The metal detector is where it first goes south. Metal in my knees and metal in my neck trigger all the bells and whistles. At this point the security guards only look at me with mild interest. Sure, I don’t look like a gun-toting madman, but really, who does? And I do wear those weird five-finger shoes. 

”Sir, please go over to the other scanner.”

Of course. The other scanner looks like an MRI on steroids. I put my hands over my head as directed. Why do they have you do this?  I imagine so the cops, hidden behind their squad cars with bullets flying and the soundtrack crescendoing, don’t have to yell “Put your hands up.” They already are. 

And I always fail this scanner too.

“Do you have anything in your pockets?”

Duh, of course not. Who do they think I am? But folks, I’ll let you in on a little secret — I have flunked this question several times before. So I do a quick check of my pockets just in case. Nope, nothing there. Whew.

Then a pat-down search. Depending on what they saw on the scanner screen, this can be a total body pat down or a single pat of some isolated spot that lit up the screen. Doesn’t bother me. I appreciate the thoroughness. Strip search in the name of safety? Why not.

Success! I can move two squares closer to Candy Cane Forest. But now the test is whether I have nefarious items in my backpack.

Surprise, surprise, I generally fail this test also. Usually, the culprit is a corkscrew at the very bottom of my backpack, because you can never have too many corkscrews; or razor blades in my toilet bag, to shave all two hairs on my head; or something sharp like a long-forgotten butter knife tucked in a side pocket for a romantic picnic with my wife on a slow train.

As Winnie-the-Pooh says: “I am a Bear of Very Little Brain.”

Most recently, I packed a large, ziplock bag of white powder in my backpack. Come to find out that druggy-looking items actually do raise a few eyebrows. I should have just worn a t-shirt that said “DEALER,” and then labeled the plastic bag “cocaine.”

And what was I doing with a ziplock bag of white powder? Well, dear protein enthusiasts, you might be wondering about the dangers of using too much protein powder? I’ve got you. The label warns about constipation, but did it say anything about airport security when you put the powder in a large, unlabeled ziplock bag? Nope. But now you know. 

Although I was even more boneheaded when I went through security in Vienna after flying from Bosnia. I was carrying a coffee grinder I had purchased in the old market in Sarajevo. The dealer had thrown into the bag, free of charge, a war souvenir — a shell casing converted into a pen. 

Especially since my wife worked at the time in The Hague on the UN Bosnian War prosecutions, I was horrified to be in possession of such a war memento . . . And then promptly forgot it was in the bag. Yup, I’m that guy.

Vienna airport security was not impressed. This time, in addition to a thorough body search and an interrogation by a skeptical security guard, they did a gunshot-residue test on my hands. The last gunshot residue test I witnessed was based on a search warrant I wrote for a suspected murderer. So there you have it. One day you’re a prosecutor fighting bad guys in Des Moines, the next day you’re in a Vienna jail eating wiener schnitzel. Go figure.

Instead of going to jail, however, airport security waived me on, shaking their heads at my stupidity, and keeping my new pen.

So . . . how about those folks in airport security? If it was allowed, I would bake them cookies for our frequent coffee klatches back in the corner next to the scanners. It only seems Iowa-nice. Instead, I’m left with applauding them and awarding them top honors in dealing so patiently with so many impatient people  . . . And with those of us of very little brain. 

Joe

Knock Knock.

Hello, my name’s Joe Weeg and I’m here to encourage you to vote in the upcoming school board election. 

Listen, I HATE door knocking for candidates. Always have. I even hated it when my job was on the line with the many elections of Tom Miller for Attorney General and John Sarcone for Polk County Attorney. I hated door knocking before many of you were even born. Heck, I even hate knock-knock jokes.

But here I am, 20 years ago, at some stranger’s door trying to get them to vote and to vote for my candidate — interrupting their important evening beverage and their even more important scrolling of German Shepherd puppy videos. Who wouldn’t prefer German Shepherd puppies to me at their door? Duh!

I smile a lot. I hand out literature. I answer questions. I wish everyone well. And I go on to the next house.

And please consider my wife, Theresa Weeg, for school board. Here’s some information and I’d be glad to answer any question.

