“Hurry up, it’s almost on!” Mom would exclaim to us, pushing us to finish up whatever we were doing so that we could stop and listen to the music. There was very little that would make Mom stop working, she was always doing ten things at once, and especially around Christmas time.  She was a non-stop flurry of activity - decorating, cleaning, baking, planning, wrapping - and all on top of the other normal household activities (which with four boys and one little girl also must have seemed like an endless task) - though in a mass of community activities and Mom was a bit of a whirl wind at the holidays.

Inevitibly, we would get recruited.  And, kids being kids, sometimes fight which made our naturally good natured mother a little less good natured.  We quickly found a solution to that problem.

“Mom,” we would gently say as she scrubbed the counter top after making a fresh batch of cookies, “would you mind if we listened to a record while we clean the living room?”

That was the bait…

“As long as you kids get along and get that room clean, I don’t care.”  She would say.

We would carefully have the record, ‘A Christmas Music Festival’ at the ready and put in on the phonograph where it scratched and started to play.

The trap was set…

As soon as Mom heard that first Medley of songs…the scrubbing would stop for just a second, then resume with renewed furver, she knew what was coming and she was going to walk right into the trap.

After the opening medley, came Dean Martin singing a version of Bing Crosby’s classic ‘White Christmas’…the scrubbing and cleaning sounds from the kitchen intensified.

The came Glen Campbell with his version of ‘Silent Night’ - that is when she started hurrying us along.

“Mark, run this upstairs.  Jaime, put these jars in the basement.  Margaret, put these dish cloths out in the entry.  And hurry up, it’s almost on!”  She would say with an excitement in her voice where frustration had been only ten minutes earlier.  We would scamper away, knowing that a break was at hand.

We were all quickly back in the living room - and usually just in time, for the trap was sprung…

Mom would come in just as Sandler and Young began their version of ‘Jingle Bells’, a rollicking mixture of English and French that just brought a smile to everyone’s face.  We would all sit and listen, tapping our feet as Sandler and Young harmonized in this joyful variation of the most tired Christmas classics.

After they finished and Tennessee Ernie Ford started on his rendition of ‘Do You Hear What I Hear’ we would all sit in silence, smiles on our faces.  As he wrapped it up, Mom would look at us and say, “OK, one of you, put that needle back to the beginning of ‘Jingle Bells,’ then we can get back to work.

We  would all listen again enjoying it even more the second time around, though if it was our own enjoyment or the enjoyment that we got from seeing Mom enjoying it remains a bit of a mystery.

As it wrapped up again and Tennessee Ernie Ford began singing again, Mom would announce, “Well, we should be back to work.”

Yup, it was always a perfect trap…and I was always a bit confused as we resumed our work with a new flourish of activity, renewed in energy and sense of good will, with Mom humming in the kitchen as she readied another batch of cookies, we laid the trap, but Mom always ended up seeming to be the trapper…

07-jingle-bells.wma

(Tom Jirik wrote columns in several newspapers in Iowa from the late 1980’s to the mid 1990’s.  This column originally appeared in the The Boone Today on December 2, 1987)

The old man flicked open the cover of his pocket watch.

None of the excitement was there.  None of the anticipation.  “I’ve made the trip too many times,” he thought.

With an effort he pulled himself out of the chair.  His footsteps echoed heavily in the log stone corridor as he put on the heavy red coat.

With reluctance he pushed open the giant door to the workshop.  They were all there, looking at him expectantly.

He mustered a grin for them, but their eyes betrayed them. They knew something was wrong.

They were worried little elves.  Their spark was gone.  The Christmas eve excitement was missing.  Their faces were raised toward him in concern as he walked silently between them.

With a sigh he climbed into the sleigh.  He felt as though he had done this too many times for too many years.

Then he spotted the big red book with its columns for naughty and nice and a list of deliveries for each stop.

