Lithograph made in World War II by the Stecher-Traung Lithograph Corp., Library of Congress. One of many prints issued by the government promoting gardens as a way for civilians to survive the then-existing food shortages.

“Fill the bathtub with water,” my wife yells in a high crescendo while gesturing with her hands as if she is has me by the ears and is trying to shake some sense into me. Naturally, being a good husband, I treat this cry for help with all the love, and all the care, and all the kindness of a respectful relationship — I scoff.

Yup, scoffing — scornful mocking to be exact — is my go-to choice. Scoffing is probably not taught in pre-marriage courses these days. Too bad. Nothing shows good listening skills, compassion for your partner, and loving communication like a well-placed scoff. It’s dismissive. It’s lazy. And its use is a guarantee that you are wrong. And your scoff will be resurrected for . . . let’s see, the next 32 years . . . as Exhibit 1 at your trial for being a dope.

But scoff I do. And I don’t fill the tub back in the summer of 1993.

The 1993 floods come. We lose water for a long time. And my wife and three kids look longingly at the empty bathtub as we scramble to find water to flush toilets. I was vilified by one and all. And, yes, I did win the 1993 award for WHO NOT TO DEPEND ON IN A CRISIS.

And here we are today.

We are old. We get social security from the feds. We get a state pension from the State. We have a fine retirement. But, and here’s where the rubber meets the road, the powers that be are dancing around the idea of blowing up government pensions. Yup, Ebenezer Scrooge has won and WE ARE THE SURPLUS POPULATION THAT NEEDS TO BE DECREASED.

I get it. How many old guys milling around the bakery counters at grocery stores do you need?

“I think we should put in a big garden,” my wife pronounces. She wants a Victory Garden just like in World War II. She believes this Victory Garden will stave off the nuclear detonation of our budget.

“What a great idea.”

This is my new favorite phrase because at my age there is a real possibility I’ll die before any plan comes to fruition. It’s a win win in my book.

But, just so you know, I hate gardening. My siblings and I grew up helping my mom take care of large gardens as she canned and froze and dried produce for our big family. It was hard, unsatisfying work that was always hot, bug-ridden, sweat-dripping, and itchy. Yuck. And don’t green beans grow in the can section of the grocery store anyway?

I need professional help — professional gardening help.

Kathy Byrnes Fallon and Ed Fallon started Birds & Bees Urban Farm in 2019. If you go to their website (team), they promise to educate even someone like me about urban farming. Great.

“Ed and I have our whole adult life have been food producers. When we got together, we built raised beds at our home here in Sherman Hills to add to the raised beds Ed had already built. People who passed were curious about the space. We had chickens in the back. We had bees. People were interested.”

Kathy speaks clearly and carefully, like the high school English teacher she was for 14 years. If she was in a black habit, she’d be a dead ringer for my favorite teacher back when I was in seventh grade, Sister Timothy Mary, who is probably still singing Woodie Guthrie songs and organizing marches up in heaven.

“So I ditched my job and started an urban farm as an educational nonprofit.”

Of course you did.

And what do you offer the public?

“We have for several years taught workshops. We have a nine-month, yard-to-table workshop. We meet monthly and go through all the plans, growing, and harvesting for the year. We have single workshops like how to build and plant a cold frame or how to make a compost container or introduction to backyard chickens.”

“We have recently been speaking up for local urban agriculture in light of the need for it with climate change, and unpredictable supply chain situations and it being just more earth friendly and friendly to your body. For example, there was a recent push to ban backyard roosters. We got very busy fighting against that, including a chicken parade around City Hall.”

Okay, this conversation has gotten way out of control. I dislike gardening and I particularly dislike chickens that can talk back to you and aren’t wrapped in plastic in the meat section at the grocery store.

So I thank Kathy for the information, but I do tell her about my original sin with failing to fill the bathtub with water during the 1993 flood.

Kathy laughs.

