Gentle souls are harder to find than one would imagine.  Watch parents yelling at a soccer game or on a baseball diamond, if you think I’m wrong.  Aggression, ambition, competition, are all honored attributes in our society and our fostered in our work and in our play.  Unfortunately, such values can sometimes cut against the gentle soul.  And when you add a dash of arrogance to the mess, lord, those who look at the world with kindness and awe need to run for the hills.  Pronto!

Or do they?

I was reminded of this when I was walking around Downtown Des Moines.  I came upon this sculpture on the west side of the Polk County Courthouse:

The inscription reads: “In memory of Judge Jack Levin — his efforts bettered the lives of children and families.”  I’m sure he did.  But that is not the Judge Levin of my memory.

Jack Levin wasn’t coddling babies and assisting the widowed back when I knew him in the rough and tumble world of adult criminal prosecution.  He sat up on the bench in the black robe and made the decision as to whether you were going to jail or back on the street; whether the lawyers needed to stop grandstanding and get to work; whether the innocent were being wrongfully accused; whether victims were going to have a voice after a horrible rape or assault; and whether the rapist was being treated fairly.  He was the end of the line for all practical purposes.  His was the voice of god for many lawyers, defendants, and victims.  And quite a voice it was amongst all the drama.  Lawyers pranced and argued and shouted in mimicry of the latest TV show — and Jack Levin quietly ruled.

So to say he “bettered the lives of children and families” says too little.  Back in the judge’s chambers is when he first told me: “It’s going to be all right.”  Really?

I just peed my pants in opening statement.  The victim identified the defense lawyer as the sexual abuser not the guy sitting next to the lawyer.  The cop blurted out that he can’t remember the confession by the killer — but he does remember clearly not giving Miranda warnings.   Witnesses aren’t coming to trial because they’re in detox.  Jurors are requesting more breaks.  And I just ate a half-dozen donuts and feel like I might throw-up.

“It’s going to be all right.”

Jack Levin was a gentle soul.  With warm, twinkly eyes, wispy hair, and an oval face, he would smile at me and softly talk me off the ledge.  No theatrics.  No ego.  No aggression.  And I was one of many lawyers he helped.  He would glide in and out of the courtroom without notice — particularly as his health began to fail and he became thinner and thinner — and then, lo and behold, he’d make everything all right. His was a reasonable voice — and, most importantly, a voice of compassion.

He died several years ago.  Too bad.  Gentle souls count double.

Joe

“High fashion” has not been used to describe my post-retirement wardrobe of baggy shorts and t-shirts.  And now that I’m into these barefoot walking shoes, I’m a poster child for the fashion impaired — and a minor embarrassment for those with me when I’m allowed out of the home.  I get it.  But, I do have a few fetishes in the non-Fifty Shades of Grey sense.  For example, I do love hats.

The hat is a tremendous invention.  You can wear it to keep your bald head from being burned by the sun, or to show respect in a house of worship, or as a statement of fashion.  It says everything you need to know about a person if they’re wearing a Davy Crockett coonskin cap or the propeller beanie created by science fiction writer Ray Nelson.  Right?

Hats came to mind during the Des Moines Art Festival held this last weekend.  Check out this awesome lady, exhausted and slumped in the heat — only saved by this amazing hat:

Broad of brim, soft yet firm, and solidly held in place with a strap, this is the ideal functional hat for high sun — until you get to the yellow, frilly ribbon.   This gal is perhaps visiting earth for the first time and accidentally brought along this magic ribbon.  Why do I know it’s magic?  Check out the yellow it’s pulling from the grass, the building in the far corner, the flowers, her shirt, and, yes, even the sidewalk and limestone block.  Who knew we were walking in a yellow landscape?  Now you know — thank you, yellow-ribboned hat and extraterrestrial.

Remember how you wanted to be a cowboy or cowgirl?  Okay, this guy has it nailed.   A tight crease in the top, a decorative headband, and the jaunty upswing on the side brims — a  customized Stetson.  And look where he is walking? Yup, down the middle of the street, where all gunslingers walk.  I believe he’s looking for the kissing booth occupied by Belle — who runs the saloon that is being foreclosed by the Bank.  This upcoming kiss will change their destinies and ours.

