The line has only one other couple.  Young and bright-faced.  The docent takes them under her wing and gently guides them through the exhibit.  We follow after.  The birth, life, and death of Anne Frank is on display for all to see.  Made famous by her diary of two years hiding in the secret annex.  And her ignoble death a few months later.  Her story is told in this quiet, small exhibit at the Viaduct Gallery of the Des Moines Social Club until April 26.  An exhibit put together by the folks that run the Anne Frank House.  You can find it on the first floor of the old fire station.  Don’t worry, there is hardly any line.

Half a continent away from Des Moines, the crowd stood patiently in line stretching several blocks to get into the Anne Frank House.  Young women.  Old men.  Families.  Foreigners and natives.  It appeared that they stood without any forward movement as the morning ticked past.  Only the shifting feet in the wet and cold indicated they were not escapees from Madame Tussauds Wax Museum down the street.  Umbrellas and raincoats and good shoes were prerequisites as the rain drizzled steadily throughout the morning.  Oh, and don’t forget the chill that was alive and well and looking for the slightest opening.  But everyone remained.  Waiting.

“This museum is an empty house.  It’s empty because it reflects the absence of people that should be here.  The same is true for 60,000 other places in this city.  There are underneath the reality of Amsterdam that you experience right now, there are 60,000 of these empty places.”

So the executive director of the Anne Frank House, Ronald Leopold, told me last fall of the strangeness of his museum.

“The house represents what happened in Amsterdam, what happened in this whole country, and what happened in many places of Europe when people returned and found emptiness.  Here at the Anne Frank House you can feel that very emptiness. The emptiness of those returning, and all those who remained, and all of us who should be aware of the emptiness.”

The train lines at the Auschwitz-Birkenau Extermination Camp are also about remembrance.  This side of the tracks — you went to the gas chamber.  That side of the tracks — you were worked to death.  Anne Frank was placed on the side of the track that would be allowed to live a few more months.  What remains are empty tracks.  No trains come to this dead-end now.  Only the birds singing in those birch trees at the end of the line sing the same song.

“We don’t know what Anne Frank thought when she was in Auschwitz and Bergen-Belsen.  We don’t know whether she kept her hope, her optimism, her idealism, or whether she lost it in the terrible circumstances she was in.  We don’t know.  I don’t want to speculate about it.  What is important is to be sure to know that part of the history as well.”  Ronald Leopold patiently explained to me.

The same day I talked to Ronald Leopold in Amsterdam, I was in a neighborhood bar in another city.  A line of men flowed out the front door.   Chanting and singing and excited.  I flowed out with them.  The chant became more raucous.  I smiled and watched on the other side of the street.  I later asked my friend, who spoke the language, what the group was chanting.

“Hamas, Hamas, Jews to the gas.”

Really?

“After pessimism, what?  When I see the incredible energy of young people, and how they strive to make the world a better place and how they are inspired by Anne Frank, that is still very hopeful.”  Ronald Leopold sat quietly for a moment.  “Perhaps you saw the line in the front of this museum.  The interest is only increasing.  There is a young generation growing up very much committed to build their future.  We as grown ups have a responsibility to help them.”

But you have to get in line.

Joe

The school door swings open.  A room.  Just like any other school room.  That is, if your school room was in Silicon Valley and was called Apple, or Google, or Facebook.

“If I were going to sit down at a dinner with ten people at the table and ask everybody to draw a picture of what you think a classroom look likes, nine out of ten of those pictures are going to look pretty similar.  But if I ask ten people to draw a kitchen, they would draw something that they could use, that was tailored to their needs.”

She’s tall.  Soft eyes countered by a no-nonsense jaw.  Strong hands.   Sleeves rolled back.  She is a force.  Perhaps she is that teacher in tenth grade whom you accidentally called “mom” to the hilarity of your peers.  Or perhaps she’s that nun, with only the oval of her face framed by her habit, for whom you drew hearts in second grade.  I don’t know.  It’s your fantasy.  But, trust me, an archetype she is.

“We don’t treat our classrooms like kitchens.  We first think about the curriculum and we may not even think of the space.  Changing the space changes how the curriculum is taught.  It causes you not to stand and deliver.  It causes you to design things kids can do together.”

Maureen Griffin smiles.  She is at the end of her day.  Tired.  Too much going on.  Of course there is.  Ms. Griffin is the STEM Academy Director at Hoover High School, among other things.  STEM — Science, Technology, Engineering, and Math.  STEM academies are our country’s response to the idea that we are not keeping up with technology while educating our kids.  We’re falling behind.  Someone’s going to land on the moon before us.  So now we have an Iowa Governor’s STEM Advisory Council, and Hoover High School is one of the few schools in Iowa with a STEM Academy.

And how best to train these rocket scientists is Maureen’s job.  So, this gets us to her room.  Right smack in the middle of Hoover High School.  A room used by about 75 students and multiple teachers in the course of a day.  And sometimes even the football team.

We walk around the room.

A giant interactive white board hangs against one wall with a projector shining on it from the ceiling.  It is possible to project your computer screen onto the board and then overlay it with notes drawn on the white board.  It is a group document in work — something out of a science fiction novel.

A large low table with chairs sits kitty-corner to the white board.

“This table allows you to write directly on the table.  I can bring my small group to this table.  I’m going to brainstorm here.  It allows the small group to interact on a shared idea.”

Across from the table is a more traditional TV screen.

“This is the video conferencing area.  We use it to Skype.  But it does everything.  You plug  your computers to this connection and you project it onto the TV.”