“I tease Ed because he has so many saved jugs full of water in the basement it is encroaching on our territory. I have to part the Red Sea to get through the basement.”

And there’s your answer, dear wife.

Do your self-defense gardening. Go to a class with Ed and Kathy. Plant those tomato seeds. I will not scoff once. I promise.

But the real lesson from all this?

The next time we lose water . . . I’m raiding Ed Fallon’s basement.

Joe

“Well, that was something,” she said out of the blue on a Tuesday. A phrase she was fond of saying for nearly any event from the grand to the not-so-grand. Two days later, she died. My mom was nearly 98 years old.

You wouldn’t have known her, of course. My mom was a housewife most of her life. No awards. No claims to fame. No streets named in her honor. She was born, she lived, she died. In the in-betweens she raised eight kids, buried a husband before he turned 50, cared for sick friends and a sick daughter for years, and cooked more than her fair share of pies, cinnamon rolls, pastries, and thousands upon thousands of meals. The idea that food could be a love language was unimaginable for a child of the depression. Food was survival. But food was her love language. Which was a boon for this pastry lover.

She did have a beginning. She was born in Williams, Iowa, and an old picture shows her in the front row with a quizzical smile, round cheeks and a short bob haircut.

Her family moved to a farm outside of Stratford, Iowa, while my mom was still young. The farm had a “rustic” flair — water was drawn from an outside pump, the outhouse seemed miles from the side door, and a corncob furnace in the basement heated the first floor, at best. By the time I came along, a pump for water was just off the kitchen, but the rest was the same for many years. Her dad Bill Smith was a farmer, a trapper/hunter and a rumored card player who may or may not have almost lost the farm. Her mom Mae Smith was a tough, independent teacher who traveled on a steamship to Europe in the early 1900’s with a fellow teacher before eventually settling into marriage and farm life. 

My mom ended up in a roundabout way at Marycrest College in Davenport. There she met my dad. He was an ambitious mathematician chasing a brand new field much later called computer science. My mom had his number and they were married when he was still a senior at St. Ambrose in Davenport and she was a junior.

Children started arriving as the young couple followed my dad’s career around the country before finally landing in Iowa City, Iowa. He eventually became chairman of the Department of Computer Science, “a big shot” — my mom’s favorite words used to describe people who were “all that.” He was all that. And so was she.

She ran a household of eight kids, hosted the necessary social activities for my dad, and cooked and gardened and “warshed” until bedtime. My dad eventually became ill with a brain tumor and he died three years later, in 1977. She cared for him at home the entire time while half her kids were still in grade school and high school. A hard time. But as she would say, she “got that over with,” which described anything from laughing with her beloved grandchildren and great grandchildren to burying her husband before he was 50. “Got that over with” for sure.

I was with my mom when she died just weeks before she turned 98. She was healthy both mentally and physically until right up near the end. But she was dying. Her Catholic priest came to give her whatever the Church now calls the last rites. After he had performed the short ceremony, he asked me if he could sing her an Irish Lullaby — “Over in Killarney, many years ago, my mother sang a song to me in tones so soft and low, ….”

“Of course,” I said. 

And he sang the song . . . and she died. Just like that. I looked at the hospice nurse and asked: “Did she just die?” The nurse slowly nodded her head. I let out a sob. 

“Got that over with,” I heard her say in my head.

But . . . wasn’t that something?

May she rest in peace. 

Joe

The letter began well enough, “Dear friend.” Who doesn’t want to be a friend?

But then it quickly went south: “Back Country will be closing its doors for good in the next few month.”

Oof!

Aging is a little like playing that game where you take away blocks all stacked on top of each other. As each block is taken away the structure sways but then hopefully holds. Knees, hips, ears, eyes, all go by the wayside as you stand there swaying while the air blows through the gaps. But you wake up each morning finding yourself surprisingly still upright and wondering where you can get a cinnamon roll. See, you won.  

