You first notice the smell of wax.  It clings to your nose even after the reflected sunlight causes you to look up from the polished surface.  Wow, that is glossy smooth. You slowly bend to get a closer look and your gaze involuntarily drifts down the entire stretch.   Lord, it runs the length of the building and is twice as wide as most folk’s work cubicles. Shadows of dark and light play over the top.  And mirror images appear on the surface, opening up as windows, illuminating different scenes and different places.  It is truly beautiful.

And then a group of men and women get off the elevator.  They scuff the polish, chase away the shadows, and shatter the magical windows.  Is this some evil sent to destroy art?  No, it’s just employees walking down the hall going to lunch.

The creator smiles with pride.

Gordon Avritt laughs easily and often.  He’s a janitor.  He’s cleaned for the State of Iowa for 40 years.  At 62 years old, he stands straight, looks you in the eye, and wants to talk.  About his work.

“I began at Des Moines General Hospital back in 1971.  At that time there was little carpeting.  I loved looking at that terrible floor at Des Moines General and seeing the beauty I could put on it when my work was all done.  I seen the satisfaction I had at how beautiful that floor was.”  From then on he was hooked.

For the last seven years, Avritt has worked at the newly remodeled Oran Pape Building, which houses the Department of Public Safety.

“I love working here and I love the people here and what I do.  Probably ‘what I do’ is number one to me. . . .   In the morning I clean bathrooms and that.  Then we vacuum for an hour to an hour-and-a-half.  Then I do some dusting.  Then trash probably the rest of the day.  If I get done with the trash, then dusting some more.  Here, let me show you another higher floor.”  Again, he beams with pride.

“They treat us terrific here.  And I guess I feel very special to even get an opportunity to work in this building because this is a building you have to go through so much security to work here.  And I’m proud that I’ve always been a good person and not in trouble in my life.”

Avritt works 40 hours a week as a janitor for the State, and then spends both days on the weekend cleaning at Calvin Community, a retirement community.   His wife, Norma, works also, and they send any extra money to their adult son who has serious health issues.

“Both my children are adopted from Korea.  Now, when you write this, don’t say we adopted to save them.  We adopted for me and my wife.  We wanted children and couldn’t have them.”  Avritt talks as he empties the trash.

“Daughter and two babies live with us.  I help on the babysitting part.  I’d much rather deal with the people here.  The kids can be more work.”  He laughs.  “I love them to pieces.”

“I take pride in the work,” he says as he continues emptying trash.  “We just got done doing the hallway floors.  The satisfaction of looking at that floor and how pretty it is.  And when people walk in the building they see that.”

But doesn’t it all just get dirty again tomorrow?  Isn’t this discouraging?  “No, huh-uh,  if they didn’t dirty it, I wouldn’t have a job.”  Laughing loudly.   “Job security.”

Avritt never sees himself as truly retiring.  “I’ll work here another 4 years until I can get my social security.  I’ll always work a part-time job somewhere.   That’s just me.  I’ll always be doing something.  If my health lets me.  I’ve got a lot of old-people diseases.  I’ve got high blood pressure. . . .   It went up a little higher with the grandchildren.”  Again, knee-slapping laughter.

And for fun?  “When my brother was well, we’d go to the Hawkeye football games.  Me and him.”  Avritt looks sadly away.  His brother is two years gone.

Anything else?  “I was always so proud of my work.”

***************************************************************************************************************

“When you are washing the dishes, washing the dishes must be the most important thing in your life.”  Thich Nhat Hanh, Vietnamese Zen Buddhist monk, explaining how to live a mindful life.

“Seeing the beauty I can put on it.”  Gordon Avritt, janitor, Oran Pape Building, explaining his goal in cleaning a floor.

Joe

In the basement of the old Catholic elementary school in Iowa City, we all lined up with our vendor trays attached by straps across the back of our necks.  Ranging in ages from 10 to 13, we were loaded down with homecoming mums.   After a quick lecture from Sister Timothy Mary (in those days still clothed in black and white from head to toe), we waited impatiently for the signal.  The whistle was blown, the big double doors were thrown open, and down Clinton Street we went, through the mass of people lining the sidewalk, where we hawked flowers to the boisterous parade watchers.  I was euphoric.  Homecoming floats drifted past in a haze, the University of Iowa band played to the night sky, and people yelled and laughed with abandon.  My first parade.

Now, of course, this isn’t your first parade.  But you’re wondering how to navigate this year’s parade season.  Sure, you know to avoid the drunken leprechaun marching on Saint Patrick’s Day, and maybe even the need to steer clear of all farm tractors so large the driver can’t see the parade watchers, let alone the clowns in the small cars.  But what about the rest?  Well, it’s your lucky day.  Parade 101 is just beginning.

The night before.  The night before the big event, the truly eager parade watchers mark their spots.  You can place your reservation with lawn chairs, caution tape, tarps and blankets.  This is equal opportunity at its best.  Squatter rules apply.  However, you should probably not leave the family heirloom quilt on someone’s front lawn.  And, as tempting as it sounds, your kids should not be left holding down the tarp while you head to Stormy’s.

Preparation for marching.  You’re going to be a participant?  Great?  You have only one job — candy.  And lots of it.  Do you have enough?  There is no such thing as “enough.”  Your ability to provide a satisfactory candy experience is of utmost importance.   You want to see why?