Look at this big swooping straw variation.  It appears to be a hybrid of the Sombrero.  Talk about comfortable in your own skin.  Boxers and Boots are certainly the go-to accessories.  This is summer church fashion.  While kneeling in the pew, the congregation sees a well-dressed man.  However, below the rail is a man of cool and comfort.  It’s genius.

Then I stumbled on this artist’s booth:

Isn’t this wonderful?  You can even be a bird, if that takes your fancy.   Real bird hats were quite the rage at one time:

One of the most debated accessories used in women’s fashions was the use of birds and bird feathers as a fashion ornament. During the last quarter of the 19th century, feather decoration for hats, fans, and boas was at its peak.

Women’s hats were decorated with wings, breasts and whole birds. According to Harper’s Bazaar, in 1875 the merle, or blackbird, was a favorite, and especially the merle bronzé, a Brazilian blackbird, which was not black, but had blue and bronze shades on its wings and back.

Joanne Haug, Victorian Hats, http://www.victoriana.com/Victorian-Hats/birdhats.htm.  A bad deal for the birds.   But this fanciful artist in Des Moines captures the flight of birds purely from fabric — no cruelty allowed.

For me, however, it took a trip to the Downtown Farmer’s Market to find the hat that trips my trigger.  Yup, this is so my hat!

It’s always good to know where you belong.

Joe

Conan the Barbarian by Robert Howard was on my bedside table when I first met my wife 31 years ago.   My wife will tell you this with a small shake of her head as if still puzzling out whether she should return to her stylish-and-fun single life or stay with this obviously deluded, mildly insufferable man.  Ignoring that she is still debating that issue, I do love a hero.

What am I talking about here?  Remember Santiago from “Old Man and the Sea”?  Hero.  Tarzan?  Hero.  Anne Frank?  Hero.  The Firemen at 9/11.  Heroes.  My recent favorite hero is construction-worker Jason Oglesbee, caught in this Pulitzer Prize photo by Mary Chind for the Des Moines Register, as he and his partner rigged up a rescue of this woman from a sure death by undertow.  Hero.

But most heroes are unnamed and unnoticed — tucked away under the brilliant disguise of ordinary life.  They are so plain, in the Quaker sense, that we not only fail to notice them, but may even find them a bit lacking.  Here’s the typical recipe for one hero-to-go: an ordinary person (usually portrayed as an orphan or step-sister or silent stranger), who faces a tremendous challenge (a dragon is a helpful image), and reluctantly accepts the challenge, not for fame or glory, but because it is required by his or her idea of being a good person. Winning is optional, and losing is even better. That’s it.

I spotted a hero early Saturday morning.  He could be found between the Breakfast Burritos stand and the Breakfast Pizza stand at the Downtown Farmer’s Market in Des Moines.  That’s him in the Johnny-Cash black:

I’ve known B. John since the mid-80’s.  He was one of those young appellate lawyers arguing for clients already convicted of some horrible crime.  B. John would claim that the conviction was wrong — generally, a hopeless task.  He then moved  to trial work in Polk County, where he again represented people accused of crimes — again, winning was rarely in the cards.  Finally, he ended up at the Federal Public Defender’s Office, where he faced the same impossible task of arguing that the guilty were not guilty.  You get the picture: these are not careers measured by success.  During his spare time, he became a writer of legal manuals and a popular speaker on criminal law and procedure to judges, lawyers, and private citizens.  Quite a career by any measure.  A career marked by a strong belief in the Bill of Rights and fairness.  A mother would be proud.

That is not why he’s a hero.

B. John writes and performs music.  Alone these days.  He has a long musical past that included belonging to several groups — my favorite is a stint with Baby Lester and the Buggybumpers.  Before dawn every morning, B. John gets up and writes and practices his music until he has to go to his day job.  Every morning.  Then, once a week or so he packs his car full of equipment and hits the road.  Last Saturday, I stumbled across him at the Des Moines Farmer’s Market.