And the best part of all this taking away is that as an old person you are no longer in the race, intentionally or not (it took me awhile to come to terms with that proposition). As a result, you can do anything you want. You want to stay up all night? Stay up. You want to talk with a German accent? Talk with a German accent. You want to jump in the downtown fountain? Jump away.

But when it comes to clothes, my wife has drawn the line, which explains why I am in Back Country in Beaverdale. 

“That shirt is just a little too short on you, Joe.”

Well of course it is. My body is a shape not found in the natural world.

“How does this other shirt look?” Jay Cox-Kozel speaks to me with a straight face as if my opinion is trustworthy.

It’s not.

Let’s face it, my fashion sense leans towards pajama bottoms and raggedy t-shirts. Although sometimes I’ve even chosen the pure bizarre — I wore two-tone leather saddle shoes to my wedding 44 years ago with a toe box shaped like the shoes worn by Mombo the Clown on the old Dr. Max Show. I thought I was quite stylish. 

Obviously, my wife had to do an intervention. She suggested (demanded?) that I should let others pick out my clothes.

Enter the wonderful Jay Cox-Kozel, who owns Back Country in Beaverdale. Always kind, never demeaning, smart and — to my delight — deadpan funny, he became my personal dresser without those words ever being uttered between the two of us.

“Jay, I need adult pants that feel like pajama bottoms. What can you do?” 

And Jay would find me pants that felt like pajama bottoms but, and this was key for my wife, without looking like someone should send me to bed and sing me a lullaby.

“Jay, I don’t want to dress like a 20 something, but I need a shirt that is stylish and feels as comfortable as a torn t-shirt.”

And Jay would find me such a shirt and never once laugh at my preference for clothes that felt like something I could use to wipe the oil off a dipstick.

Life was good . . . but then it wasn’t.

“Back Country will be closing,” the letter said. 

“I don’t remember the stages of grief, but for the time being there has been enough work to do that I haven’t yet dealt with the reality of it.”

Jay has melancholy eyes on the best of days. The closing of his store has turned his eyes into those of a very sad bloodhound.

“It’s not guilt, but it is humbling, as it increasingly dawns on me that I’ve been the steward of this institution, the anchor of a community, and I have to pull that out of peoples lives. There’s a responsibility that comes with that.”

Compassionate and self-reflective, Jay’s next calling should be as a very dapper monk, who dresses in layers of course.   

“Really good friends, supporters and customers have come in. I attempt, and probably fail, at expressing gratitude to them. Everybody has been immensely supportive. There is a little disbelief because the store has been an institution for so long and also there is a lot of sympathy.”

What was the best and what was the worst thing about running this store?

“The best thing about the store is the people. The family that started the business, of course, and all the colleagues along the way. And my long-time business partner, Austin. Our customers as well. I really truly consider many my friends.”

What do you think will happen to those friends?

“You develop all these relationships with people you admire and respect and enjoy, but so many exist primarily in the store. They are transactional relationships. I give you product and you give me money. I try to say I really value them as humans and the amount of respect and interest I have in them exists outside of those transactional relationships. I yearn to communicate that in a convincing way.”

See what I mean? A reflective, dapper monk . . . in spades.  

And the worst?

“The worst thing about the store . . . I’m awful at selling things. I don’t like taking people’s money. Not a good thing if you’re in retail.”

So there you have it. My personal dresser is moving on. The store I love is shutting down. Another loss for an old man and for the community. So from now on if you see a guy in pajama bottoms and a raggedy t-shirt wandering around a donut display, smile understandingly at him — that would be me.

Joe

Dear Editor,

I am 8 years old. Some of my little friends say that there is no spring this year. Dad says “If you see it in Cityview, it is so.” Please tell me the truth is spring coming this year or not?

Virginia

Listen, Virginia, spring isn’t coming. I’ve given it some thought, and, I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, it’s just not happening. Not this year.

This is a year of no hope. Period.

