The retired Navy captain sat across the table at Smokey Row Coffee. Totally composed. Taking my measure is my guess.

I start to feel a little warm under her scrutiny.

Let’s see — unwavering eye contact, upright posture, an open smile. Check, check, and check. Naval Captain Megan Klee, retired, is on a campaign.

“I decided I wanted to actually see all the presidential candidates in person. It is different to see them in person where you get more than a sound bite.”

Klee is making the rounds from her home base in Des Moines. She and her husband, Allan Kniep, make forays out to Waukee, or Urbandale, or Oskaloosa to hear and talk to the candidates. But Klee is not a passive observer of these events.

“To see the candidates in person isn’t as much as I’d hoped it would be because the candidates are speaking to their own true believers. And even when it’s an open forum, they still think they are speaking only to their own true believers. And kind of shocked when they aren’t.  So . . . I ask questions.”

No surprise. I would wager she’s used to getting answers. Klee was 27 when she joined the Navy Officer Candidate School after working for several years as a speech pathologist.

“I joined the Navy because I was interested in computers. I thought there was more of a future in that than speech pathology. I was told I could get into the field through the Navy. And that’s exactly what happened.”

I’m not surprised.

“My other reason is that I wanted to travel.”

And travel Klee did.

“My first tour was to Washington D.C. to a computer command. My second tour was in Naples, and then I was sent to Sicily. I spent two years as the officer in charge of the communication facility there. I went from there to the naval postgraduate school in Monterey. I then went to Norfolk, Virginia, in another officer-in-charge position.”

Wow, and then did you retire?

“After Norfolk, I went to Japan as an executive officer. Spent a couple of years there. Then back to Washington D.C. where I was with the Joint Chiefs of Staff and that was the time Colin Powell was the Chairman. So I worked for him. I did that for two years.”

My head is spinning, but she doesn’t stop.

“I went to an island in the middle of nowhere called Diego Garcia to run their communications. Diego Garcia is south of India. I then got a job north of Malibu at a space command where we monitored various space things.”

Space things? Really?

“Then I wrangled a job in London for a couple years.”

Of course you did.

“My last tour was in San Diego. I was in command there of about 500 people.”

Ah, so then you retired?

“From the military. But before I did, I saw an ad for the Los Angeles Unified School District. The second largest school district in the U.S. They hired me to be their first chief information officer for the school system.”

My goodness.

And now you are twice retired and visiting with candidates. How’s that going?

“Trump had a free lunch in Oskaloosa. By the time we were done eating, the auditorium was full. So we were going over into the overflow area and someone said, ‘We have to fill up the front two rows, do you want to go over there?’ So we did. We are sitting in the second row. No further away than two yards. Fairly close. I could see the spit coming out of his mouth. What was interesting is that there is a slew of true believers in there, screaming and yelling.  And these front two rows were just people sitting — not true believers. He kept looking at us like what was wrong with us. But again interesting. It was an oratory full of insults.”

But you do like to engage the candidate?

“I feel asking questions is my one opportunity. Rick Santorum asked the audience a rhetorical question: ‘Do any of you want your taxes raised?’ Allan and I raised our hands. We think we could pay more, and there are things necessary to maintain the country, like infrastructure.”

My guess is that you were the only two.

“You  know, it’s easy to go listen to people you agree with. But I think it’s also important that you go listen to the people you don’t agree with.”

And what conclusions do you draw from all your experience?

“I think we’ve lost a sense of owing something to society as a whole. You don’t hear candidates ask the American people what they’re willing to do. Like Kennedy said — not what the country can do for you, but what you can do for the country. I think there needs to be more demands of the American people as to what are they willing to contribute rather than people just looking at government as the bad guy and not wanting to pay taxes.”

You sound like an activist.

“It is kind of in my genes to be an activist. I don’t think necessarily that you can change the world, but if you don’t try, that’s wrong. And too often I’ve been successful nudging things the direction I think they should go in my work and in my life. You’re not going to get change unless you push for change.”

Klee smiles. Open and unguarded. Unwavering eye contact. Upright posture.

And off she goes to visit her next candidate. To listen and analyze. To ask her questions. To take their measure. And ours.

Joe

Iowans pride themselves on not being rude.

“Please. Sit down. Can I get you a cup of coffee? Do you want a slice of pie with that?”

It may explain how in a state that has conservative leanings, we early on embraced racial equality, women’s rights, and gay marriage. It’s simple. It’s not that we are some great progressive society. It’s just rude to treat people rudely. Every Iowan knows this from an early age.

Also, it is a common politeness to ask where a person works. In fact, it is rude not to ask.

So, of course, I asked — what do you do for your job?

“I’m the president of Alliance Technologies.”

Wow, really? The president?

Steve Sikkink shrugs self-consciously.

“Well, we started Alliance Technology in 1994. We are a comprehensive IT solution partner.”

Sikkink has a broad smile, bright blue eyes, and not a smidgeon of guile that I can detect. He speaks English. Nothing is garbled. I can even identify the subject and the verb of both sentences he spoke. Shouldn’t I be able to understand “a comprehensive IT solution partner”?

Trust me, I don’t.

And it reminds me of all the conversations I’ve had with people who identify themselves as doing IT work. “Yes, that’s short for Information Technology,” they always helpfully add. Did that help you?

