Pick up backpack. Shuffle one step. Set down backpack. Breathe. Turn around to see if I’m somehow miraculously closer.

I’m not.

Pick up backpack. Shuffle one step. Set down backpack. Breathe. Turn around . . .

Listen, I had plenty of warning about this. My mom always told me if I kept on teasing my sisters I’d go to “hell in a hand basket.” I just didn’t know she meant the hand basket was located at passport control in the Minneapolis-Saint Paul International Airport.

But here I am.

The line curves back and forth and back and forth in a neatly carved maze of black bands connected to gleaming metal poles. I am at the very end. Perhaps 300 people in front of me. We can see directly in front of us the automatic machines that will read our passports, but we frustratingly turn away from our goal, first to the left and then to the right, in a slow mournful procession. All that’s missing is the casket.

I’m in the process of coming home to Des Moines. Gone for 30 days in the land of the Dutch. A retreat among windmills and art and Dutch friends.

“A journey of self-discovery that most folks take when they are 16 years old,” my wife kindly points out.

Perhaps.

“You’re working on your self esteem?” She says with a barely-contained smile.

Well . . . sure.

“Didn’t you get participation ribbons when you were a little kid?”

This is her quaint way of saying that she is wholly supportive of this adventure.

A preacher in a white collar is 20 people in front of me. I pass him after each switchback. I bet this is a real challenge to his faith. You know, the whole “first shall be last and last shall be first” thing. Clearly, as the line barely moves, the last shall be even further last at this airport.

Being gone from home for so long, I had to think about something special to bring home for my wife. Something that really speaks to my consistent vows of loyalty and love for her, something that pops with astounding amazement and surprise, something that just sweeps her off her feet so she lands in my arms singing “You’re the One.”

Peanut butter seemed the obvious choice.

Lordy, I’ve finally made it to the automatic passport machine. In goes the passport. Oops, wrong direction. Re-insert. Yikes, it’s taking a photo. Only half my face is on the screen. Reposition. Out shoots a slip of paper. Giddily, I present it to the uniformed man. He nods and sends me not into the airport as I expected, but into another maze going BACK to the end of a new line, just where I started 300 people ago.

Ahhhhhhhh . . . am I being punished for secretly liking romance novels featuring a pirate as the main character?

As for my wife’s gift, trust me, my wife really likes peanut butter. And Dutch peanut butter is her very favorite. She has everything already — earrings, a grandchild, the love of a good man. But what does she not have? You guessed it, Dutch peanut butter.

Oh my goodness, I’m finally talking to a live agent at passport control.

“Why were you in The Netherlands?” the uniformed young woman asks.

I have a gut feeling that to say I was working on Brene Brown’s notion of self esteem is not the right answer.

“Pleasure?” But that sounds like I’ve spent my time smoking dope and going to the Red Light District.

How about “visiting friends?”

“Welcome home,” she says.

Before I leave Holland I buy my wife’s gift of Dutch peanut butter. I bury it deep in my backpack so that it will not break. I easily make it through the stringent controls at the Amsterdam Airport, where you stand in a large machine with your hands raised while the security folks count the freckles on your back.

One last security line to go through before I get on my final plane to Des Moines. I place my backpack on the rollers and give it a push towards the scanner. I patiently wait on the other side. And wait. And wait.

“Is this your bag?”

Uh-oh.

“Don’t touch it,” one uniformed woman shouts.

I jump back. Even I become concerned. Does it have secret nuclear codes buried in my long-sleeve wool shirts? Are there illegal designer drugs tucked into my SmartWool socks? Is the answer to the disappearance of Amelia Earhart hidden in my art book on Pieter de Hooch?

The two women open the crammed backpack and root around.

No luck. They pull out my red underwear. Really? For everyone to see? Again, no luck.

Finally, they look at me in exasperation and ask if I have anything in a jar.

I look dumb, have an aha moment, and then guiltily say: “Peanut butter????!”

And there’s the culprit.

So, today only, an awesome jar of Dutch peanut butter is now owned by the Minneapolis-Saint Paul International Airport.

And my wife?

No gift. Our marriage is left to founder on the rocks of the loveless. The hopes of salvaging   the unsalvageable is dashed. No couple can survive a peanut butter caper.

But . . . no worries, folks.