Yup, that’s Governor Terry Branstad at Urbandale’s parade on the Fourth of July.  Okay, he’s been governor on and off for 300 years.  He’s gamely walking this two-mile route, waving and talking to folks.  But where are all the kids looking?  Not at Governor Branstad.  They’re looking for the candy.  Do you want this to happen to you?  I didn’t think so.

You need a visual of how much to bring?  These gentlemen figured it out.  Yes, that is preparation.

Moms and kids viewing.  Moms and kids make up the bulk of the people watching any parade.  Moms, be aware that there may be a few confusing images for your children.  Be prepared to be flexible in answering the obvious questions.  My favorite mom was at the Pride Parade last year.  She was overseeing a group of little kids (yes, their hands outstretched for candy), when this float came rolling past.

I overheard her explain to the smallest boy, who was genuinely puzzled, that, yes, these men were only wearing underwear, but it was because it was just so hot outside.  See, moms generally know the right answer.

Humble yourself.  It’s one thing to watch a parade from the comfortable anonymity of the crowd.  It’s quite another to march in the parade itself.  Most walkers generally follow  a fairly typical progression. You begin very self-consciously.  Why?  Because you feel like a fool walking in a parade.  It’s not a mystery why most parade marchers disguise themselves as clowns or animals or politicians.  So, you start out by demurely handing out your candy, then rushing back to the parade vehicle, where you are hoping you will be lost to the crowd.  You’re not lost to the crowd.  I mean, you’re in the middle of the road with nowhere to hide.  And as you’re feeling more and more silly and wondering how you were ever talked into this craziness, suddenly, there is an amazing transformation.  It starts with you throwing the candy with a bit of a flourish.  Next, you begin bantering with the kids and their parents.  And before you know it, you’re a true parade marcher and start belting out the greatest hits by Aretha Franklin and doing cartwheels down the road.  It is stunning to the casual observer.  I can’t explain this phenomenon, but it happens every time.  Trust me.

Now, by the end of the parade, you’ll just want some shade and a chair.  Unfortunately, the end of the parade occurs for most marchers about four blocks from the start.  You have another two miles.  Sorry.

Secret parade information.  I talked to a grizzled veteran of parades, Terry Rich.  Yes, the same Terry Rich who runs the Iowa Lottery.  His most recent foray into parades was marching with a group called “Old Farts with Carts.”  He would be the “D.”

This group breaks into looping, shopping cart configurations that are amazing pieces of choreography reminiscent of the Olympic synchronized swimmers.   Astounding, but true.

Rich confided the secret of participating in a parade:  “After three years we finally got it right.  We try to look for little kids who don’t have much candy, and we load them up.”

There you have it.  Pearls of wisdom.  Parade 101.

Joe

Come on.  This is just weird.  He’s sitting way too close.  His knee is almost touching yours.  Can you tell him to back up?  Is your breathing getting a little ragged?  Does he notice that your eyes are moistening?

The lean of his body into yours is as intimate as a third date.  Lord, you even notice the color of his blue eyes.  You want to fiddle with the pen on the table just to break away from his intensity.   It’s OK to look away, right?  Just do it!  Look away, now!  Ah, but you can’t.

And then he begins to speak softly . . . .

“Something went wrong here, didn’t it?”

Really?  No kidding?  You have the urge to start putting all the things that went wrong into categories to help the discussion along.  Perhaps this explains how some poor schmuck in early Christianity, when faced with the same observation by some blue-eyed priest, rattled off a list of wrongs: lust, greed, envy, pride, wrath, sloth, and gluttony.  They’re a good starting point for most of us.

“They don’t understand you, do they?”

What is this guy talking about?  Doesn’t he know that you just committed murder?  Your life is over.  This is so the end.  You’re going to prison for life.  No one has ever understood you.  Why should anyone start now.  Is this guy saying he understands the problems you’ve had to face?  Is he touching your knee with his hand?

“I see you’re wearing a Cubs hat.  What do you think of their season so far?”

Whaaaat?  This guy is crazy, but the Cubs season is really not going well.  “Jeez, they’re having another bad year.  That pitcher . . . .”

Oops, John Quinn has you.  In fact, he had you the moment you decided to stay in the room.  You might as well confess because you’re going to eventually.  Let me explain.

For a starter, sheer volume.  “I’ve worked over 100 death cases,” Quinn said.  That’s about thirty years worth.  At the age of 24, Quinn became a Special Agent with the Department of Criminal Investigation.  He never left except to be the Assistant Director and then the Director and now back to Assistant Director.  Pretty impressive.  But it didn’t begin so well.

“To be honest with you, I was a good Catholic boy.  I went to Dowling High School.  Iowa State University playing college football.  Not really understanding what the world really consisted of.  And here I am working homicides in law enforcement.  I wasn’t ready.”

Quinn was called to investigate the murder of a young woman in 1984.  “They threw me up against a guy called Ron Gruber.  I wasn’t ready for him.  He was literally an executioner for the Sons of Silence [a motorcycle gang].  And he challenged me. Literally made fun of me in the interview room.  He was right.  I wasn’t ready to be in that room with him.  I wasn’t prepared to handle someone of his evil.  He caused me to go ahead and accept the challenge he laid out to me.  And that was to be the best interviewer and interrogator that I could be.”