Sure, Virginia, those fluffy green buds with white tips on the magnolia trees do make you think spring is coming. But see the dead grass at the bottom of the tree? Yup, it is nearly as white as the few remaining hairs on my head. And over there, the washed-out leaves blown into the bushes against the fence? They are turning into brown dust before our eyes. And look at those poor squirrels! Their fur is so blotchy and they are in such low spirits that they are just going through the motions of digging for nuts. Spring is flat out not coming, Virginia. Sorry.

But, really, is all hope gone? 

Well, hope makes me think of Santa Claus. Yup, Virginia, Santa Claus. Here’s this bigger-than-life figure that year in and year out delivers the goods. No matter your religion or race or what bathroom you use, Santa Claus still comes through. And of course you can criticize him as encouraging consumerism or say he is only for the privileged or that he’s just a stolen holiday from another culture — no matter. Santa Claus is a symbol of giving with grace and receiving with grace. He is a symbol of joy in the moment. And he is a symbol of kindness to others. In other words, the existence of Santa Claus is in itself hope for the future. 

But does Santa Claus even exist?

Francis P. Church wrote an editorial for The Sun (New York), Sept. 21, 1897, in response to a letter asking if Santa existed. Church wrote that Santa Claus exists as “certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist.” Love and generosity and devotion don’t seem bad things to have in your pocket, do they Virginia?

And according to the UPI, December 22, 1983, our very own former Polk County Associate Judge Thomas Renda ruled in a small claims case that “Santa is a public figure and that he ‘maintains a spiritual residence in the state of Iowa and within the hearts of the people of Iowa.'”

Well, look at that. Not only does Santa Claus exist, but he lives right here in Iowa. Wow. Who knew? And it’s the law, Virginia. 

So if Santa exists, then hope MUST exist. And if hope exists, then spring MUST come.

Did you know I used to do morning court at the Des Moines Police Department back in the 1980’s? It was an adventure. There was usually a parade of folks who had gotten in some kind of trouble. Many were kept in a large cell overnight and they did not look or smell their best.

Virginia, imagine what it’s like when you’re having a very bad day. They were having a very bad day.

My boss was Maggi Moss. For reasons only she knows, she picked me out of the pile of prosecutors and made me her right arm in the intake division. It was a gift.

In the intake division, Virginia, we had all sorts of jobs. We went to serious crime scenes in person, wrote search warrants, wrote arrest warrants, and either approved or didn’t approve a charge brought by the police. Yup, you guessed it, I was in over my head. 

And, Virginia, we did morning court.

Morning court was an appearance before a judge for people recently arrested. And Maggi and I took turns being at court. But she generally covered all holidays except Christmas because that was the one time she had family commitments.

This, however, was a big challenge for my young family. Santa of course came during the night, but no one was allowed downstairs until I came home from court. 

So on Christmas Eve my wife packed bottles, milk, and cereal upstairs in a cooler. And on Christmas Day my kids and wife sat on the top upstairs landing in their pajamas, giggling with anticipation, and waited for their dad to come home from morning court so they could race downstairs to see what Santa brought. 

And eventually I did come home and stand at the foot of the stairs. And year after year, I would look up to the landing and see my wife and three kids in their pajamas dancing, laughing, and twirling with excitement before tumbling down the stairs to see what Santa brought.

That’s hope.

And Santa always came.

So, Virginia, I guess spring will too.

Joe

“I think I’m going to die.”

“Well, yes you are, sweetie. The question, of course, is it today or in some mythical future full of butterflies and freshly popped popcorn.”

“It’s today! Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh.”

“Here, wipe your nose. Let’s put the humidifier on. Now close your eyes and try to rest.”

“I can’t.”

“Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” my wife says patiently.

As you might guess, I’ve been a little sick. With what? Got me. The flu, Covid-19, RSV, the norovirus? Or perhaps it’s just what you get when you’re a bad person. Does it matter? I AM CLEARLY DYING HERE! 

Being a bit under the weather lends a certain focus to your life. For example, there are so many people struggling with real medical problems involving life and death issues. But, think about it, do they have a cold? Nope.