Not for the first time, I’m suspicious that IT doesn’t really exist. Perhaps all these people who say their work is in information technology are really going bowling. Or is it possible that IT is part of a larger conspiracy involving smart phones, the demise of Dahl’s grocery store, and the Des Moines Water Works? Clearly, anything is possible.

But here’s my chance to get to the bottom of this. I begin a steady barrage of questions to ferret out the truth.

Let’s start at the beginning, I say cunningly.

“I was a student intern at Weitz Corporation in Des Moines while I was going to Central College in Pella. I was captain of the basketball team, but I carried a briefcase on the bus back when no one carried a briefcase.”

Sikkink is a self-described business-nerd who got in at the ground floor of the computer transformation. “Grew up in hotbed of conspiracy,” I jot in my notepad.

“I had a double major, business management and information systems. Computers just weren’t there yet. If you wanted to do computers, you did math. I didn’t want to do math.  So I did information systems.”

Sikkink stayed with Weitz after college, and he and his partner began solving business issues by using computers.

“I was programming. It was a great opportunity for me. I could make a computer do something. People would come to me and say, ‘Could you write a program to help me do general ledgers or accounts payable?’ Of course.”

However, to Sikkink’s dismay, most folks were sticking with the tried and true.

“To watch people who had done things manually to switch to an automated system was amazing. Initially they wanted us to pave cow paths. People would tell you how they did it manually, and they’d ask if I could do it with the computer. People didn’t understand that the real improvement wasn’t just repeating the same winding steps that they did manually, paving the cow path, but it was to reinvent the process entirely — make a new path.”

Okay, “paving cow paths”? Did he just say that? I think I’m wearing him down.

“I didn’t want to just be a geeky programmer. I wanted to be a tool to help us accomplish a new way to do things.”

I didn’t want to tell Sikkink that it might be too late to ditch the geeky programmer label.

“Back when we started you had to do everything. We bought the hardware, we did the wiring, we had to make sure it was being backed up, we had to write the software, we inherited phone systems, which had their own wiring and their own networks. We had to work through all the data communications. We had to do it all.”

Sure you did. And now?

“You don’t need a computer anymore. We will fix your issues. We have 150 employees with connections to multiple services. There is no need to even come to your location. We have clients who are being served by people they’ve never met. It is very efficient. But a very different way to serve. What this misses is the people, and people still want to be treated as people.”

Ah, a businessman philosopher.

“Concern for employees and customers is the constant. Technologies have come and gone. Systems and solutions have come and gone. What hasn’t changed? Good employees and valued clients.”

My oh my. A passionate businessman philosopher.

“I get excited about a vision. The only constant is change. Especially in IT. The vendors prominent in the 80s are mostly gone. Pioneer and Wells Fargo have IT departments bigger than our whole company. But medium to small businesses have the same problems as these big companies and need our help. That is sort of my vision these days. I’m not an IT purist. I’d say IT was just a skill that allowed me to get to where I really wanted to get — to help businesses solve their issues.”

Here’s my chance!

So, is there such a thing as IT?

Laughter.

“I don’t think IT really exists,” Sikkink says with twinkling eyes. Then, getting serious, he continues, “I will say one thing, IT is certainly changing and evolving into something different.”

Hah! It’s too late. I have what I came for. The dark underbelly of IT — it doesn’t really exist. You heard it here first.

Sikkink thanks me for the chat and heads back to work. At least so he says.

Now I just have to get to the bowling alley before he does. I don’t want to be rude.

Joe

“Dad says it is your turn to go down the hill with me.”

The young girl, her right side dipped in snow, her stocking cap covering only one ear, and a plastic blue sled trailing in her wake, looks up expectantly at the group of three moms standing at the top of the hill. It appears the infamous “dad” is somewhere down at the bottom of the hill. Flat on his back is my guess.

All three women have their arms crossed tightly against their layered coats. They gaze out at the bedlam overtaking Waveland Golf Course. The moms have clearly done their part to get the children out sledding. Coats, boots, mittens, scarves, hats. Check, check, check, and check. And then they’ve packed the kids into the car and gotten them safely to the hills. Quite a chore. Whew. Unfortunately, the young girl does not realize that the moms are now off the clock. They are drinking coffee and hot chocolate. They have done enough for today. Responsibility over. One mom helpfully clarifies the situation.

“Tell dad that it is still his turn.”

A sledding hill always has two perspectives, depending upon where you’re standing in the arc of your life. When you’re at the top and young, the hill is about the excitement of going down, the anticipation of speed, the rush of wind, the loss of balance, the delight of falling. When you’re at the bottom and not so young, the hill is about making it once more back to the top, the heavy slog through the snow, the leaden drag of the sled, the sound of air harshly drawing through your nose and mouth, and the fear of falling on the icy slope.

Really?

Yup, because for every delighted child, there’s a dad (or mom) at the bottom of the hill. He’s rubbing that sore hip as he lies on his back wondering if this is the good death of which the heroes of old spoke. Probably not. And, on top of his awareness of his lack of heroic dimensions, and the equally hard realization that he’s not going to be doing the bobsled run with Lolo at the next Olympics, all he can hear as he rests in the snow is the peel of children — loudly laughing, delightfully screaming, and excitedly shouting.

It’s hard for him not to smile at the joy of it all. Or is that rigor mortis setting in?

Let’s pause for a moment while dad recovers. In January of 1920, the Iowa Supreme Court faced a slippery issue involving sledding. The facts were not complicated, if you ignore the legal mess.