This is how he looked as I surprisingly discovered him:

People marched past snacking on a pizza or a burrito — and the amazing music B. John sang was lost in the raucous noise of the early morning market crowd.  With his large Tupperware container and weighted carny tent, it is possible that the whole shtick is a parody.  It’s not.

B. John has songs that will rip at your heart.  B. John will beguile you with love, and loss, and the beauty of life.  And his raspy vocals will cause you to sip a drink in relief.  B. John sings and writes because that’s what he does.  Sure, he’s a lawyer; sure, he’s a writer; and sure, he’s a public speaker; but what does he really do?  Music.  But the public dragon he faces every week is the fiery breath of rejection.   Few of us would have the gumption.

He performs at the Greenwood Lounge this Wednesday.  When I asked him how that will go, he said: “It is an amazing experience.  At one point the crowd will hate me.  A few moments later a new crowd will really like my songs.”  Really?  That’s an amazing experience?  This man is a nut . . .  and courageous.  And, notice the twinkle in his eyes?  Most heroes have that.

Joe

[B. John Burns performs this Wednesday from 7:30 to 10 at the Greenwood Lounge].  www.bjohnburns.com/

Father’s Day should really be two Sundays, don’t you think? A celebration of such important icons as fathers should at least measure up to the hoopla surrounding the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee.  So, I suggested to my family that last Sunday and this upcoming Sunday should both be celebrated with gifts, fine foods, and protestations of love.  Oddly enough, this did not occur.  In fact, not only was last Sunday a large disappointment, but this Sunday may also be at risk.  This is a national crisis.  Little does the world realize that the emotionally unavailable guy at the end of the table is an awesome Ninja Warrior — yes, with a small pot belly.  Now you know.

You don’t believe me?  Let’s just review.  If you go to Iowa City and walk on the pedestrian mall south of the public library you will see this amazing bronze statue:

Look at that.  Doesn’t that knock your socks off?  And, yes, a father takes care of the small things.  Sometimes they seem really small (resist the urge to compare him to your mom — she had nine months of talking to you without you talking back — unfair playing field), but he has skills to pass on.  Small skills.  Like tying your shoe.  Just think about your own father.  Did he teach you how to drive?  Did he give you your first shaving lesson?  Did he show you how much food to give the dog?  You have your own list.  But notice as you’ve gotten older — everything is the small things.

How about this bronze out in front of the West Des Moines Police Department?  It demonstrates the obvious — The Protector.

Dads protect.  Yup.  When you hurt yourself, who carries you to mom?  Without a doubt, your dad.  Who comes in at night when the aliens are beating on your bedroom window hoping to suck your insides into another dimension?  That would be dad.  And who wraps you in arms so strong that you wish your insides had been sucked into another dimension because your insides are now crushed?  Dad again.  Of course, dads are also terrified of the aliens.  But your awareness of his terror may be the last step to becoming your own protector.  Thank you, dad.

Finally, dads are gentle spirits who are just trying to muck their way through a world that is not so gentle.  Look at this bronze statue buried away on the south side of the Urbandale Library:

This gentle grandfather/father is telling truthful stories — not truthful facts (where is the story in that?) — but stories true to life.  Made-up stories.  Stories that give children operating instructions.  This gentle spirit has become the custodian of how to live.  Not bad.

Okay, so if you lift up the right sleeve of any of these fathers, you’ll see the hidden throwing star.  I told you, they’re Ninja Warriors.  They should be honored.  Get it together and do something this Sunday — remember: gifts, fine food, and protestations of love.

Joe

You have to love a parade.  Just the strange ambiguity alone sells it for me.  Take the folks actually in the parade.  I suspect they feel a little like they’re standing up to sing karaoke and thinking : “This may be awful” — “I may really embarrass myself” — “Can I really do justice to ‘Black Magic Woman’?”  You get the idea.  But, a few bars in, what does your crazy friend have to lose?  And over the top he goes, breaking into an encore of “I’m all out of Love.”

