In younger years, Tom and his other brother Jack farmed in the hills southeast of Westfield. They were bachelor farmers who raised cattle and crops on the hilly loess hills that are now a scenic byway. The low ground between the hills was farmed for crop and the tops of the hills were left for pasture. Some of that land had never seen a plow and some of it still hasn't even today. Tom and Jack lived down in a "draw" between those hills, insulated from most of the outside world.

The brothers were beyond draft age when World War II came around and they farmed and raised cattle throughout the war years. They made some money. Jack almost got married once, but something happened and the marriage fell through. The house that Jack had begun to build for his wife stood unfinished for a time and eventually was sold. Both men remained bachelors to the day they died.

They moved into the community of Westfield sometime in the early 1940s. They purchased a home on the north side of Westfield. It still stands there today with its oval, stained glass window hovering above the front door. Someone else now occupies the house.

Jack died first. That left Uncle Tom in charge of the house.

Uncle Tom was a man of many talents. He and Uncle Jack raised quality Hereford cattle. My mother tells of a time when Tom and Jack rented their prize Hereford bull out to neighbors to enhance their herds. She can vividly remember Uncle Tom hand-leading a huge white-headed bull up their farm laneway, the bull tethered only by a leather strap that was snapped to a large brass ring that was connected to the bull's nose. The bull moaned and slobber dripped from its mouth, but it didn't pull against the ring. Uncle Tom had control, at least for the moment.

These early January days remind me of those visits to Uncle Tom's house in Westfield. A warm, coal-fueled fire was always aglow in the house and Uncle Tom could usually be found sitting at his kitchen table, looking out at the white Iowa landscape. We would knock on the screen door, but he never came to answer. We just opened the door and walked in. He knew it was us and called us into the kitchen for a visit. There was no other sound than the muffled ticking of that giant cuckoo clock.

I took my first shot of whiskey at Uncle Tom's kitchen table. It was just before noon and we were expected to be back at my Grandmother's place for dinner. My dad sat at one end of the table, Uncle Tom in the middle and I on the other end. I had just turned 12 in October and Uncle Tom must have thought that I had reached maturity. A bottle of Old Crow sat in the middle of the table and he produced three shot glasses from an old blackened cabinet at the end of the kitchen. He poured a shot into each glass and pushed one of them toward me. "Have a sip," he said as he tipped his glass to the ceiling and swallowed.

The amber liquid looked so pretty and sweet, I thought it must be like root beer. I carefully took the glass, put it to my lips and tipped back. I think it was about a half hour later that I remembered what town I was in. Uncle Tom chuckled and said, "That'll cure any worms you've got." I think it did.

We're heading for the deepest part of winter and I'm thinking of Uncle Tom Buryanek in that little house on the edge of Westfield. He lived there until he died. He shot house mice with a pistol and birdshot, he helped pour the cement for our hog house and cattle milk barn, he had a dynamite license and blew cottonwood trees to smitherines, he loaned and gave money to his relatives and friends and he always had time to visit.

Especially on these cold, short, dark January days. Uncle Tom and that ticking cuckoo clock and that first sip of whiskey are a January memory.

See you next time. Okay?