“Thank you, sweetheart, Happy Holidays.”

Tucked close to Dahl’s, barely sheltered from the weather, is a bundled-up figure standing outside the store.  Julie rings her bell, smiles, and in a soft, husky voice wishes everyone good cheer.  Many smile back.  It’s an older crowd this bright, cold morning.  They almost all put money in the red kettle.

“I make eye contact and wish them a happy holiday,” is how Julie explains her technique.  But she leaves out the genuine warmth she shares with everyone.  And she leaves out her use of endearments like “sweetheart” and “hon” that spill off her tongue with a trace of Southern drawl.  Oh, yeah, she also leaves out that she is standing on cold concrete in low-30’s weather.

“Thank you, hon.”

Julie is a bell-ringer for the Salvation Army.  She is paid a small salary to man the kettle.  And she does.  Every morning, all morning, outside the Dahl’s on Beaver Avenue, she rings her bell.  The store patrons come up and visit — ask if she needs coffee — and drop money in the kettle.  “I love my regulars; they make it all worthwhile.”

Julie has been in this spot for three years.  Her life is not easy: her children  are back in California, she has seen the inside and outside of marriage, and she is living with very little extra.   But she feels that the Salvation Army helped her back in the day, and it is a gift to work for them now.

“Thank you.  Happy Holidays.”

But the cold?  She laughs and pulls out the blanket she wraps herself in when the wind is blowing from the south.

“I am spoiled,” she states matter-of-factly.   One of the Dahl’s baggers sometimes buys her lunch, and they all make sure she has coffee on a cold day.  And she glows when she speaks about the woman in the Dahl’s bakery that greets her with “Hi, Sugar” and a warm hug.  “I just love these people here.”

However, when pressed, Julie admits that she has a little “God-box” at home.  She puts inside lists of things she would do differently about her life.  “I pray over it.”  As to her future, however, she is clear eyed: “There is no job without an education.”  And now she has just two tests left before she gets her GED.   “With that piece of paper and the grace of God things will pick up for me.”

“Hon, you have a Happy Holiday.”

What is the downside with being a bell-ringer?  “I don’t care if someone puts nothing in the kettle, but what burns my hide is when I give someone a smile and they turn away with their nose up in the air.”  Hold it.  Are you telling me that you’re willing to stand for hours in the cold for a small returned smile?

“Thank you, sweetheart, Happy Holidays.”

Joe

Convenience is not a bad thing.  You can buy your milk, pick up your dry cleaning, fill your prescriptions, gas your car, and — Is that your girlfriend in the canned-goods aisle? — go on a date, all in the name of one-stop shopping.  Not bad.  Moreover, the neon and the bustle can give you the sense of belonging to a larger group of people.   Your people.  People who reflect your life.  Grocery store as a destination wedding.  I’m good with that.

However, there does seem just a slight lack of magic.   I mean, really?  Don’t you want a little unusualness in your grocery shopping experience?    For example, what if there’s no mammoth parking lot with motorized cart gatherers?  What if the interior smells like spices instead of cleaner?  What if the multiplex checkout aisles are limited to one checkout lady?  And what if that checkout lady is able to yell to the meat department in the back of the store without the crackle of a speaker; or there is no unnerving tin voice requesting “customer assistance needed in aisle two”?  What exactly does this alternative look like?

In a brick, square building off of South Union Street is a place we’ve all heard about but rarely seen: Graziano’s Grocery.  Don’t be surprised when you ignore the GPS Lady and drive past.   No, this small warehouse in the south-east bottoms is not a deserted building.  It is a place of magic.

Upon opening the only entrance door, your nostrils will flair and your throat will prickle with the amazing smells of oregano, thyme, basil, and fresh garlic.

And there you will see Teresa, her gray hair pulled back in a thick braid, and a tidy apron clinched tight at her waist.  She’s busy.  Talking to each customer, she scoots the purchased items down the counter into bags with calm efficiency.

Teresa is the Fairy Godmother of the store.  Literally.  Asked about “customers,” she will correct you and tell you she calls them “friends.”  She’ll tell you of her love of the work — her love of the children who come into the store — and her love of the young adults who were those same children a few years back and now bring in their children.  She is seriously starry-eyed.