“We’ve kind of been cooped up over the weekend and we are just ready to get out and have fun.”

Carla Orr is laughing and talking to me, while her kids and the neighbor kids she brought along are running around, asking her questions, and just in general wanting her attention. Then suddenly, off the kids go, flying down the hill.

“The kids love to get fresh air. We have twins and triplets. So if we stay inside too long, we are going to go crazy.”

Amen to narrowly avoiding that disaster.

Bill and Carla Orr watch their brood rush down the hill. And they pause momentarily at the top, posing in the moment of quiet.

And what after this?

“We will spend the afternoon out here, and then we’ll go home and have hot chocolate.”

Of course you will.

Carla laughs softly. She and Bill bump against each other. More smiles. Then down the slope they go. Mom and dad chasing the kids.

Mmmm . . . so much for the strict rules of Puritan propriety on the sledding hill today.

Joe

It was unexpected to be sure. The plunk of the piano wound its way back through the narrow hallway to the furthest alcove in the back room and drifted above the chile rellenos and the enchiladas and the taco salad. Distant. Muted. Fading in and out, but certainly there. A pleasant surprise coming from the front of the house on a Thursday night at El Patio Mexican Restaurant. Was it live music or the radio?  But then a different sound floated under the last piano note. Low, seductive, mournful at the edges. A sax player. An old man, as it turns out. Accompanying Max Wellman on the piano. A pied piper for late-night diners. The old man eventually gave way to Wellman’s voice, but he continued to finger the keys, playing along in silence.

“I’m 88 years old. The most fun thing I do is play music. It is my life. The more I play the better I feel. It keeps me young.”

With one foot up on the brace of the stool, Julius Brooks sat nearly standing, his left shoulder turned inward, his right arm cradling the sax. Immovable. Silent. An old lion in repose.

Two nights later, at Chuck’s Restaurant. Chuck’s Trio with Gina Severino-Gedler is performing in the back. They are tight and focused. A fifty-dollar performance for the price of your pizza. The old man is a presence. He has donned a Santa Claus hat, not out of good cheer it seems, but to offset his eyes that definitely sparkle with naughtiness this night. Severino-Gedler and the trio treat him as royalty. They defer, they joke, they direct the applause his way.

“The great Julius Brooks. An inductee into the Des Moines Community Jazz Center Hall of Fame in 2004. Has played with all the greats,” the bass player announces, as he ticks off all the jazz players and singers Brooks has played with over the years.

And Brooks grins and laughs and is, undoubtably, exactly where he belongs.

“I was born in Inverness, Florida. My mother died when I was 5, my father died when I was 7. My grandparents raised me. I left Inverness because of the school. I only got to 8th grade. I eventually left town and went to Jacksonville and started high school at Edward Waters College.”

While at Edward Waters, Julius Brooks was enticed into the band room. There he discovered the saxophone. Soon, he was playing in nightclubs in Jacksonville. It was a heady experience for a young man. When he lost his scholarship to Edward Waters because he was making too much money playing at night, he dropped out of school and played music full-time.

“I got a room for seven dollars a week and I continued playing. I decided it was going to be me and the world and the horn.”

After a while, Brooks thought he needed to go to California to play in the big leagues. So he saved up, took the bus, and showed up in Los Angeles with his sax and a suitcase. After a couple of years playing at clubs, teaching the saxophone, and working at a day job, he got a call.

“I was sitting in my apartment and the phone rang. ‘This is Louis Jordan. You know Caldonia don’t you? I’m the man who made Caldonia.’ He said, ‘I need a saxophone player. I heard about you. You like to go to Lake Tahoe?’ That was my first big break.”

Louis Jordan was big time in the music world and his song, Caldonia, was on fire in the 1960’s. Brooks played with him for several years.

“He died of a heart attack on the bandstand. I was up there with him when he died. We were in Reno, Nevada.”

After Jordan’s death, Brooks was courted by the Ink Spots, an iconic African-American group singing rock and roll and doo-wop. Brooks stayed with them until 1980. Then he followed his former wife back to Des Moines, her home town.

“I started working at a funeral home. Estes Funeral Home. Helped with the bodies. Drove the hearse. The guys didn’t know I was a musician.”

What about your love of the saxophone?

“I started going out at night to play my horn. I went down to the Hotel Fort Des Moines. Met a girl called Susie Miget. She’s a bass player. So I asked to sit in. ‘What’s your name?’  It was now 1982. I jammed with her. She said, ‘What did you say your name was?’ That got me started.”

Gina Severino-Gedler, the singer at the microphone, tells the audience that Brooks is going to take a break from the sax. “Julius is going to sing a few tunes for us now.”

A mellow tenor, rich with experience, floats out over the crowd.

The colors of the rainbow so pretty in the sky
Are also on the faces of people going by
I see friends shaking hands saying how do you do
But they’re really saying I love you.

What a wonderful world, ooh . . . . 

He laughs at himself. He gracefully acknowledges the applause. A “isn’t this fun” grin appears. He returns to his sax.

And so it goes.

But every once in a while, if you watch the old man carefully, his eyes steel up, his jaw sets a little more rigidly, and a weary fierceness is reflected, born of experience and grit and longevity.

How long can you do this?

“I can do this as long as God let’s me.” He proclaims without hesitation.

Really.

The set of his jaw becomes even firmer. “I had a friend who played until he was 100.”

And that’s enough of that. Time to get back to the show.