Strange green mushroom-shaped chairs surround the video area.  Yup, they bounce when you sit on them.  “A student favorite,” Maureen claims.

And then there’s the cushioned stairs, with computer connections spread at the base of each stair.  And wide cloth chairs with swivel arms for your notes.  And even a spot for a student to tinker on an idea isolated away from the group.

Wow!

A school room like none I’ve ever seen.

Ah, this is all well and good, but are acronyms and high technology the whole answer? Hmm . . . .

Maureen and I walk the halls.

“Hoover is now one of the best schools in Des Moines.  It was all hands on deck.  We took control of everything.  You screwed up, there was consequences.  Now people are transferring here.  We are doing things right.  Our graduation rate is higher than anyone in the district.  It’s all about individuals.”

Every ten steps I see what she means.

“Sarah, did you get that done?  Do you need some help?”

“Yes, Nathan, come and speak to me later.”

“Olivia, what are you doing still here?”

Student after student is greeted, cajoled, confronted, mildly scolded, greatly praised, and certainly acknowledged.  Maureen at work.

“Every time a kid comes into my office and has screwed up, or needs help with something, I draw a picture.”

Maureen starts drawing a time line on a white board, with me as her student.

“Joe, this is you born, right here.  This is you dying.  And this is you probably in high school.  And I’ll call it out.  You’re an African American.  You’re going to die probably around 83 if you’re fortunate to live through this tumultuous time.  You’re going to live to about 83.”

As Maureen draws the time line, underscoring my birth and death with quick hash marks, I swallow self-consciously and start fidgeting.

“So you’ve been doing school your whole life.  And I’ve got this really short window with you, four years.  And I’m preparing you for the rest of this time.  Because if you never see another teacher, if you never see another person in an environment where you have to be there from 7:40 to 3:10 every day, you’re on your own.  I have this little window to help you.  And you’re right here.  And you are still screwing up, and I only have this much time left.”

Lord help me.  I am right there.  What am I going to do?  How do I get a handle on this before it is all over?   Yikes!  I am screwing up.

“And so my theory is, if I get you for 6 1/2 hours a day, 180 days a year, if the only pleasure of your day is you coming to school and knowing that Ms. Griffin is going to be there or your teacher is going to be there and they’re going to welcome you, then I want them to feel welcome.  I think it’s our duty to every kid.  Don’t you think?”

I wipe my brow.  “Yes, Ms. Griffin.”

And Ms. Griffin, perching her chin on her hand, gives me a mildly skeptical look.  And then heads out the door to take care of her next kid.

Joe

The grizzled man climbs up out of the litter-strewn riverbank at dusk.  He hesitates.  Flannel shirt wrongly buttoned over multiple undershirts, pants bunched on top of long underwear, a tight stocking cap pulled over a shaggy head with long white hair hanging from the sides.  A homeless man.   The blackened fingers, bitten by frost, are waved in my direction.  He looks down the bike path, his head turning left and right, and then slowly shuffles towards my car in the gravel lot.

A furtive telephone call brought me down to the river’s edge.  A call promising too much.  I was used to dead ends, and sat resignedly waiting for the man to make his way over.

I knew this part of town.  The homeless camp on this bank was cleared long before winter came.  Eagles work the waters below this bridge on Scott Avenue.  A few fishermen hang around during the day.  And occasionally, the laughter and music from Mullets Bar will drift across and down to the sandbars.  But in this evening gloom, when the early night air touches the river creating a low-slung fog, no noise is heard.  Although we are in Des Moines, it could be the dank and musty Thames flowing below London Bridge, or a creaky canal in the warehouse district of Amsterdam.  A place of dark deeds for sure.

The man leans on my car.

“What should I call you?” I ask.

“Is Deep Throat taken?” he says in a low, growly voice.

Really?

“OK, how about Bill Stowe?”

The man, who has spent his adult life studying the river up close, saw and heard a bit too much.  He has a secret that refuses to stay hidden below the layers of flannel shirts.  A secret he wants to share.

“It’s in the Raccoon River,” he says.   “Go check the river.”

So I do.

Down to the river I hike.  The water drifts flat and syrupy.  The Raccoon, born from the joinder of the North and South Raccoon, feeds into the Des Moines River at Principal Park.  The Raccoon spans Buena Vista, Sac, Calhoun, Carroll, Greene, Dallas, Audubon, and Guthrie Counties.  It is the drain in the tub for northwest and north central Iowa.  It’s here where the water flows that the man said I would find the secret.

Climbing to the water’s edge, I see that the muddy river looks darker than usual.  Somewhat like the oil on your dipstick.

I take a smell.

Oh my lord.  It’s crude oil — with just a bouquet of nitrates.  Bakken Crude Oil.  The man didn’t lie.  There is a secret hidden in the river.

Back to the man I go.

Why is Bakken Crude Oil coming down the Raccoon River?

The man shuffles back and forth.  Left foot, right foot, left foot.  Looking down the entire time.  A young school boy caught doing mischief.

“The nitrate level was out of control,” he says as a preamble.

I reassure him that everyone understands that problem.

“I did everything I could to make the water safe for the people of Des Moines.  After bringing that lawsuit against the upstream counties, I was at my wits end.  So don’t judge me harshly.”

I was perplexed.

“So I made a deal.”

It began to dawn on me at last.  A deal struck in desperation.  Voluntary efforts had failed. The legislature was not supportive.  The governor was less than helpful.  The man was at the end of his rope.

“We made a swap.”