The men behind the meat counter in the back of the store (a Greek Chorus to be sure) respectfully speak of Teresa as “full of love,”  “never mean to anybody,” and “the hardest worker.”  She is the “surrogate grandmother for all,” claim the butchers, who never stop slicing and stacking meat and cheese as they talk.

But at 71 years, Teresa has seen more than her share of life.  She started at the store on June 17th, 1993, after being a stay-at-home mom for 18 years.  By Labor Day of that year, her husband had died and she needed to work to raise her youngest child still at home.    And, 19 years later, she still quietly labors.

“I love this small store.”  Leaving?  “No, I would miss these people.”  Boyfriend?  “Heck, no,” she looks at me over her glasses with a very slight smile.

After losing her husband, her mother passed, and then, five years ago, her twin sister.  Teresa pauses in the retelling and says: “Hard when you lose a twin.”  After a brief moment, she casually sweeps her arm with a gesture encompassing the store and all the past and future customers — “this is my family.”

So, it’s not complicated, as you dodge the motorized cart gatherers and pick up your dry cleaning.  Do you need a Fairy Godmother with a Greek Chorus for the holidays or not?

Joe

If you made it this far, I’m too late.  I should have given a warning or a cry or just a small clearing of my throat.  If I just wouldn’t have dilly-dallied around with elections and warm weather and the smell of leaves, I could have prevented it.  Sorry.  I was distracted.

You voted, didn’t you?  Cityview’s Des Moines Sexiest People of 2012?  And you’ve already looked at the pictures and names and maybe even submitted a nomination.  Yes, this is not good.  No, you’re not in trouble — yet.  You need to get a grip and be ready for your next move.  Remember your training: move into the attack and absorb.

Let’s move in with a safe example.  Here’s Vermeer’s Girl with the Pearl Earring hanging in the Mauritshuis at The Hague.

Notice how Vermeer caught the moist corner of her lip.  You see it?  Okay, that’s the problem.  When that moist corner of the lip forces you to lie down and breathe slowly, you know from here on out, you’re going to be looking for the “moist lip.”  But, what if the moist lip isn’t there when you’re looking down the bar at Stormy’s?  What if the moist lip existed when you first got together, but the moist lip disappeared when your partner had to get up for the third time that night with crying little Billy?

And what if YOU don’t have the moist lip?  Oh my, now you’re in trouble.  You’ve tried to get the moist lip.  You went out to those doctors in West Des Moines for a quick fix, and even talked to that lady behind the counter at Walgreens (remember those harsh words to your mom when you told her you’d never talk to the Walgreens’ lady?) — but the moist lip is elusive and, when obtained, fleeting.

How do we absorb this mess?  Listen, here’s a secret: you are going to lose any comparison with this Pearl-Earring Gal.  Period.  It’s just the nature of all comparisons.  You lose.  Duh.  Why do I know you’ll lose?  Because you’re the judge and you’re a hanging judge.  YOU CANNOT WIN.  THE GAME IS RIGGED.  BY YOU!

All right.  Fine.  So what now?  Cityview is graced with all these beautiful people that are not you — and even if you’re one of the beautiful people, you’re saying you’re not — and now, to top it all off, I’m telling you that you’ll never win.  Yikes.  Where is the fried butter on a stick when you need it?

Well, here’s the beauty, if everyone loses at the fun, comparison game, then we are left with Rembrandt.  Yup, that’s correct, another old master.  He was in his mid-fifties, lost his wife, lost three children, lost all his money, and was forced to move to the outskirts of Amsterdam.  This guy was a loser!  And so he decided to draw this picture of himself, which is now hanging in the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam:

This is the “it’s all gone to hell, but I’m still looking for the party” painting.  And there’s your answer.

So, look at all the people in the Cityview pages, comment quietly to yourself how you might be lacking in the “moist lip” category, shrug your shoulders, and say after me: “It’s all gone to hell, but where’s the party?”  Don’t worry, you can still eat the fried butter on a stick.