The new set begins. The low, seductive, mournful sound of the saxophone again floats under the piano and the bass and the singer. One more voice among the many. And then they all eventually break away. The wash of music subsides. All that remains is the old man and the horn and the simple melody. But then he takes the strands of the melody and shakes them up into something else — and he soars.

Joe

The door pushes inward to warmth and people and noise. The young men in front of us are momentarily stuck at the entrance. The cold of the outside is fighting to move upstream into the coziness of the inside. But then the young men are in, with us closely following. Andy’s Frame Shop is hosting an art opening. Most folks still have on their coats from the snowy weather. The wet wool smell and the dripping boots and the blast of cold air at the entrance when the door opens all act as a small reminder of things to come. But the artist merely shrugs it off. He stands at the door, a half-smile permanently fixed, mildly embarrassed to be the center of attention, and properly greeting each person. Good manners trump the inclination to flee.

“I’m an introvert. I’m a very happy introvert. But beyond a one-on-one conversation, I am mostly drained.”

Randy Hamilton gives me a small smile. His face gives away nothing of how he’s feeling. No tell. No forecasting. No strange tick with which to attach meaning. Nope, it’s only the eyes. Caring eyes. Soft eyes. Eyes that have seen some things. Eyes to trust. But tonight it’s about the art.

“This art started in 2007 when I took a collage class. Generally, collage is taking one image and another image and putting them close together and feeling a visceral emotion. There is usually a visceral response by me. I’m either laughing or I’m freaked out or creeped out by it. If I’m not too creeped out by it, then I’ll use it. If I’m super creeped out by it, if I’m super disturbed by the juxtaposition, I won’t do it.”

Creeped out? Super disturbed? Do I want to know?

“One of my favorite games as a kid was the memory game, where you turn over two cards, and when you make the pair you can keep it. So I think my brain holds images for a long time. And I’ll see this and think, ‘Huh, I wonder how this would look next to this?’  And I’ll go find that piece. Meaning starts to form as I make it. I tend to have my own narrative as it develops. There is generally a gender bender thing going on. I don’t know why. The narrative is what is interesting.”

But being an artist is not Hamilton’s only career.

“I wanted to be an architect ever since I was 10.”

So, from 2004 to 2007, Hamilton went to Iowa State for a Masters of Architecture.

“It was awesome. I loved the training. I loved the professors. It is a rich subject. I learned how things work, how to design, how to think about design. It changed me.”

Ah, but Hamilton graduated with his masters during the recession. There were no jobs. Architecture firms were not only not hiring, but they were laying off their staff. A grim time.

In any case, Hamilton had already returned to his first job, which was neither architecture nor art. Believe it or not . . . a doctor.

“My goal after college was to get into medical school. Once I got in, it was like, ‘oh shit, now what.’ I just wanted to get in, I didn’t want to go. I just wanted to be accepted. So my plan changed where I was going to do medical school and, when I’m done and paid off my debts, I’ll go to architecture school.”

But Hamilton found another dream in medicine.

“Neurology was very challenging and I loved neural anatomy. If there is anything that is going to keep revealing secrets to sustain my interest for my whole lifetime it’s neurology.  It turns out that’s probably true for everything in medicine, but neurology deals with things like, what is consciousness. That attracted me.”

And so Hamilton and his partner, Bruce Hughes, are neurologists. Hughes focuses on MS, as the director of the Ruan Neurology Multiple Sclerosis Center at Mercy Medical Center, while down the hall, Hamilton’s interest is movement disorders like Parkinson’s disease and essential tremors, as a physician with Mercy Ruan Neurology Clinic.

“Neurology has a lot of sadness. Especially in the hospital. We diagnose coma and brain death. That tears me up.”

Hamilton pauses.

“I’ve had many patients die. I’ve seen some of these people for 10 years or more. How do I handle it? A few simple things. I write a sympathy card once I find out. I also print out their obituary and their photograph. And I make a document of remembrance. Sometimes I’ll hang it up for awhile. Then I’ll file it. So I keep a memory album in a way.”

Doesn’t this all leave you drained and feeling hopeless?

“As a result of this work, I feel stronger, not more fragile. It helps me live in the moment. Of course, that doesn’t make me not think about death.”

Again, Hamilton stops talking as he thinks about his patients.

“I am close to my patients. I listen, make eye contact, and know that they know I hear them. That takes time. I spend twice as much time as the other doctors. But that’s why I get to know them well. I have to hear them in order to understand . . . .  I sit next to the patient.”

You sit next to the patient?!

“One of the best things that happens to me is when we turn on and program a deep brain stimulator for the first time. A man or woman who has had a horrible high-end tremor where they can’t drink or write, they’ll be able to do both. It’s amazing. It’s heart-rending. We cry in the clinic when that happens. They cry. I cry.

And then the quiet introverted man, who daily mediates between life and death, must leave to talk to another patron.

I finish my wine, put on my hat, and head back out into the snow. Again, I am stuck at the door, and turn one last time into the warmth to see the final juxtaposition, the final collage of the show — the artist and the doctor who sits next to his patients.