I want to go home. But no, my smart and talented and CONNIVING wife was running for school board. She had done some door knocking here and there, but concluded fairly early on that it was not for her. It was for me. Really? She’s much more personable. She’s the one at any graduation party, wedding, or shower, whooping — “where’s the dancing,” while I’m the one yelling from the bathroom — “have they left yet?” But I assured her that I’d do all the remaining knocking.

What was I thinking? No one wants to hear my spiel. No one wants to engage after a long day at work. And I don’t want to talk to them. My mantra when I approach a door is simple: “please don’t be home, please don’t be home, please don’t be home.”

Ah, one last door on my list. It’s a Republican — E.J. Giovannetti. A member of the Polk County Board of Supervisors. I don’t know him, but I know he’s going to be nothing but trouble for my progressive wife and therefore for me. Oh well.

Knock knock. “Hi, I’m Joe Weeg and . . .”

That was two decades ago. 

Did you know that E.J. Giovannetti was Urbandale’s mayor for 20 years? Yup. And then after a few years off, he felt “out of the mix,” and so he ran for and was elected to 10 years with the Polk County Board of Supervisors. And during all this time, including up to today, he has devoted himself to being a member of a gazillion commissions and boards. Lord help us.

And his philosophy as a community leader?

Unlike some politicians today, I knew I didn’t know anything, and that was probably my strongest suit. But people came to the table. Everybody was there to build a community we could be proud of. We didn’t care who got credit for it. There weren’t any winners or losers.

Oh, and let’s not forget his personal life, where he took care of a very sick wife for four years until she died, raised two young kids on his own, and built a successful law practice. The guy even has a park shelter named after him in Urbandale. An enclosed one. With a kitchen.

I personally don’t like him. 

Is door-knocking a punishment for some sin committed earlier in life?

“When I was on the ballot, even though I didn’t want to, I felt I had to go door knocking.”

E.J. and I talk on FaceTime because he is in Northern California when I reach out. Which means for much of the conversation I am trying to position the camera on my computer so that my neck and chin are not one long ski slope. I am unsuccessful.

“But once I got started door knocking, I got wrapped up. Most people are congenial. They may not agree; they will frequently ask you questions. But I really enjoyed it once I got started.”

Isn’t it a waste of time when you have social media and ads and public appearances?

“I think it’s really important. I knocked on doors even when I was running unopposed. People want to know that you want the job. And if you’re not out there, if they’re not seeing signs, and you’re not knocking on their doors, they think you’re not interested.” 

Well, this is bad news for an avid hater of door knocking. And since E.J. wasn’t going to say he wouldn’t recommend it, I asked about politics in general. 

What’s your advice to a young person going into politics today?

“You have to understand as soon as you get into public office you have accepted a public trust and with that goes the responsibility to listen to all sides, not just one side. And you need to figure out how to make it better. This will not be easy and you will not be liked by everybody. That is your contribution.”

So 20 years ago I knock on Republican E.J. Giovannetti’s door with just a bit of trepidation, to ask for his support for my Democrat wife . . .

. . . and  E.J. smiled, shook my hand, invited me into his home, we had a beer, and we talked about life for over an hour. And, yes, he supported my wife. He was shockingly charming. 

Yikes. A positive door knocking experience. I give up. I’m going to stop singing the door knocking blues. Although trust me, when visitors come, no matter how wonderful, I’m still going to hide in the bathroom yelling — “have they left yet?” Sorry. 

Joe 

It’s 3 a.m. I’ve tossed and turned since going to bed four hours earlier. The sheets are twisted around my feet and tying me to the bed in some obscure knot that I failed to learn for my Webelos badge in Cub Scouts 60 years ago. And now I don’t know how to either untie the knot in my sheets or to start a fire from kindling. I’m in deep trouble. 

But, really, does it matter?

I started tossing and turning and staring at the ceiling around 2004. Following the latest medical guidance and peer reviewed studies, I knew even back then that I had to get to bed at the same time every night and wake up at the same time every morning. Good sleep hygiene, they said. So off to bed the same time every night, and every night . . .  I stare at the ceiling for hours . . . and then I get up at the same time every morning. See, I’m the poster child of sleep hygiene without in fact sleeping.  