She’s Irish. Her favorite gift? A story. Everyone knows that. So when we land, here’s her story. Just written. 800 words. Simple and sweet. What a great gift. What a thoughtful husband. How clever am I.

By the way, do you think that jewelry store is still open downtown?

Joe

The tall, strong-looking Dutch woman began her story by telling me about fish. The story suddenly took a right turn into speed dating. And then the darn thing ended up about Dutch character. Her character.

People are never a straight line.

Sort of like the story of fish.

I’m from landlocked Iowa, and in my youth, fish consisted of one thing — fish sticks. A highly processed, deep-fat fried delicacy that was a staple of meat-free Friday’s for my large Catholic family of birth. And, frankly, fish sticks are a treat to this day. Drowned in tartar sauce, they are a salty, greasy delight that taste mostly like the same tartar sauce they were dipped in, but crunchy.

I must admit as I grew older my understanding of what constituted fish was challenged. My wife is an adventurous eater and began ordering fish that actually looked like fish. And grocery stores all over Iowa are selling fresh fish, while restaurants are offering fish entrees, and my own children are betraying me by eating, of all things, sushi.

Where did I go wrong?

“Dad, you have to try this. It’s called a Dynamite Roll,” my son Emmett says.

“Raw fish?” I watch the chef preparing the fish in front of us until finally I choke a little, turn pale, and run for the door. My son just shakes his head.

So here I am visiting The Netherlands. Fish paradise. 

Which is why I’m talking to a tall, Dutch woman knowledgeable about all things fishy.

“I have worked for 15 years with fish.” Marie-Claire David gives me her easy smile.

“In English, I would be called a fishmonger.”

So, she is the perfect person to ask penetrating fish questions like . . .

Are you sick of fish after being around it all day long?

“Not at all, I eat it even at night after work, I love it. I am really fish girly.” Marie-Claire laughs at the silliness of my question.

Okay, here’s a subtle one.

Doesn’t this fish gross you out?

“No, of course not. I don’t have any problems holding that fish, cleaning that fish, or eating that fish.”

Seriously? You got to be kidding. What about that slippery thing in front of you?

“This fish I am cleaning right now is called sliptong in Dutch. You would call it baby sole. It is only found in the North Sea. It is very local, it is very fresh, it is very Dutch. You have to eat flat fish in the summer because the meat of the fish is thick. In the winter they use all their energy producing eggs. You eat flat fish when you can open your windows.”

Oh, she knows her stuff. I’d better be careful.

What about this Dutch herring that everyone talks about?

“Herring is caught these days further north because the North Sea is getting warmer because of climate change. It is fished and put in buckets, where it is salted and processed in a progression of freezers. It comes to us and we do a defrosting process. I’m then going to clean it so that there are no bones.”

Yikes, and how does one eat this salted thing?

The traditional way of eating the herring in Scheveningen is leaving on the tail without any onions. But in Amsterdam it is very traditional to remove the tail, cut it up in pieces, with onion and pickle.

And what’s this?

“Kibbling,” Marie-Claire says.

Aha.

“Kibbling in the past was made from the cheeks of the cod. And they cut out the forehead meat also. And this was deep fried. These days it has been changed because cod became very expensive. So we use this fish that is plenty of in the sea and it is very firm fish called pollack. We mix it with butter, water, and flour, and put it into a deep fryer. Very slowly so that each one is beautiful in itself and nice and crispy. We then herb it. And serve with sauce on the side.”

Kibbling schmibling. These are just fancy fish sticks.

At last, something familiar. And delicious!  But I had to ask one more question. 

So, I’m curious, how is it being a fish monger as a woman?

“It is an unusual profession. One year ago when I was going on a speed date, I was thinking, ‘Am I going to be honest about working in a fish shop during the three-minute conversation with men?’ Or am I going to lie a little bit and say, ‘Hey, I’m in real estate’?”

My lord. 

“So I told those men I’m in real estate. I did not tell them I’m a fish girl.”

Ouch. 

“After that experience I thought this is wrong. Am I ashamed of what I do?”

And? 

“I embraced this part of my life. I’m cool. Now I tell everyone that I work with fish. ‘Do you have a problem with that?’ I say.”

Marie-Claire, with sparkling eyes, shoulders back, and chin firmly set, goes back to work.

There you have it . . . fish, speed dating, and Dutch character. Never a straight line.