Ah, so they did.  The brilliance and audacity was stunning.  Who could have possibly guessed how this man had struggled in this dance with the devil.  He knew the water was being poisoned by nitrates.  He knew there was no political will to address the problem.  He knew that his chances of success were slim at best.  But, the bottom line, people needed clean water.

Of course.  It is so obvious.  Crude oil from the Bakken fields is gushing down the Raccoon River.  No doubt, the oil refineries can much more easily deal with the nitrate runoff.  And, as a bonus, no more worry about oil spills in the middle of farm fields.  The land is saved.  Hoorah!

But what about our drinking water?  What is the other side of the swap?

“The crude oil pipeline is quite clean.  This isn’t as crazy as it sounds.  Rural water comes through pipes.  Your city water comes through pipes.  This is not a new idea.”  The man’s tone has changed.  He wants me to understand.  He wants me to see what he’s seen.

So, down the crude oil pipeline our water comes.  Nitrate free.  Just as mother nature intended.  Wow.  American creativity at its best.

I stare at the man as he mumbles quietly to himself.  He then slowly shuffles back to the river, back below the Scott Avenue Bridge.  His long white hair blowing softly on either side of his stocking cap — a rock star leaving the darkened stage.  Who would have guessed?

A good man in desperate times.

Joe

[This is an April Fool’s piece.  In real life, Bill Stowe, the CEO for Des Moines Water Works, does not live under the Scott Avenue Bridge.]

A knockout is clean and simple.  You get knocked down.  You don’t get up.  It’s all over.  No more floating like a butterfly or stinging like a bee.  The end.

A technical knockout is not so clean and not so simple.  The referee calls the fight usually because the losing boxer’s safety is at risk.  Why?  Because the poor guy is getting walloped by the winning boxer.  It’s not an uplifting sight.

Or maybe it is.

“I was born and raised in Fort Dodge, Iowa, with two sisters and three brothers.  My dad worked on the slaughter floor and my mom was a nurse’s aid at the county home.”

The words are jumbled together, chewed on, and delivered like taffy being pulled at the State Fair — a long string of stretched-thin sentences with no periods or spacing or changed intonation.   The large pink jacket doesn’t help dispel this illusion.

John Roby continues . . . .

“One of my goals is to get on the Ellen DeGeneres show.  I hope my story will change people’s lives.  My story is my life.  Look at it back then and look at me today.  I think it is a touching story.  It’s a little depressing.  How you can be at the top?  And then everybody takes you for what you’ve got?  It’s a sad story.  But it is touching.  What do you think of my story?”

April 3, 1993.  Dalton, Georgia.  Roger Bonine versus John Roby.  130 pounds.  International Boxing Organization World super featherweight title is on the line.  Out of the ring will walk a changed man.  Adulation, respect, endorsements will follow.  Champion of the world.

“My manager said, ‘John can you make 130?  There’s a title out there for you.  If you make this weight, we’ve got the title shot.’  So I went down another weight.  And I had the title shot with Roger Bonine.  From Georgia.  He had the title for super featherweight at 130.  Eventually I made the weight, two days before the fight.  I was amazed.  I went down as the 2 to1 underdog. And what do you know, I knocked him down in the fifth round and I took the crown.  IBO crown.  One of the biggest belts in the world.  April 3rd, 1993.  Preston Daniels, the mayor of Des Moines, made it John Roby Day.”

The 52-year-old hands are remarkably fine.  Fingers long and delicate.  Knuckles unswollen.  Nails neatly trimmed.  The hands of a patrician, not a boxer.

John Roby takes a long breath.

“What did I do to deserve this crown?  I waited for so long.  It was a blessing.  I see myself winning the belt in dreams.  And sometimes dreams come true.  And my dream wasn’t a fantasy, it was the real deal.  It came true.”

John Roby’s life dramatically changed.

“It was like I was reborn.  I was giving people autographs.  People noticed me more.  ‘Hey, Champ.  How are you doing?’  It made me feel great.  Especially when I was going to schools and telling the kids about my career.  The recognition made me feel good.”

And that was the beginning of the end.

“My downfall was being ‘mister-all-that.’  Mine wasn’t dope, drugs.  Mine was being a ladyizer.  I liked being out there.  Chasing women was my problem.”

The big money never happened.  John Roby worked at Dahl’s in the produce section to make ends meet.  One year later, in 1994, he lost his crown to Jeff Mayweather by a 12-round decision.  But worse than the loss, he had an accident at work.  He injured his neck and head.  His life would never be the same.  Fifteen losses and a few wins later, his career was over.

“John, how do you survive today?  Where do you get your money?  How do you live?”

He turns away.  He coughs.  His brow furrows.  A heaviness comes from deep down in his throat.

“I didn’t want to tell you, but I get a check.  I feel like I’m stupid because I get that check.  I feel like I’m retarded.  I feel like I’m retarded.  I have failed.  I’m trying to do this story.  I feel ashamed.”

John Roby recovers slowly from this blow.  He looks directly at me.

“Everything is slow these days.  Reflexes, legs. . . .  But I think I could make a comeback!”  He laughs almost painfully.  Then he becomes serious.

“Now I have feelings.  Every punch hurts right now.  Back then the punches didn’t hurt.  Right now, every punch hurts.  I was like superman.  I’m still superman, but I don’t have the cape anymore.  I’m not the man of steel.  I’m just John Roby.  The puppy, John Roby.  The old puppy, John Roby.”

So John survives.  Volunteers with kids at various places.  Helps out where he can help out.  Tries to inspire people with his story.  And has a message he delivers in quick jabs.