But my late-night ruminations have changed as I’ve aged. Now that I’m an old man, I try to focus on the fun topics of dying alone, dying in pain, and oblivion. Trust me, in just the right dosage, this combination of thoughts will ultimately drive you out of your tangled bed and into the arms of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Perhaps your true love after all. 

But today I found a little oasis in all this tossing and turning.

Orange traffic cones and yellow ropes mark the edges of the nearly full parking lot. The dust from the gravel path is starting to rise from the many feet scuffling towards the bridge. It is early Sunday in early fall and the early risers are out in force.

My adult son and I follow the crowd around the edges of the grass parking lot to the bridge. And there’s the first clue that this isn’t going to be Sunday morning church.

Okay, here’s a grown man, an adult, hiding under the bridge. He’s dressed as a troll. Yup, from the Three Billy Goats Gruff is my guess. Did I mention that this is an adult? 

My goodness. 

I notice that I’m surrounded by people in dress up. There’s elves and fairies and wizards and witches and animals and knights and princesses and monsters and . . . a troll under the bridge. The Ren Faire at Sleepy Hollow draws a potpourri of folks in costume. 

“Okay, who is that?” I ask my son, trying not to stare. 

“Dad, that a furry, people who dress up as anthropomorphic animals. You’ll be seeing tons of them around.”

“Aren’t they hot with all that headgear? Is that a fox or a weasel? And how do they eat a walking taco while wearing that mask?”

My son shakes his head and moves slightly away from me.

I watch a falconer handle one of several birds in his stall. He promises a show later in the day. I feel like I should warn the furries.

There are scheduled events — plays, music, jousting, magic, comedy — all day long. There are blacksmiths and knitters and knife makers and costume sellers. But it is the people watching that is stunning. Nearly everyone is playing a character that is not themselves — except, of course, it is. And that character is smiled on by us all.

Hah, I’m a little slow but I finally get it. Renaissance fairs deliver on three simple promises: (1) no one is an outsider; (2) your people are here somewhere; and (3) you can safely take any persona for a spin. Pretty much the exact opposite of recent Iowa legislation. 

Cool. 

This my chance to be someone other than the dour, humorless, old man I’m identifying as these days.

Okay, out with the old . . .

. . . It’s 3 a.m. I’ve tossed and turned since going to bed four hours earlier. Of course I’m ruminating about dying alone, dying in pain, and oblivion. And my sheet is tied around me in a knot. But, in that small dark room at the back of my brain, hidden behind the furnace and the old refrigerator, is a dashing one-eyed pirate who looks vaguely like a fox.

Why not?

Joe

Well, here I am in a big box store and it’s happened again. 

The start is simple enough. My wife goes one direction to get granddaughter clothes, I go to the men’s department to buy my own clothes. And, yes, this is a relatively new experience for me — I’m 70 years old and I’m now purchasing my own pants like a big boy. I’m pretty proud of that.

And I’ve even developed a fashion sense. My style is baggy pants, baggy shirts, baggy shorts, baggy jackets, and hats for a really fat head. Oddly enough, my wife is not keen on this Paris-driven, high-end fashion look. I’m all right with that. Not all of us can be cutting edge. 

So I go to the men’s department to search for baggy clothes. I look at the stacks as if I know whether I’m an L or XL or XXL. I don’t. This means I have to use the dressing room. No big deal. 

And I should explain that I have to use the dressing room because I don’t do returns. I can’t just buy clothes and return them if they don’t fit. I blame Catholicism for this. Somehow a return is an admission of doing something really bad — like adultery. You know what I mean. When you eventually get caught with your pants down, you lamely explain to your wife that the woman was actually not your type after all. You know, not a good fit. A return. And what happens next in my mind?

“Attention shoppers, adulterer trying to make a return at the customer service counter.”

So, no returns for me, thank you.  

I show my items to the woman sorting clothes at the entrance to the changing rooms. She looks at me as if I’m mildly crazed for interrupting her work. Don’t I know how dressing room etiquette works? Not a clue. So like any credentialed old man, I fake it. 

I open the first door on my right. 

