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

I’ve been lost as a child. It was in an Iowa cornfield. You know, you’re young, you’re playing around with your cousins, running and hiding and yelling, and then, suddenly, you are completely lost. Green stalks block your vision in every direction. Is that the decaying remains of an old cornstalk or is that a child-eating snake? Of course it is a snake, and of course you look like a Tasty Tater from Tasty Tacos. One more statistic in the declining rural population.

I’ve been lost as an adult. It was driving to crime scenes as a prosecutor. There was no such thing as a cell phone in those days. I’d find a phone booth somewhere on Ingersoll or Hickman or wherever and call police dispatch. It wasn’t a stretch to imagine the conversation after I hung up. “It’s Weeg again. Lost. He’s at that phone booth on Ingersoll. I don’t know how he’s going to write a search warrant when he can’t even find the crime scene. He’s a dope.” And then a little while later I’d call from a phone booth on Douglas Avenue, still lost. I was always thankful my wife, who whole-heartedly agreed with the dispatchers’ assessment of my abilities, was home asleep.

But lost in Venice?

Lord, Des Moines is 12 hours away by plane. I am lost. My wife is lost. Our GPS on the phone is lost. And the water is rising. So much so, they’re selling plastic-bag booties to walk across St. Mark’s Square.

“Come into my restaurant. The best food in Venice.”

We stumble out of a dark alley and see a well-dressed man in the middle of the street, hands outstretched, large smile, ushering us into his restaurant.

He pulls the chair out for my wife, he smooths the table-cloth, he helps with the coats. He stands at attention in his white-pressed shirt and tightly tied half-apron. Waiting for us to settle. Then his hands take flight to explain the Italian-only menu and life in general.

Dario has been a server for 46 years. This is his profession and his love.

“I started when I was 14. An old waiter from a restaurant trained me. He taught me: tie the cloth on the wine; greet the guests; go and open the door; say goodbye. It must be personal. It is always personal.”

And Dario smiles, steps to my right. Pours the wine. Wipes the side of the bottle with a white cloth. And with a small flourish, ties the cloth around the bottle.

“There is no quality now. Some places cook pasta before and warm it up. Homemade pasta must be cooked on the moment. Only fresh vegetables. Broth with the head of the fish, not powder.”

Dario shakes his head, befuddled at the notion of a microwave for anything.

Dario, you are not a young man, where does this all end?

“Maybe I don’t stop working. Maybe I go on a trip. I think I would do this when I am very old. Maybe a small house in south Italy by the sea with a garden and grow tomatoes.” 

Dario, before we go I must admit that we are lost. How do we get home?

“Venice is a very small city. If you want to go anywhere, just walk.”

So we do. Until we are again lost in the narrow alleyways.

We cross a bridge into a small neighborhood. Ah, the Jewish Ghetto of Venice. Hidden away among the buildings are five synagogues, beginning from the 1500’s. Their story is the precarious story of the Jews worldwide. The word “ghetto” is thought to have first originated in Venice. On March 29, 1516, the Venice Senate issued a decree:

“The Jews must all live together in the Corte de Case, which are in the Ghetto near San Girolamo; and in order to prevent their roaming about at night: let their be built two Gates. . . and [they] shall be closed at midnight by four Christian guards appointed and paid by the Jews.” Riccardo Calimani, The Ghetto of Venice.

Yup, not only were the Jews imprisoned but they had to pay for the guards. Unbelievable. Now we are both lost, and sad.

We stumble out of the Ghetto and wander for blocks until we come across Giorgio. A complete change of tune. Giorgio Galasso works in a tiny shop down a narrow street as a mask-maker.

“My family lived in Venice since the 16th century. Before this I was an artisan of wood. There is no school in Venice for the mask. To learn, it is necessary to find other people who do the work.”

And Giorgio found those people and became a master mask-maker. He now teaches mask-making workshops around Italy and elsewhere. Although, with his malleable face and striking features, it is tempting to think Giorgio might have become one of his creations, like dog owners become their dogs.

“The mask exists because a segment of Venetian people used to be very rich. For 50 days there was carnival. All the people are the same during carnival because everyone wears a mask — the rich and the poor. The mask is really democratic. Everyone is equal during carnival.”

Good to know. But, Giorgio, with all your experience of Venice . . . how do we get unlost?

“You cannot get lost in Venice. It is an island. Just walk to the edge.”

Really?

Sure enough, Giorgio is right. There’s the edge.