Somewhere inside he began to tingle.  He stroked the smooth leather cover of the book with reverence then placed it in the slot alongside the seat. 

He picked up the reins.  He could feel the color creeping into his cheeks.  The reindeer pawed nervously, anxiously.

Two of the elves dashed to open the massive doors.

He breathed it in, deep and long.  As it filled his lungs, it seemed to clear his mind of everything but the children, children who were waiting expectantly for his deliveries.  His face broke into a giant grin.

Although the temperature was well below freezing, he could feel warmth spreading across his face.  His listlessness had been replaced with restless anticipation.  Somehow his mission had been reaffirmed.  His face broke into a grin “Let’s goooo!” he yelled as he snapped the reigns above the reindeers’ back.

They didn’t need to be told twice. In unison all eight lept against their harnesses, throwing the jolly fat back in his seat.

The sleigh rocketed out of the workshop and into the darkness of the arctic night.  A cloud of snow rolled out from the thundering hooves and the hissing runners.

He adjusted the reigns in his hands, expertly steering the sleigh down the runway carefully prepared by the elves.

“Faster! Faster!” he cried as the wind rushed by.  A jumble of ice loomed up ahead, higher than a house.

Suddenly the thunder and hissing died away as the odd vehicle became airborne.

He circled back toward the castle and guided reindeer and sleigh into a breath-taking pass inches above the ground directly in front of the workshop’s still-open doors. 

As he flashed by he could see a row of rosy faces, their mouths open in awe.

Then he was gone.  A “Ho, Ho, Ho,” echoed away into the dark.  Two tiny elves struggle to close the door.  One shoved his elbow into the other’s ribs.  “I told you it’s be a Merry Christmas,” he said with a wink.

Things are not well in the world.  The banking system is on life support, the auto industry is asking for a billions of dollars to fend off bankruptcy, the holiday shopping season is down, restaurants are reporting decreased business.  People are suffering.  More and more people are being laid off.  Donations to charity are falling.  The Salvation Army, along with most charities are reporting record deficits just as we seem to need them most.The government is doing all they can, but even that seems not enough.

It leaves people asking questions.  How can this happen?  How can the Lord let their be suffering on this earth - especially around Christmas?  What have we done to deserve this?  What can we do to fix this?

David was in much better times when he proposed building a temple for the Lord.  David went from being a hunted man and times of upheaval, to times of peace and prosperity.  He wanted to reward God for all of the wonders he had bestowed on him.

But David had it wrong.

David had no authority to build a house for the Lord.  It was not for David to reward God, for God had given everything to David, instead, it was God’s will to do build his house as he wished, and dwell where we wished.  David respected that request, because ultimately, he realized, he was but a servant of the Lord.

The story of Mary is even more amazing.  Here was a woman, a girl really, promised in marriage to a man.  All of a sudden, an angel appears and tells her that, if she approves, she will become the mother of God here on earth.

So she had a choice between living her life as she probably planned - a wife and mother to a carpenter, having a house full of children and keeping house.  But instead, the Lord would take shape in her womb, as an unmarried woman (who by the way could be subjected to stoning for being found pregnant outside of marriage if her husband deemed it necessary), with the uncertainty of what it meant.

Mary’s choice was really a choice for all of us - she was a human after all and she could have very easily have said no.  She could have said, let this cup pass from me, I don’t want to bear this responsibility.  Indeed, the gospel says that she was troubled and the angel says, “Do Not Be Afraid!” 

But as John Wayne said, “Courage is being scared to death, but saddling up anyway.”

In her faith in God, her faith in her Lord, helped her make this very difficult choice that would lead to our salvation.  As we prepare this last week of Christmas with the uncertainty in our world and in our lives, may we have the courage and the fortitude of Mary to say, “May it be done according to Your word.”

(Tom Jirik wrote columns in several newspapers in Iowa from the late 1980’s to the mid 1990’s.  This column originally appeared in the The Boone Today in December 1987)

Calves for Christmas.