“Go to school.  Get your grades up.  Respect your teacher.  Respect your parents.  Discipline.  Make your dreams come true.  If you want to become a professional anything, you’ve got to give it your best.  You can’t listen to negative.  If you’re listening to negative, you aren’t going anywhere tonight.  Be sure to get your education.  Don’t be a boxer.  You need your brains.  Become a doctor.”

“Is this a sad story for a fighter?  I blew my money.”  He shakes his head.  “I gotta get another shot.  Do you think I have a good story?”

Joe

Illness is an interesting sculptor.  It pulls the cheek bones higher.  Hollows out the spaces near the mouth.  Brightens the eyes just a tad.  And, as the man across the table laughingly told me, “It is a hell of a weight loss program, it is effective, but I don’t recommend it.”

We laugh, because we haven’t been together long enough to cry.  We sip our coffee quietly.

Frankly, when I first met him 34 years ago, he was an irritant.  Over the tops of the five-foot high cubicles at the Iowa Attorney General’s Office, his voice would boom and shake.  A flyover on a quiet work day.  Startled, we would all stop working and wait for the ruckus to subside.  It could take awhile because hearing the voice meant Rich Richards was back at the AG’s Office after being in court.  Good for Rich, but bad for the second floor of the Hoover Building.

“I still have timbre in my voice,” he proudly tells me.

No kidding.

The second time I met him, he surprised me.  The opera was all new for me as I sat near the edge of the stage in Indianola.  Amazing singer after amazing singer would appear.  I saw a large man enter stage left.  He was a good six-and-a-half-feet tall, with that tell-tale handlebar mustache.  And there was the voice.  Booming across the stage.  Rich Richards.  Opera singer.  Who knew?

“I had the unique opportunity to perform with the Des Moines Metro Opera for quite a few years.  About a dozen.  Sometimes as the lead and sometimes as a secondary character.   But the shelf life of an opera singer is strictly defined — it is so demanding on your voice.”

Perhaps, but YOUR voice sounds just fine.  In fact, the studious people in the coffeeshop are starting to edge away from our table.

The third time I met him, he and I argued.  The federal building was a bit more open in those days.  A few of us went from the Polk County Attorney’s Office to talk to the United States Attorney’s Office to see who would prosecute a case out of Polk County.  We all argued what the other should do.  Complicated, of course, because we all thought we spoke with the voice of God.  And there was Rich, on the feds’ side.  Slapping me on my back.  Welcoming.  Larger than a man should be.  A big personality.

“Been with the Department of Justice since 1983.  U.S. Attorney’s Office.  Trial attorneys learn just enough to be dangerous on a particular subject, and then they are done with that particular case.  They forget all about what they just did and move on to a whole other area.  A rewarding professional situation for me to have this kind of practice.”

His head shakes as he looks backwards over time.  He then laughs — just as you’d expect — large and loud.

The fourth time I met him, he was (and is) performing with Repertory Theater of Iowa, Clarence Darrow: A One-Man Play.  Yup, he is the one man.  As we talked, I couldn’t tell when Rich was talking as himself or when Clarence Darrow was talking.  He flowed from one into the other and back again.

“There are things Darrow says about the practice of law.  ‘It is a bum profession as generally practiced because it’s devoid of idealism, almost poverty stricken as to real ideals.’  I absolutely agree.  It is a bum profession as practiced.”

Rich looks at me to see if I agree.  But with whom am I agreeing?  Clarence Darrow or Rich Richards?

“Some of the issues Darrow debated — for instance, does man have an immortal soul?  ‘Once when I was debating a man he got so carried away he told an audience, “I’m the master of my fate, captain of my soul.”  ‘Captain of his soul?  Hell, he wasn’t even a deckhand on a raft.’”

I’m beginning to wonder if Rich has internalized all the characters he’s portrayed over the years.  Is he Marley’s ghost from A Christmas Carol?  Is he Lane from The Importance of Being Earnest?  Is he Giles Corey from The Crucible?

And then Rich Richards talks of being sick.

”I was ill for a long time.  I was so sick I could not even attend my youngest’s kid’s graduation party.  MRSA [Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus] did so much damage, they were saying my liver was failing, I was eligible for a liver transplant, kidneys were starting to shut down.  I was incredibly ill.  It was really 50/50 whether I was going to make it.  I still have residual problems with my liver.  But I feel good.  Feel better than I have in a long time.”

A shoulder replacement, a fused ankle, and a tremendous loss of weight, thanks to MRSA.  Rich is sanguine.

“Clarence Darrow talked a lot about life and death.  ‘A lot of people were sure as I got older, closer to my final exams, I’d get religion.  Never did.  I still believe when I die there will be nothing left over.  Neither heaven nor hell.’”

“Darrow’s second wife is named Ruby,” Rich says to me as an aside.  And then continues as Darrow.

“‘Ruby had a slightly different point of view.  She does believe in a heaven and a hell.  But it won’t make any difference which one I go to because I have so many good friends in both places.’”

“That’s the kind of guy he was.”  Rich gives me one last smile.

This is the kind of guy Rich is.

And, with a shake of hands that pulls into a hug, off we go to follow our separate paths once again.

Joe

The hallway is empty.  High ceilings stretch off in the distance.  Dark woodwork marks the openings for doorways hidden in shadowed recesses.  And a low murmur of voices provides background.  1600 voices to be exact.  Oh, yeah, and one cop.