So, Quinn buckled down, went to every school he could, and studied the art of interrogation.  He enlisted his wife to role-play bad guys so he could work on certain techniques (“Do I have to be Ron Gruber again?” she’d say.).  As amazing as it sounds, he started doing exit interviews with suspects to find out what worked and what didn’t.  “Kind of a strange conversation you’re having with somebody that just talked about killing somebody and you’re now asking them: ‘Now, when I was asking you this, how did you feel that went . . . .’”  And he latched onto any mentor he could find.

In 1985, I was called to a murder scene in Dallas County.  Quinn was the chief investigator and I was the prosecutor.  We had never met.  Quinn, fresh from his bad experience as an interrogator, wanted to try a new technique in interrogating the murder suspect. Unbeknownst to me, he was studying and experimenting to be the best.   I told him his idea was illegal and explained why.  He then explained to me why it was a good idea and said it was legal.  We stared at each other.  He said he was going to do it.  I said he wasn’t.  He said he was.  I then used a profanity that is not recommended in courses on nonviolent communication.  He responded with his own creative profanity.  We smiled.  Chest-thumping as bonding.

Quinn talks in sports-speak.   He’s a former quarterback for Iowa State and he readily admits that his experience calling plays in the huddle shaped his entire life.  So, in the jargon of  sport aphorisms, here’s what Quinn discovered in his search to be a great interrogator.

“Life is filled with adversity, you’re either going to go ahead and meet the challenges or not.  You can be on the sidelines or be a starter.  I knew it was going to take dedication on my part to learn these interrogation techniques.”

“It’s all about just being able to talk with people.  You have to be able to communicate.  The best part about interrogations?  God doesn’t make you an interrogator.  Anybody can be an interrogator.”

 “As you evaluate the suspects, they’re actually evaluating you.  They’re assessing you.  They can tell what they can get away with and what they can’t.”

“It is really helpful to be empathetic.  The biggest issue that people have when they commit a horrendous crime is that no one will understand why it is they did what they did.  Sometimes, they don’t even know.  It’s not that they want to tell somebody about it, it’s just that the situation dictates that they feel the need to tell somebody.  Our job is to be that conduit.  To be the facilitator to make sure the environment is correct  so that they can talk about it.”

“I never blame the victim as a technique in interrogation.  It has nothing to do with the victim. A lot of times victims are just random objects to the suspect.  It’s what’s transpired in the suspect’s life that actually leads them to that point of tangency where they actually intersect with the victim.”

“Being true to yourself is the secret to interrogation.  They can tell when you’re being fake.  Just talk to them in plain speak.  And be honest with them even though there not honest with you.”  

“It’s not what we do, but how we do it.”

“If they’re willing to sit in that room with you, they’re willing to confess.”

 “We all have vulnerabilities.”

John Quinn moves with confidence, speaks with confidence, and laughs with confidence.  His confidence is so overwhelming, that it is easy to mistake for arrogance.  “Humility is the key to the soul.  You can be confident, but if you’re humble, you have the total package,” Quinn says.  Is that a wink?  You tell me.

And Ron Gruber?  “It took me 12 years to get Ron Gruber.  But I got him.”

John Quinn is eight months from retiring.  For thirty years he made Iowa a safer place and raised the bar for police conduct.  He will be missed.

Joe

Fear can raise a rebellion even in the smallest of hearts.   It certainly was the force that propelled me at the age of eight to barricade myself in the family station wagon on a hot summer day, many years ago.   The windows were rolled up, and my parents and seven siblings clamored outside the car as they alternated between threats and promises to get me to open up.   This standoff began because I had just bolted from the doctor’s office out of sheer terror.  I had watched the doctor’s routine that morning just one too many times as he made his way through my large family.  Judy, Carol, Marla.   John, Joyce, Jim, Cathy.  Yikes, I was next . . . for a shot . . . with a needle!  No thank you.

“If afraid of needle, a lot of time is because they don’t know the needle.  The unknown is scary.  If they come in, I tap one needle in and they see it is comfortable.  A lot of time they sleep.  They relaxed.  It is very odd.  They not afraid anymore.  Children also.  Especially the children that don’t have regular shot experience, they come here, try the acupuncture, they just fine.”  Yimin Xu said in his soft voice.

Xu is ramrod straight, lean, and bespeckled.   The long, white lab coat, covering a shirt and tie, appears part of his person, and, perhaps, is what he wears even when lounging around the house.  His rare smile and laugh makes you a little self-conscious, causing you to smile more broadly and laugh more frequently.  You eventually see the smile is in his eyes, and the laughter is in the slight pull at his cheeks.  And you begin to wonder what else you are missing about this man.

Xu is a licensed acupuncturist practicing in the Des Moines area.  He’s come a long way from his home in China.  It was there that he received a degree in traditional Chinese medicine and where he taught acupuncture for several years at the college level.  He then came to the United States in 1992 to study pharmacology at Northeastern University in Boston.  However, he was soon enticed to New Mexico to teach at the Southwest Acupuncture College.  And that he did for many years.  Better schools for his son, and the encouragement of two of his former students already in Des Moines, enticed him to Iowa.

That’s all nice to hear.  Good to know he’s licensed and trained and a teacher and smart.  But can we get back to the needles?

