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

The water keeps on coming. And coming. And coming. This always takes me by surprise. The rain was 12 hours ago. Come on, not a drop has fallen since early morning. But my basement, the one room in the house that my wife has loaned me, keeps filling up with ground water. There, over in that corner, it bubbles and gurgles, making fun of the uselessness of a rowing machine without a bow or a stern. The water is acting like a lithe teenager without achy knees or a temperamental back, dancing and cavorting in my basement and maybe sneaking a beer.

I get a portable sump pump, connect it to a hose, and stretch the hose out the basement window. I shoot a stream of water into the front yard as the sun shines in mockery.

I’m barely keeping up. What a mess.

Where did I go wrong? Did I choose the road well-travelled when I turned right on Merle Hay? Did I say no to the gift of imperfection because I wanted a more perfect gift? Did God close the door and then slam shut the window, forgetting I was still in the room?

Got me.

My wife is out of town, so I call my son to help me haul the water-sodden carpet up the stairs and into the garage. It weighs 3 million tons. We slide and push and pull and grunt and curse, until the rug sits dead on the floor of the garage, bleeding water. We collapse beside it. Co-conspirators in its untimely death.

I lay back on the wet carpet, feeling old.

My grandpa was old when I knew him. He and I lived together for awhile. He had diligently cared for my ill grandma for years and now he was single for the first time in over half a century. When he woke in the morning, I could see him through the bathroom door, his suspenders still attached to his ironed pants, his white union suit unbuttoned to his waist, as he shaved with a straight razor. A risky endeavor for even a young man without wrinkles.

All clean and shaved, he came into the kitchen and poured his black coffee into a cup which he carefully set in a shallow bowl. He then dumped a portion of the coffee into the bowl and dipped his toast.

He talked for the first time that day.

“Joe, did you see that dark-eyed, dark-haired woman on TV last night?” he’d say. “She was a beauty.”

And he’d smile with joy at the wonderful experience he had last night. The unexpected opportunity. A dream fulfilled.

I had not a clue who he was talking about. What dark-eyed, dark-haired woman on TV? I didn’t see a woman who looked like that.

Day after day, he would mention another “beauty” that he had seen. Another breath-taking opportunity. Another transcendent experience. A dark-eyed, dark-haired woman in the flesh.

One day his young friend, 10 years his junior at 84, came to visit. They laughed and talked and ate homemade cookies with candy bits cooked into the dough. A wonderful afternoon.

Afterwards he said, “Joe, my friend is a beauty. I love her dark hair and dark eyes.”

Trust me, this friend never had a dark hair or a dark eye in her life. And she was certainly iron gray at this point.

I was such a dope about this until long after his death. All women were dark-haired and dark-eyed for my grandpa. Why? Because he was eternally in love with my grandma, duh, a dark-eyed, dark-haired beauty. He missed her and saw her in every woman he met.

It was just a matter of perception, I guess.

Perhaps this perception thing will work for me as the water rises. So I climb up into the attic and find a box of old toys. Tucked in at the bottom of a box is a little kid’s boat. All three of my kids played with this boat in the bathtub. Why not? I go back down to my basement. I put the boat into the water. Give it a little push so that the water laps around the edges.

There you go. A delightful bathtub. In my basement. What a joy. Isn’t this great?

Well . . .  that was a dopey idea. What was I thinking? Now, I have a basement full of water AND I miss my grandpa.

My grandpa died a long time ago now. He was nearly 99 at the time. But he wasn’t done living, he told me shortly before his death. Really? 99 years isn’t enough? That’s after he remarked about the beautiful dark-eyed, dark-haired nurses in the hospital. Of course. I didn’t realize until I became an old man myself that he’d found his heaven long before his death.

May we all be so lucky.

Now, do you have an extra sump pump?

Joe

Sonya Rumbly smiles. A wide friendly smile. One that puts me at ease even though I’m surrounded by narrow walls of pink and glitter. Pink-and-glitter purses, pink-and-glitter backpacks, pick-and-glitter necklaces. Claire’s in Merle Hay Mall must be a paradise for 13-year-olds. And me.

“I’ll be with you in a minute,” Sonya says with a warm smile.