I follow the directions from the front desk.  Right.  Then left.  Then another left.  “And then you’re there.  On the right.”

Now was that a right, then a left?

“I still hear the stories about my dad when he was a police officer.  It was a different time back then.  My dad grew up boxing.  He was an east-side boxer.  He brought that knowledge to me and my brother.  We both knew how to fight.  I grew up fighting.  It’s come in handy some time

I ask the guy at the front desk to give me the directions again.  It doesn’t help.  I know I am somewhere in Roosevelt High School.  Lost for sure.  Wandering the halls looking for the promised land.  Will I have to re-enroll in high school?

“I was aggressive in my early career.  I was 23 when I came on to the Des Moines Police Department.  I was probably immature.  But I had a goal to put as many bad guys in jail as I could.  With maturity came understanding.  It is not always about putting bad guys in jail.  I was on the SWAT team for 20 years.  I was in the gang unit for nine years.  I worked the east side on patrol.  I was in the most aggressive areas of the department.”

I continue down the hallway.  A little worried.  Knowing that at any minute a bell will ring, the doors along the hall will open, and I’ll be swept away into teenage angst.  Not a pretty sight.  I didn’t do so well the first time around.

“I wanted to be where the excitement was.  Where it was a hundred-miles-an-hour-with-my-hair-on-fire all the time.  Chasing people.  Being shot at.  All that stuff was great, and exciting, and never the same thing twice.  That’s why I loved the job.  I absolutely loved it.  And if they would have told me we’re going to take away half your pay, I would have still done it.”

Finally, a voice calls my name at the far end of a long hallway.  A waving figure in blue, handsome in a rakish way, with a big smile and a balanced stance, laughing and beckoning me with open arms.  A man who is not lost.

“Like I say, with maturity and understanding, things started to change.  It was a learned thing.  It came from a lot of older policemen.  They told me, it’s not all about putting people in jail, it’s about changing lives.”

Des Moines Officer Mike Moody gave me a big hug.  Yes, a hug.  Is this the crazy kid I taught in police recruit class 26 years ago?  Whose enthusiasm to get the bad guys made me more than a little nervous?  Who was so certain of himself it made me uncertain?  Is this really Mike Moody?  A school resource officer?  It can’t be.

“My job now is to provide a safe place for these kids to come and get an education.  I take it a step further.  I want to get to know these kids, get to know what’s going on in their heads, in their families, what they do outside of school.  So if they have a problem, they can feel comfortable coming to me, talking to me about it.  It’s a completely different law enforcement.  I went from kicking in doors and pointing guns at people, telling them to get on the ground, to sitting down in an office with a 16-year-old kid and just trying to figure out what’s going on in his or her life.  To see what I can do to help them out.  It’s cool.  It’s a great change.  It’s an awesome change.  I love it.”

Officer Moody is interrupted as we sit in his office.  “What’s up, Anthony?”  “Hi Jordan.”  “Hello Michael.”

Clearly, I was occupying a chair reserved for these kids.

Officer Moody began to tell stories.  A boy climbing up on a building at the shopping center to hold up a sign asking a girl to homecoming.   A gang kid learning to trust Officer Moody as he relentlessly engaged the kid at school — day after day after day.  Two girls being spiteful to a third girl, taking her purse, texting where the purse was located, and then the two girls crying in remorse in Officer Moody’s office.  This isn’t complicated.  Right and wrong, poor behavior and good character, wallowing and getting on with the task.  Life lessons.  Everyone ends up with Officer Moody for a chat sooner or later.

“I have a good rapport with many of these kids because I have the same maturity level.”  Officer Moody laughs at himself — slow and easy.  “I still haven’t grown up.  When I was 15 years old, I told my dad, ‘When I grow up I want to be a policeman.’  He said, ‘Son, you can’t do both.’  I never understood what that meant until now.”

So this tough, aggressive, in-your-face cop sits behind a desk at Roosevelt High School in Des Moines, Iowa.  Buying lunches for the senior basketball players, just so he can find out about their plans and make sure they have a future.  Encouraging a freshman basketball player to persevere, when he sees the kid pouting on the bench.  Shaking the outstretched hands of fathers he’s arrested, because the fathers are thrilled Officer Moody is watching over their kids.

“This is the greatest school on earth.  I swear to God.  It has the best administrators, the best teachers, and the best kids.  Kids from south of Grand, kids from the hood, kids from the east side, and they all come here.  I have not seen anything about racism, it is everybody hanging out together.  If our city was as good as this school, we’d have no problems.”

Happy as a clam, Officer Moody is home.

“This is the best job on earth.  I get paid to build relationships with kids that I actually like.  I get actual feelings for these kids.  I say to them, ‘Dude, I get to  know you for four years.  We are going to be great friends.  Do you want to know the worst part of this job?  When you graduate.’”

Officer Moody’s eyes glisten at the very thought.  Really?

“I love the job, Joe, I can’t say enough about it.”

And Officer Moody leads me out of Roosevelt High School.  Safe and sound.

Joe

Just a goodbye is what she asked.  Write a farewell.  Nothing more.  Certainly nothing rude.  Nothing getting even.  Nothing to settle old scores.  Just goodbye to old friends, old enemies, and all the in-between.  And, most importantly, goodbye to the neighborhood.  To the East Village, a simple goodbye.

The past few weeks have not been easy.  Holding down a spot in East Village for so many years, Marsha Steele’s time is out.  Her lease is dried up.  Her spot on Grand Avenue is done.  No hard feelings.  But the reality is that her small business is soon to be a business no more.

