“Joe, Joe, I have a scrunchie.”

Breathing heavily after running up the driveway to my car, Liam shows me the white, round elastic cloth used to fasten women’s hair.

Well, to be honest, first he gives me a big hug. A hug from a young kid can pretty much salvage any day. My small travel bag is in one hand and a half-full cup of cold coffee in the other. I hug awkwardly with my forearms. That still counts in my book.

My legs are stiff after driving the blacktops out of Iowa City. Driving was easy as I passed through the small towns and farms of Iowa. Rain kept the traffic light, although the intermittent sunny skies caught the gold sparkling in the soybean fields.

You might miss that driving the Interstate. But, even more importantly, the backroads let you buy a slice of pepperoni pizza at every small-town convenience store. One of God’s more thoughtful gifts.

“Okay. What does having a scrunchie mean?”

“It means a girl gave me this and she likes me.” Liam, my neighbor, smiles. Happy.

My guess is that the significance of such a betrothal is a good ten years away for Liam.

“Can I show you what I made out of legos?” Liam gives me another smile.

Early that morning, the doctor in Iowa City also smiled at me. He’s brought me into his clinic way before the sun rose after a long conversation the night before. I’m impressed with the guy.

He peers at the computer while he moves the camera at the end of a tube stuck down my nose. My vocal folds are starring on the silver screen.

By the way, sticking scopes down people’s noses must not be the most fun in the world. Sure, you can always say it isn’t a colonoscopy, where the scope is coming from the other direction, but at least at a colonoscopy the doc can make small jokes to the assembled gang of nurses and anesthesiologists and assume the guy on the table will never remember them. But I’m all there as the camera records my every breath.

I am in this position because my vocal folds were a little beaten up by a long-ago bike accident. I had a temporary trach and they had to use some titanium as part of the fixer upper. As a result, one of my focal folds is frozen in time and my voice is low and breathy, unable to pierce the sound in most restaurants. But, as my wife claims, a big improvement over my high-pitched voice of the past.

Was that reassuring or an insult? Wives keep you on your toes that way.

But today I’m beguiled by the possibility of plumping up that rascally vocal fold. In my fantasy world, it will allow me to be the old man I am and shout crazily from my front porch at kids and dogs and cars driving by too fast. Not to mention the ability to order Indian take-out on the phone. I’m excited.

The doctor examines this, and he examines that, and he asks a billion questions. He pokes and pinches and has me say “Ahhhhhh.” He takes video, he takes photographs, he brings out every toy.

Just when I thought he was ready to say, “Let’s do it,” he says this:

“Joe, I would recommend against the procedure.”

Whaaat?????

“Perhaps I’m just being risk averse in my older age. But it is my opinion your airway is too compromised.”

My disappointment shows.

The kind doctor has no time for my silliness. He diagrams out THE TRUTH.

Lord, I’d forgotten about THE TRUTH.

I received THE TRUTH years ago at the time of my accident. But I’d moved on and set it aside. Life took over. I became concerned about Game of Thrones and politics and mowing my lawn.

The doctor begins to diagram and talk.

“The most important thing is breathing.” He looks at me to make sure I’m following.

“The next most important thing is swallowing.” I swallow.

“A distant — distant — third is speaking.”

The doctor gently smiles.

Ah, there it is. THE TRUTH. And I took it all for granted. What was I thinking?

Taking things for granted is surprisingly easy. I do it all the time. One minute I’m concerned about the climate, the next, I want a cardboard wrap and plastic lid with my extra-hot latte. I can’t help myself. Friends, family, popcorn? You guessed it, I take them all for granted.

And here stands Liam. A young boy with his legos and his scrunchie. Taking nothing for granted in his newly-created young world.

Fifty-five years ago in grade school it was the small cloth loop at the top of boys’ shirts. A locker loop they called it. Girls would pull or cut this loop off the shirt and keep it. I didn’t have a clue what it all meant, but I knew it was special for a girl to take your locker loop.

“Liam, how do I get a girl like my wife to give me her scrunchie?”

Liam, wise in the ways of girls, smiles knowingly.

Joe