The room is small, white, and scary. It’s scary because there is no bench. Did I mention I’m 70 years old with knees that don’t quite bend? And I’m also just a little bit tippy. I’m not complaining, but I can’t stand upright to get my shoes off. And I can’t stand upright to get my pants off. And I can’t stand upright to put on the various sizes of new pants. I can try to stand. But I’m fairly certain I will teeter forward with one leg in and one leg out and smash through the thin walls of the changing room into the lap of the woman sorting clothes. She will scream and I will spend the rest of my days making license plates with the men I prosecuted a decade ago. Not a pretty picture.

So I sit on the floor. But to get to the floor I have to do a Downward Dog yoga move. Which I do. Then I have to drop down on my stomach, roll over on my back, sit up straight, and try to slip off one leg at a time. Success. Then I have to reverse the process until I’m back in the Downward Dog and then back on my feet. I do that too. 

The pants don’t fit.

To get a bigger size I have to get back on the floor of the changing room, take off the new pants, put on my old pants, leave the changing room, grab a larger size, come back to the changing room, smile at the woman sorting clothes, go to my door, get back on the floor, take off the old pants, put on the new pants, and see if they fit. 

ARGGGGHHHH!

I flee the changing room.

I look for my wife. The neon lights, however, make distances deceptive. I walk and walk and walk. Swim goggles for toddlers. I walk and walk and walk some more. Grain-free Dog food for Large Breeds. I start to panic. The neon lights shine brighter. Pretzels stuffed with peanut butter. I do think I could die happy eating pretzels and peanut butter, but I walk and walk and walk, getting weaker and weaker. 

Finally I realize I have my phone. So I call my wife. No pick up. I call again. No pick up. My vision starts to blur. The world suddenly starts collapsing inward into a big box store implosion.

Help.

My wife stands next to the paper towels.

“Oh hi,” she says brightly.

I breathe deeply. I have been found. I wipe the sweat off my brow and try to stop shaking. 

Whew!

And then my wife gives me a tip, as loving partners do for each other . . .

“You know, this store has a procedure for helping lost children that you could have used for yourself.”

My wife tries not to smile.

“For next time,” she says helpfully.  

So I’m looking for a divorce lawyer. Do you think they are in aisle 5? Next to the Action Figures?

Joe

“I’m not gonna to do that,” the Des Moines police officer says from the middle of the classroom.

I  fix him with a cold smile. 

“Listen, that’s the law for a police stop of a car.”

I say this more defensively than I’d like because, of course, in this room full of cops I’m just considered another know-it-all lawyer who sits safely in his office every day.

“I don’t care, it’s too dangerous. It’s unrealistic. I’m not going to do it,” as the cop crosses his thick arms and frowns. 

. . . but eventually this class of experienced cops comes around to the safe thing and the right thing and the legal thing. But first I entertain them by jumping around at the front of the room, cursing like a madman, and then demonstrating whatever legal principle I am teaching with Barbie and Ken figures and Barbie cars and a Barbie house. I am shameless. But it works.

I loved teaching cops. Why? It’s simple. They had nonstop questions. And those questions were aggressive, real life, worried, and smart. Heck, how often can you teach a class where your students are armed? One time an officer even brought his police dog into the classroom with the assurance the dog would not bite me. The dog apparently didn’t hear our conversation and bit me just enough to make sure I was paying attention — which I did after that.

It was all a show. And I loved showtime. But both the cops and I knew the classes were essentially about character and doing justice. Serious stuff. 

And regardless of the teaching and the training, there are cops out there who shouldn’t be cops. Duh, everyone who follows the news knows this. And even though there are bad apples in every profession, the consequences of a bad apple who carries a gun and has the badge of authority can be tragic. Which is why the roll of the gatekeeper is so important. 

Sgt. Brenda Ingle was a gatekeeper. She was where the buck stopped when it came to new Des Moines Police recruits. She was trainer, administrator, disciplinarian, and role model for her “kids.” And she also kept me and the other teachers on task. She was a force.

And then she retired. 

So now, many years later, we have coffee.

“Character is a big thing for me personally. In police work you have to have character because of the power you are given. If you don’t have character, then you have corruption.”

Yup, this is really how Brenda talks — clear, concise, and while you’re at it, you’d better be writing it down because there is always a Monday quiz.

Today Brenda smiles a genuine smile across her coffee cup. Well, a gruff, genuine smile, as she adjusts a gun belt that is no longer there. 