And I don’t have a problem with that.

Joe

She’s definitely looking at me. Of course, it’s just a trick of the eye. A common phenomenon. We’ve all experienced it. But still. After all the adulation, the paparazzi, the gazillion of hours devoted to her in articles and on TV shows and even in a movie, you might . . .  just a minute . . . is she following me around the room now? There she goes, charming me with those glistening eyes. Lord help me.

Yup, I’m from Iowa. It is one of those small states you will never visit. We Iowans have zero pretensions about our importance, although we are a little pretentious about how unpretentious we are. To be fair to Iowans, however, one of our senior politicians was elected to the Senate based on her ability to castrate hogs. That’s pretty unpretentious.

So I’d love to write about Vermeer’s use of light and shading and interesting brush strokes. But I don’t have a clue about those things and it would be very un-Iowan for me to pretend. No matter. My Girl (and doesn’t she belong even to me?) is an emotional firebrand getting ready to burn down the house. You can talk all you want about the white dab used to make the pearl hanging from her left ear, but you might be missing the sparks flying out of her eyes. I imagine that just off canvas, right where you can’t see, she has raised her hand and dropped the microphone to the stage in an electronic roar. The crowd goes wild. She turns in triumph.

And that’s the moment when Vermeer made his painting.

The Girl with the Pearl Earring hangs in the Mauritshuis in The Hague, Netherlands. I visit her every couple of days during this trip. She doesn’t mind. Sure, I check out the Goldfinch (made even more famous by a recent movie), and Jan Steen’s jokes (I want to live in a Jan Steen home of smoking and drinking and oysters), and Frans Hals’ Laughing Boy (this painting may be the single cure for depression), and Rembrandt’s aging face (he always makes me walk a little taller). All truly amazing. But it is the Girl I go to first. Just climb up to the top floor, turn left, go through the open door, turn left again, and there she is. All yours. Unbelievable.

And when it’s time, I make my way to the museum cafe. I have vowed that whenever I go to a museum, I will stop at the museum’s cafe to savor the experience — which is secret code for having a glass of wine. The large one, please.

And the same server from years past is working the floor today, taking care of a long table of well-dressed women and two dads with kids in strollers.

She stops her work, gives me a smile and a hug, and welcomes me back. I suspect she remembers most of her customers — and their orders.

“Chardonnay?” Patty Scott says.

Of course.

Patty is Dutch. She has done this kind of job for over 30 years. And she’s a pro. Every customer is taken care of with graciousness as I sit and watch her work. She takes orders, cleans tables, rescues a baby in the swinging doors, helps an older man down the stairs . . . and brings my wine.

“I want everybody to be comfortable. Even the person who is upset, I want to make their day all right.” She smiles with a refreshing directness.

No kidding.

And what do you think of the Girl with the Pearl Earring?

Patty laughs her deep laugh.

“I have worked here so long, this is my house. I live here with the Girl.”

And with her own twinkling eyes, Patty goes back to work.

Several years ago I was outside the Mauritshuis as the Girl was being returned after being on tour. I showed up at the front gates expecting a few curious people like myself. I foolishly thought I was one of a few admirers.

Thousands of people were there. A marching band played. The Dutch King appeared. Speeches were given. Actors dressed up as the Girl zigzagged through the crowd pausing for photographs. And on the side streets, artists painted her likeness while vendors sold Dutch sausages and breaded meats.

At last, the painting was delivered by crane in a large wooden box. We all clapped and cheered and cried. We were thrilled. Our Girl was home.

So, you may be wondering what’s all this have to do with the price of corn?

Well, I think . . . just a minute . . .  is she looking at me?

Joe

Rain in the Netherlands has a certain texture that doesn’t exist back home in Iowa. Here in the Netherlands the rain rarely rages with such thunder and lightning that you decide maybe it would be a good idea to crawl under the table with the dog. Sure, it rains nearly every day . . . but quietly.

I think the rain reflects the Dutch sensibility of ganug — freely translated by me, a person who doesn’t know a lick of Dutch, as, “that’s enough of that nonsense.” Moderation counts. It’s akin to the Dutch idea that healthy eating is important, but please pass me the fries.

Henriette Priester, the Dutch mother to all her visitors at the gym she operates with her husband in The Hague, says that her mom had a typical Dutch saying when she complained as a child about the rain.

