  “Please, crackers so that my baby won’t die in my womb.”  At nice you saw the poorness of the majority of the people.  You see the ladies of the night - many of them educated, speaking English, willing to sell their bodies so that they might get a little more money.  You hear stories of the penalties for having unauthorized meat.

The third day in Cuba, you see the sixteen and seventeenth century churches and cathedrals that are behind iron gates and soldiers at the doors.  You see the grocery stores that have only a few items on the shelves - beans, rice, cooking oil.  You hear the lady of the night asking to please come with her - she needs the money, she wants to be free in America.  She has taught herself English by reading magazines and watching television, but she doesn’t have the money.  You see her get a cold look in her eye when she is refused and she pushes on, desperate to find a paying customer.

Flying home, you talk to the women who is flying to see her relative with her young son.  She can’t leave Cuba permanently, because she won’t leave her husband…but confides that her son will not be coming back.  She is parting with him, so that he may taste freedom.

These are the memories, the images that are seared in my heart and mind as we cross into Veterans Day this November 11^th.

November 11^th is a day set aside to honor our veterans.  The men and women, living and dead who fought - and are fighting the fights, defending the borders, protecting us and people around the nation from tyranny and despots, preserving, restoring, and nourishing freedom.

November 11^th  is a day set aside to honor our fathers, sons, grandfathers, grandsons, daughters, mothers, uncles, aunts, friends - and those who have no one to remember them, who have given their time, their talents, and their lives so that we, and people around the globe might have a taste of liberty.

November 11^th is a day for heroes.  Living and dead, remembered or forgotten, those who answered freedoms call and rose to defend liberty around the world.  Who picked up arms at Bunker Hill, stormed the beaches of Tripoli, fought on the seas, flew the sorties over Vietnam, worked the Coast Guard cutters in the frightful storms, worked on the trucks and jeeps in the military hospitals during the bitter cold Korean winters, blew the bugle as men marched off to the lines in France.  These are the men and women that we should - that we must remember today.

The freedoms that we live, the rights that we have, are not free.  They were bought and paid for with many a patriots - many a veterans blood, so that we enjoy the blessings of liberty for ourselves and our children.

If you know a veteran, please thank them today.  If you don’t know a veteran, please bow your head and thank the good Lord for the service they have made. 

For the second United States Presidential election in a row, I have been out of the country.  I have voted, but have not been in the United States for the aftermath.As much as I miss the American tradition of celebrating success, licking the wounds, and uniting the nation together that takes place immediately after the election, it is interesting to see the reaction among the people overseas.

Four years ago I was in Malaysia, a predominantly Muslim country, though a democratic one, where, though they have religious police, they also believe in freedom of speech and of the press.  At that time, it was George Bush versus John Kerry and we were embroiled in nasty election year politics that was pitting the Muslin world versus the Christian world.  It was only a year after the terrorist bombing in Bali, Indonesia (one of Malaysia’s neighbors), and tensions were perceived to be high between the United States and the rest of the Muslim world.

One of my co-workers gave me good advice…”try to blend in.”  He didn’t tell me how a six foot one, two hundred and fifty pound American was suppose to blend into a population that we a) mainly of Chinese decent b) decidedly shorter then six foot one and c) Looked, acted, and spoke nothing like the Malaysian.

On my first day in Kuala Lumpur, I walked on their subway in rush hour, people packed in around me (about chest height) - and they were all dead quiet, looking at me.  The man whose chin was in my chest, looked up and said, “You American?”

I thought to myself, the day after the presidential election, one hundred Malaysians and me packed in a crowded subway car - what is the correct response to make sure that I make it out alive?

“Yes.” I said.

One of the most lively, spirited, and intellectual conversations then took place about American politics and the policies of George W. Bush and John Kerry including their voting records and policy suggestions.

These people knew their stuff.

This election, I had the distinct pleasure to be in Cuba - not a bastion of friendliness to the American government.  The election was on everyone’s mind and was being actively talked about.  Every cab driver, every waiter, and customer was discussing.  Three hours into my stay, I watched a man walk by at the convention we were at carrying a “Republicans for Obama” sign.  People were wearing stickers on them supporting candidates - most Obama, but a few McCain supporters as well.

It was a bit surreal.

But perhaps one of our cab drivers summed it up best.  “That McCain is one tough hombre, but Obama is more like me.”

You can’t argue with a Cuban taxi driver about the American election.

“Remember, we need to get up early tomorrow morning, you boys will have to finish up the milking and chores before school.  I need to be at the town hall by 7:00 am.”  Dad would remind us.How could we forget.  Every year, the first Monday in November we would get the reminder - tomorrow was election day and that meant Dad was going to be gone.

I don’t remember an election day that my Dad didn’t serve as judge.  Regardless what else was going on the world or in our lives.  Harvest, snow storms, sick cows, sick kids, you name, you could still find Dad down at the little old school house that served as the polling place.  Turning up the heat and sweeping it out the day before, making sure things were in order for the election the next day.

Mom would have a big thermos of coffee, some koblaha (a Czech sweet bread, filled with poppy seed and fried) and various other cookies ready for Dad to take with him.