I AM THE ONE TRULY SUFFERING HERE!

And before you judge me harshly, let me assure you that on Sick Day 1 and on Sick Day 2 and on Sick Day 3, I earned the Boy Scout merit badge for being the best sick person ever.

“Oh, don’t worry about me, even though I can barely get out of bed and have been classified as a mucus superfund site, I’ll shovel the walks, do the dishes, and birth a baby — no problem.”

I was so good. But then, folks, I wasn’t . . .

Listen, have you discovered your doctor’s medical patient portal? Here’s a snapshot of mine on Sick Day 4: 

“Doctor, I am clogged up and I think I might have a sinus infection.” 11:00 p.m.

“Doctor, I’m still having problem’s breathing and I’m also starting to develop a fever.” 11:01 p.m.

“Doctor, I am starting to gag and am concerned that my airway is shutting down.” 11:02 p.m.

“Doctor, I AM DYING HERE!” 11:03 p.m.

I don’t know why they started charging office fees on these patient portals?

So what is the remedy for the existential dilemma of a nasty winter illness? Jokes?

Knock knock

Who’s there?

Dwayne.

Dwayne who?

Dwayne the bathtub, I’m dwowning. 

I’m not a fan of joke jokes. I don’t know why. Perhaps because of my very traditional Catholic upbringing that seemed to leave little room for classic levity. I can easily picture my soul at the pearly gates where Saint Peter says:

“Joe, you won’t be going to heaven this time around but you will be going on a trip to heaven’s waiting room, i.e., purgatory, where you’ll stay until you collect enough reward points earned from grade school kids’ prayers. Have a good trip.”

As a clear-eyed former fourth grader, don’t bet the farm on my prayers getting your left arm out of your coat sleeve, let alone out of purgatory. So, there’s the problem — eternal damnation with a possibility of parole just doesn’t lend itself to joke jokes. Sorry.  

How about the hard-bitten wit of Oscar Wilde? Will that get you through a bad cold?

“Some cause happiness wherever they go; others whenever they go.”

“There is only one thing in life worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about.”

“When I was young I thought that money was the most important thing in life; now that I am old I know that it is.”

These are pretty darn good. They are clever. They are quick. And they cause you to pause as you wait for your brain to catch up, and then . . . bada bing. They certainly make my suffering marginally better.  

But still, it’s not quite enough. 

How about a little sweet-reflective humor? Like the comic strip “Calvin and Hobbes,” created by Bill Watterson. The drawings are crucial to the humor, but even the written lines are deadpan, sweet and spot on — Calvin suddenly becoming religious in the hope that school will be closed for bad weather, then Hobbes says: “Another deathbed conversion.” Nice. “Calvin and Hobbes” might be just the ticket to survive a cold. So I open my son’s old “Calvin and Hobbes” books, sip my honey tea, and . . .

Oh no, Sick Day 8, everyone in the house gets sick. Yikes. And what do they have in common?

THEY HATE ME FOR MAKING THEM SICK. 

Wow. And that, folks, is how one gets through having a bad cold. Who knew? Find out who caused your problems, hate on them, and you’re golden. It’s as simple as that. It’s not any kind of jokes. Nope. Laughter isn’t the answer. No way. And sweet humor is certainly not the ticket. Duh, who suggested that? The answer is obvious — who is at fault? Now lie back and enjoy your righteousness. 

And, dear reader, if you are short on suspects to blame, I’m your guy.

Joe

“You know what’s going to happen if you do that?”

I say this in my sternest grandfather voice with a glower of hard eyes, a very pursed mouth, and a disapproving shake of my head. Trust me, I am the scary thing under a small child’s bed. Don’t tread on me.

Hah, let’s just take a small break. I’ve never actually scared anyone in my 70 years. Certainly looking like a discarded and abused Winnie the Pooh stuffed animal has not furthered my goal of frightening widows and orphans. Alas, in my old age I am resigned to never really having the personality of a hardened criminal prosecutor, which was my work for over 30 years. I was, and am, much better suited to care for small animals at the zoo, like otters or maybe a skinny wallaby. 