For 25 years, Marsha successfully worked in the insurance world.  But in 2005, she turned her back on that world and opened a vintage shop in East Village — Found Things.  A dream come true.

“How do you make your dream?  You moonlight.  I painted house interiors on the side so I could support the store.  I went to a small business administration class at night.  They gave you a business plan boiler plate.  Eventually I was able to be open five days a week.  And before long, I was open six days a week.   I then moved to this bigger space in 2008.”  Marsha smiles proudly as she looks around her store on Grand Avenue.

Let’s just take a turn around Marsha’s dream.  Go through the large glass door and up a step.  See that old mortar and pestle on the counter?  It’s Marsha’s favorite item in her store today.  The wooden handle of the pestle is worn smooth by the palm of some long-forgotten person grinding and crushing spices into powder.  Marsha will tell you about the pestle.  She’ll ask about the space you want to decorate, ask about your wants and needs, and suggest other items which might work.

Then she’ll ask about you.

I’m not kidding.  She is going to connect with you.  Sorry.  You don’t even have to buy that crazy mortar and pestle.  She is all about her customers — as she looks directly at you with eyes slightly magnified by the perfectly rounded vintage glasses and a wry smile dancing across her lips.  This is who she is.

Let’s take a turn to the west wall.  Past the mason jars and bowls and cupboards.  Yup, that is a deer head on the wall.  You’re right, there are a lot of points on the antlers.  Of course it is dead as a vintage door nail.  Stuffed.  Exactly what you’d expect to find in your grandpa’s attic next to his tuba and your grandma’s old phonograph.  Come on, here’s your chance to be politically incorrect.  Buy it.  And you might as well also buy that used fur coat since you’re on that slippery slope anyway.

And while you’re browsing, Marsha will tell you about the other great stores in East Village.  You like her vintage glasses?  Well, go to the optometry shop down a few blocks.  You want men’s clothing?  Just go over to that bridal shop and they have a great men’s line of clothing in the back.  You want soap?  You want spices?  You want painted furniture?  You want fresh tea?  You want a latte?  Marsha will point the way.  All in the East Village.

“All the small businesses in the East Village adapt.  We keep ourself viable.  It is something to be proud of.  And look at all the women entrepreneurs: Sarah Grant, Amy Hassebrock, Jen at Eden, Teresa at Kitchen Collage, they’re all still here.  There’s a great camaraderie of female business owners.”

Yup, she’s about you, but she’s also all about these women, these small businesses.

Now we are towards the back of the store.  If you look up, you’ll see a wooden canoe hanging from the ceiling.  Old as Moses.  A future decoration for some modern downtown loft is my guess.  Perhaps a conversation piece that will float above the cocktails.  Although I don’t see any paddle.

Speaking of no paddle . . . .

“There was a vacuum in the board of East Village.  Six or seven of us were appointed new.  The president resigned thirteen months earlier.  At that meeting, seven new people were voted on the board and they said, ‘Okay, we need a president.’  And somebody said, ‘Marsha, you be president.’  They voted on it, and I became president.”

And it might be an understatement to say Marsha became a very vocal member of the East Village Neighborhood Association.

“A lot of detractors will say I was the bitch on Grand.  That hurts my feelings.  I’m a very direct person and half the population doesn’t want someone to ask them a direct question.  Another portion doesn’t want you to re-ask it because of no response.  I always called myself a pusher.”

Marsha was passionate about East Village.  She loved all the festivals that the City put in East Village, but hated that all their businesses would be virtually shut down during these two-day events.  She railed against noise coming from the bars.  She argued for planters and sidewalks.  She didn’t want drunks out on the street.  And on and on and on.

Marsha circles back to the front of the store.  Customers need her attention.  A hipster is piling items on the counter, wanting to know their back stories.  Two fashionable women have questions about some funky furniture they saw in the back.

Next to me are old suitcases stacked on shelves.  The kind of suitcases you’d imagine a silent screen star having in hand on a train ride in the 1920’s, perhaps on the slow train to Paris.  Or the kind you pack up to leave home.

“I want to leave good energy behind for the people I’ve worked with, and leave good energy for my fellow business owners.  I don’t want to give a teary send off — I want to say, ‘Keep being great downtown retail, keep being the hottest retail district in the state, keep redefining yourself’ —  because I’m watching.”

Marsha’s eyes glisten.  Her heart is broken.  Her love for East Village, her love for small businesses, her love for her customers, is too much for her today.

She sets a compass on the table in front of me, unable to make eye contact.

“I carry this old thing with me.  And, not being a boy scout, and not knowing my way, I pull this out.  And whenever I wonder where I am, I’m right here.”

Joe

You couldn’t make it?  Too bad.  It’s Iowana at it’s best.  From all over the state, young men and women came to compete — to see who is the strongest, quickest, and most clever.  They did moves like the half nelson, the single leg takedown, the double leg takedown, and the ankle pick.  Of course, these might also be the specials they were offering at the concession stands.  Got me.  Although, I was mildly disappointed to find out there would be no one wrestling in a costume calling himself “The Undertaker.”  But I went this year because that’s what retired guys do.  Here’s what I saw and here are the new words I learned.

Water bugs.  At 106 pounds these are water bugs.  All legs and arms and quick movements skimming the surface of the mat.  When they lock together, it is an entanglement of filaments — a leg twisted around an arm, twisted around a waist, with a head over there and a foot over here.  A bundle of limbs.   The wrestlers skittle on and skittle off.  A victor is found, but I’m not sure if body parts haven’t been exchanged.  A whole new water bug leaves the mat.