“But, mom, it’s raining,” Henriette would say.

“Don’t worry,” said her mom, “most of it falls next to you.”

That made such sense to Henriette that she told the same to her children. With a straight face no less.

So, I take this to mean that everyone is just expected to get on their bike and get on with it because . . . what? It could be worse?

Easy peasy to ride in the rain, according to the Dutch. Or, more accurately translated: “Riding in the rain is like two fingers in your nose.” Yup, that is a true Dutch saying that doesn’t work for me either. But then again, I’m not Dutch.

Margreet, a stylish Dutch woman, seems the perfect person to ask about the ruinous affects of biking in the rain on her makeup and clothes.

“I don’t care,” she says with disdain at the idea. “I will dry up. And if I have droopy eyes because of my mascara, I just wipe it away.”

Really?

“It rains all the time. We Dutch are so used to it. It doesn’t bother us at all.” And off pedals Margreet as the rain drains off her hat as slick as on a sloped roof of an Iowa barn.

And in the Netherlands, the rain seems to disappear into the sand under the bricks or be funneled into the canals that criss-cross the land. Wet one moment, dry the next. Not so this year in Iowa, where the rain ran off the fields of corn and soybeans, flooded creeks and rivers, shut down interstate highways, and washed away whole Iowa towns.

Rain water is not a surprise to the Dutch. I guess if your real challenge is the North Sea, from which one third of the country is daily rescued with dikes and canals and modern-day windmills, a few drops from the heavens is hardly a national crisis.

But still . . .

What about those windmills? What happens in the rain to those big sails?

“The rain doesn’t matter. The sails can get wet. It is not the rain that concerns the miller, it is the wind that follows a rain.”

Hennie van der Lilie, the miller for the Molenseum De Valk, is a tall, lean man with an easy smile who has worked windmills for 40 years.

“A big part of our job is to determine how the weather develops.”

Great. But what if you get caught having to climb those sails in a rainstorm?

Hennie laughs.

“A younger colleague of mine once said, ‘A good miller never gets wet.'”

Okay, I get it. According to the Dutch, either I can trust that most of the rain will fall next to me, or I will be just fine getting soaked because I will eventually dry, or I will miraculously avoid the rain today as a good miller would.

Yup, I think that covers all the bases.

Although, as I get on my wet bike to ride away in the wet rain in my already wet clothes, another Dutch saying finally makes sense — riding in the rain does in fact feel like two fingers in the nose.

Joe

“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

I want an Italian mother.

Don’t get me wrong, the wedding itself was heavenly. It flowed with a gracious ease that can be so elusive at many formal events. For starters, the handsome groom came down the aisle sober. A definite plus. Even his buddies stood by his side with no noticeable weaving from too much good cheer. Sobriety is helpful to distinguish a wedding ceremony from a night at the tavern. Although it is true that for some weddings a night at the tavern is best.

The bridesmaids entered without a glitch, all made up in long flowing dresses and fresh from the nail salon where they spent the morning being buffed and polished. The priest needed to give awards to the young women for not tripping over their dresses during the long walk. If it was me, I would have looked down that endless stretch of church and just sat in the back pew with my dress bunched at my waist and waved the others on, telling them I’d pick them up on the return. Which is why you should always bring a sandwich to a wedding, because you never know when you will be siting in the back row with nothing to do.

The priest smiled at us all with no threat of hell’s damnation. This can be tricky. I know I deserve hell’s damnation, but I do appreciate when the priest doesn’t look at me and tell the congregation the direction my soul is going. He probably figured I was there on some sinner’s work-release program. That explains why my tie was so tight.

And the very young flower girl? Please. She entered dramatically and placed rose petals on the white carpet with careful deliberation and great seriousness. She was so careful and so serious that by the time she made it to the altar, her basket was still full of petals. I loved that about her. No throwing flowers willy nilly for her. If you got a petal near your pew, you deserved it.

The bride was beautiful. Radiant. Smiling. She made us feel honored to witness this grand event. But the long, gossamer train she wore? Clearly a device to punish her sister, her maid-of-honor, who had to leap and somersault and cartwheel to get the train to properly position itself after the bride stood or knelt or breathed too deeply. Our pew gave the maid-of-honor all 10’s during the scoring portion of the event.