Juliette, the five-year-old criminal in question, raises her small hand with a pink magic marker grasped tightly, and once more threatens to toss it at me.  

See, Juliette’s going through a small phase of independence where she is trying to get me to do her bidding. I’m totally in with doing her bidding — remember Winnie the Pooh — but I do feel her parents and my wife may not approve. So a week earlier I made her sign a contract (Really? Practicing law even with my granddaughter?), where she would go to her room for a time if she was too much of a sassy kid. 

 Fine.

So here we are today to see if the rules are the rules, even for this kid who I long ago let break and enter — another crime — my heart. 

The pink marker raises in her hand, ready to throw.

“Don’t forget your contract with me!”

Juliette pauses and considers the morality of it all. Then the most softly thrown pink marker almost doesn’t hit me in the arm. But it does. 

“Ok, off to your room.”

Juliette thought about this pre-arranged punishment for a moment and then said: “But your face asked for it.”

I’ll be darned. That little sneaky underage defense lawyer. This is the age-old defense used against victims who dress a certain way, or are in a certain part of town, or agree to a drink. I’ve had many a tough and hardened criminal assert this garbage at trial. And now a five year old wearing sparkly shoes is my adversary???!   

“Off to your room” sounds a bit like “off with your head” to my sensitive ears. Oh well. She signed the contract . . .

“Off to your room.”

But this is actually a love story.  

The Whitefriar Street Church in Dublin has the relics of Saint Valentine as given to the Irish by Pope Gregory XVI in 1836. The church is a hop and a skip from Saint Stephen’s Green. 

Of course, Valentine’s Day is a day for lovers. And that would be mine crossing the Saint Stephen’s Green bridge. This is from about the same distance I saw her for the first time 44 years ago.

Yup, 44 years ago.

She was inside the old Iowa Law School looking at class schedules posted on a board with about a hundred other law students. I saw her in the distance. That’s all that happened — I saw her. No witty conversation. No review of a dating app profile. No google search of her past inappropriate adventures. Zip.

Later that same day, I was running with my mentor and best friend, Jay Holstein. I told him that I saw the woman I was going to marry. Holstein is a rabbi, which must count at least as a stack of bibles, and he will swear this is true. I think. In any case, I told him what happened — I saw the woman to whom I planned to hitch my star. Really. 

Listen, I am a skeptic in all aspects of my life (Is this organic banana really organic?). But without any conversation, and at a distance, I saw a woman who I declared to the world I would wed. And, as luck would have it, I proposed to her a few weeks after the distant sighting. And married her a few months later. My oh me. That was utterly reckless. That was utterly awesome. That was a mystery.

“Juliette, you can come out now.”

Silence. She has locked herself in her room. She gives me nothing. Then underneath her door, as in the best prison movies, slides a chalkboard slate. She has a message for me:

Yup, I can’t read it either — but I can tell angry when I see it. This is one furious little girl who has taken to the power of the chalk to strike back at the Man.

I roll on the floor with laughter.

I am lost. 

I am in love . . .

. . . with her grandma. Who had a son with whom I’m in love. And the son had a daughter with whom I’m in love.

All because I just happened to be in a specific spot at a specific time to see a woman standing in a crowd at the old Iowa Law School.

As far away as the Saint Stephen’s Green bridge.

And a hop and a skip from the shrine to St. Valentine.

As I said, I’m a skeptic.   

Joe

I tired of New Year’s resolutions long before I became an old man. But before I did, my resolutions were the typical nutty variety that I always circumvented by the end of January. Let’s just take a gander at a few.

“20 Days to Better Spelling,” a book with not a single romantic twist or turn, exited years ago from my resolution list with my discovery of spellcheck.