Brenda was a street cop for Des Moines Police for many years, worked at the jail for a short stint, and then found her life calling — training new police recruits until she retired in February of 2020. She ushered over 300 police recruits into their jobs as police officers. During their training, she was demanding of students, of teachers, and of herself. She expected the best. Period.

“You are no better than other people but you have to strive to be better. You have to set the example.” 

Usually, classes of 22 were culled from 500 to 600 applicants. And even after that winnowing based on past records and present skills, Brenda and her staff had to look for those recruits who were still just not suited to be police officers. 

“People love firemen because they come and save them. People hate cops because we show up and someone goes to jail or someone is dead when we get there. It is a negative job and you have to be able to mentally handle that negativity.”

There was at least one person cut out of each class and sometimes two — “either they didn’t have the character or didn’t have the nerve,” says Brenda.

She remembers a student who was perfect in every category except he was terrified during the practical scenarios. “It was very hard for me to cut him because it was not who he was, but what had happened to him in his life, his trauma, that resulted in his fear.”

Brenda pauses and fiddles with her cup.

“Did I ever make mistakes?” Brenda gives a full-throated laugh.

“The expectation from the public is that you’re going to be perfect as a police officer. And when you can’t be perfect, because it’s impossible, the public is going to eat you alive.”

That’s a bit of pressure. 

“If you can’t mentally manage being imperfect, and then to accept responsibility and move forward, you shouldn’t be a police officer.”

You sound as if you speak from experience. 

“Listen, people aren’t here to put you on a pedestal.”

Which is why I am doing just that.

Joe

“Hello, folks, this is your pilot. We may be rerouted before we arrive in Minneapolis because they’re predicting severe weather in the Twin Cities. During the flight, you should keep your seatbelt on even when the seatbelt sign is off because of the possibility of unexpected turbulence.” 

No kidding. Our small jet flies us out of Des Moines, bucking us left and right and up and down. Good practice for bull riding, but not so helpful in drinking a cup of coffee.  

Of course there’s bad weather. This year’s storms in Iowa required more chainsawing than an old man should be allowed. As for turbulence? Come on, this is an election year. 

”Don’t worry about getting rerouted,” the pilot jokingly adds over the loudspeaker, “we have enough fuel to fly to New York.”

I didn’t realize I had to worry about the fuel. But the pilot’s statement is oddly comforting to a retired guy like myself who is just wondering what’s for dinner. And since we are at 32,000 feet anyway, and on the first leg of our trip to Washington D.C. for a high school graduation, New York seems like a fine place to land. 

But Minneapolis weather allows a small window for us to touch back to earth. So we do without any rerouting. And it turns out that Reagan International Airport in D.C. is merely a nap away. And figuring out the metro cards and the subway is a success. And then finding the right bus in the middle of Washington, D.C. actually works. And then finding the correct track in Union Station for the commuter train to Kensington, Maryland, is a pleasant surprise.

The graduation is a grand success — even without a Palmer’s salad. And then we are off for an hour-long ride to my sister-in-law’s home in bumper to bumper traffic on the beltway.

Whew. 

__________________________________________________________________________

The river is as broad and flat as a bean field in winter. I stand alone on the bank. The sounds of birds float over the water. Loud. Insistent.

“Look at me, look at me, look at me,” one sings. So I do look. Eagles, crows, osprey, turkey vultures, cardinals, and robins. My goodness. Am I in an aviary? 

A black swallowtail butterfly flutters past nonchalantly. Off to do her job in the marsh grasses. While two fawns on just-born legs slip into the trees at the urging of an impatient mom. I assure them I’m an admirer. 

The Severn River, just outside of Annapolis, Maryland, is as wide as the Mississippi. The syrupy water is brackish from the not-so-distant Atlantic Ocean. In the mud on the edges are white and grey shells, which the water covers and uncovers like a slow heartbeat. And in the distance, ocean sailboats drift quietly down to Chesapeake Bay.

I sit on my sister-in-law’s large wraparound porch overlooking the river. A bluebird flies back and forth across the open field that rolls down to the docks. A small fishing trawler optimistically works the water near the distant shore. I drink coffee.