I look around but I seem to be the only 65 year old waiting in line.

In the tall chair out front is a mom wrestling with her baby girl as they prepare the little tyke for ear piercings. Soyna works hard to make the mom and baby comfortable. She explains all the procedures to the mom. She marks the ears of the baby. She plays with the baby. She wins the baby’s confidence. Comforting words and more comforting words and more comforting words. And then . . . poke.

Bloodcurdling screams.

I decide to flee the store.

Sure, this is just a baby getting pierced ears, someone 64 years younger than me, but babies don’t lie. Unfortunately, the mom is blocking the only exit with her baby stroller.

Help.

How did this happen?

It’s a fairly simple explanation — I have decided to become a cliche in old age.

Yeah, I know, cliches are bad. Cliches are cheap and easy and readily available. Cliches are doing the crazy no-carbs diet while waiting in line at Krispy Kreme Doughnuts. I’m all right with that.

Let’s face it, getting old is a cliche. Same old knee complaints and same old hip complaints and same old frequent bathroom stops. And let’s not forget that little invisibility issue that plagues older people, if you ever happen to see one.

Growing old. Cliche.

So why not embrace the cliche of it all by getting an earring.

“How can I help you?” Sonya says in a kind, gentle tone.

“I’d like to get one ear pierced.” My voice cracks when I say this.

She just smiles a comforting smile. “Wonderful.”

“Wonderful” as in this-guy-is-really-crazy-and-I’m-calling-security type wonderful or wonderful wonderful? I plunge ahead fairly certain she thinks I’m crazy.

“Listen, I’m getting an earring to remind to me to always choose purple,” I blurt out.

“Wearing purple,” comes from the 1961 poem by Jenny Joseph that begins:

“When I am an old woman I shall wear purple,

With a red hat that doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me.

I shall sit down on the pavement when I’m tired,

And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells.”

Sonya nods at hearing my rationale, much like she nodded when trying to comfort the baby girl. She’s just hoping I’ll sit still during the procedure and not wet my pants.

Fortunately, I still have enough of a filter to not mention my second reason for getting an earring — to become a pirate.

“Why don’t you get up in the chair,” she says in that soothing tone.

I do.

Is she a mesmerist?

The chair, although just outside the door, seems to sit nearly in the middle of Merle Hay Mall. As I sit down, I realize I look like a seal at the Blank Park Zoo, sitting on the big rocks, clapping and barking.

And people do look, by the way. A mall security guard comes over.

“Is this your first piercing?” She barely contains her smile.

Why would she smile? I’m a dangerous, virile, ominous man who should not be messed with. Particularly when I’m sitting in a high chair outside a room full of pink backpacks and glitter purses.

Sonya runs me through the ropes and then asks if I want a countdown before she pokes.

Really? I’d like a shred of manhood before you poke. Can’t you just make the hole with a .45 Colt Revolver? Or maybe you have a killer shark back there that can latch on to my ear while I eyeball it to death.

She pokes . . . .

Wives are funny. Over hundreds of miles and in a different time zone, they can tell when you’re being foolish. At this very moment, my wife FaceTimes me from Denver.

“What are you doing?” she says.

“Well, you’re not going to quite believe what I’m doing.” I say this trying to stifle the tears.

“Where are you? What’s all that pink and glitter?”

“I’m getting an earring . . . ”

I see the surprised look on my wife’s face and then she bends over. With uncontrolled laughter. The phone disconnects.

I love my wife. She supports me 100%. When I showed up at our wedding 38 years ago in my dad’s two-tone shoes and his too-large grey suit, she knew I was a catch.

After a bit, she FaceTimes back, still grinning. She explains she had to run and tell my son and daughter-in-law, who can’t come to the phone because they are also laughing.

I show her the earring.

She shakes her head with a smile, “You know, an old man getting an earring wasn’t even that cool 25 years ago.”

Let me help you with a translation of that observation: “Joe, you are so amazing!”

So, here I am, wearing purple.

Oh yeah, and don’t forget that other reason for getting an earring. “Ahoy me hearties.”

Which reminds me, Sonya, does Claire’s carry eyepatches?