So, what can I say? The wedding ceremony was a grand success and in no small part due to the calm and watchful eye of the Italian mother.

But that is not why I want an Italian mother.

Later, the reception was held at a country club, thanks to the gracious Italian father. Back when I was a reverse snob, I looked down upon country clubs. Too much pomp and circumstance. A valet AND cloth towels in the bathrooms? Really? Has America come to this?

Now, as an old man, I love cloth towels. And fine china. And good food. And a swimming pool visible out the large, clean windows. I love luxury.

We milled about after the meal. Full and happy. Being curious, I saw a few people in a large back room. I went to investigate.

Yup, you guessed it. A table full of Italian pastries. All freshly made by the Italian mother and her Italian family and friends. All beautifully presented. And all for us.

I stacked my plate with every delicacy. I even started stacking some extras on my wife’s plate. She’s used to this bad behavior and merely rolls her eyes, suffering in silence. I don’t care.

THEY WERE ALL DELICIOUS!

And as my wife and I left the wedding after dancing and cavorting, the Italian mother, who I met for the first time that night, handed me and many other guests plates wrapped in plastic and stacked high with the delicate pastries.

I swooned.

So . . .  I want an Italian mother.

Joe

“The Ferris wheel is going up right there.” Steve Smith says as he marks a line of white.

Dashes of white cover the entire concrete lot. And when you step back for a broader view of these fresh hopscotch marks, they actually designate the locations for each ride at the Iowa State Fair. The midway being born.

Wow.

The smell of mustardy hot dogs and buttery popcorn and sweet expectations is already in the air as vendors get ready for the onslaught of fairgoers.

And my cousin, Steve Smith, is hard at work.

“When we set up our own carnival over the past 31 years, it is generally just an empty street to start with.” Vicki Smith says. “Steve then starts walking. He’ll drop his hat. He’ll drop a piece of wood. He steps things off. He says, ‘This ride goes here, this ride goes there.’ He knows in his head where everything belongs. All of a sudden the trucks start moving in and the carnival gets set up. At the end, the trucks return, the rides are loaded. Within two hours we are heading down the road. The old saying is, all that’s left is popcorn sacks and tire tracks. But, of course, these days we clean up the popcorn sacks.”

Vicki smiles at her husband.

I look past Steve and see the beehive of workers beginning to set up the Ferris wheel.

As you all know, a Ferris wheel is no Screamin’ Swing, or Tilt-A-Whirl, or Zipper. It’s a slow, romantic ride from another time. It was created for the World’s Columbian Expedition in Chicago in the 1890’s by George Washington Gale Ferris, Jr. The original Ferris wheel had 36 cars. Each car held 60 people. By the time the Chicago fair was over, 1,453,611 people rode George’s Ferris wheel. A grand success by any measure.

Sadly, not so grand for George. The original Ferris wheel was sold off and later destroyed. A tremendous shame. And the brilliant George Ferris died just a few years after the fair — bankrupt, separated from his wife, and sick with typhoid fever. Dead by 37. And, as at least one writer believes, all these misfortunes occurred because of his Ferris wheel.

“And you know, Joe, the Ferris wheel was not so good to my own dad,” Steve says.

Clem Smith, Steve’s dad and my uncle, made the papers on a humid day in August 1950:

“Smith loses arm in accident … Clem Smith, co-owner of the Boone Valley Shows, lost his left arm at the elbow recently when it became entangled in derrick equipment used in erecting a Ferris Wheel. Attractions were being set up at the Pocahontas 4-H Fair.” The Billboard, August 26, 1950.

It was a bad deal for a carnival man, and a farmer, to be without one arm. But Clem Smith successfully ran carnivals, drove a tractor, and helped raise three kids. All without that arm. On top of that, he was one of the founders of the Midwest Showmen’s Association. It’s motto? “Our wealth lies in our charities.” And, lo and behold, 14 scholarships go out each year to young folks in the name of Clem Smith. Not bad.

And George Ferris? His invention spawned Ferris wheel pop-ups around the world, like this massive wheel outside the train station in Antwerp, Belgium.

And this tiny Ferris wheel off Highway 6 in Nebraska.

And, sure, the Ferris wheel doesn’t shoot you through the air causing your eyes to pop out, or spin you with such force that your spine relocates, but it does let you see the world from a different angle.