Now, is that Des Moines in the distance? Got me. What’s that number for police dispatch?

Joe

They laugh. And not just with their mouths, like your teenage kids do when you tell a joke. Instead, their eyes sparkle, tear up, close tight, and sparkle again. Even their ears twitch. I mean real laughter.

And everyone and everything is fair game for their laughter: the President of France, their age, marriage, religion, Frenchmen . . . and me.

“Where are you from?” they ask.

Iowa, I say.

“Texas?”

No, Iowa.

“Ohio?”

No, Iowa.

“Oh, Eeowa.”

Uproarious laughter!

Really? Are you kidding me? This is the level of our humor today? I can’t help but smile.

This all began simply enough. I needed to find a leather-bag-repair-shop in Carcassonne, France. Apparently, I had stuffed one too many bottles of wine, hunks of cheese, and loaves of bread into my little leather bag and the strap snapped in complaint. A shoe-repair store seemed the ticket. So I found Cordonnerie Traditionnelle.

“Today is a special day. I kiss you.”

I guess this is what happens at a French shoe-repair store. Heck, what would have happened if I brought in boots to repair?

The traditional French kiss, left cheek then right, came from Mokhtar Bendahmane. Mokhtar had been called in by the shoe-repairman, Emmanuel Delcambre, to translate for us.

“Mokhtar, can I take a picture of you and Emmanuel?”

“Excuse me,” Mokhtar says. And he takes off to the back room.

Did I offend him?

Shortly, he returns dressed in a beret, a jacket, and a blue scarf.

What? You have French picture props?

He and Emmanuel are once more driven to laughter by Mokhtar’s antics.

Mokhtar begins to translate for us as I ask Emmanuel questions.

“I only repair shoes and pieces of leather for horses. I have been here 25 years. I am 68. For 22 years, I lived in a community. The aim was to live a Christian life and experiment with another kind of society, living an orthodox life with less power.”

Emmanuel looks like an ascetic monk dressed as a shoe repairman. I point this out to Emmanuel.

“There’s a story we tell to kids,” Emmanuel says. “St. Antoine goes into the desert and survives on almost nothing. He is the classic ascetic monk. One day an angel comes and says to Saint Antoine, ‘You are a great saint. I bring you to Cairo. I’m going to show you to someone.’ The angel took him to a shop of a very poor shoemaker. The angel says to St. Antoine, ’The shoemaker is a greater saint.’”

St. Antoine is flabbergasted and in total disbelief.

“St. Antoine says to the shoemaker, ‘Do you pray? The shoemaker says no. St. Antoine says to the shoemaker, ‘Do you sacrifice?’ The shoemaker says no. ‘Do you give up sleeping?’ The shoemaker says no. ‘Do you give up eating?’ The shoemaker again says no. ‘How is this better than me?’ Saint Antoine says to the angel. ‘He is more humble,’ says the angel.”

Really?

“I am not the shoemaker, by the way,” Emmanuel quickly adds.

“He is that close,” says his friend Mokhtar gesturing with his hands inches apart.

What about your job, Emmanuel?

“When I started this job,” Emmanuel says, “I discovered I was the king of the world. Because by this work, I can eat, my family can eat, I do something I love very much. I love working with my hands. It varies each day. I have no boss above me. One day a woman slapped her small son in my shop. I told her she would have to leave if she did that. I can allow whatever I want in my home.”

“He can dance when he wants,” Mokhtar adds. Of course, this observation required that Mokhtar dance a small jig.

It is time for Emmanuel and Mokhtar to get back to work. But Mokhtar leans in before leaving:

“One journalist asked the Dalai Lama, ‘What is the difference between somebody we know for a long time and a person who is a new friend?’”

Mokhtar gives me his last smile.

“The Dalai Lama said, ’No difference.’”

Kiss left cheek, kiss right cheek.

Joe

Although this is beginning to sound like an old love song, I have been hacked one more time. The post “Learn More About Who seems to be Worried About Shopping Essays and Why You Need to Caution” is not mine. I’m so sorry.

After the first hack, I purchased all sorts of neat-sounding services (is a “firewall” actually like a wall of fire?). But here I am. Hacked.

It feels a little like the Ghosts of Christmas might be visiting me for past wrongs. Hopefully this will soon be resolved by my malware service . . . and Bob Cratchit can carve the turkey and Tiny Tim will walk again.

Thank you for your patience.

Joe