Joe

“Feed the birds, tuppence a bag
Tuppence, tuppence, tuppence a bag
Feed the birds, that’s what she cries
While overhead her birds fill the skies.”  Feed the Birds, Mary Poppins

The multicolored pigeons cooed, the exotic chickens clucked, even that bird on the wire gave a  loud squawk. No matter their voiced concerns, the woman offered them no thoughtful advice, or special daily inspiration, or clever aphorisms to guide them on their life journey. Instead, in her chore boots and long coat, she brought them what they wanted, a bucket of food. Opening the aviary with pail in hand, a slow, wide smile crinkled the women’s face and her dark eyebrows rose with pleasure. “It’s going to happen,” the birds seemed to shout. And they clattered with joy as she bent over the feeding tray. Ah, breakfast time — courtesy of the bird lady.

“When I was in graduate school, I found a baby crow. It was at University of California, Davis. One of my professors, just a few weeks before, showed me a baby robin he was feeding. So I called him up and asked him what I do with this baby crow. He said, bring him in and I’ll show you how to feed him. That little crow, his name was Clover, changed my life.”

Perhaps an understatement.

“I’m a wildlife rehabilitator. I specialize in wild birds. But I do get called bird lady quite a bit.” She self-consciously smiles. And over she goes to feed her non-wild chickens.

Jenni Boonjakuakul takes in wild birds. She’s done it for many years. Not the only thing she’s done, by the way. She has a degree in microbiology. She’s done a post-doctoral fellowship at the University of California, San Fransisco. She was a microbiologist with the United States Department of Agriculture. And she ended up at Iowa State doing more post-doctoral work. Her husband, Jay Heaverlo, is a licensed acupuncturist practicing out of Midwest Acupuncture Clinic, in Urbandale, where she now helps him run the business side of his clinic. And, yes, she takes in wild birds, but not in that crazy bird lady way.

I think.

“You have to have a permit through the DNR to be a wildlife rehabilitator. I get a quarter of the birds from Des Moines Animal Control. And then more from Polk County Conservation and DNR officers. The rest, people just drop off. Last year I took in 354 birds. This year I really feel like it is over 400. I haven’t done my final count yet.”

Boonjakuakul does everything to stabilize the birds brought to her. She always hopes to get them well enough to release back to the wild. But it’s a bit of an effort.

“I take birds to work with me at the clinic because of their needs. There was a point this summer where I had about 65 baby birds in the car because the baby birds need to be fed every hour.”

Okay, maybe she is the crazy bird lady.

“I’m setting wings, setting legs, giving antibiotics as needed. I have a wonderful vet who helps me out. A lot of vets won’t take in wild birds because they don’t want to worry about contamination with pet birds. Plus it’s a whole other field.”

Don’t you get attached to your birds?

“I don’t name anyone. You want to make sure you’re not taming anyone. I don’t pet, I don’t hold, I don’t pick up. By the time they are healthy, they don’t want anything to do with me. But the ones I get attached to are the ones that are injured. There are a few every year where I cry when they don’t make it, or ecstatic when they do.”

All of this care and feeding is provided for “free,” which means that Boonjakuakul mostly pays.

“The worms, they are my biggest expense. I have to do live worms — because baby birds see them wiggling in the dish and they are attracted to that, plus they are a good protein source. I probably go through 10,000 a week.”

Does any of this gross you out?

“Not the worms. Although, maggots gross me out. They’re usually on a live, injured bird. They are usually on the bigger birds that can survive for a bit with injury.”

Great. Now I’m grossed out.

Boonjakuakul has taken care of birds as small as hummingbirds and as large as pelicans. And everything in-between.

“I get a lot of wood duck babies. They are one of the hardest birds to rehab. People find them and people think something is really wrong when nothing is really wrong. Unfortunately what happens is mom gets scared off. They need to be left alone. They die from stress.  So, if you bring them in, it is too much. They do a little better if there are several. You can put a little mirror, or a duster to make them so they don’t feel alone. But I dread getting them as babies.”

All of this care occurs in Boonjakuakul’s clinic in her basement, a second out-building in the backyard, and her home-built aviaries. And nope, this is not located on some reserve in Africa, or on a millionaire’s thousand acres in Texas, but in a backyard in Beaverdale. Yup, Beaverdale. And she’s not doing all this undercover, but can be easily reached at the Iowa DNR website or at iowabirdrehab@gmail.com.

But what about your poor husband? Second fiddle to 400 birds?

“We don’t go anywhere in the summer, or take any vacations, because feedings have to occur every hour.”

She pauses with this not-so-happy reflection, then she gives a slight smile.

“But he knew what he was getting into. Our first date, when he arrived at my door, someone showed up at the same time with a pigeon.”

She laughs softly and adds: “He’s supportive.”

Of course he is.

And so she returns, not to steps of St. Paul’s Cathedral, as in the Mary Poppins song, but to her broken wings, her wiggly worms, and her squawking charges, right here in Beaverdale.

A tuppence a bag.

Joe

“As American as pumpkin pie.” An interesting thing to say about our relationship to a  squash. Certainly, the ingredients are a melting pot of pumpkin, ginger, sugar, nutmeg, cinnamon, milk, cloves, eggs, and, of course, a pie crust made with lard. But, “as American as pumpkin pie”? That’s a lot of pressure to put on a wanna-be vegetable that is stuck being a fruit.

Sure, most pumpkins you meet are low-to-the-ground, rotund, and not very dynamic personally. But they are certainly jolly. The very image of a pumpkin can make you smile. Pumpkins are like cute animal videos, but instead of a dog opening a door or a cat flushing a toilet, the pumpkin wows you with its preposterousness.