Which accounts for why people want to ride the Ferris wheel with their sweetie. They begin the ride drinking beer and flattening the cans against their head; they end the ride married, with two kids, and they’re into recycling.

Changing angles can do that.

Steve and I stop our walk at the Iowa State Fair and smile at the Ferris wheel in the distance.

Clem Smith was buried many years ago. At his funeral was a large flower assortment made into a Ferris wheel. It was awesome to see it up there on the church altar. But if you looked closely you noticed something was wrong among all the intricately arranged blossoms stretched out on the frame. One spoke was missing. A Ferris wheel in mourning.

But not today.

Today, there are two people slowly revolving high above the State Fair, bedazzled, and trying to decide what happens next. Their chair lurches to a stop at the very tip top, causing everything to swing slowly back and forth. They turn and look at each other, nervous, unsure of the future, and . . .

. . . and years later they can tell their grandchildren, it was all because of the Ferris wheel.

Joe

Smacked broadside by a car at the top of a hill, I was five years old when I had my first bike accident. I was so embarrassed I limped home and kept my bruised body and the ruined bike a secret. My first embarrassment.

Wahoo. 

And that was just the beginning of a lifetime infatuation with being embarrassed by pretty much everything — bad acne, angry scars, large ears, gurgling stomach, big nose, thick glasses, and not one iota of fashion sense. I was a petrie dish of multiplying embarrassments.   

But . . .  I’ve never thought to be embarrassed about my bald head.

Until yesterday. 

The group of middle-aged women and I were working out in the same area of the gym. They were doing a class that is hard — hand weights, core exercises, jumping jacks. They are strong women, tough, and totally dedicated. I admire them.

I was over in a corner pulling on a rope — dripping sweat. A great old-guy workout.

In loud voices, the women began to talk about hair loss in men. Typical stuff. Laughter at the combover. Husbands beginning to thin up top. And then a non-joking pronouncement: “White men who are bald are not very attractive.” It was said as a matter of fact. Apparently, it’s common knowledge. Everyone knows this. Duh.  

And there I am, pulling on my rope, sweating up a river, and realizing I’m the only white bald man in the gym. In fact, the only bald man in the gym.

Unattractive? Really?

I was immediately sorry for my wife. Perhaps those vows from a gazillion years ago actually said, “To have and to hold from this day forward . . . until hair doth depart.” She must be holding on to this hairless relationship because of the dogs. Who knew?

And what about my adult kids? Shamed by their dad. Left to wonder if they will lose the genetic lottery and inherit not cancer nor mental health concerns, but baldness. The scourge that reaches beyond class and wealth and even beyond my deep love of popcorn. 

A sad state of affairs to be sure.

But, and this is probably wishful thinking, what if the hard-bodied women are wrong? Can you be bald and still hold your shiny head high?

So I went to talk to the pros at Franklin Barber Shop. A funky barbershop in Beaverdale that advertises itself as a “traditional barber shop with classic cuts and close shaves.”

I open the door to the sound of buzzing barber clippers, muted conversation, and a warm welcome. A safe haven for bald men. 

“We deal with a lot of baldness here at the shop, and because we do straight razor shaves, we have quite a few customers where we shave their heads,” says Brian Garrett.

Brian, who has cut hair for nearly 15 years, is matter-of-fact about the existential nature of hair loss.

“Customers come in upset about their hair loss, but once they talk to us, I’ll suggest, let’s just shave it. Try it. Once they do, they think, ‘This is better than having those five hairs — I do look all right.’ It’s liberating. They look GOOD. Those five hairs were setting them off.” 

Ryan Heckart, the barber working the next chair, is in total agreement and touches on the celebrity angle to baldness.

“Jason Statham saved a lot of guys.”

Statham, an actor popular in many action movies, is balding with his remaining hair buzzed to a nub.

“You don’t want it smooth? says Ryan. “Cool. I’ll just buzz it really really short. It will look so much better.”

But what if your head is not shaped right, or baldness ages you by 10 years, or your forehead blends into the sky in photographs?

“Quit making excuses,’ says Brian from his chair, “just go all the way. Your head is yours.”

Great. But what about the preference for hairy men by the hard-bodied women in the gym? I mean, don’t they count in this analysis? Can’t they have their own personal choice about beauty, which, by the way, we all do?