Joe

The old woman sits on the sidewalk in a white plastic chair that’s missing an arm. Her many-times-too-big jacket is tucked tightly around her waist and her wool hat is pulled down snug around her smelted-iron gray hair. She watches the street with a flat expression as she leans back against a chain link fence that protects this small dirt lot in Brooklyn, New York.

Yup, I am totally staring at her as I’m walking the streets of Brooklyn waiting for a family wedding to start.

Suddenly, the old woman sits up and looks at me looking at her. She grins.

It’s no secret, I’m partial to older women. Always have been. Even before I became an old man myself, I thought there was some kind of magic surrounding older women that made them tough and unbending and willing to say whatever they think to anyone who is in need of a little instruction. Old women earned this right from a lifetime of holding it all together — work, kids, marriages, deaths, birthday gifts, shopping lists, changing the cat litter — so that the rest of us didn’t have to do it.  And now as old women, they are sharp-witted and hard. And most importantly, they have no time for fools.

“Piano may not really be your path.” This was the piano teacher of my youth, Mrs. Russell, who I returned to as an adult student during my college years. She smiled and laughed and taught me my favorite Elton John songs well into her 80’s as she tapped along with her narrow wooden pointer.

“You don’t think I’ll make my living from playing the piano?”

“Nope,” she said matter-of-factly. And offered me some homemade apple pie, something I was good at mastering.

Okay, check that career off the list.

“You need to actually ask a girl out to get a date,” said my two old aunts, who took care of each other as they aged. As I entered my early 20’s, they frequently invited me for fine dining in Davenport, Iowa, where they lived. I’d pick them up and they’d be dressed in their best cotton dresses with hats and gloves and necklaces. We’d cross the Mississippi River and eat in some darkened restaurant with candlelight and laughter.

“Do you want an alcoholic drink?” says my Aunt Rita at the end of our meal.

Really?

“Yes, we’re all going to have Grasshoppers,” my Aunt Cecelia chimes in.

By the way, older women liquored up are even more dangerous than regular older women.

“Joe, you know you have to ask a girl out to actually get a date?” begins Aunt Cecelia after finishing her drink.

“And the long hair, Joe, do you think that’s attractive?” tag-teams Aunt Rita. “And what are you doing about your skin?”

Then they both grin with tight mouths and dancing eyes and poke me in the ribs with those sharp elbows older women hone for these types of occasions.

I got their point.

“Joe, you need to treat people a little less like a lawyer.” Shirley, an older cop, would sit my young prosecutor naiveté in a chair and tell me in her crusty, gravely voice what was really going on.

“This is not a murder. It’s two families feuding and a horrible accident happened.”

How do you know?

“Because I talked to all the witnesses who refused to talk to the investigators.”

Why did they talk to you?

“Because I smoked a cigarette with them, we shared a pop, and I treated them like real people.”

Well, they didn’t teach that in law school . . . but Shirley, who never minced a word, taught an advanced course in Empathy 101.

Meanwhile, here I am in Brooklyn and the old woman continues to grin at me.

“Beautiful day,” I say.

In strongly accented English, she says, “It is beautiful day.”

The dirt lot behind the woman was a hodgepodge of old plastic buckets, a wooden boat sitting on end against a shed, and a red-hatted gnome placed high on a pigeon coop. A dozen pigeons pecked at the dry dirt.

“Is this your home?” I ask, eyeballing the gnome.

“Yes, but from Poland.”

Trying to smooth the conversation, I say, “Your English is quite good.”

She nods in agreement.

“Where is your home?” she says to me.

I am surprised by her question.

“Iowa.”

She chews on that for a bit, scratches the side of her wire hair, and then says:

“Your English not so good.”

Whaaaaat? Is she being sassy?

And she chuckles, rocks back against the metal fence, gives me a warm smile, refuses a picture, and resumes watching the street.

See, what did I tell you, older women . . . no time for fools.

Joe

Traveling with my mom was for most of my life the stuff of one of those late-night dreams we all have at one time or another — and not those good dreams. Rather the dreams where you forget to go to an important test at school. Or you are falling down into a bottomless pit of nothingness. Or on your way to mandatory sexual harassment classes you realize you forgot your pants. You know, the kind of dream where you wake up with such anxiety that you go into the bathroom and place your forehead against the cool floor for a brief spell.