No, not the leg kind of calves, the baby kind of calves.

I grew up on a dairy farm and wintertime is calf-time.  Our cows were timed so they would have their calves during the winter months. Usually, peak calving time was right around Christmas.

Starting at age 5, it was my job to feed the bawling back and white little beggars.  I’d feed them in the morning and feed them again at night.

It was excruciatingly fun.

You see, calves are greedier than Wall Street brokers.  I would feed 15 calves.  I was armed with only three pails with nipples on them…three pails and a floppy piece of rubber hose.  Before any animal rights activists take offense, please remember at age 5, a 2-week-old calf probably out weighed me by a considerable amount

From the perspective of a 5-year old little boy, 15 drooling, bawling calves makes for a frightening confrontation.  Strategy number one was to sneak up on them.  This tactic worked once in every 100 attempt.  The object was to get inside the room and hang the buckets on the fence before they knew what was happening.

That way I could be ready for them before they were ready for me.

Typically, the calves tune in their ESP and were lined up at the fence before I ever made it in the door, ready to knock me over and trample me in their feeding frenzy.

Strategy number 2 was the full frontal attack.  I would rush into the room, screaming at the top of my lungs and try to get the pails hung on the fence while the calves were too shocked to do anything but stare.

Humorous, but highly ineffective.

I’m surprised those calves survived.  It’ s not that I beat them to death with a floppy rubber hose, it’s just that they didn’t get much to eat.

Invariably, as I tried to swing the buckets over the fence so they could get at the nipples, one of them would knock his head on the bottom of one of the pails.

Then, being the 5-year hot head that I was, I would throw down the buckets in disgust and scream in rage as the milk dribbled down my glasses.

Oh, how I pine for the days of childhood.

So the calves went hungry; I got soaked with milk; and my 5-year-old vocabulary was filled with surprising variety of four-letter words.

All of this just in time for Christmas.

In my thirty plus years on this earth, I can remember exactly one Christmas where we failed to have snow.  On the upper Great Plains, there were three things that you could typically count on: 

1. Snow in the winter

2. Heat in the summer

3.  Drastic changes at any minute

In short, you just expected December through February to be cold and snowy and often times November through March - and once in a while October through April - but you always expected snow on Christmas.

Any holiday special that we watched on television showed snow.  Bob Hope’s Christmas special?  Always snow.  Andy Williams Christmas special?  Plenty of the white stuff.  A Christmas with John Denver?  A Rocky Mountain high with plenty of snow.  Think of any of the many Christmas cartoons - Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer?  Snow.  A Charlie Brown Christmas? Snow.  Muppets Christmas?  Snow.  Santa Claus is Coming to Town?  Snow.

I’m not sure when it first hit me that snow was not universal.  As a kid the world that you see is the world that you know.  If you go sledding on Christmas Day, you fully expect that every kid on the planet goes sledding on Christmas Day - regardless if they live in your hometown, Fargo, Bismarck, St. Paul, Chicago, New York, Los Angeles, Phoenix, Mexico City, New Delhi, Qatar, Johannesburg or Riyadh.

The thought of a Christmas without snow was just as foreign as some of those cities.

Gradually, your mind adjusts to the facts of weather and geography - you realize that places like Jamaica rarely get colder then seventy degree’s and you also know that snow can’t survive temperatures higher then thirty-two degrees.  You realize that the ornaments that your aunt sent you from Hawaii with Santa in shorts and a straw hat doesn’t mean that he is going to get frost bite, it means that with any luck, Santa Claus is sunning himself on a beach by New Years Day and enjoying the sunshine after a successful Christmas.

Sometimes, it is still hard to believe that there are parts of the world that don’t get to experience the joy of snowstorms and sub-zero temperatures.

Recently, a friend of mine sent pictures from a “monster snow storm” that dumped up to three inches of the white stuff in Baton Rouge - three whole inches.  In Minnesota, we refer to that as a light dusting…in central Louisiana it ranks up there as one of the top three snow storms of all time.