Yup, preposterousness. Pumpkins are constantly performing slapstick without any physical movement. They exist at the edges of reality. Look at them. They look like aliens. The fun-uncle kind.

And that isn’t the end of their story. Big or little, round or misshapen, bright orange or pale yellow, pumpkins have a certain gravitas. They have grown into their environment and have adapted and changed to conform to the very ground under their feet. A stone is in the way? No matter. They grow around it. Quite a trick when you’re really not that far up the food chain.

Ah, but this doesn’t answer the question — how American is pumpkin pie?

Kate Colquhoun, author of “Taste: The Story of Britain Through Its Cooking,” said in an article in the New York Times several years ago:

“While the English hung on to their pudding with steadily decreasing enthusiasm for centuries, they let go another great Elizabethan favorite that might have had more staying power: pumpkin pie. First introduced to Tudor England by the French, the flesh of the ‘pompion’ was quickly accepted as a pie filler. However, while pumpkin pie sailed with the Pilgrims back to the birthplace of its main ingredient — where it survived in more or less its original form — it all but disappeared in its country of origin.”

Pumpkins are home grown, folks. And a pumpkin pie recipe was brought over by the Pilgrims themselves. Perhaps this is why we love pumpkin pie. And, make no mistake, we do love pumpkin pie.

“I come from a bakery family. My dad owned a bakery in Marshalltown. I started working with him when I was 15. I have worked in the bakery business for 37 years. And I’m 52 years old. That’s a long time.”

Dave Kelderman, the bakery manager at the Hy Vee on Douglas Avenue in Urbandale, gives me a tired smile. A post-Thanksgiving smile.

“We sell a lot of pumpkin pie here. We sold hundreds of pumpkin pies Thanksgiving week.”

My goodness. Baking must be your life.

“I’ve been managing bakeries since I was 22. You know what? I swore I’d never do this for a living. I was going to be a rock star, but the hair went and so did being a rock star.”

We both pause to contemplate our bald heads and lost dreams due to hair loss.

Is there a secret to pumpkin pie?

“I make pumpkin pies from scratch. We use the same recipe I’ve been using for 30 years now. I couldn’t tell you exactly where it came from, but it’s the best pumpkin pie I’ve ever had. Better than mom’s.”

Kelderman leans into me smiling.

“I never told mom that while she was alive. Now that she’s gone, I can say it out loud.”

Kelderman then gives me a large meaty handshake, a broad friendly smile, and back to work he goes. Goodness, there IS a friendly smile in every aisle.

Okay, clearly pumpkin pie is all-American, it is loved and it is lovable. So, it is fair to use the phrase that something is “as American as pumpkin pie.” Great.

The only obvious question remaining — can pumpkin pie consumption reveal who is a true American? Of course, in this time of presidential caucuses, this is an important concern. No candidate has addressed this pumpkin pie issue. Sure, many have said who is welcome in this country and who is not. Even our own governor has banned a whole group of people from entering our state based on their place of origin. But these are just irrational shots in the dark. Is pumpkin pie consumption the litmus test we’ve been waiting for?

Who knows.

Although, I haven’t even mentioned the divisive issue of whip cream, which, when put on your pie, is as American as pumpkin pie. Obviously.

Joe

____________________________________________________________________________

“My nickname is Bucky. My real name is George. My mom didn’t want to call her little boy George, although she did agree to the name. My next oldest brother had an imaginary friend named Bucky. So they took the name from him and stuck it on me . . . I’ve been a mess ever since.”

If this was a cartoon character, his neck would be twisted around 360 degrees, there would be stars around his head, and his tongue would be trying to catch up with the rest of his face.

But not this morning.

The fit, slender, bright-eyed man energetically works the room. Bustling from small child to small child. Helping with jackets and hats over there, pulling chairs out over here, and then making a newcomer feel welcome around the table. With his hair pushed straight up from his forehead, and his wide glasses perched askew on his nose, he could be a slightly off-kilter fifteen-year-old boy. He’s not. Bucky Jones is an associate in the preschool program at Urbandale.

By day.

Ah, but by night, this 54-year-old is something quite different.

“I was raised in a military family. My dad was extremely strict. You couldn’t find a stricter man on the face of the earth. But at the same time, a very funny man with an off-color sense of humor, bathroom humor.”

Jones looks at me. Testing the waters. Will I be offended by bathroom humor? Just where do I stand on the absurd? Do I read Mad Magazine? He decides to plow ahead, unfazed.

“And so as a kindergartener, I remember sitting down with him and he would draw little pictures, but he would draw off-color, like dogs urinating on a fire hydrant. That’s what got me going. He made me laugh, and I remember thinking, ‘If I could do what he does, I could make people laugh.’ And that’s always been my drive.”

He pauses, collecting the strands of his early years.

“It is kindergarten when I started drawing. It quickly became my passion. Because in military families we would move every two years. So you gotta go make friends. The quickest way to do it is to just start drawing. The kids like to see you drawing. So that became like a friend-maker for me. So that’s where it all started.”

By high school, at Iowa City West, he was winning awards for his illustrations. College was also a big success. Although there were a few sceptics.

“When I went on to college at Truman State in Kirksville, Missouri, I told my art teacher that I draw cartoons. He said, ‘We are going to break you of that.’”

Jones grins and gives an aw-shucks shrug.

“So I brought my drawings to class, and he walked by, stopped, looked, and said, ‘Maybe we can do something with this.’ He became a big supporter.”