Perhaps the idea of traveling with my mom was a little chilling because I come from a family of eight kids. Our only mode of transportation was a station wagon. A trip of any length naturally required two necessities: food and bathroom breaks. But my mom was raised in a different time . . . where apparently there was not a lot of time for either.

Our family would be roaring down some highway and one of the three kids in the trunk area would yell that they had to go to the bathroom. Back would be passed the white porcelain pot, which, after a bit would be passed back up to be dumped out a side window. At 60 miles per hour. The contents forever scarred the side of our station wagon, along with all our psyches.

And at the hotel at night, out came the electric frying pan in which everything was prepared, from fried eggs to beef stroganoff. You want fast food? Here, have a piece of fried bologna.

I loved my mom. Still do. But I was always just slightly embarrassed. No other station wagons had that wet streak along the side. My friends all ate fast-food burgers and fries. And, really, who has eight children anyway?

Yup, I was a dope.

My mom is 92 years old now. She’s in good health for her age. And she and I are flying to New York City for the wedding of her grandson. She wheel-chairs through security and gets deposited in the seats outside our gate. She slips the wheel chair attendant some money she has set aside in separate envelopes (how did she know to do that?) and the wheel chair disappears. All is well.

But then the battery in her hearing aid dies. So she and I walk nearly the exact same distance as was covered by the wheelchair only to discover the Des Moines International Airport doesn’t carry hearing aid batteries. She walks back laughing. Unable to hear in one ear, but laughing.

Then she walks to the bathroom and stands in line with about 10 other women.

During all this? She is having the time of her life.

Finally, we get situated back out in front of the gate.

“Are you hungry?” she asks upon sitting.

She reaches into her voluminous purse.

“Hey, mom, do you have an electric skillet in there?” I crack myself up. Hah-hah.

She digs deep into the purse ignoring me.

She breaks into a big grin and hands over the carefully wrapped surprise — homemade cheese sandwiches.

Really? Are you messing with me? And you brought them through security? What else is in that purse? Are we actually driving an old station wagon to New York City? I refuse to go to the bathroom in that porcelain pot. And you also brought cut-up apples?

She just smiles. As do I.

I will wager that my 92-year-old mom and her 65-year-old son were the only people in that airport leaning back, rubbing elbows, and eating homemade cheese sandwiches.

The stuff of good dreams.

Joe

I sit slowly drinking a margarita when the song comes floating above the tables, around the freshly-painted room, and bumps up against me at the bar. The old man plays the melody with his thumb, the chorus with his fingers, and the Spanish words are sung softly. A one-man band. The song is unhurried and melodic, belonging to an older time.

And the guitar he’s playing? My goodness. It also belongs to an older time. It is chipped, faded, and peeling. Perhaps it was placed a little too close to the fire one day at some sing-along high up in the mountains. Or left out in the rain during a raucous rock festival. Or maybe even accidentally dropped off a truck.

More likely, the guitar has been played so hard and has been around so long, its musical bones are starting to show through the wood and age spots have appeared on its old veneer. But it plays faithfully.

“My name is Alfonso Martinez. I am 83 years old.”

Alfonso Martinez doesn’t speak English. I don’t speak Spanish. One of the owners of the restaurant where Alfonso plays, El Patron Mexican Restaurant & Cantina on Douglas Avenue, translates for me.

“I don’t know exactly why I started playing. Since I was little, I used to play the guitar.”

Alfonso Martinez strums slowly. A young couple comes into the restaurant and sits. After a bit, Alfonso excuses himself, walks over, sets down his tip jar, and begins playing. The song starts gentle and aching, then soars into the chorus, and then back to a lingering regret.

“This guitar has seen some use. It’s very old since Mexico. I brought it from Mexico.”

Alphonso stands next to me at the bar. Ramrod stiff. All business, as I sip my margarita and ask questions.

Mexico is where Alphonso was born and raised. He used to work for an advertising company there, but even then he would bring his guitar to work and play for people at lunch and during breaks. Eventually, he quit his job and began playing in restaurants. But then he saw an opportunity in the U.S.