This close to the ocean the river’s ebb and flow is influenced by the tides. No different than the moon’s influence on tomatoes, my 97-year-old mom would argue. Tides and tomatoes. Just two more things you can’t control.  

The day is heating up. The Severn River is now placid and thick as tomato soup. I eat my sandwich with one eye on the water and one eye on the six-foot black snake that undulates its way up from the river bank. Not as thick as an Iowa bull snake fed on rats near the hog pen, but big enough for me to shift my bare feet to higher ground. Eventually off he goes along the edge of the porch to dine on something tastier than an old man. I don’t blame him and wish him luck.

This part of the Severn is actually called Cool Spring Cove. And as night comes in and the lightening bugs come out, a cool breeze comes up from the water.  In the distance, boat lights move up and down the river, while the cicadas sing a song of home.

_____________________________________________________________________________

“Good afternoon, this is your pilot. As you know we are late in departing for Des Moines so as to let that storm pass.”

Yup, we flinched a bit when the wind and rain pushed against the terminal’s large windows. The storm was violent enough that they shut down the entire airport as it blew through. But now they’ve deemed it safe enough to board our plane.

“We’ll be off soon, folks. Please keep your seatbelts on even when the seatbelt sign is off because there might be some unexpected turbulence.”

I close my eyes. Before I fall asleep I hear the birds sing, “look at me, look at me, look at me.” So I do. 

Joe

I sat in the back of Macbride Hall for a reason. I wanted to be invisible. I wanted to slink in early unseen and slink out in the crowd unnoticed. As a result, even the last row of this large auditorium was too close to the stage for me. So I sat in the back of the balcony located at the back of the auditorium. Hundreds of students were a buffer between me and the teacher. Just as I liked. One anonymous face lost in the haystack of 18 and 19-year-old students. 

Hiding made sense, of course, because a madman ran the class. Thin, wiry, aggressive. A dangerous man. Equal parts circus master and brilliant teacher. He prowled and shouted and laughed and whispered trying to engage us. He wanted us to think — about right and wrong, what is a meaningful life, examine our unexamined beliefs, and, of course, how to think about death and dying. It was exhilarating and terrifying. I was mesmerized. 

“You pay your money and make your choice,” as he liked to say. So buckle up. 

“Joe, good job.” 

Jay Holstein, a religion professor at the University of Iowa, handed me my graded test after I waited in the long line of students at the end of class.

Aargh . . . busted. Anonymity gone. Nailed. The madman had my number. 

So I became a religion major. An unbeliever for sure, but a religion major. I took every course Holstein had to offer and then some he made up. It was heaven. He was heaven. Sure, law school, marriage, children, a career as a prosecutor, and now a writer for Cityview, all followed. But my religion studies with Jay Holstein . . . that was the beginning. 

Now fifty years later . . .

“I am the only tenure-track professor in the Drake religion program. I have been at Drake for 17 years.”

Brad Crowell, weary-eyed from final exams grading, and perhaps weary from fighting to save his job, gives a small smile.

So, Brad, what’s all the hullabaloo about Drake shutting down the religion program?

Brad sighs. “For a university to stay afloat, where the number of students is getting smaller and state funding is diminishing, then the variable that often gets cut is the professors.”

Sure sure sure. I get it. Not enough students to justify your job. Not enough bang for the buck. The numbers never lie. 

“No, religion didn’t have the numbers.” Brad pauses and then looks me in the eye. “But listen, are we training people to just get jobs? We also want our students’ world to get really big.”

What do you mean?

“Students are asked today, ‘What do you want to do when you finish?’ I ask students, ‘What do you want to explore while you’re here?'”

So what do you do now?

“Well, the program is gone. The minor is going to exist. I’ll be teaching classes that will qualify for the minor out of another department.”

It sounds like a death knell.

“I will run with the minor. Programs can be rebuilt. I think we can make the minor so good, Drake will stay with that. I still want important issues to be highlighted.”  

So there you have it. A man teaching our kids about the big questions.

What big questions, you ask? Let me give you a few examples . . .

In my role as a prosecutor, I stood outside the two-story house in the dark of the early morning. A young man was dead. The police mulled around doing their police thing. I prepared a search warrant after seeing the body. The young man’s father was at my side. He was in deep anguish. “Why my boy?” he said to me in tears. “Why my boy?”