After college, Jones did political cartoons for a stint, but found it was not his strength.

“I’ve done political cartooning. But I realized I’m faking it. My heart was not in it. So I got out of that.”

But then he found his niche as a freelancer, generally doing humorous cartoons.

“The first job I ever did as a freelancer was for an agency in Cedar Rapids where I illustrated their materials. Their product was a device to help collect bull semen.”

Really?

“But I handled it in a tasteful manner.”

Should I laugh? Is he being serious? I can’t keep up.

“I always had work. My big break came in late 1987. Better Homes and Gardens decided to do children’s activities books. I ended up illustrating over 25 books for Better Homes and Gardens. And then later about 25 books for a book company formed by Cat Fancy and Dog Fancy Magazines.”

Unfortunately, with the advent of the internet and cheap stock art, illustrators have taken a hit. Jones was no exception. So he picked up a part-time job with the Urbandale Schools and continues his passion the rest of the day and night, marketing illustrations for businesses and advertisers, and continuing to sell pet cartoons and drawings and holiday cards at buckjonesillustrator.com.

And your humor, has it gotten darker with the tougher economic times and the more violent world?

“This may sound corny, but if I can make people happy through what I draw, that is my driving thing. If I can draw something and put it in front of you and get a giggle or smile out of you, that is my reward.”

And your wife, what does she think of all this?

“Well, I really draw a lot of stuff to entertain my wife. Part of it is that’s how I courted Kim. She is the one person who has always appreciated everything I’ve drawn. I could draw something for her, she’ll act like it’s the first piece I’ve ever drawn for her. I take great pride in drawing something where I can make her laugh or smile or brighten her day. Listen, I know this sounds corny, I love being in love.

And that’s enough of that. Back to drawing he goes. Head bent down. Swift strokes on paper. Drawing while the rest of us sleep. Then eventually it’s time to pack away the drawing materials, the cape, and the stronger-than-a-locomotive powers, catch some quick shut-eye, and then off to work with preschoolers in Urbandale.

Bucky Jones — associate teacher for preschoolers during the day, cartoonist by night. Superhero.

Joe

Romance is fickle in the best of times. You light the candles. You pour the wine. You turn on slow jazz. And . . .  the topic of your mother comes up. How did that happen? What went wrong? And why are you sleeping with the dog in the spare bedroom?

But there do seem to be places that are more romantic than others. Sacred spots. We all have them. It might be over a beautiful meal at Lucca, or walking around Gray’s Lake at dusk, or sitting rink-side with a sloshing beer at a Buccaneers game. Whatever works. Heck, on one of these chilly nights, walk up Walnut Street in East Village with the holiday lights on either side and the golden glow of the Capitol in the distance. There you go. Is there any spot more romantic in the world than right there at that moment?

Paris is such a sacred spot.

It begins and ends with the waiters. First, grab that empty table on Rue Cler. Outside, of course. Yes, you both sit on the same side of the table looking out. Why? How else are you going to see the women of Paris walk with such confidence and grace, in high heels, on the cobblestones. And of course you will never look as debonair as that white-haired elderly man drinking espresso in an elegant suit and dress hat. That’s all right. You are here to learn. So chill.

The waiters certainly are. No smiles. No greetings. Certainly, no introductions. They stand on the fringe and ignore you. It’s all right. Lower your shoulders. Take a breath. Count to 10. This is your table for the night. Now just raise a finger or arch an eyebrow to tell him you are ready. He will come eventually. You will order a bottle of wine. Good. Now don’t talk quite so loudly. There you go. And maybe an hour later, you will order a meal. And maybe an hour after that, you will order an after-dinner drink. And you will sit and talk quietly and watch. Now you’ve got the hang of it.

Listen, the Paris waiter has just plowed the field, planted the crop, and given you your only job — to harvest romance. Sure, the softly lit street with its’ narrow bustling sidewalk doesn’t hurt. The low murmur of people talking and laughing in an enticingly melodic foreign language doesn’t hurt. And the on-the-hour sparkling of the distant Eiffel Tower certainly doesn’t hurt. But the languor of the waiters, that’s the key. The waiter has given you the moment, romance is yours for the taking.

And tomorrow you will wander the streets. Going from quarter to quarter. Ah, here’s where Hemingway liked to eat. And over there is the Louvre, the Musee d’Orsay, the Picasso Museum, the l’Orangerie, the Centre Pompidou. And there’s the bridge with the love locks.

And, look, Notre Dame Cathedral and Sainte Chapelle. And the Rodin garden. And the perfume stores. And there’s a macaron shop. And . . .

. . . 129 dead and counting. The unthinkable. Paris is violated. Sirens and bodies and screams and explosions and gun shots. All on a beautiful Paris evening. The armless Venus de Milo is weeping tears down her stoney face. Rodin’s Gates of Hell are opened at last. And back in Des Moines, Iowa? I want to vomit.

So, what remains? Is romance dead, killed by terrorists? Is the curiosity needed for romance to exist replaced by security cameras? Is whimsical yearning blown up by a suicide bomber? Do we sit at the cafe table staring out, not with joy and passion, but with a clear field of vision in case we need to draw our concealed weapons?

I don’t know.

But, in the aftermath, I can see the Paris waiter in my mind’s eye. White apron pulled tight at the waist. Vest and tie, impeccable. Standing on the fringes. Looking without looking. After the time that he thinks appropriate, he will approach. And he will answer with that French lilt.