“One of my friends brought me to Des Moines. It was many years ago that he brought me here.”

Alphonso begins to play his guitar as we speak. Picking and strumming.

“My voice is unique for here. I used to play in the Skywalk downtown. And I would play on the bridges.”

He leaves again to serenade an older couple in one of the brightly painted booths. A romantic tune. Slow and quiet, but then with a refrain that builds and builds, until he finishes the song with a crash of chords and vocals. The older couple and the other patrons applaud.

People are not exactly sure how to respond to a modern-day troubadour in a restaurant. After the first song, however, everyone settles in for a little show with dinner.

“It gives me joy to play for people. It is why I do it. I have people who return and watch me play. That is important to me.”

So, how many songs do you know, Alphonso?

“I know a lot of songs,” Alphonso says.

More than 20? says the lawyer in me.

He laughs. “More than 300.”

When do you play at El Patron?

“I play on Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. 5-8 p.m.”

And the rest of the time?

“I walk the rest of the time.”

Do you think about retiring?

“Retire?” Alphonso is amused by the question. “Always, forever play. I am going to die singing and playing the guitar.”

Alphonso leaves me at the bar to play for the folks in the other room. Straight-backed. Drake Relays cap firmly pushed down. Creased pants, ironed and pressed. Plaid vest buttoned down tight. Shoes polished.

It’s show time.

A slow strum. Just a light caress across the strings. A gentle plucking. And the guitar, beaten-up and aged and scarred, sends perfect chords echoing softly through the restaurant.

And then the old man begins to sing.

Joe

I sit at the bar at the Denver International Airport and watch Garth Brooks watch me drink a glass of wine. Apparently, he and I go way back and are closer than I thought. It’s nice to have a drinking buddy at the airport. Especially one that is such a good listener.

Why am I sitting alone with Garth drinking a glass of wine at the Denver International Airport?

Well, I’m waiting for my flight and it dawns on me that I have all the wrong clothes. Yup, everyone has a water bottle attached to their backpack. I don’t even have a backpack. Then they have a pillow either around their neck or jauntily off to the side. A pillow? No one told me that I was supposed to bring my own linens to the airport. See, I didn’t know there was a dress code. Ever since 5th grade, I’ve been just a step or two behind high fashion. It’s my gift.

And, then, there’s the bathroom issue. Listen, I was raised a Catholic. We don’t have bodily functions. Since people are not supposed to have bodily functions, why are all these people joining me in the bathroom at the airport? This is making me uncomfortable. I may never go to the bathroom again.

Could everyone please leave? Thank you.

Finally, there was the incident on the way to the airport.

My wife and I stopped at a Denver Starbucks for a latte and chat before I left town. We sat at a table and talked as old married people do — I aggressively defended the position that I’m not a dope and my wife patiently set out the clear rationale as to why that category best defines the real me.

Thirty-eight years of marriage. She’s so head-over-heels for me.

I glance out the window and see a homeless couple scouring the parking lot for dropped money. As they make their way towards the busy street, I see an item of clothes left outside the door of the Starbucks. They must have walked right past it. Or maybe it dropped off the layer of rags they are wearing. A sad little pile left in front of the door.

As my wife and I leave, stepping carefully around the abandoned clothes like it was a dead squirrel squashed on the street, my wife suddenly exclaims: “Is that YOUR underwear?”

It is my underwear, folks. Yup, my green boxers are sitting in a clump in front of the Starbucks. For the last hour.

Okay, maybe my wife’s “dope” argument is not that farfetched. When I switched out of my dirty work clothes and put on my jeans, there must have been a spare pair of underwear stuck up the leg. And there they are. My underwear. In front of Starbucks.

And then it also dawned on me — my clothes were rejected by the homeless couple. They walked right on past. Not good enough to make the cut. This was a layer they didn’t want.

As they love to say in law school, “Who’s ox just got gored?”

Although, my youngest adult/child, when told this story, asked, with some mortification: “Did you pick them up?”

I’m afraid so.

Unsurprisingly, I am now sitting at a bar in the airport talking with Garth. Alone. With all my underwear in the right location, no water bottle attached to a nonexistent backpack, and having successfully found an empty bathroom.