Sometimes we need to be knocked back into our sense of wonder.  A Christmas with snow, while normal in the little world that I grew up in, is not normal for the vast majority of people around the country, and indeed for most of the people around the world.  Sometimes we lose sight that the place that we live, regardless how warm or how cold is truly a wonderful and magical place - regardless where that is.

For me, it just happens to be in the beautiful snows of Northwestern Minnesota!

How and why it happened remains a mystery, but on a cold December day, back in 1985, Sister Baptist, principal and teacher at St. Michael’s School, made the request of a young man, her request, and his answer would live with him for the rest of his life.  That decision on that cold December day so many years ago still lives.  That is why, whenever called upon, that young man still responses to the call for Claus, Mr. Santa Claus.Sister Baptist had tried to play the roll the year before, and while she had the holiness of a saint, she lacked a little bit of the deep bellied laugh, the jolliness, and the round cheeks, and masculinity to be Santa Claus (though anyone that got their mouth washed out with soap by Sister Baptists hands would say there was no man a match for her).

That first year, it was a simple enough request, walk across the stage (i.e. altar) at church and speak a brief part into the microphone - a little jolly laugh, a little bit of the history, a little bit about the connection to the Christ child.

The seeds for Saint Nick lay dormant for another nine years.

In 1993, some of the seniors in Mahnomen High School had a great idea - a food drive to be held the last week before Christmas, if you brought in a canned good, you would get your picture taken with Santa Claus…but who would play dear Saint Nick?  Once again, called into service, this scion of Santa, lacking in holiness, but making up for it with a jolly laugh and witty comments (and Santa did appreciate the line of girls waiting to greet him…) was pressed into service.

Two years latter, Christmas, 1995, the young man’s fraternity’s Christmas party was at risk - the normal Santa Claus called in sick, who could replace him?  Who had the experience, the jolliness, the gut to fill the role so desperately needed at this critical time?  Once again, the young man stepped up.  With witty comments (Santa: “Where you a good boy this year Shane?”  Shane: “yeah, pretty much.” Santa: “Yes, I know, I am Santa Clause…”)

That same year, his brother’s Christmas card in doubt, who would fill the roll with his infant daughter on the front of the card, once again, the red pants, red hat, red jacket, white beard came out.  Santa is an amazing man, but can’t be every where, he counts on the few, the chosen few to be there when the need is great, so the Christmas card was saved, and dear old Santa’s reputation was saved again by the man filling in behind the beard.

Christmas, 1996, once again, the young man’s fraternity needed a Santa Claus…once again, the young man donned the suit and beard and bravely walked in the shoes of the man loved around the world for his generosity and love of children and crank out witticisms and jolly laughs for the young men.  (Santa: “So Parker, have you been good this year?”  Parker: “More or less.”  Santa: “Mary said good, Sarah said bad, Megan said good, Blair said bad, Steph said good, Karen said bad…”).

The suit was put away, and once again, the Santa’s helper went dormant….

Christmas, 2006.  Tragedy in Ohio.  The man who had played Santa the year before was no longer available (something about rehab), and the local Christmas party organizers were desperate…they had 150 children that were expecting Santa Claus, they had a velvet suit, and no one willing to don it.  The call went out.  The call was answered.

This was the big time.  This was 150 children.  This was where you needed to get the laugh just right (is it huh-huh-HOOOOO or HO-HO-HOO, is the emphasis on the first or second syllable?) 

While the big man couldn’t be there in person (December is a very busy month for THE Santa Claus), he knew this one was a big one, and called with a little Santaly advice: “Children are fun and are a precious gift.  Treat them with reverence, but also have fun with them.  And don’t worry if they pee on you, that is a hazard of the job….”