Acupuncture?  “I usually don’t need to explain the theory behind it, because if they have a problem, if I can do some changes, the trust will be immediately established.  One man from Camp Dodge, he sprain his ankle.  He doesn’t believe in acupuncture.  The girlfriend bring him here.  He doesnt’ want to be here.  I use scalp acupuncture.  Afterward, I ask him to walk.  He walks without pain.  He quickly apologized to me for the attitude.”

“I don’t need to explain, I just let them see the effect.  That’s my approach.”  Xu gave his small smile.

Okay, fine, thank you, and the needle . . . ?

Xu carefully unwraps a single needle from its individual sterile package.  It is as thin as a dog’s hair.

“As to how acupuncture works, there are a lot of theories.  In the traditional Chinese medical theory, if a person has pain, we believe it is energy stagnation or the blood has some stagnation.  If there is pain, there is stagnation, if there is stagnation, there is pain.  The modern theory is that the acupuncture needle is a pure physical stimulation.  No chemical there.  It is pure stainless steel.  When it is put into our body, there are chemical changes in the body.  For example, release of endorphins.”

“However, none of these theories adequately explain what happens.”

So there I was.  Stretched out on the table with over 20 needles sticking out of my feet, legs, arms, and hands.  Of course, this didn’t top last week appointment, when I sprouted a half-dozen needles from my head.  Somebody must be getting a kick out of this, right?  Some former high school bully turned YouTube producer is filming a horrible video: “Can we really get the bald guy to lay on the table and put needles in his head?”  Apparently so.

“More men than women are afraid of the needle,” Xu explains as he taps the last needle into place in my hand.

I snap the picture with the other hand . . . and promptly fall asleep.  A fearless pincushion at rest.

Joe

What would the Founding Fathers do?

There seems to be a wistful longing these days for when men were men and the likes of George Washington and Thomas Jefferson and Benjamin Franklin were the talk of the town.   But don’t you wonder how all those revolutionary heroes navigated their home life?

Let me tell you the story of a revolutionary father.

Let’s start with the daughter, Magdalena Beme Reese.  A success by any measure: young mom of a 13-month-old, good marriage, early stages of a successful career as a lawyer here in Polk County, and loving parents.  Trust me, there is no downside.  But her life began a little more complicated.  Let’s see.  Her parents were unemployed, no one spoke English, and the family fortune totaled $30 when they first arrived in the U.S.  Imagine.  One trip to the pizza joint and the need for a wallet disappeared.

“I had no accent.  No one would have known I was different while I attended Jackson Elementary School.  However, there were little things.  When we would go to the Food Fair, we brought Polish food,” Reese said with a small smile.

When Reese arrived in Iowa at the age of 4, she could only speak Polish.  Two years later, she graduated from the ESL program and never looked back.  “For me growing up, it was trying not to stand out, not to be different.  It wasn’t until I got older that I started to appreciate what my parents did and what they went through to come here.”

From notes on a piece of paper, Reese began to read aloud the history of her family.  “In May of 1982 my father was in jail.  By October of 1982, he was moved to the prison.”  

Really?

Stefan Beme is not a big man.  But he is square, solid, and not afraid to give you a clear-eyed look.  He just cleaned up after getting off his shift at Firestone with the maintenance department.

“I grew up in Communist Poland,” Beme says.  “It is a beautiful country today, a free democratic country, but different then. . . .  I graduated from trade school and worked for the Power Company.  I worked up high on the power lines and at transformer stations and with cable lines.  In 1974 I was drafted to the military.  You had to go for two years.  After service, I met my wife, Maria.  We got in love quickly.  I loved her from the first moment.  And in 1980, Magdalena was born.”

The world then became more complicated for Beme as he and Maria struggled with austere food rationing and loss of individual freedoms.  “The election of a Polish Pope gave people big hope.”  And Beme became a member of Solidarity — a consortium of unions from various industries around Poland, including the Power Company.   He soon became a leader in his group.  They demanded independent unions, more food, increased wages, safer conditions for workers, and the release of political prisoners.  This did not sit well with the communists, according to Beme.  On December 13, 1981, martial law was imposed and Beme’s activities with Solidarity were outlawed.  Beme went underground.

Beme began a printing press with others and distributed materials against the government.  He would run his press in various locations, and then go to churches, train stations, wherever people would gather, and hand out flyers.  “People were hungry for these flyers.”

The secret police were on to Beme.  One time too many he distributed flyers in a church.   He was arrested.

Beme was sentenced to four years in prison.  His religion, he claims, kept him strong during this time.  On Sunday, Catholic Mass would be said over the speakers in the prison.  “I tell you something.  Everyone in the cell would put on their nicest clothes and stand in front of the speakers.  People were crying.  It was something that kept you going.”

Epilepsy, according to Beme, was his salvation.  He had suffered from the disease for years.  Prison made it worse.  His seizures became more and more frequent.  The authorities eventually cut his sentence to two years.  He was released from prison, but fired from his job and harassed by the secret police.  Maria and Beme decided to leave the country.  They chose the United States.

To get a passport, they discovered they had to give up all monies and assets in Poland.   They did.  They were then each given $10, the clothes they could carry, and a passport.  By 1984, they were in Des Moines, not because they knew Des Moines, or even knew Iowa, but because Saint Stephen Lutheran Church and Saint John’s Lutheran Church sponsored them.  “We learned we are going to Iowa.  Where’s that?”