“No eating after 7 p.m.” was no longer a challenge when I decided buttered popcorn was an exception. Duh.

And “being a better husband, father, friend”? Please. Once I discovered that I could just admit that I screwed up (because I did), I was so sorry (I truly am), and I wondered what I could do to remedy the situation (please, anything), the aggrieved party was usually stunned long enough that I could go back to reading “Conan the Barbarian” in peace.

See, why work on self-improvement for the New Year — especially when the odds are so high that you will fail and end up in the grocery store eating donuts anyway.

Ah, but what about having a bucket list? You know, things you want to do, or are supposed to want to do, but would rather not do, because you are tired of doing, and would prefer to watch British detective shows.  Listen, I know I’m supposed to want to jump out of an airplane or hike the Appalachian Trail or compete on The Great British Bake Off. Sorry. I was born before Instagram and Facebook and X and I don’t know enough to know I’m FALLING BEHIND everyone else. Being a troglodyte has its blessings.

Although, there is that room above an Irish pub . . .

A day along the sea outside of Howth, Ireland, comes with a small warning sign.

Yikes. I don’t remember that sign in my Iowa driver’s license test. That sign captures most of my anxieties — a fear of heights, a fear of falling, and a fear that the ocean will swallow me up and deposit me off the coast of Florida where I’ll become part of a delicious fish chowder. No thank you. 

This sign appears after walking on narrow trails with waist-high gorse and after ducking through shrouded tunnels of vegetation that clings to the sides of the cliffs and meanders along the hills overlooking the Irish Sea. There is not a corn or bean field in sight. It’s overcast and a light rain falls. Only the random older woman or man appears on the trail. When they do, they look directly at my wife and me, smile, comment on the beautiful day, and move on as water drips off their rain hat. 

I bet you’re wondering how to get here?

Well, fly from Des Moines to Dublin, take the train north to Howth, and climb this steep cobblestone street. There you are, panting, jet lagged, and wondering if you can go any further. Great. See that graveyard to your left? Yup, those are tourists who couldn’t go any further. 

As for me, my Irish-citizen wife encourages me not to despair from the long walk. Is she kidding? We are in Ireland. Isn’t the national pastime melancholy and despair? The famous Irish poet William Butler Yeats supposedly said: “Being Irish, he had an abiding sense of tragedy, which sustained him through temporary periods of joy.” Yup, I recognize my wife’s spirit.

Thank goodness, there’s our lodgings. Or, more accurately, there’s the pub.

“A pint while you wait for your room?” the bartender says.

I look around the dark-wooded room with four old men dressed in muted gray and black sitting at the ancient bar. All have a pint of Guinness. So I go out on a limb: “How about a Guinness?”

The bartender nods his head, as if I had a choice. And then begins the ritual preparation of the pint. 

For those of you who are non-beer drinkers, this wait is a challenge. But the rest of you know a Guinness as a dark lager with a smokey sharp taste and a finger-width white head that will cling to your upper lip like the old “Got Milk” commercials of the 1990’s. It is a beer that is beloved or reviled. There is little middle ground. But in Dublin, Ireland, the birthplace of Guinness, it takes up most of the taps at the ever-present neighborhood pubs.  

My pint is set on the bar along with three others. They are about three quarters full. And now you wait. For the second coming of Jesus? Unsure. Once you are fairly certain you have been forgotten, the bartender tops off the pint and there you go. Your very own Guinness. 

Yum . . . perhaps it is the second coming.

Too soon, we are directed up the stairs to our clean, modest lodgings — a bed, a dresser, a view. And before long, we are unburdened of our packs and walking the narrow paths next to the sea. 

And that’s all there is, folks.

No rollercoasters. 

No jumping from planes.

No endless buffets and bottomless drinks.

A quiet walk. A dark beer. A gentle rain. 

Ireland. Des Moines. Boone. 

It doesn’t matter the location. As long as you patiently wait for your beer with your eyes open. Now there’s a New Year’s resolution for you. 

Joe

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