The doors of the Elk Lodge opened wide and in walked Santa Claus.  Huh-huh-HOOOO’ing and crying Merry Christmas in a jolly voice, he gave hugs and high fives as he made his way through the three foot tall mass of humanity like wading through a swimming pool with grabby arms and runny noses to his throne at the end of the room.  For the next two hours.  Children in various states of excitement, joy, and terror sat on his knee, got their pictures taken a gift and promise to do the very best he could to get them what they wished.

When all of the tots had gone through, Santa again wadded through the mass of miniature humanity and made it to the back room, where he sat down, sweaty and exhausted.  Its tough work filling in for Santa Claus, there is a reason that man is a saint.  But he also know why he did it - the joy, the excitement, the love that he saw on those innocent faces made him realize that there was hope for humanity.  That the pureness of life still exists in the wonder of children, and at heart, we all know that Santa Claus still lives, and the Christ Child still resides in each of our hearts.

Like a picture of Bigfoot, the man, the myth, a Santa Claus sighting….

Mr. Claus, with one of his fans…

Santa and one of his young admirers….

Santa in all his splendor…

“These people are as free as you or I are.  They don’t have property rights, but in reality, neither do we - if you don’t pay your property taxes, our government will take your land away.”

“Right I said, but what about the ability to pass along property to your children” I said.

“We don’t have that in the United States either.  You die; the government essentially takes half anyway.  Let’s face it; these people have as much freedom as we have in the United States.  They can travel.  They can move around. They get great educations.  They have more doctors per capita then we do.  Their health care is free. What more is there?” said my protagonist.

“What about liberties?  What about the right to protest?  What about the right to vote?  What about freedom of speech?  Freedom of the press? What about the right to worship?” I replied.

That ended the argument right there.  To that, there was no response.

It made for a tense couple of minutes at the outdoor café at the site of the Havana Fair over our roast pork and rice dinner.  Our friend from Argentina was visibly shaken - outraged that anyone could mistake the freedom of want for freedom to be.

This happened on my last day in Havana, and until that point, I could not place the great sense of discomfort that I got from the country.  What separated this country from others that I visited?  This conversation struck to the heart of it.

The people of Cuba have security - they are guaranteed food, shelter, and security from lawlessness.  What they lack are the liberties and the freedoms to make life truly worth living.

The world over is filled with good, decent, people - willing to care for each other, and willing to go the extra mile to help people in need.  The people that I met in Cuba were the exact same.  But that sense of liberty, of freedom - not economic freedom or the ability to acquire wealth and pass it on, but of the riches of liberty and freedom.

(Tom Jirik wrote columns in several newspapers in Iowa from the late 1980’s to the mid 1990’s.  This column originally appeared in the The Boone Today in December 1989)

Thanks to the eager prodding of my wife, most of my Christmas shopping is complete.  Nearly all the gifts we’ve purchased are neatly wrapped and tagged.

I’m pretty happy with our selection this year.  Some relatives and friends are regular readers, so I won’t go into details here.  I’ll just say that I think we’ve found gifts that even my parents will appreciate.

They’ll never admit it, but that has not always been so.

I can remember plenty of gifts that I’ve given my parents for Christmas and birthdays that are probably better off forgotten.  It’s amazing how parents can remain so appreciative after years and years of receiving strange and useless gifts from their children.

Like the ceramic cow that I gave my dad two years ago.  At the time, that cow and calf seemed to be the perfect gift.  I remember at Christmas how Dad opened the gift and admired it with wide-eyed happiness.

It wasn’t until later that I noticed how much the cow looked like a bull with an udder.  That calf didn’t look so good, either.  Until recently, the cow and calf remained in their place of honor on top of the television.

I’m not sure where the bovine mother and offspring are now but that’s probably just as well.

I do know where the fantastic all-purpose screwdriver/wrench is.  It’s at the very bottom of the drawers in the cabinet in the garage.  When my brothers and I bought the screwdriver/wrench for Dad 10 years ago, we thought it would be perfect solution to all of his fix-it needs.