Bull elk.  Large.  Powerful.  Shy, but territorial.  285 pounds of a boy not yet a man.  There is nothing mean.  Nothing brutish.  Nothing evil in these mammoth boys.  Gentleness is the name of the game.  But out they come to lock horns.  Knotted together at the arms and shoulders.  Immovable.  Neither one bends to sweep the legs.  Neither one feints to the right or to the left.  How dare they?  Their mass unbalanced will quickly tumble them to the ground.  And that is the end.  They struggle with this knowledge.  Locked together.  Knowing that today it is you on the ground, tomorrow it is me.

Roosters.  Prancing around the gym at 182 pounds, chests thrust out, arms sculpted with muscles, chins chiseled.  They are 17 years old going on 27.  They needed to shave twice today just to keep up appearances.  And here they are.  Ready to fight.  Watch them warm-up off the mat.  Glaring and thumping and dropping to one knee to shoot inside the imaginary opponent.  The fans whoop it up on the sidelines.  Happy.  Excited.  Watching the wrestler off-stage.  Forget the actual match.  This is the real arena for the 182 pounder.  Strutting their stuff in the chicken yard.  And the interesting twist?  It doesn’t really matter if they lose a feather or two.  Their crow will still be heard in the morning.

Prairie dogs.  The coaches all line the corners of the mat.  Sitting two abreast.  Placidly at the start.  Then bent at the waist.  Then hands cupped around their mouths to shout.  Then conferring intently with each other.  Then — wait for it —  they spring out of their holes.  Jumping and shouting and gesturing.   Whew.  Back to their hole they go.  Sitting placidly once again.  Wiping their furry brows with a small hand towel.

Yellow labs.  Their butts high in the air.  Chest down on the ground.  Eyes forward watching the action.  Scooting to the left.  Then scooting to the right.  Dancing and dancing around all the fun.  Pulling in close to slap a hand against the mat.  Darting back out to circle and circle and circle.  Barking at one wrestler.  Then barking at another.  It doesn’t stop until everyone is herded off the mat.  Wagging their tails, the referees are just happy to be there.

There you go.  Now you know everything I know about Iowa high school wrestling.  I can’t wait for high school basketball.

Joe

The corner door pushes open to a soft “dong.”  That’s it.  No automatic swoosh of doors ushering you into a neon-lit extravaganza of restaurants, dry cleaners, coffee shops, post offices, liquor stores, pharmacies, and groceries.  Nope.  This door you have to push with your hands.  And it pushes open only into a small mom-and-pop store.  No bustling of people stocking shelves, no clang of shopping carts being rounded up by a machine in some football-field parking lot, no crackling voice announcing “help needed in aisle twenty-five.”  Nope.  Not here.  Just a warm hello from the smiling woman at the cash register — who will likely call you by name — and then you are on your own.  Quiet.  Peaceful.  Slow shopping.

“There used to be all these corner groceries in Des Moines.  One over here in the Roosevelt Shopping Center.   There was the Waveland Market.  There was one in Sherman Hills.  There was Greenwood Market, where we’d stop in every day coming home from Merrill.  New City Market has been the location of a grocery since the 1920’s.”

Jim Raife explains with gestures as he identifies each corner grocery on some large imaginary map of Des Moines.  A thin man.  61 years old.  Small boned.  Straight.  His peppery-grey hair, narrow face, and rounded glasses are window-dressing to his smile.  A slow, lazy affair.  It starts at the eyes, eases on down to his upper cheeks, then finally brings the corners of his mouth upwards.  It’s not in a rush.  Nor is he.

“I started work in what was then the Iowa Farmer’s Market in 1979.  It was like the first natural foods market in Des Moines.  The Iowa Farmer’s Market was a private store.  It was like crocks on the floor and an old cooler in the back.  That was it.”

Jim straightens the long apron that loops around his neck and falls below his knees.  The costume of his trade.

“It was a bunch of us hippies back in the beginning.  I had a giant fro.”  Jim laughs at his image as a young man.

“In 1989, I bought the Iowa Farmer’s Market and immediately moved it here to this corner.  I knew politically this was right.  I knew the natural food movement was a convergence of several movements.  One a political movement and one a health movement.  And so there was a compelling reason to think this would work.”

But really?  Running a small business?  Running a natural foods store?

“I learned by trial and error.  We did have a consultant fairly early that helped us a lot.  And I really worked to educate myself.  This was a fledging industry back then.  People were flying by the seat of their pants.  You see small business people who say, ‘No one’s going to tell me how to run my business.’  And you look at them and think someone needs to tell them how to run their business.  I was not that type.  Whatever help you can give me, I’ll take it.”

Ah, and then there’s his wife Cindy.  His indispensable partner in all of this.  She works the back room and he works the front.  Not too interested in any attention from me, she keeps to the periphery as she periodically glances our way.

And children?

“We had our first child in 1981,” Jim says.  “All my kids grew up in the store.  We were mom and popping it.  Play area in the front.  One of our kids would use the bathroom and yell across the store — ‘Mom, I need a wipe.’”

Jim laughs at how ridiculous it was.

“They all worked here.  We ate and breathed and lived this.”

Cindy continues to bustle in the background.  Grey hair pulled back tight.  Softly curved eyes glancing our way.  Gentle.

I intrude on her space.  What did you think when you and Jim opened this store?