And, yes, Garth, I will take another glass.

Joe

Frankly, the joy of being a grandpa caught me by surprise.

Listen, I’ve raised three kids, I know what children are all about. And, by the way, where is the gold watch for that job? After bleeding and suffering for each, giving them the best years of my life, all three have told me I can stop parenting them — now!

“Dad. Really. You have to go home, don’t call us, stop writing long texts and emails, no more FaceTime. Please leave.”

But what if they’re making the wrong decisions? What if they choose the wrong friends and the wrong partners? What if the sky is actually falling, and they’re eating sushi rather than taking cover? Who’s going to tell them, “Sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite”?

I guess not me.

And don’t think I’ve been some ne’er-do-well who’s lazed their way through life and have all my eggs in this new grandpa basket. I tried to be a good prosecutor. Although I think I still carry the distinction of losing two murder cases against the same guy for two different murders. Perhaps that is why I primarily taught — cops, judges, lawyers. It was a good gig. How often do you get to teach a roomful of people who are all armed to the teeth, who are temperamentally aggressive, and who know more than you? I always felt a class was a success if I didn’t get shot. I taught with a thin veneer of bravado. Swore a lot. Got in people’s faces. Bulldogged around the lecture halls. Hoping always that folks wouldn’t figure out that I was terrified out of my mind. I was.

And I’m not dumb about relationships. Look, I’m still married. Same woman. The love of my life. We have grown old together. Although, this has allowed her grievances against me to accumulate into topical headings with subgroups and footnotes. For example, a recent failure to buy the correct yogurt. This error gets filed under the fairly innocuous category of “being a dope.” Ah, but “being a dope” gets filed under “failure to listen.” “Failure to listen” works its way up to “not standing up for my wife.” “Not standing up for my wife” finally gets to my family of origin — a repository of ill will that requires marital counseling, expensive gifts, and self-flagellation. And the source of all this disaster? Yup, vanilla yogurt rather than plain. There’s a certain beauty to this system, which I am still learning to appreciate.

But being a grandpa? I was so ready to be underwhelmed. To protect myself, I staked out my position early on.

“I’m not going to let any grandchild become the center of my life. I’ve got things to do. Stories to write. Places to visit. Wine to drink. I am not ready to be put out to pasture and left doddering with a new baby.”

I would usually say this with quite a bit of gusto and harrumphing and maybe even the stomp of a foot.

My wife would just smile, which of course irritated the dickens out of me and only made me put my position into concrete, forever, take-it-to-the-grave-type pronouncements.

Then the Denver snows melted and the darn baby arrived between storms — born a mile high.

Juliette.

See, I just didn’t know the secret. Because, of course, everybody talked about grand-parenting in such mewly terms.

“Oh, you’ll just love love love this little bundle of life.”

Are you serious? How’s that work for you when some little kid and her poor bedraggled parents are sitting behind you on the plane or at a movie or in the restaurant?

“You can spoil that grand baby without a hint of any concern for good parenting.”

Really? Sixty-five years of pretending to be the responsible guy in the room are going to just vanish and you’re going to suddenly wear a purple hat and dance naked downtown under the Crusoe Umbrella? I’m not holding my breath.

“You’ll see your legacy actually continue through the generations.”

Legacy? What’s that mean? When my first son was born, my mom said, “Thank goodness, your son doesn’t have your ears.” Well, that was a legacy averted. Whew.

No, But there is a secret not talked about. And it’s the real deal. It’s why you want a grandkid. It’s the big bonanza.

Here’s how it plays . . .

I was holding Juliette one night for a couple of hours, somewhere between midnight and 2 a.m. and I was telling her over and over as I snuggled her: “You are strong; you are beautiful.” My quirky idea of giving her the right tools for a good life.

And it hit me.

You get to clean-slate your own life. You get to be strong. You get to be beautiful. All those things you messed up, all the things you wished you’d done differently, all those times you wished you would have said the right thing, done the right thing, thought the right thing — this is your chance. Brand new little person. No judgements made by her. Your record is expunged and you’re off probation.

You are born again in the eyes of the just born.

That’s the secret, that’s the joy, of being a grandpa.

Born again grandpas.

You heard it here first.

Joe