My new wife looked at me and said we should practice law part-time so that we would have time for family and other priorities. Really? But what about the money? And what about our reputation as lawyers because they say part-time lawyers aren’t real lawyers? And nobody will hire us both part-time, will they? What should we do?

I lay paralyzed in the hospital. Struck by a car while I biked. I had a trach and various other attachments to a body that was no longer mine. Pain was my new friend. And I was informed it was going to be a long rehab with no promises. How do I climb out of this?

Religion courses talk about the big questions. Not biology. Not computer science. And not business. Religion. 

“You pay your money and make your choice,” said Jay Holstein, my religion professor those many years ago.

Amen to that.  

Joe

I look into the fluorescently-lit mirror in the Paris hotel . . . and an old man looks back. He’s not a cheerful-looking old man. He’s not a serene-looking old man. And he definitely has no hint of French joie de vivre in that craggy face.

Nope, that is one old dude in the mirror. 

Let’s just take a moment to check the inventory. I am stiff, tippy, and mostly unsure whether that pain on my left side is a sore muscle or a heart attack. I only wear pants with elastic waistbands, which is a surprise to no one who saw my prosecutor wardrobe back in the day. And of course in the time needed to scroll down to the year of my birth on an app, I could go make a sandwich and check the weather. And sometimes I do. Why not? With one foot in the grave, it’s always wise to have a sandwich as the clouds roll in. 

But here I am. Looking in the mirror. An old man. But I can’t be an old man. That would mean that the last stop on the train is right around the corner. Yup, folks, I am not going quietly into the night. I am in complete denial of how this all ends.

Well, trust me, traveling helps with that silliness.

Incident #1

The train runs from Belfort, France to Paris and then on to Rotterdam. Simple enough. My wife marches confidently ahead with her back pack. I less confidently carry my back pack, which I’m pretty sure is the weight of a baby African elephant. And in another bag I carry two bottles of un-opened French wine that rattle around like two raccoons in a tangle. I teeter under this load, but mostly I am upright.

Our trip is going well, all connections met, so we need a little adversity to put the world back in balance. At Gare du Nord in Paris, there are 36 platforms where the trains pull in for loading and unloading. We check the big board and it says our train is at platform 3. It’s a tight connection, so we hustle. 

But it’s not our train at platform 3. 

Hold it, the big board still says our train is at platform 3. Lord, it is parked at the back end of this train we are looking at. But so distant it can’t be seen. And we are running out of time. My wife sprints down the platform to get on our train — yup, it’s a dog-eat-dog world in my marriage. I try to sprint along, but I’m pretty sure I have become the sacrificial guy left behind for the chasing hyenas. 

And then I accidentally drop my hat and one glove. 

Have you ever tried to pick up a hat and glove when you have a baby elephant on your back and you’re holding a bag with two raccoons in a tangle? Oh yes, and let’s not forget that you are an old man. It’s not pretty.

As I slowly bend over, trying not to topple, I see a young French woman off to my left — white sweater, black slacks, heels — racing to my rescue.

I am mortified. 

Listen, I am trying to age with grace and dignity. So I have read hundreds of books about aging and death. I have written articles and done therapy and lectured the mail carrier about the need to embrace growing old. I preach against chasing youth to everyone, including my five-year-old grandchild. I celebrate all the scars and wrinkles and carving away of my body. I am a fully actualized, AARP-certified old man. 

But as I see the young woman run to my aid, all my thoughts vanish except one — I can’t be that old guy who can’t pick up his hat, can I?

I hurriedly reach the last two feet to my hat, swaying precariously, bones cracking, muscles screaming, and scoop up the fallen items. And I flee to the train. The woman pulls up several yards away. I don’t even make eye contact. No smile. No thank you. Nothing. Not only am I an old man, I’m a rude old man with no grace and no dignity. 

“Bah humbug,” says Scrooge.  

Incident #2

The next day we are in The Hague, my home away from home. We are having a glass and enjoying the sun at an outdoor cafe in the city center. A tram line passes a few yards in front of us — the 17. Suddenly I see an older fellow trying to cross the tram tracks in his electric scooter. The scooter and the man topple over in the middle of the tracks and he falls off the scooter and actually flies out of his shoes. Yikes!