Joe

Boys as a group are not all that complicated.   Just wave a few select items in front of their confused and suspicious eyes and they will normally focus and charge forward.  One such piece of shiny red cape that traditionally gets a boy’s attention — as demonstrated by the Wooden Horse of Troy — is a BIG TRUCK.  And even more attractive than a large man-made machine is DESTROYING A LARGE MAN-MADE STRUCTURE.  When these two are combined, sparks will fly.

On a cold, late-fall afternoon, just off the Scott Avenue Bridge, a couple of blocks to the north of Graziano’s Grocery, was the perfect merger of big-truck and destruction.  This wonderful feast for the eye was occurring deep on the Des Moines River Bottom.

Check it out yourself.  Take off work for the afternoon, park your car on the Scott Avenue Bridge, look down river, put your elbows up on the rail, and you’ll see a man ripping apart a trestle bridge.  Alone.  With a large claw of a machine as an extension of his arm.  You will be stunned into worshipful silence.

This is raw power.  Periodically, the man will saunter out of the Claw to slice some metal with fire.  No kidding.

Who is this mountain of a man?  Why has he come in off the range to wrangle metal in downtown Des Moines?  Does he carry a six-shooter?

Mike Howard rarely speaks without smiling.  He doesn’t have much to say about the Claw, the fire, or the trestle bridge.  Rather, he wants to talk about his children: Oskana, Mesha, Inna, and six-month-old Victoria.  “I love my kids,” he says.  He wants to show me pictures.

Is he serious?  What is going on here?  Can I operate the Claw?  When do we get to knock something down?

He laughs and speaks about his Grandma Nellie Stone.  She raised him and wouldn’t let him marry until she died.  As a good grandson, he didn’t.  But there he was, in his forties, no prospects in sight.  Lonely.  What to do?  His friend, a young Russian woman from Marshalltown, told him to go north to meet a nice girl.  And she didn’t mean Mason City.  So, off Mike went to St. Petersburg.  You heard me correctly.  He went to Russia.  Several trips later, he spotted a young woman in a St. Petersburg restaurant — Anna.  After courting her for a year and a half, they were married.  She moved to Iowa.  And now she is the mother of four.  Mike smiles with pride.

This is all very interesting, but what about the fire?  It must be pretty dangerous to knock down a bridge, right?  Won’t the flying metal cut you in half if you make a mistake?  Aren’t you worried about the endless death of being sucked into the dangerous waters below the dam?

“I’m taking off early today,” Mike smiled.  “It’s my eleventh-year anniversary.  I know Anna and I will be married forever, but I’m going home to be with her tonight.”  Is that a blush?

“Do you want to see a picture of my youngest?”  As if I had a choice.

So, there you have it.  No big truck.  No destruction.  Just Anna the Russian Bride and Four Kids.

May we all be so lucky.

Joe

In this heated political time, when dignity is lost to righteousness, when loudness is mistaken for passion, when conformity is the misguided refuge of the battered soul, where are we left at the end of the day?  Based on who won, you may be bemoaning the end of the world or rejoicing the dawn of a new era.  The beginning and the end.  Same thing, different angle, right?

So, where do we go for shelter after this political barrage?  Where do we find our spa weekend?  Where is home base?

Jack’s an old man now.  He used to be a cop long before my time.  He lives on a quiet street and comes from a quieter time.   He keeps an eye on things.  He moves a little slowly, has a few aches and pains, but the years have not dimmed his vision.

What is odd about Jack is his yard.  It is a large, old-city yard.  You know, one of those yards scattered throughout Des Moines metro that still smell of the remnants of dairy land and pasture.  At least an acre-and-a-half sitting right in town.  It is loaded with trees.  Many at different stages of growth.  It is a backyard that has turned into a forest.

What’s going on here?

Jack gives an explanation in a matter-of-fact voice: “When people die, it takes about five minutes to forget them, you know?”   “These are all my family and friends,” he says gesturing around him.  When a friend of Jack’s dies, when a family member dies, he plants a tree.  It’s no more complicated than that.   He’s done it for years.