Maria and Beme then lived the immigrant story.  They worked night and day.  They slept little.  They went to school for English classes.  They did everything they could to survive.  Eventually Beme ended up at Firestone in the maintenance department.  Beme says that over 30 families from Poland were in Des Moines then.  All came because they fought for freedom in their own way in the home country.  These were survivors.

“When Magdalena went to Dowling, I did not make enough money at my job, so Maria and I cleaned houses, nothing wrong with this, and I worked in gardens to make extra.  I took all the job that was possible so Magda could go to the Dowling School.”

And now his little girl is a successful lawyer.  Maria has retired and watches her grandchild during the day, where she speaks only Polish at the request of her daughter.  And Beme goes off to work at Firestone.  A good life.

Looking back, Beme reflects with a slow shake of his head.  “I  knew it wasn’t easy at all for Maria when I went underground.  Maria knew I was pretty active with Solidarity.  Everybody knew if you got caught you ended up in jail.  We never had any serious talk about it.  Maria had to take the pressure of taking care of a six-month-old kid.  That was a lot of nerves Maria was in.  She didn’t agree. . . .  Sometimes we would print at our house.  I really admire Maria.  She was father and mother to Magdalena.”

“I’m blaming myself.  That I put my family and Solidarity activities on the same level.  Maria didn’t.  I think it was like a power to me.  I was young and didn’t look at the consequences of my decision.”

And Maria?  “The prison time wasn’t easy.  I wanted him home.  I never deal with police before and never deal with prison before.  I’d rather have him home than prison.  We are married only 4 years.”  Maria gave a long sigh and looked down.

What would the Founding Father’s do?  Got me.  So I read to Maria her husband’s words of loving her “from the first moment” and “getting in love quickly” and blaming himself for leaving her without really thinking it through.  And Maria looked up and smiled with glistening eyes.

A revolutionary father.

Joe

My uncle had one arm.  In my 1960‘s world view, this single difference — not intellect, not physical strength, not beauty — propelled my uncle into a mystical category.  He moved within the realm of the giants of those days, Tarzan, Robin Hood, and Davy Crockett.  He was a man amongst men as he strode the earth with one sleeve pinned up.  And now, at this late date, I discovered an even more amazing tidbit: he talked Latin to cows — and they listened.

Clem Smith lost his arm in a carnival accident before I was born.  Something to do with a Ferris wheel he was working on at the Pocahontas County Fair.  Uncle Clem began working for carnivals sometime around 1936.  By the 1960’s, he was an owner and booking county fairs around Iowa.  Of course, since this is Iowa, he was also a farmer.   He operated the carnival for part of the year and he farmed the remainder.  Both careers were too dependent on the weather to allow complacency to ever get a toe-hold in his psyche.  He would frequently forecast the financial ruin that was right around the corner, then he would scowl with concern and worry his stump with his good arm — a wringing of the hands.

Yes, Uncle Clem farmed with one arm.  Not a trick today, but quite the sight on the exposed cab of the old Farmall tractor.  Just too many levers for one hand.  He used the crook of his elbow to maximum advantage.  And it all worked.

He also had cattle in those years.  Black Angus.  His sons and I would move them out of the barns and across the road to the harvested corn fields to graze on the missed ears of corn.  Then, as night fell, we’d move them back into the barns.  Uncle Clem would have a staff gripped between his truncated arm and his chest and yell for the cattle to come home.  We all yelled the chant he taught us.  “Ca bos.”  “Caaa booos.”  “CAAA BOOOS.”  And the cows understood our words and came home.

A small memory from an earlier time.

There is an amazing poet, Tom Hennen, in a poem called Country Latin, who refers to “Ka Bas, Ka Bas,” as the “only Latin my father taught me.”  What’s this?  Is it possible that “ca bos” actually has a meaning?

John F. Finamore, a professor at the University of Iowa and the Chair of the Department of Classics, is a Latin pro.  He told me that bos is Latin for cow.  That makes sense.  Next time your partner calls you a little “bossy,” she’s not calling you a delicate flower, is she?   As for ca, Professor Finamore says it is definitely not Latin.  He speculates that ca may come from ca’ing, which is to drive a herd or to “call” the herd.  In other words, “ca bos” may be literally “calling cows.”

Wow.  The implications are staggering.  Right?  Who would have guessed?  We have bilingual cows in Iowa.  They not only know Iowan, they know Latin.  Amazing.

This required a test case.  So out on the Chichaqua Bike Trail, east of Bondurant, I called to a herd of young cattle.  “Ca bos.”  “Caaa boos.”  “CAAA BOOOS.”

And they lined the fence, listening with rapt attention.  There you go.  Bilingual cows.  End of story.

My uncle?  He is long gone, as is most of his generation.   But I clearly see him, with one sleeve empty, striding through the cut cornstalks, speaking Latin to those soft-eyed cows, as he safely shepherds them home for the night.  And the cows?  They listen patiently to my uncle, while lowing back to him their pleasure.

Joe

“How to” books are everywhere.  How to . . . lose weight.  How to . . . become stronger.  How to . . . fix your dry wall.  You name it, there’s a “how to” book or pamphlet or internet site out there.