So it is with people in the parade.  By the time you see them blocks down the road, they have thrown out the window their respectful day jobs as accountants and lawyers, and they’re prancing, dancing, singing, tossing candy, and inciting the crowd to cheers.  They have decided that they were really born as street entertainers and might start a late career in cabaret.  Why not?

As for the viewers, we have our own baggage.  Sweltering in the asphalt-reflected sun, marginally obeying the restrictions to not throw our bodies into the path of the oncoming parade juggernaut, we wait for SOMETHING.  What?  We don’t know.  Is it the candy thrown perilously close to the tractor wheel?  Is it the chance to shake some politician’s hand?  Or is it just us looking for a little bit of America?  Got me.  You pay your money and take your choice, as my best buddy says.

None of this ambiguity applies to a Pride Parade.  That’s right — a Pride Parade . . . in Iowa.  Land of tall corn and gay marriages.  And just like the annual Fourth of July Parade, we had the annual Pride Parade this past weekend.  The crowds jammed the East Village section of Des Moines and cheered as group after group went past:

This was all good campy fun.  But, as I watched from the sides, it began to dawn on me that I was seeing church group after church group after church group marching in support.  And then appeared all the big business industries for which Des Moines is famous: Nationwide, Principal, Meredith.   Supporting gay rights?  Really?

How can this be?  Normal looking people were standing up front and center: no speedos — no drag queen outfits — no bare chests.  They were standing up in support.  And, we, the audience, were witnesses.  Church group after church group.  Amazing.  There was no ambiguity in this parade.  The marchers were making a statement and we on the sidelines were present to hear it.  End of story.

Well, not quite.  The pride fest included young men wrestling in oil and this wonderful Miss Capitol City posing with my son.

And my favorite group of kids, who were learning first-hand about acceptance, and, as a bonus, the important skill of begging for candy.   But the mom was the star.  I overheard her explain to the smallest boy that the twenty-something man in the parade might be wearing only underwear because it was so hot.  Moms always know the right answer.

Joe

Friday is tomorrow.  DONUT FRIDAY.  A holy day celebrated not with gifts or flowers or the wearing of green, but with the very essence of life — the much maligned, but much desired, donut .  Last Friday was in fact National Donut Day.  Bloomberg Business Week stated: “National Donut Day is held on the first Friday of June. It was established by The Salvation Army in Chicago to honor ‘donut lassies’ who served treats to soldiers in WWI.”  Really.

But, Martha, your question was not so academic.  You would just like to know how, when one is dressed in business attire, should the donut be eaten?  Naturally, I have a three-step program for this endeavor.

Step one, you have to drive to Highland Park.

On the east side of the street is the most plain-looking storefront in the universe — yup, the carefully hidden Hiland Bakery:

Now, just march inside next to all the old men sipping black coffee, blue-collar workers trying to catch a treat on a break, and young moms looking for birthday cookies — and take a gander:

Buy a donut.  Good job.

Step 2: Now, with gusto, plant your entire face in the top of the donut — don’t be shy, this is a crucial step.  Okay, you’re still reluctant.  To ease you into this step, I have asked the assistance of my niece, Hazel.  Please examine the photograph carefully because this step will not be repeated (note the formal dress of the model to replicate the work environment):

Excellent!

Step 3:  Eat all the sprinkles off the top of the donut.

And there you go: How to eat a donut in business attire.

Joe

Do you notice how much of the action is behind the curtain?  You know what I mean — hidden from view.  I stumble across this phenomenon every time I think about whether I enjoyed an event, or the emotional impact of an object, or even whether I connect to a person I’ve just met.  For example, if you’re like me, you always find out that the dinner guest, whom you’ve described to your spouse as catatonic for the first half of your vibrant conversation and unpleasantly assertive the second half, was in fact suffering all evening under the horrible knowledge that his tumor was growing.  Great.  Now you’ve not only had an unpleasant time at dinner, but you feel guilty for being such a schmuck, and then you’re angry at the guest for having a tumor.  True.  But, notice, the tumor was there all the time — behind the curtain.  And the corollary to this behind-the-curtain garbage that really bites, is that THERE IS ALWAYS SOMETHING BEHIND THE  CURTAIN.  Lord help me.