“Monsieur, terrorism?” And he will smile only from the mouth, thin shoulders unmoved, white cloth draped over his left arm like the drape over a coffin. And then he will eloquently spit on the ground, as only a Parisian waiter could.

He will then look up, the consummate professional, and ask: “Monsieur would care for a red or white wine?”

Perhaps this is true.

Joe

The jury sits attentively. Young and old. Casual and dressed. White and one African-American. They watch the lawyers. They glance discretely at the defendant. And then they look to the front. The judge is seated on a raised platform. Black robe cleaned and pressed. It’s nearly time.

District Court Judge Robert Hutchison sits with his head down, reading documents. His left fist rests against his cheek. Glasses perched. His long forehead smooth and calm above his dark twinkling eyes. He takes a breath, slips his glasses off, and turns to the jury.

“Good morning.”

And another day of trial begins at the Polk County Courthouse.

“We lived on a farm. My dad was a tenant farmer. My first two years I went to a one-room schoolhouse. I had two classmates in my grade. I vividly remember the pony shed in back because many of my schoolmates rode their ponies to school. I lived about a mile away, so of course my story is I walked through the snow uphill everyday.”

Judge Hutchison doesn’t crack a smile at this last small exaggeration. And although facts are delivered dispassionately, you know there’s always going to be a twist. Popping his own balloon is his favorite sport.

“1990 I became a judge. I was sworn in the same day Judge Joel Novak had his heart attack. There are many people who think that was not coincidental.”

Opening statements are made to the jury. Olu Salami, from the Polk County Attorney’s Office, loudly kicks the wood floor, demonstrating to the jury the blows inflicted by the defendant to the victim. Everyone watches and listens. Defense attorney Rich Bartolomei, when it’s his turn, disagrees that any kicks occurred at all. “It just didn’t happen,” he argues.

Fifty-two years earlier, Judge Hutchison was a young student at Carlisle High School.

“I had wrestled at Carlisle my freshman year. I held the record for being the person pinned the fastest for years. I could never understand how someone could beat it. How could you get pinned faster than I did?”

Then his life took a dramatic turn.

“I started carrying newspapers. Back at that time, the Register had a program with Phillips Andover and Phillips Exeter Academies. If you were a good newspaper carrier, they would introduce you to the school. The recruiters would come out here once a year. You then could pursue it on your own.”

Judge Hutchison was young for his age. But he went to meet the recruiters, he was interested, he applied, and he was accepted.

“I went off for grades 10, 11, and 12. To Andover in Massachusetts. I’d been to Mexico once when I was four, and to Minnesota for family vacations. Otherwise, I had never been out of Iowa.”

And so it went. Andover for prep school. Harvard for college. The University of Iowa for law school. Of course, Judge Hutchison’s description of these times all follow a similar disclaimer — “God knows how, but I did really well there.”

The victim is on the witness stand. He tells Salami of the injuries he’d received by the  defendant. Hard blows. Bartolomei goes after the victim on cross-examination. “Didn’t you give different stories in the past?” The fight is on.

Judge Hutchison was a successful lawyer, but it wasn’t enough for him. He wanted something else.

“The truth is, if you want to make a difference in people’s lives, your opportunity to do that is far greater as a district court judge than as a lawyer.”

So, a district court judge he became. And the differences he began to make surprised even him.

“My single most rewarding experience as a judge was being in Drug Court. That was so antithetical to me. I begged the chief judge to not send me. His response was, it’s your turn and you’re going.”

Judge Hutchison softly smiles.

“Drug Court was special because even though the success rate is about 50%, for those 50% you are the first positive role model they’ve ever had in their life. It’s like having kids all over again. To see someone who has done nothing but screw up their entire life, now they have a driver’s license, they’re working, they have a GED, in many cases they’ve reconciled with family members. That is really really special.”

Is this tough old judge a romantic at heart?

“I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of days I’ve been bored in 26 years. I know this is going to sound corny. I remind myself every day when I go to work, whatever I am doing, it is the most important case to the people there. I may be unsuccessful, but I try to be on my ‘A’ game every day. You just can’t do that unless you’re involved. I’m a pretty active judge on the bench.”

No kidding.

The judge chastises Bartolomei for his method of impeachment. He then prods Salami to clarify how he’s going to use the video presentation. Judge as umpire.

And how does your wife fare in this quixotic search to make a difference?

“I  really don’t mean for this to again sound corny, but from my perspective we are more in love now than we were 44 years ago. We continue to find new things that we like to do. My hope is that we get a long time retired together. We’ll see how that works out. As you well know, there’s no guarantees.”

A hopeless romantic.

The trial ends for the day. The jurors file out. The Constitutional mandate for a fair trial once more fulfilled until tomorrow.  

I sit alone in chambers waiting for Judge Hutchison to take care of other matters in the courtroom. I think of the multitude of decisions he makes every day as he rules on cases and referees lawyers and facilitates the truth. Decisions that affect your life, my life, and the stranger’s life. On the wall, framed, is a quote that can be clearly seen when you sit in the judge’s chair.

“The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing — Edmund Burke 1795.”

By the way, Judge Hutchison retires in a month or so. Twenty-six years of taking care of our divorces, our civil disputes, and our criminal cases. Twenty-six years of bringing his “A” game. As for the triumph of evil? I don’t think so today.

Joe