“How to” information seem almost spiritual in its scope, doesn’t it?  If you just find the right handyman site, you’ll be able to change the corroded washer hidden somewhere in that dripping faucet and save your marriage.  Or, if you just do steps 1 through 18, you’ll pass your bar exam and make millions in a downtown law firm while drinking margaritas on the patio at Dos Rios.  You want to be younger?  Here, drink this five times a day and eat only sausage pizza.  See, “how to” information is like going to Lourdes.  It can save you.

What if you want to be an author in Des Moines, Iowa?  You want to write fiction for young adults, you want to write fantasy, you want to explain your life in a memoir.  How do you do it?  What is the “how to”?

Rachel Eliason is a nurse at Iowa Lutheran Hospitals in the mental health unit.  Coming from a small Iowa town, she has lived in Des Moines most of her adult life.  She loves her job, she loves the people who work with her, and she loves her patients.  “However,” Eliason says, “there were two things I can remember I wanted to be from very young, the two “W’s.”  One of those “W’s” was to be a writer.”  How to?

Well, for a starter, Eliason says she writes.  She has stacks of notebooks full of her thoughts, stories, fantasy writing.  She has hundreds of novels . . . with just a page or two done on each.  But around five years ago, she began to complete her stories.  She joined the writing groups that meet at Beaverdale Books and Urbandale Library.  She became a columnist for the local publication, ACCESSline.  And she joined the self-publication community at Amazon.  If you put her name in your Kindle, five books will pop up on the screen.  It’s amazing.  She has a blog, she has a twitter account, she even has a YouTube channel.  All done to get her writing to the public.  And so she has.

But what about the other “W” that Eliason has pursued from a young age?

“I always knew I wanted to be a woman,” says Rachel Eliason, formerly Richard Eliason.   This was a complicated “how to.”  She had no idea what this meant when she lived in rural Iowa.  She knew she wanted to be a writer, but, she says, “the other one was very much hidden.”

“I had no realization of the world of transgender.  It was more likely that I would wish to be a wizard.  I just kind of buried this urge and was very much in denial a good chunk of my life.”

Eliason met a woman, fell in love, and had a kid.  Seven years passed.  As her marriage began to unravel, she came out as a gay man.  She soon discovered this also didn’t work.
“Being a gay man wasn’t satisfying if I had to be the man.”

So after research, therapy, and joining like-minded folks for support, off to Bangkok she went.  And Richard returned as Rachel.

How did this play?  Her work group responded “surprisingly well.”  “My fellow workers see and hear everything in our job in mental health.  A few were surprised by the transformation and a few said they knew all along that I was female.  They all welcomed me.”

And your son?  “My son has done well with it too.  When I told my son, he said that you have to do what makes you happy.  When we go to school events now, he loves to mess with people by saying ‘this is Rachel, she’s my dad.’  He finds the confusion funny.”

So, no problems?  “Well, I was nervous about my patient population.  Not because the mentally ill are any more conservative or “trans” phobic, but when they’re angry, they’re going to say whatever hurts you the most.  So, I thought I’d have to endure slur words, but really it’s only happened a time or two.”

“Listen, Des Moines has been enormously accepting.  I always thought I’d live in a big city, like Seattle, but the big city has come here.”

Really?  So, the message on how to become a writer?  “People want to be an author, but don’t want to be a writer.  You have to write.”

And to become your true gender?  Eliason smiles.  “I have to pick up my son from school.”

Joe

Do you ever wonder what rules you live by?  Sure you do.  Your rules can be as simple as “thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife,” or as complex as trying to determine if donuts are part of the Mediterranean Diet.   But we all have rules.  These rules are frequently not spoken and may not even be conscious.  Like always eating your corn on the cob before eating your burger.  See, that’s a rule, but you don’t even register it as one.  What other rules are out there?  Well, here’s The Starter’s Rules.

Rule 1: Your money and pedigree mean nothing — stay right there!

Do you really have a choice?  Of course not.  That’s Tom Benjamin, the starter at Prairie Meadows Racetrack and Casino.  He’s the guy who actually pushes the button that opens the gate for the races.  No kidding.  Right now he’s doing his early morning school, where he helps horses figure out how to get into the gate and to get focused for the start.  And, yes, he’s pointing at you on top of that 1200-pound, dancing race horse.  You’re supposed to chill your jets until he’s ready.  No, he’s not looking at you in fawning admiration as you sit high on your horse.   He’s not looking at you at all.  You’re not the  center of his world.   He is taking care of that other rider and horse at the gate, who may have finished last place every race this year.  It doesn’t matter to him.

But don’t think for a minute that you can take your eyes off Benjamin.  He is the center of your world.  If he says, “yes,” your horse races.  If he says, “no,” you’re eating froyo at Orange Leaf come race time.   You won the Kentucky Derby?  Stay right there.

Rule 2: Fear is contagious, so get a grip.  

“Okay, in you go,” says Benjamin.  

This is complicated.  This rippling mass of muscle will not get a chance to show its stuff if it can’t get up to the gate to start.  And this gate is what your horse sees at the start of the race.  Trust me.  This little, narrow enclosure is not very inviting.  And that is true even with the gate open.  With the front gate closed, one of Benjamin’s guys is going to lead the horse into the stall until that guy’s back is tight against the gate.  That guy will then jump up onto that little ledge you see there.  You, the jockey, will pull up your feet so they don’t get crushed on the edges of the chute.  Great.  Now, go ahead and get your horse to go into that nightmare of padded walls and clanging metal.