Dad has never been very politically minded, he never ran for office (unless you count almost forty years on the township board an elected position…technically, it is, but no else really wants the job either…), but he has always been a big fan and a big supporter of good government.  A government of the people, by the people, and for the people.

He would put in his eight hour shift as an election judge, and stick around to fill in for people that had to leave early, had to dash out for an errand, or else he would be there to visit with the friends and neighbors.  He would get caught up on the local gossip.  He would get updates on the neighbors that rarely came out - the sick and the shut-ins.  Asking about parents, and grandparents, or kids and grandkids that had moved out of the area.

At the end of the day came the counting.  This was old fashioned, hand counted, democratic government at its best.  Tallying up the marks next to the names (and the ever hated write in candidates - “If you kids ever write in Mickey Mouse for President….” Dad would lament).

When everything was counted, Dad would seal up the results, the other judges would disperse, Dad would turn down the heat and lock up the town hall and bring the results into the county courthouse, sign his name saying that the results were valid and legal, and wait around as the rest of the results trickled in.  He would see which townships were pulling for which candidates on the local, state, and national level.

About ten o’clock at night, he would come home to give us the update.  “Well, it looks like the sheriff won re-election tonight, and the judge is safe.  Peterson lost Marsh Creek, which was pretty surprising, but looks like he won the rest of the county, so he should be going back to DC.  The county commissioner race was still too close to call, might all come down to Rosedale.  They don’t have their results in yet.  Don’t know what takes those guys so darn long.”

When we think of government, we think about the pork barrels, the cronyism, the fraud, the largess of our federal system, but we should think about the thousands of men and women manning the polls and making sure that the system works, that our votes are counted, that we get the government that we chose.

I’d like to call and thank my Dad on election day, but I know it would be futile…he will be manning the polling booths, and making sure that this government, of the people, by the people, and for the people continues to go on without a hitch.

Halloween was that tenuous time between fall and winter.  The day could hit and be a balmy 70F or we could be in the gripe of a major winter snow storm.  Regardless of the weather, we would hit the neighborhood trick-or-treating.But it really didn’t matter if we needed insulated coveralls on over our costumes or not - our family only owned three costumes.

Costume number one was a clown costume.  Or to be more accurate, two clown costumes.  Suitable for younger members of the family, they could be worn over, and over, and over again.  Of us five children, every one of us was a clown at some point in our childhood.  Mom made the costume.  The neighbors expected it.  It was never a surprise, but every year we would walk up to the door of a neighbor and say “Trick-or-treat!” and every year they would act, not so much surprised, but very polite - “Oh my word!  Which one of the children is dressed up in that cute clown costume this year?  Is that little Marky this year?”

The second costume was a black cape.  This was more versatile then the clown costume.  Zorro?  A construction paper mask would suffice.  A vampire?  Some simple false teeth from the dime store in town. “Oh my, you look so brave as Zorro this year and not nearly as scary as you did last year when you were a vampire Jaime,” the neighbors would say with all sincerity as Jaime bared it tin foil sword at one of the neighbors.

The third and final costume was an old black suit coat of Dad’s.  It could be used for a “sad clown” look with a little of Mom’s lipstick on the cheeks and a ripped pair or pants.  It could be used as a hobo with a few coffee grinds used to look like stubble on the face and one of Dad’s hanker chiefs tied around the neck and one of Grandpa’s old bowler hats.  It even doubled once as for Abraham Lincoln - same suit coat, same bowler hat - with construction paper making up the stove pipe, and different (but similar) coffee grounds making up Honest Abe’s beard.  “Oh my, a hobo!”  Cried one of the neighbors, “No, I’m the sixteenth President of the United State’s!” I exclaimed.

The other ritual was visiting the neighbors.

Dad would let us out of the barn after the feeding was done and we would race to the house and change into our costumes.  Then we would pile into the station wagon and hit the neighbors.

Mrs. Gunderson had a big bag of candy and a popcorn ball ready for us with our names one each bag (and a cup of coffee for Mom).

Lois Otto would have a big bag of candy and a popcorn ball ready for us with our names on each bag (and a cup of coffee for Mom).

Mrs. Hull would have a big bag of candy and a popcorn ball ready for us with our names on each bag (and a cup of coffee for Mom).

Yosts, Buschettes, Kettners, Thorpes, Grandma’s, Aunt Mary’s, Aunt Carrie’s - the response was always the same.  Bag of candy.  Pop corn ball.  Cup of coffee for Mom.

We scamper out of the car at the end of the night, high on sugar, way past our bedtimes, and Mom would chase us off to bed…”You boys have to get up for chores in the morning.”  She would say…as she would nestle in with a book with a slight caffeine tick, ready for a long night of recovery from another Halloween.

I like small animals.

Those that know me are now looking for the punch line, like “…done medium well.” Or “…especially as an appetizer.” Or “…with a little ketchup.” Or “….with a little BBQ sauce.” Or “…next to my mashed potatoes.” Or “…with a nice white wine.” Or “…made into slippers.” Or…well, you get the picture.