“Who cares what they think!” shout both Ryan and Brian, loudly and simultaneously and a little more profanely. 

So here I am.

Bald. 

A guy by the name of Matthew Arnold, a 19th century English poet said: “Bald as the bare mountain tops are bald, with a baldness full of grandeur.”

So there you go — baldness: shameful flaw or full of grandeur? 

Mmmmm . . . I think I’ll go with option 2, full of grandeur.  Why not?

Joe

Fifty kids were fed lunch on Monday in a little park in Urbandale — for free.

Chew on that.

The small parking lot at Murphy Park fills with a half dozen cars. The green totes and the blue coolers are unloaded from the trunks and carried up to the shelter. The workers gather in a clump. Their hushed conversation seems appropriate in the still summer air. Slowly, everyone takes a spot behind a bin. A cool breeze arrives from the woods, crosses the soccer field, and drifts around the adults as they wait for their smart watches to say noon.

Yahoo, lunch is served.

“Free lunch” is what was promised.

Really? This must be a joke.  As in “there is no such thing . . .” I assume it must be a way to sell you life insurance, or to pump up your nonexistent investment portfolio, or for you to buy a retirement home on the floodplain near Gray’s Lake. It has to be a scam of some sort, right?

But there it is, in red, white, and blue. Free lunch.

I love lunch, by the way. Yup, I was the guy at my desk for 32 years with a sack lunch and whatever goodie I could pull out of the fridge at the last minute. Although, I must admit that peanut butter and jelly sandwiches were the centerpiece of many of my culinary masterpieces. More than one search warrant left my office with grape jelly permanently staining the words “methaphetamine” or “semi-automatic 9 mm weapon.”

And let’s face it, I charmed my soon-to-be wife over my sack lunches I brought each day to the Iowa Law School clinic.

“What are you eating today?” my future wife would ask — while, unbeknownst to me, thinking only eight-year-old kids with Dory the Discoverer on their t-shirt would carry a sack lunch to school.

“A BLT.”

“Really?”

“Yup,” I’d say, “but there’s no bacon, or lettuce, or tomato in it, but there are radishes.”

She’d force a thin smile . . . and then try to figure out how she could transfer to another office with a less weird officemate.

Love at first sight.

And lunches in grade school when growing up? I dream about them. My fellow classmates would complain and stuff their green jello dotted with yellow corn into their milk cartons to escape the scold of Sister Agnes, the looming protector against waste at the tray table. I, on the other hand, would be back in the kitchen trying to charm the older women in hairnets to plop another scoop of stuffing and chicken and gravy onto my plate. Older women in hairnets deserve their own national holiday in my book.

“We had 50 kids on Monday. There’re days we do 30. Every day is different.”

Christy Stroope is animated and friendly and broad-smiled as she stands behind a red bin in the lunch line. Christy is the juvenile court liaison and the family facilitator for outreach at Urbandale Schools.

“In summer, parents are working and if kids can come out of their houses and into the neighborhood where we can provide them with fruits, a vegetable, a yoghurt, then we know they are getting at least one good meal a day.”

Christy’s counterpart at Urbandale Middle School, Abby Schuller behind a green bin, chimes in:

“With this kind of program, which we share with Johnston Schools, we see a high number of kids who even need breakfast. When families are working, it’s hard to get lunches. We can help alleviate that stress over the summer.”

And the kids come. Older sisters corral their siblings from the swings and slides and hanging bars. Kids flow in from 68th Street, and Roseland Drive, and up from Urbandale Avenue. Everyone is well-mannered, gracious, and happy to be there. They line up and are handed their food. It soon disappears with everyone fed. A grand success.

This same scene occurs at dozens of sites around the metro area every Monday through Friday. Funding comes from the U.S. Department of Agriculture and from the individual school districts. Des Moines Public Schools have been doing it for more than 30 years and has 21 sites this year alone.

Unfortunately, I’m over the age to qualify for a free lunch. And at least today, no one has peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. And maybe older women with hairnets are a thing of the past now that I’m an old man. And if radish sandwiches were served, even if rebranded as BLT’s, the free-lunch program would die an untimely death.

But . . . for all of us bemoaning politics and climate and the price of corn . . . fifty kids were fed on Monday. No questions asked.

Tell that to Sister Agnes when you drop off your tray.