“Everyone thinks I just push a button,” says Benjamin.   “The fear is you’re handling a 1200-pound animal and he’s trying to eat you up in there.”  Really?  Are you sure I should be this close?

“It’s very intense up here.  If you’re not scared when handling horses, you’re crazy.  However, you have to get your ‘being scared’ under control as fast as you can because that’s how you get the horse under control.  The quicker you can get yourself under control, the quicker the horse can get under control.”

So get a grip.

Rule 3: You have to have “good hands on you.”

“I can look in a horse’s eye and tell if he’s mean or if he’s scared.  I’ve done it for so long.  I’ve learned long ago that you have to be the leader because the horse is looking for help in there if he’s scared.  He’s looking for someone to take control, to lead him.  You have to have good hands on you.  Pretty soon the horse has confidence in you.  You want him to get trust in you.”

What the heck does this mean?  “Good hands on you”?  Is Benjamin some New Age masseur?  Maybe.  As you stand in the loam of the track and watch these wired animals prance in the early morning gray, only Benjamin is still and quiet, watching.  A horse bolts behind the gate.  Nine men are present, all competently working the horses as part of Benjamin’s hand-picked crew.  The backpedaling horse is standing on his hind legs, the front legs are ten feet up, pawing at the air.  And, like lightning, there’s  Benjamin in front of the horse.  He has the horse’s head down in moments.  Gentling.  Calming.  Soothing.

“Good hands on him,” you might say.

Rule 4: You need a boss and crew you can trust.

What happens when things really go south?  “My worst position was when a horse was upside down in there and I was laying on the horse’s chest.  And the horse was kicking the front doors with his hind feet.  One of my guys pulled me out.  We all work together.  You need to know what to do to get that horse right.”

Benjamin is referred to as “boss” by his men.  That might be an understatement.  While Benjamin’s eyes squint to take in the big picture, all the horses ebbing and flowing on this early cold morning, his men’s eyes are on him like bird dogs waiting for a signal.

“I have good guys, it makes it a lot easier and makes me look more professional.  I have a lot of confidence in them and they have a lot of confidence in me.”

Rule 5: If you do your best, you can live with whatever the outcome — maybe.

“I was born on the racetrack, basically.  Nothing makes you feel worse than a horse doesn’t get off for you.  Just do the best you can.  If things go bad, or if a horse gets scratched or a rider gets hurt or something, always be the best you can be no matter what.   You’ll always be okay with it.  You can live with it.  Just be the best you can.”

Come on.  Is this guy for real?

Then Benjamin adds without breaking a smile, “Oh, did I mention, because of racing TV, everybody in the country is watching your mistake.”

The Starter’s Rules.

Joe

Drama is in our blood.  We love the show.   Unfortunately, when we look in the mirror at our own lives, we don’t see that we are playing the lead.   So we buy People magazine or watch the Kardashians or eavesdrop on Honey Boo Boo, because we are fairly certain that Kate’s baby bump is infinitely more thrilling than the life and death struggle in our daily lives.  It’s a shame.  We sell ourselves short.  Come on.  We are so the stars opening in the Civic Center’s Broadway Series.

Here’s a story.  Once upon a time there were two brothers right here in Des Moines.  Born towards the tail end of a large Catholic family.  Blue-collar upbringing.  Both somewhat lost in the shuffle of all those kids.  The older one drops out of high school.  And both struggle along in all sorts of jobs.  Eventually they end up together opening a restaurant.  The restaurant takes off like a bang.  They are a team that works.  And they know how to bring quality and ease to the restaurant experience.  They are so good, they are courted by Principal to open up in their new high-rise.  They are a success by any measure.

So, of course, they break up.

Why?   Because any good story demands a bit of tension, right?  Who wants to read about Cain and Abel, if Cain doesn’t veer a little south of accepted morality.  In any case, that’s how life really goes.  In our story, two more times the brothers come together.  And, yes, two more times they break up.  One of those times, they don’t talk for five years.  I’m not kidding.  We could call these the dark years if you’d like.

What is going on here?  Why can’t our two leading brothers embrace their joint success?

“We get upset about stupid stuff,” says the eldest of the two brothers, with a small smile.  Quiet, soft-spoken, Steve Logsdon is open-faced, welcoming, with a twinkle in his eyes.  He leans slightly inwards as he talks, making you feel as if you are at that point in the sleep-over when confidences are shared.

And then there is younger brother, Joe Logsdon.  Joe is constantly moving, smiling, greeting, talking, shaking-and-baking.  A sense of whirlwind accompanies him even when he’s off-scene.  He’s the party you don’t want to miss.  Wrapped in sincerity.

Joe claims that his relationship with Steve in the past was “like being in a rock band.” “I’m much faster with my mouth, he’s much bigger, and we both wanted to be our own boss.”

So, there’s the cast of characters.  Two brothers.  Seemingly in endless tension with each other.  First, pulling one way and then the other way.   Certainly, history shows they can’t exist together.