“Well, when we started, I had two kids and I was very pregnant with the third.  When Jim said we should buy this place, I said he was crazy.”  She pauses.  “It was all good.  When our youngest was big enough to play, he had his legos set up in the front window while the older kids mixed peanut butter.  My adult kids all still eat natural foods and are healthy and well-rounded.  You can’t ask for more than that.”

And that’s enough goofing off.  Cindy heads to the back and Jim to the front.

The floor shines from polish.  The large windows glitter in the late afternoon sun.  The cans and boxes are marshaled  in neat rows on the shelves.   Vegetables and fruits are bright and lush in the refrigerated case against the wall.  And the barrels of grains and beans are ready to be scooped into waiting bags.  All is well at New City Market.  And a soft dong is heard in the background.  Mom and pop are back to work.

Joe

The large bushy mustache has a life of its own.  As do the quizzical eyebrows tucked behind rounded eyeglasses.  And the tufts of hair wanting to go sideways at the ears.  He could easily be an old vaudeville player made up with props from the back room.  Certainly the one-liners delivered in showman’s patter are a reminder of an earlier time.

You’re also a performer with the Java Jews, aren’t you?

“No, I play the accordion with them.”   [ba da bing!]

And how does the audience respond to the concerts you bring to town?

“There’s an older guy in the Jewish community, he comes up after every concert and has the same speech every time.  ‘Abe, I could tell those were really good musicians, they were very entertaining, I could tell they really knew their stuff.  But . . .  it don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that swing.’”  [canned audience laughter]

Abe winks at me to make sure I got the old man’s joke.  I’m clearly three steps behind.  Abe continues nonplussed.

“But he still comes to every concert.  One time I asked a pianist to play It Don’t Mean a Thing If It Ain’t Got That Swing.  See, we can get away with that kind of stuff.”

Abe beams at me.

Jazz is what he’s talking about.  Bringing great jazz to Des Moines.  Simple.  Or so it would seem.

Abe Goldstien loves jazz.  Abe Goldstien loves Des Moines.  He wants to share the two.  So he found a place for jazz musicians to play — The Caspe Terrace, a 150-seat performance space operated by the Jewish Federation of Greater Des Moines.  He found jazz musicians — like Amina Figarova, Trio X, Eric Vloeimans, and, on February 19th, Lee Konitz.  And he found the money to pay for it all.

Really?  From where?

Out of Abe and his wife’s own pockets it turns out.

Oh.

“We are really blessed in Des Moines.  We’d be hard-pressed to do this in any other community.  I have hotels, a venue, promotion is nothing, our only cost is the musicians and the food.  We don’t make any money.  I guarantee the musicians that I will give them a certain amount up front.  Then any other money that comes in above that from tickets, I give to them.  We always come out at a loss. . . .  But something magical is going to happen at the performance.”

So I sit at their kitchen table in a quiet bungalow on a quiet street not too far from Roosevelt High School.  Abe Goldstien, 63 years old, and Jackie Garnett, 56 years old, sit across from me.  They are a team.  Abe finds the musicians, and Jackie, a self-styled “culinary school dropout,” feed them.

Abe speaks of their passion. . . .

“My goal is when the musicians go back to their towns they say: ‘I was in Des Moines, and man, Jackie made this apple pie and whatever we wanted, and Abe drove us everywhere and it was great and you really need to play there.’  And if possible, we like to get them in a day before so that I can show them around Des Moines.  The end result, when they get up on stage they think they’re playing in our living room.  They’ve gotten to know us and they assume all the people in the audience are like us.  So it becomes this little intimate dinner party.”

Wow.  Another good man and another good woman doing good in Des Moines.  Great.

But that is so not the story I want to tell.

Years ago, Jackie and Abe briefly crossed paths.

“I always tell people I thought she was the most beautiful woman I ever saw.  But you know, I was, and still am, a schlumpy Jewish guy.  I would have never thought of walking up to her and asking her out.”  Abe ducks his head and shyly smiles.

“And that’s why I didn’t have any dates,”  Jackie deadpans in her low syrupy voice.

Sleepy eyes, warm wide smile, and a drawl.  Yup, a molasses drawl.  Rich and deep and comforting.  Jackie tells of her former life in production at WHO, her stint in DMACC’s culinary school, and her present job at Methodist hospital taking care of patients’ diets.

But Jackie does not speak of her first place wins at the Iowa State Fair for pies and various other dishes.  Abe does.  Jackie does not tell of the raves that the jazz musicians give for her meals and her care-taking.  Abe does.  Jackie does not speak about how head-over-heels Abe is in love with her.  Of course not.  Please.  Abe does.

Abe has a few rules for whom he invites to Des Moines.  After the musicians pass the test of being someone Abe wants to hear, they have another major hurdle.

“They have to play a tune called East of the Sun, West of the Moon.  If they won’t play that, forget it.”

And the musicians all surprisingly agree.  Each group, each musician, play a tune written by Brooks Bowman, a 1930’s jazz standard.

“East of the sun and west of the moon,                                                                                       We’ll build a dream house of love, dear.                                                                            Near to the sun in the day,                                                                                                  Near to the moon at night,                                                                                               We’ll live in a lovely way, dear,                                                                                         Living on love and pale moonlight.”

A love affair with jazz?

“The love affair is with Jackie, not jazz,” Abe quickly corrects.  He pulls off his heavy wedding ring to show me.  On the inside is carved these words:

“EAST OF THE SUN, WEST OF THE MOON.”

“It’s our song,” Abe says with a bright-eyed smile that is not intended for me.  And Jackie smiles back.

A jazzy romance indeed.

Joe