In all seriousness, I don’t mind small animals as pets.  Growing up on the farm we had Puppy, a large Collie, German Sheppard, Lab cross - she was a steady friend that could be counted on to be there when you were having a bad day.  Lady was a Border Collie crossed with a Blue Heeler and smart as a whip, a little more excitable then Puppy, but just as good a companion.  In addition, we had a plethora of cats that prowled the farm.  Usually at least one that liked to lay down next to us as we sat on the hay bales waiting to change the milking machines.

Growing up with this menagerie, you were also exposed to their death at an early age as well.  Puppy was an old dog at seventeen (I didn’t name her) and died when I was in grade school.  Lady passed away when I was at college at the ripe old age of fifteen.  I remember a cat or two dying on my watch as well - casualties of any wide range of mishaps, laid on by a cow, one too many fights with the dogs, a run in with a coyote, running under a moving hay pile.  As a kid, it always brought a bit of a tear to my eye.  They were my friends, but they were also animals.  Life is not to be taken lightly, but it was not human - it was an animal.

Usually, with a tear in our eye, we would lay the deceased cat into the gutter and watch solemnly as it went up and out the end of the barn with the manure and into the waiting spreader to be spread on to the fields - dust to dust, ashes to ashes.  It was the natural part of the circle of life.

Several years ago, my nieces got a rabbit and wisely called him “Bunners.”  Bunners was supposed to teach my nieces responsibility and the work that goes into caring for an animal.  I think it taught some valuable lessons, especially to my brother and sister-in-law about how much hard work goes into taking care of a pet via proxy.

In the end, Bunners was well loved, but overfed and under exercised (before you judge too harshly, about 40% of all American humans also fit into this category).  He lived a happy bunny life.

Two weeks ago, Bunners was having a hard time breathing.  My brother came home from work and after assessing the situation, loaded the rabbit and my oldest niece into the car and off to the emergency vet clinic.

Like I said, I like animals, but this is where it goes a little too much for me.

Upon arrival at the pet hospital, my brother had to sign a “do not resuscitate form - so that the doctor would know not to go to extraordinary lengths to save this plump bunny.

Unfortunately, as the doctor was assessing what turned out to be an upper respiratory infection, Bunner suffered a massive heart attack.  My grief stricken niece and my brother were escorted out of the waiting room and - I’m not making this up - into the “bereavement room” where calm pictures of happy animals could let them think pleasant thoughts.  In addition - this gets better - were various cards for counselors who could help my brother and his family cope with the loss of their beloved pet.  Finally, the staff came out with a very nice cardboard casket that held the remains of their beloved pet - as well as information on a very nice pet cemetery and cremation services.

It was a sad day for my brother’s family, but I couldn’t help but think of my grandmother who came over from the old country and scrapped a hard living out of a wild land - what would her reaction have been….I think I know what she would have said…”Would have made a pretty good stew…”

For a farm boy, there is just nothing quite like the fall.  The combines slowly rolling through the fields of corn and beans, the grain cart running back and forth between the combine and the trucks at the edge of the field.  The corn waving in the cool fall afternoon, drying down in the late fall sunshine.Regardless if you used a modern state of the art John Deere combine and a shiny new grain cart yesterday, a Massy 510 and gravity box twenty years ago, or a threshing machine or corn picker seventy years ago - the basic process hasn’t changed much.  It still requires hard work.  It still requires some skill, and it also requires a bit of wonder.

It is almost hard to fathom that the little seed that was planted four or five months earlier has grown into this massive, proud corn plant or the bushy soybean.  It might have survived through wet spells where it languished under water, a late spring or early summer frost that nipped the leaves, or a blazing sun that showed no mercy at the height of pollination.  That little plant might have fought off the corn bore and the beans might have fended off aphids.

The farmer had a hand in all of this too of course - spraying for weeds and pests.  Maybe walking the rows and checking for weeds and infestations.  Making sure that the fertilizer was applied right.  Ensuring that the proper drainage was put in last fall.  Watching the sky and the weather reports.  Praying.

It is the seed that does the work, sitting in the cool spring ground, slowly breaking out of the hard pericarp, setting down the first seminal root.  The first cotyledon reaching up through the black dirt and setting its sight on the new spring sun, while the spring rains nourished and helped it along.

It grew slowly at first, in fits and starts.  As the weather slowly warmed and the rains came through June, the growth sped up and the rich green plants reached for the sky.  Then came pollination.  Slowly the first ears and pods came into being as the corn tasseled and the beans set flowers.  This was followed by ear and pod setting and the kernels and beans were set.

Then the plant slowly started to die.  The tips started to turn from a dark, lush green to a light brown.  As the sun moved lower and lower across the southern sky and the nights grew a little longer each day, so the corn and the beans slowly turned as summer turned to fall.

As the plants turn dry and brown, the sound of the wind changes from a light rustle to a dry scratchy crackle.  Once they have dried down enough, then come the combines.

It always amazes me to see the big machines crawl through the fields in the quiet twilight of farm country with the big orange harvest moon hanging in the background.