I’ve been trying this theory out over the last couple of weeks by trying to peek a bit into the shadows.  In a recent trip to Kansas City for a wedding, we visited a museum that is astoundingly world-class: The Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art.  Listen, don’t get nervous.  Monster trucks are still my go-to preference.   I don’t even like to use the word “museum” without saying 10 Hail Marys.  Will this make you more comfortable?  “While driving our flatbed to a Kansas City barbecue-and-beer joint, we saw this front lawn . . . .”

Yup, those are two gigantic birdies sitting in the front yard — made by Claes Oldenburg and Coosje van Bruggen — and, believe it or not, there are two more in the backyard.  Do you recognize those names?  They’re the same crazy couple who made our Crusoe Umbrella in downtown Des Moines.

In the area between the four birdies exists the museum.  Inside, amongst a gazzillion other beauties, is a painting by Pieter Claesz.  Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten where we’re going.  Here’s the picture:

Yes, it’s a still life.  Come on, take the knife out of your heart, I feel the same way about still lives.  But I want you to follow the light.  If you lean in closely, you’ll see this:

Do you see the window reflected in the glass?  Now, go through the window.  You’re outside in the sunshine.   Dancing.  How did that happen?  Well, you went behind the curtain.

Of course, this theory may be malarkey as most theories are.  And, more importantly, where is that barbecue-and-beer joint?

Joe

Memorial Day has come and gone.  It is somewhat buried under the weight of school endings, graduation parties, and the beginning of summer.  A heavy burden for any holiday.  For me, however, it generally makes me reflect on a painting of my dad.  Yes, the painting.

The painting is part and parcel with Jerry.  Born the youngest in a German Catholic family, where the father worked at the Rock Island Sash & Door and the mom raised a passel of kids, Jerry’s life was a typical blue-collar life in the 1930’s.  But Jerry was very good at math and very good at teaching.  The new field of computers grabbed his fancy in the 1950’s.  Turning his back on IBM, he ended up at the University of Iowa.  Soon he was running the newly created Computer Science Department and the Math Department.

He was 46 years old and poised to take over the world — or at least his little corner in Iowa City.  And he was funny.  I mean really funny.  Perhaps his forte was not academia but stand-up.  He began speaking internationally and was referred to as the “Flip Wilson of the Computer World.”  The sky was the limit.

Ahhhh . . . .  But, enter stage left, a small brain tumor.  It took three years for that uncontrolled mass of cells to kill him; but kill him it did.  Which brings us to our story.

As Jerry lay dying, the accolades began.  A large painting was commissioned.  A famous artist appeared who painted his head, but what to do for the now wasted-away body?  The oldest son was enlisted and the father’s head was placed on the son’s body.  Voila, the painting was born.

The Computer Center at the University of Iowa was posthumously named after him, and his last name appeared on every log-in by a University of Iowa student.  And Jerry’s picture hung with pride in the main entry way of the Computer Center.

Time marched on.  The world of computing changed from a gigantic mainframe to the wispy laptop.  In fact, years before, Jerry had engineered his fame’s demise by promoting the end of a central computing location.  And the Center vanished.  The Picture moved under the stairs and then totally disappeared.  The end of a life.

A few years ago there was a brief resurrection at the insistence of the few colleagues still alive and some of his students.  Jerry was honored, a few speeches were made, some money was raised, and everyone had a piece of sheet cake.  A second ending, but still an end.

And that was to be my story.  The story of a painting that would be the foil for moralizing about the height of fame followed by the quick drop to nothingness.  A story about living, dying, and then there you are in the basement in storage.  A fun Ecclesiastical fable.