Hah, and now the plot twist — they can only exist together.  Yup, you heard me correctly.  In our story, these two boys are joined at the hip even though they run two totally separate restaurants in two different parts of town.  Let’s just pan over their restaurants that sit a river apart in the Roosevelt area and East Village.

Joe’s restaurant, La Mie, serves breakfast and lunch.  Open kitchen at the center.  Exposed ceilings.  Simple building materials with eloquent lines.  Pride in the quality of food.  Pastry and bread to die for.  Right?  Steve’s restaurant, Lucca, serves lunch and dinner.  Open kitchen in the center.  Exposed ceilings.  Simple building materials with eloquent lines.  Pride in the quality of all his dishes.   Mushroom risotto to die for.  Are you seeing what’s happening here?  Is this two peas in a pod?

You want more?  Joe recently opened a second restaurant in the exact location of Steve’s restaurant from years ago in the East Village.  Steve’s old building.  Coincidence?  There is no such thing as coincidence in a story.

Listen to their separate conversations at different times and places:

“Honestly, Joe and I are the perfect match.  I love doing the back part of the business, and he loves doing the front part of the business,” says Steve.

“The reality is we are both simple guys. . . .  People want us to be more than we are,”  says Joe shaking his head.  “Listen, Steve and I both come back to the same place, sincere integrity to do it right.”

“We are all about consistency in each of our restaurants,” according to Steve.  “Yes, Joe and I made a good team, but now, not sharing a restaurant, we are very close to each other.”

“Steve is sincere,”  says Joe.

“Joe’s more of a family guy,” says Steve.

“We need each other to make this work,” says Joe.

“I enjoy Joe, he’s my favorite,” says Steve.

Okay.  Did you hear that whisper?  Is that brotherly love?  Our two leading men are merely an old married couple.  They’ve bumped and bruised each other over the years, but they can’t imagine a life without the other.  They just need to have their own bedrooms.  Simple.

You think I’m making up this story of brotherly love?  Maybe.  But, check out the Downtown Farmer’s Market some Saturday.  Here’s what you’ll see — side by side.

Lucca and La Mie.  La Mie and Lucca.

A tale of two brothers.

Joe

Sue Bullard-Fisher died the other day.  Most of you don’t know her.  She was a probation officer here in Polk County for 40 years, but, really, she should have been a probation officer in the first half of the last century.  She was from a different time with a different ethic.

I first met Sue years ago in the chaos of room 204 at the Polk County Courthouse.  A wild scene in those days at best.  All the folks charged with felonies showed up for arraignment in the early morning — many with an entourage of lawyers, girlfriends, and family members.   Pleas of “not-guilty” were entered.  Formal appearances were made.  The judge set bond and appointed counsel.  Children cried in the back of the room as lawyers spoke in hushed tones to their clients.   Legal documents flew as we’d try to move people out of the room to get to the other scheduled matters for the day.   And the judge would remain on the bench, calling out names, and handling case after case.

Sue sat quietly in the front row.  As a probation officer, she was there because something went wrong.  Probation officers are the folks on the front line.  Punishment is meted out by the judge, but it was Sue’s job to make sure her clients stayed on the straight and narrow.  Sitting in room 204 meant that someone strayed off the path.  They didn’t show up for work, or they failed to go to substance abuse treatment, or maybe they dropped a dirty urine sample once too often.  It could be many things.  But one of her clients did something wrong and now we had to figure out what to do next.

Sue was not tall, but she was solid, with a no-nonsense look.  I did not know her that first day.  As the prosecutor, I rattled off to her in my busy and self-important manner what exactly was going to happen to her client for whatever misdeed he did.   I told her that I had already written up the proposed order to present to the judge, and that she just needed to stand when I gave the sign.  Did she understand?

Apparently not.

In a raspy voice that still echoes in my ears, she told me that wasn’t what her client needed. (What?  Was she talking back to me?)  And then she began to school me on what was best for her client and for the public.  I sat down.  She was tough, she was passionate, and she knew what was the right thing to do.  I was in awe.  I had run into June Cleaver crossed with Teddy Roosevelt.  A loving mother who carried a big stick.  It became imminently clear that every client was important to her and she was more than willing to wrestle me to the ground for what she believed was right.  Before we were done, I wanted her as my probation officer.

I was invited to her home in the south-east bottoms of Des Moines on a hot summer day more than a few years ago.  Three large dogs greeted my arrival.  Perhaps “large” does not accurately describe these small ponies that sniffed and pranced around me.  Sue waded among them with cheery calm as I unsuccessfully tried to find somewhere high to climb for safety.  I came to find out her home was essentially a safe home for dogs where humans were allowed to board.  And, of course, I eventually left her home with my own soon-to-be 130-pound puppy.

But her home was also really a safe home for her family and friends.  On one of my few visits, Marcia, Sue’s wife, was well enough to see me.  I was brought into a dimmed front room, where a bed had been arranged, and Marcia was carefully tucked beneath the covers.  Sue gently stroked Marcia’s forehead as Marcia gamely engaged me in conversation.  Sue eventually shooed me from the room and I overheard Sue’s gravelly voice soothing Marcia to sleep.

After Marcia’s death, Sue found a new life and a new wife.  That was a wonderful gift.  But the image remains of this tough woman, this hardened probation officer, gently stroking the forehead of her sick wife.  And this is how I will always remember her.

May she rest in peace.

Joe