Joe

Nick Bustos is working. Back bent. Head down. Hands moving quickly but with certainty. The heady smell of polish and leather surrounds him. He is a block of a man — solid and determined, as he shines shoes on a late Monday afternoon at Denver International Airport.

Nick doesn’t know it, but he is my anchor.

See, I have a tendency to drift along at the airport, weaving from side to side, checking the gates, one shoe still untied from the security check, no belt because it’s too complicated to put it back on, and my flight ticket, my only tether to earth, clutched in a tight fist.

If we weren’t in an airport, you’d hand me a dollar and ask me not to drink it all up.

The problem is that everybody and everything is moving. People flow up one side of Concourse A in a whoosh and then down the other side in a whirl. Concourse A may actually be where Sisyphus pushes his roller bag up and down for all eternity. People are going places. Where? Got me, but everyone walks as if they are late for a funeral, which they really don’t want to attend, but there is that inheritance to collect. Serious business.

I gave up serious business years ago.

Look, isn’t that the same guy I’ve seen twice before? Are these folks just actors paid to walk up and down? And does the moving walkway actually stop in western Nebraska?

I take a breath . . .  and get rammed by a tall man in lederhosen. What did I tell you, actors going to a funeral. In lederhosen.

Up ahead, a dog gets on the walkway with his owner. The dog puts his front paws on, and then wisely decides to plop down in peaceful protest. He’s not stupid, he’s not getting on that. But the dog doesn’t foresee that his front paws will keep on moving while his hind legs, which started firmly on the ground, are along for the ride. Stretched out, the dog glides along on the walkway. Oblivious to fashion and the ridicule of his peers.

Thank goodness for Nick Bustos and his calm oasis.

“This is a fun job. We see people from all over the world.”

Nick continues polishing the shoes of his current customer, Dan Butterly, sitting in the end chair.

I stand next to him. Happy to be out of the rush.

Fun, you say, why?

“It’s fun because in 15 minutes we can bring shoes back alive. I like to see the expression on people’s faces, ‘I can’t believe my shoes.’ It’s kind of a great feeling.”

And to prove his point, Dan’s shoes begin to sparkle and shine bringing a smile and a laugh to them both.

“You’re frequently dealing with business people. Sometimes they just want a rest and not to talk. You give them a good shine and give them a big smile.”

And your favorite customer?

“My favorites are funny guys.” Nick pauses. “But really, I just like our work product. A Colorado shoeshine is famous in all the United States. We take care of the customers. We have a good method of shining shoes. And we are professional with the customers because they’re professionals.”

My goodness. And how long can you continue doing this?

“I’m 54 years olds. I’m going to do this as long as I can.” Nick laughs and goes back to work.

Someone you can count on.

But . . . apparently not on the Saturday of my next trip, Nick’s day off.

Bryan Sanchez, 18 years old, is the go-to guy on Saturdays and Sundays shining shoes in Concourse A.

“I love shining shoes. I meet people from all over the world. they tell me these crazy stories. I learn a lot from them. I’m interested in what they do, where they come from, their families. I’m just interested to hear things about people.”

Wow. And are your customers bothered by you being the age of their youngest child?

“People treat me with respect.” Bryan smiles. “I’m actually a senior in high school right now. People are mind blown when I tell them I’m a senior. They love to see a young person working. I get here at 7 in the morning and leave at 8 at night on Saturday.”

Do your buddies give you a hard time for shinning shoes?

“It catches people by surprise. ‘You shine shoes, that’s kind of weird.’ They don’t have any idea how cool it is, or what it involves, or the people I meet. . .  My friends think it’s cool.”

And the future?

“I plan on going to college. I’m definitely going to work here through college to help me pay for college. Make my parents proud.”

I suspect they’re beaming right now.

And a romantic interest?

“No girlfriend. But I’m talking to a girl.”

It’s time to catch my plane. I say farewell to Bryan and race for my gate with one shoe untied, no belt, and a crumpled ticket in my fist.

Outside the small window on the plane, the world moves past with an uncomfortable whoosh and a whirl. But the smell of polish and leather lingers in my nose as I sit in Seat 26A, thinking about Bryan’s interest in his customers’ lives, Nick bringing shoes back alive, and both loving their jobs.

They’re the real Colorado shoeshine.

But enough of that. I have to get home and talk to a girl.

Joe