It had a screwdriver on one end and a metal ball on the other.  The metal ball had a variety of hexagon-shaped holes in it.  Theoretically, you could tighten or loosen screws with one end and then turn it around and tighten or loosen any size nut or bolt with the other.

I don’t think the screwdriver/wrench was ever used.  It was in the drawer inn the garage by New Year’s Eve.  Dad refuses to throw it out.  “Might come in handy some day.  Besides, it was a present from you boys,” he says while we cringe.

That’s only one of the useless tools that we’ve given Dad over the years.  I remember the self-destructing drill bit (only $1.99). The plastic screwdriver handle with interchangeable screwdriver bits (the handle broke on Christmas morning while Dad was working on one of those self-assembly required projects), and the indestructible flashlight (replacement bulbs available only in Mexico).

Mom was luckier.  Mrs. Hanson down at Hanson’s Hardware was pretty good at convincing us each year that mixing bowls and wooden spoons are much better gifts for a mom than mousetraps and ceramic birds.

Thanks to Mrs. Hanson, Mom never runs short of mixing bowls or wooden spoons, even during her most ambitious baking projects.

That’s not to say she didn’t receive her share of kitchen gadgets and ceramic animals.  She can show you a drawer full of them.  And every time she received one, she was happier than the time before.  I guess that’s something they teach in parenting school.

Along with their drawers full of gadgets, they’ve got shelves full of souvenirs.  There’s a teacup from Winnipeg, a tray from Bismarck, N.D., a ceramic cow from (this one’s a cream server) from Fargo, N.D., and a coffee mug from Ames.

But that doesn’t even make a dent in the list of gifts and gadgets.  Fortunately, most of them lie forgotten in shelf, box, or drawer.  But every once in a while, a child’s gift is so memorable that it can’t be forgotten.  Stories about gifts like those grow into family legends.

Like that bronzed buffalo chip form the Black Hills of South Dakota.

Who could ever forget that?

This Christmas, my intentions were to do it right.  Maybe not perfect, but at least right.  I even had it all planned out.  Outside - a wreath by the door, some little trees, some pine boughs in my planters, some festive decorations on my yard light out front.  Inside, the tree, trimmed and perfect, the nativity on my glass cabinet, wall hangings throughout - it was going to be as festive as what I remember from my youth.And friends - my intentions were to throw a big Christmas party, a full meal with twenty or more people, all around a big festive table in my basement, wine, beer, pop - more importantly, good cheer and warm feelings all the way around.  Then there were the Christmas cards - for the friends scattered throughout the world.

In the end, I’ve got a wreath by my door and two small pine trees by the entrance.

I was done in by pneumonia and an overall lack of time.  Even the basics haven’t been done - the simple things like prayer and contemplation.  In the end, I have no one to blame but myself, I should never have let that cold turn into something much worse.

In the end, this season, this time of year, is about joy.  The readings today remind us of that simple fact.  Regardless what we have or don’t have, regardless how the economy is treating us, regardless if we are rich or poor, sick or healthy, new born or on the edge of our life here on earth, this day, this hour, this minute, is about the joy that we must have when we remember the graciousness of the Lord.

As Isaiah says, “I rejoice heartily in the Lord, in my God is the joy of my soul; for he has clothed me with a robe of salvation and wrapped me in a mantle of justice….”  Or we are reminded through Paul, “Rejoice always.  Pray without ceasing.  In all circumstances give thanks, for this is the will of God for you in Christ Jesus.”

The Jewish people then were looking for a savior, someone that would take away all of their pains, take away the earthy sickness and tyranny that they lived with.  In truth, what they got was a baby, born in a stable, that was to take away the blight of sin and open wide the gates of our heavenly kingdom.

Today, we look for a savior from our earthly ills - our economic situation, our sickness, our broken hearts, our worries of the day.  We plead through prayer to our Lord to make things right, to take away the bitter cup of life - to save us from our present age.