“Here’s Uncle John and that’s Tim,” he tells me as we walk amongst the trees.  “And over there was a tree that I planted for my niece.  Hit by a car and had brain damage.  She died five to six years after I planted the tree for her.  The tree died at the same time she did.  Here’s the spot.” Jack gestured to a raised point next to a new pine.

Can you believe this?

Okay, as neighbors glare over the barrier of their front-yard campaign signs to their neighbor’s porch equally barricaded; and as you fume in your cubicle about how God has abandoned the world, perhaps you should take a pause with Jack.

“Every day I come out and talk to the trees,”  he says in a quiet voice.   Home base.  A visit with old friends.  A cure for the soul that gently tickles out a carefully buried thought that refuses to remain hidden.

Don’t be silly . . . you know the thought: who will plant a tree for me?

Joe

Okay, here’s a game.  I’m going to give you thirty-four letters.  Absolutely no more.  You get thirty-four letters to express all your love, sadness, joy, or pain — about anything. Thirty-four letters to sum up your life or the life of another.   I’m sorry, that’s all the directions there are in the box.  Whether you go the route of a tombstone or a campaign sign, that’s your business.  And, if you’re from Iowa, thirty-four is probably thirty-two letters too many.

You need more information?   Let’s start with the bridge.

In an old oxbow of the Raccoon River on the edge of downtown, there is a wonderful bridge.  It speaks of romance and memory.  It’s arcing form joins the southern sections of the Gray’s Lake Trail.  It is a long-legged, willowy bridge, whose farthest curve appears to stretch to eternity — or at least Altoona.

When you’re walking or running the Gray’s Lake loop, this bridge might feel a little daunting because there’s no turning back, there’s no dropping by the wayside, and, most importantly, there’s no bathroom until the end.  But if you look at the railings for a moment, this is what you see:

An alley can be a fiendish place. Tales from a host of ghoulish writers speak of dark deeds done in dark alleys.  Perhaps the concern is that once you are in an alley, fleeing to the left or to the right is no longer an option.  You’re penned in and the cattle prod is pushing at your back.  And when you hear your steps echo off the decaying wood of the abandoned loading docks, there’s that rustle of someone back there in the gloom.  Someone who has not friended you on Facebook.  Someone who may not know of your trick knee that is unreliable when you’re anxious.  Someone your mom told you may not have your best interest at heart — unlike Francis, who is now in the Seminary.   THIS IS NOT GOOD!

So, I thought I’d check out an alley in Des Moines.

Tucked down behind Court Avenue, on a cold, fall afternoon, I saw a wagon-train of a bike parked near the entrance of a deserted alley.The ingenuity to string this together and actually have it get the owner from one place to another astounded me.  Then I heard the “rustle in the gloom” coming out of the alley.  And there was Jerry.   Warily, he checked me out.

Gerald Raymond Collette.  49 years old.  Lost his job.  Lost his apartment.  One would think a casualty of the Great Recession.  Nope.  Lost his job in 1992.  He said he’d been on the streets for twenty years.

Twenty years?  “No friends, no family,” Jerry told me with a shrug.  Attempts to rejoin the world failed because of “ethics, morals, and values.”  Articulate and clear-eyed, he said he preferred the street.  When it gets too cold, he goes to a shelter.  When he gets too sick, he goes to Broadlawns.  When it gets too dark, he goes to sleep.  Period.

He rolled a cigarette from a pouch of tobacco and contemplated his life — quietly.   Was he thinking of the lucky Bondurant family that won the 202.1 million Powerball jackpot?  Was he wondering if the legislature would again be in gridlock?  And what about the fourth season of Glee?

“The secret is to keep bundled up,” he told me with a half-smile as he tightened his bike straps.   Oddly enough, the only unlatched item on Jerry’s bike was the cleaning supply bucket hanging from the back of the trailer.

Jerry smoked his cigarette and then slowly headed off east towards the river — leaving us again alone in the alley.  Did you hear that rustle back there in the gloom?