I jump out of my chair and am one of the first to arrive. He does not speak English. I do not speak Dutch. I gesture that I will help him to get up.. He looks at me, and then gestures with his arms and says “strong”, while shaking his head no.

I’ll translate for you — the guy lying in the middle of the tram tracks is rejecting my help to keep from being run over by the next tram because I do not look strong enough. I kid you not. He thinks I am too old to save his sorry, shoeless, toppled-over, soon-to-be-turned-into-spam rear end. Lord help me. Eventually, a few young men come over and pick him up. 

Wow. I am an old man.The world has spoken.

So . . . . . . the lessons from these in-your-face, travel experiences?

Stay away from fluorescently-lit mirrors. Duh. 

Joe

Let’s begin with the obvious — my wife and I are lucky dogs. Duh. Here we are flying to France by way of Amsterdam, we’re watching nonstop movies for seven hours, and we’re requesting red wine when we’re tired of the white. Do we deserve our luck? Of course not. Who does? We are the product of all sorts of entitlements based on skin color, geography, and parents, to name a few. It’s not fair and someone should lodge a complaint with the front office. But … is that chicken pasta on the menu?

My wife and I are not petite. We are from good Iowa stock and our length does not quite fit into economy class airplane seats. And since we are from good Iowa stock, we still think, at nearly 70 years of age, that it is fiscally irresponsible to upgrade out of economy class. Fiscally responsible people wear stocking caps to bed in cold weather and don’t complain if their knees are hitting the airplane seat in front of them. And that crying baby with the solo mom? Of course she will be seated near us and of course my wife wishes she could help in quieting the child. It’s what Iowans do. I, on the other hand, turn up the volume on my movie.

Des Moines to Chicago. Chicago to Amsterdam.

We arrive in Holland and walk out the kissing-Dutch-boy-and-girl doors to our future life in Western Europe. A future life that will need some immediate naps to survive. 

But a nap is not on the horizon. A high speed train to Paris, a high speed train to Strasbourgh, and two local trains to Belfort, France, are on the horizon. Oh my.

So with my wife’s green backpack and my red backpack, we stumble through the train stations into the eastern heart of France.

I love the trains. Silent. Smooth. Quick. Their presence all over Europe seems to echo back to an older time of elegance and romance and brown fedoras with sharply creased crowns — all of this with a futuristic, George Jetson-flying-car feel. The train no longer speaks with a clickety-clack like the old days, but gives an emphatic whoosh that propels you from Amsterdam to Paris to Strasbourg in the blink of an eye. 

With packs stored overhead, I sit back in the roomy seat and study the train car. Men, women, children — all of us bundled together at nearly 200 mph. The iron works of the train yards quickly give way to fields of bright yellow zooming past the window. These rapeseed or mustard fields (I can only identify corn or soybean fields, like any good Iowan) are just cheerful and splashy under the overcast skies. Add these colorful fields to the tiny roads and low sloping red rooflines and it looks like we have landed on the set of a musical. My wife urges me not to sing.

And then the people on the train start opening their “picnics.” Oh, now I get it. A sign in the train station at Gare de l’Est in Paris invited us to bring along our picnic for the train ride because there is no bar car in this French budget train, Ouigo. Really. And at the train stations they sell all sorts of baguettes with sandwich fillings — with ham and butter as the hands-down choice for this crusty bread. For a little over 3 euros you can eat like royalty, or is it eat like a peasant per Marie-Antoinette? No matter, like many a French person, I am in love.

So as the train whisks along, I spread out my napkin, pull out my French coffee, set a pastry to the side for dessert, and reach for my delicious butter and ham sandwich. But . . . it is gone. My train picnic is ruined.

Although it would be nice to blame my wife, I must confess this problem has happened to me before. It is why whenever I pick up a pizza, I always return home with one slice missing. Get a dozen donuts as a treat for the family, and there is always only 11 in the box when I plop them on the counter. Clearly, the sandwich was eaten BEFORE boarding the train. Someone is stealing my food. 

But let’s not point fingers. Isn’t that the trouble with our judging world today? The lesson from this trip is clear — always bring an extra sandwich on your train picnic. 

You can write that down.

Joe