As humans, we hurt, we get sick, we cause each other to suffer by our words and actions.  The little baby born in the manger would feel that same hurt, would suffer and ask that His Father too take that cup of mortal suffering away from Him…

Yet that suffering is part of life, it is part of being human.  Yet we must still rejoice for the tremendous gift that was given to us.  God did not spare himself the pains of being human.  He hurt, just as we hurt.  He bled, just as we bleed.  He died, just as we are to die.

Yet the triumph and joy of the manger, of Advent, of God With Us, lies in that very misery of our human condition that our God came to share with us.  In the end, the things that troubled us in our imperfectness, sickness, death, despair - are but a pittance compared to the undescribable joy our faith teaches us awaits us in paradise.

Regardless if the tree is up, the holly hung, or the party held - regardless if the pneumonia clears up, or if more troubles befall us.  This season, this time, this hour, this minute, may the joy of our Lord, of our salvation, still reside in our hearts.

(Tom Jirik wrote columns in several newspapers in Iowa from the late 1980’s to the mid 1990’s.  This column originally appeared in the The Boone Today on December 17, 1986)One of the things I miss especially during the holidays is the Fargo Theater back where I went college in Fargo, N.D.

What is so special about an old movie theater?

I am too young to remember the golden era of the American silent films but through the magic of the Fargo, I was able to relive a small bit of the incredible era.

The theater was built in the late 1920’s in the tradition of grand theaters.  It was remodeled several times and over the years it fell into disrepair and disuse.  Then in the late 1970’s, area film and history buffs began a drive to restore the Fargo. 

The project is still in progress, but the headway that has been made is impressive.

Like all great movie houses of the era, the Fargo has a tall marquee with rows of flashing lights directing patrons inside.  Stars’ names and the current attractions are always up in lights.

Inside, deep reds characterize the carpeting and wall paper while marble and brass accents lend an especially opulent air.  There are 2 levels of seating inside the main theater.  The walls are decorated in streamlined strips of recessed neon and incandescent colored lighting. The lighting and the acoustically-scalloped ceiling draw the eye to the stage and its magnificent red velvet curtain.

Local lore says the recessed lighting hadn’t been used in years and was so covered over with dust and grime that the theater restorers didn’t realize that it existed.  Supposedly a restoration volunteer found some obscure switches in an out-of-the-way place while cleaning back-stage.  His curiosity revealed one of the most unique features of the theater.

The heart and soul of the theater is the  “Mighty Wurlitzer” pipe organ.

I will never forget the thrill when I heard my first performance at the Fargo.  The lights dimmed in the cavernous theater and only the area in front of the stage remained lit.  The organ began playing, filling the theater with such full deep music that it not only thrilled your ears, but seemed to stimulate every one of your senses, As the concert began the organ slowly and smoothly rose from the floor.  I don’t think I breathed for the entire 5 minutes.

The organ itself is a mechanical wonder with miles of piping and electrical wiring, all painstakingly restored.  The organ is able to reproduce car horns, a doorbell, a diesel air horn, a steam whistle, and the sounds of a steam locomotive.  It has its own entire percussion and bell section.  All of the incredible sounds are controlled from the organ’s massive console, which can be raised hydraulically from below floor level.

The organ was designed to provide background music and sound effects for silent films.  Silent film stars such as Coleen Moore and Lillian Gish have visited Fargo, to promote the preservation of the Theater and the piece of history that it represents.

Throughout the year the theater shows new and old film classics and even features live performances occasionally.  During the holidays the theater hosts local performers and its organ in free concerts during noon hours.

Some of the best Christmas performances I have ever heard were from the “Mighty Wurlitzer” in the Fargo Theater.  I, like other hardy Fargoans, braved the cold in order to hear that mighty organ in the magic atmosphere of a theater from yesterday.