Joe

Thirty-two years.  That’s a long time even without doing the dog-years calculation.  How exactly do we measure thirty-two years?  Let’s see, if you add one year, you’d be old enough to have four gospels written about your teachings and life.  If you add eight years, it would be the beginning of all those jokes about aging and perhaps a coffee mug proclaiming you’re Forty Years Young .  If you subtract eleven, you could buy your first beer.  And if you add thirty-three, you’d make the cut for the Senior Citizen Discount at the Hy Vee Deli.  Did that clarify things?

Let’s try measuring with this guy — Sgt. Vince Valdez.  A cop with the Des Moines Police Department for twenty-seven years.  What has he acquired in those twenty-seven years?  Well, he’s got a radio.  And that’s a gun strapped to his belt.  Those stripes on his arm mean he’s been around the block a few times.  His beat is in fact the neighborhood block — he’s a member of the Neighborhood Patrol Unit.

Not so long ago he followed up on a complaint in his assigned neighborhood and busted a meth house.  Not a TV meth house, but a real meth house. This guy is not pretend.

So, is that it?  Do we look at the toys and professional deeds and say that is the measure of those years?  That certainly can’t be the whole answer.  Shall we go a little deeper?

You could measure his boxing years as a young man.    Golden Gloves.  Not bad.  But that’s every cop in Des Moines.  And, let’s face it, does he flip tractor tires with Jason Statham?  I don’t think so.

How about his five years cutting and styling hair at his shop in the extinct Commodore Hotel?  I have to admit that’s impressive, but I don’t think that’s going to land him opposite Shawn Johnson on Dancing with the Stars.  Not to mention, he probably cut your mom’s or grandma’s hair.  That’s troublesome.

Or, his career as a singer, bass player, and percussionist with various local groups, most recently Tony Valdez and the Large Band.  Certainly interesting, but isn’t everyone and their mother now finding their inner artist by discovering that $59.95 Karaoke Machine at Kmart?

Then there’s Vince’s career as a videographer.  Besides a great video for historical Valley Junction, he’s done several recent videos for Day of the Dead at the Art Center.   Big deal, right?  But, come on, didn’t you just do an awesome video of your stomach and wiggling toes with your iPhone?  Now, that is videography.

Where does that leave us on our scale of the years?

“I’m crazy about my wife,” Vince told me.  What?  Vince — the guy who takes down meth houses — is crazy about his wife?  I asked for a photo.  Here’s what he gave me:

Is that the Art Center Rose Garden in the background?  Did Vince take a picture of his wife in the Art Center Rose Garden?  Lord, he’s a hopeless romantic, crazy about his wife.  “How long have you been married?” I asked.  “Thirty-two years.”

There’s your measure.

Joe

When your wife is on the “edge,” you know that you need to tread lightly.  She’s edgy.  If you’re walking on the boat dock at Gray’s Lake, you know that you need to stay away from the edge.  A misstep could find you in deep water.   And you know you have to be a tiny bit concerned about traveling all the way to the edge of Iowa.  A small nudge, and you could end up in Missouri.

Edges are dangerous.  Cliffs have edges, as do sharp knifes.  The signs could not be more clear: Beware! Stay back! Danger!

But what’s happening at the edge?  If the edge is the farthest point from the center, aren’t you just a little curious.  Perhaps the edge is where the party is.  Remember, you were told things were dangerous and needed to be avoided, but then you discovered that deep-fat-fried butter on a stick was pretty darned good.  How can you stay down on the farm after that glance over the edge?

Tom Brown is a nut — my kind of nut.  He has published a slew of books on tracking animals and living in nature.  He can be found at http://www.trackerschool.com.  Yes, he says things like:  “Explore the Spiritual teachings of Grandfather and become one with the Spirit-That- Moves-Through- All-Thing.”  Really?  Out loud?   However, he has a ton of information about the wilderness wrapped in a Zen-like approach.  A piece of advice that he frequently gives in his Field Guide is that the action in the outdoors occurs at the edge.  The edge of a field.  The edge of a woods.  The edge of a stream.

And remember Robert Waller?  Yup, the Iowa boy who penned The Bridges of Madison County  and then high-tailed it to Texas.  Before he took that strange turn, he wrote a wonderful book of essays called Just Beyond the Firelight.  In one essay on romance, he states: “Romance dances just beyond the firelight, in the corner of your eye.”  Could Bob have been more clear: romance is at the edge of things.

Finally, there’s this quirky neuroscientist called David Eagleman.  In his recent book, Incognito, he writes about perception and a phenomenon called Mach bands.  When two paint strips of  different colors are put side by side, where the two edges meet, the color will look a little darker on the lighter strip and a little lighter on the darker strip.  They are in fact not darker or lighter.  Weird.  But the lesson: at the edge, strange and wondrous events are occurring.

So what is on the edge right now in Iowa?  Well, on the edges of city parks . . .

They all came to see how the slim-looking, middle-aged man would respond.  Certainly, after a week where it was hinted by his opponents that, at best, he might be the reincarnation of Lucifer, or, at worst, the horrible, peace-loving Jimmy Carter, they didn’t know what to expect.  But their expectations were high nonetheless.  So, they lined up.  I mean really lined up.

After snaking through the mammoth parking lot, they made their way to the roped barriers looping back and forth.  The conveyor belt of people then bunched to a stop as purses were searched, bags were emptied, metal detectors did their jobs, and beeping hand-held wands were brought to bear on those with knee and hip replacements.  Quite a scene.

Then the line was funneled out into a throng of over 10,000 people.  My oh my.  Raucous.  Loud.  Music blaring.  Laughter.   Yelling.   Crying babies.   The push and press of fellow humans in a cattle chute.  And the main attraction hadn’t even arrived.

And security?  This is a nightmare.  Right?  Certainly, there are the dark-suited, polished-shoe, federal security officers — over to the left.  There are the undercover officers in pressed short-sleeved shirts with smiles plastered to their faces as they swiveled their heads back and forth scanning the crowd — over to the right.  There is the helicopter looping around the crowd, flying just a little higher than the two hawks who must have been perplexed by their newest member.   Finally, there are all the in-shape looking men and women talking into attached phones interspersed in the crowd.   But, as the mob pushed back and forth as one entity, there is no doubt that THIS IS NOT ENOUGH SECURITY for 10,000 people!

No problem.  Because, lo and behold, there were two officers from the local Clive Police Department — in blue — on the job.

I watched as they helped people up and down stairs, pushed wheel chairs, retrieved lost sunglasses, assisted with the dehydrated, agreed to a request by one young man to pose next to him as he delightedly held high the sign of his candidate — and they watched the crowd.  No fake beards were used by them.  No subterfuge was employed.  And no sneaky communication were mumbled into their wrists.  They were just cops.  Our cops.

I saw Clive Officer Adam Jones looking out over the crowd.  Watching.  Without a doubt, every person present was his responsibility.  He took an oath to protect, and he was there to do just that.  Very Clint Eastwood, wouldn’t you say?   He sauntered over to me.  I expected to hear the clink of spurs and the rising sound of spaghetti-western music.

“My intentions were good,” Officer Jones said to me, a former prosecutor.  “What?” I exclaimed totally confused.  Was there a fight I missed?  Did he just pepper spray someone?  Did a pregnant woman deliver on the boardwalk?   “I stopped that guy because he hit a sign,” he said apologetically.

My Lord, Officer Jones wasn’t coming over to flex his cop muscles.  He didn’t come over to pick up his six-shooter before saddling up.   He wasn’t even looking steely eyed under the brim of his hat.  He was concerned about a several-months-old criticism for a stop he’d made of a drunk over a year ago.  He was concerned that he appeared less than fair to the public.

Okay, 10,000 volatile people moving in the sun; Officer Jones and his fellow Clive officer are the only men or women in blue, as far as my eyes could see; and this cop was concerned about proper ethical conduct for the stop of a man who blew over three times the legal limit for alcohol over a year ago?   He was worried about morality?  Justice was at the top of his troubles?

We all came to see this man in the white shirt and tie waving to us in the far distance . . .

. . .  but I like to think that man was waving to this man in the blue shirt and hat who was just doing his job as he took care of 10,000 people.  Oh yeah, and worried about doing his job right.  That was sort of presidential, don’t you think?

Joe