So the other day I travelled to Iowa City in search of The Painting to prove that it had vanished.  I searched classrooms, and hallways, and even restrooms in support of my thesis.  Of course, there was no painting.   

So that was that.  I gave up the fruitless looking.  I was confirmed in my belief as to the nihilism of life.  Yahoo.

As I walked out of one of the old buildings in my smugly fruitless search for the picture, a middle-aged man was walking in.  Being the thorough detective, I decided to make one last effort to demonstrate my due diligence — so I asked him.  He paused; quietly he looked me over and then said in a soft voice:  “Go to MacLean Hall, go down half a flight of stairs, turn right, and go to room 14.  The picture is there.”    I was stunned!  Seeing my jaw drop, the middle-aged man added: “He’s a legend, you know, a legend.”  Damn him.

Did you know that there are now nearly 30,000 folks who call the University of Iowa home?  What are the odds?  Of course, I go to room 14, and this is what I see: A legend.  In room 14.  May he rest in peace.

Joe

The notion that the only interesting sights and interesting people are “elsewhere” is certainly attractive.  I mean, come on. . . .  How can it be denied that Paris, and Amsterdam, and Barcelona are State Fair-times-ten?  When we argue to out-of-towners that Des Moines really is the epicenter of post-modern cool, we only have to look in the mirror to be reminded that guy looking back won’t be gracing the cover of GQ Magazine.  And if not him or her, who will?  You check out the mirror and tell me.

So, here we are in Des Moines, Iowa, looking elsewhere for the promised land.  I don’t know, it could be in Iowa City, or Wisconsin, or California.  Certainly in London.  But it sure ain’t here. . . .

Really?

Perhaps our point of reference is a little askew.  Perhaps we need to move our game piece ten squares past the mirror — all the way to Balzac’s coat.  No, I haven’t overdosed on pastries:  “Balzac’s coat” is exactly what I said.

First, you need to go downtown.

Yup, that’s the radio tower anchoring the west end of the downtown district. And that’s the Iowa sky — scary, wild, tempestuous, and maybe even apocryphal.  A Dutch Master, say that dewy-eyed Vemeer, could have painted that same sky over the  City of Delft in Holland.  Sorry, but the sky belongs to Des Moines.  As for the radio tower, it’s the same steel-frame structure as that one put up by Mr. Eiffel — and you can smooch under the shadow of this one also.

As you go east, there are the Meredith Gardens — lush with the many shades of green that Iowa offers before the prairie winds get too strong.  The royal gardens in Paris, the Tuileries, are certainly no better (although the Parisian corn dog, the crepe, should not be dismissed as a possible gateway to heaven).

And look at the canals and sculptures outside the Pappajohn Building and the Public Library:

See.

But what puts us on the map is Balzac — we’ve got his coat.  Right here in River City.  Somehow, this French writer of The Human Comedy, who married his sweetheart after a fifteen-year correspondence (another story of social media run amuck), who is constantly depicted as stark naked by the sculptor Rodin — this Balzac guy left his coat in Des Moines.  No kidding.  Judith Shea has hung it in our sculpture garden — waiting for him to pick it up.  So, before he comes, you should check it out (move slowly around the spider).

By the way, check the mirror again — maybe with the right light and a few fish oil supplements we could make GQ.

Joe

So, you’ve tried yoga, calming tea, the 12-step program, and perhaps a small affair.  Did it work?  Of course not.  If you look backwards into the murky past, you can feel the nudge of better times.  Times of slow summer days as you made forts in the empty lots of the neighborhood.  Times where you could lie in the grass and spin a universe in your head full of heroic deeds as performed by plastic army men, who worshipped winsome damsels born from dandelion blossoms.  Times where every part of you merely wanted to be the best on your block at kickball — and, maybe even more importantly, make that dark-haired, dark-eyed girl glance at you with bubbling laughter.

But now you are a SERIOUS man or woman.  You have serious responsibilities with a serious job, a serious spouse, and serious children, who, seriously, need to get into a great college, or at least you need to enroll them in that kindergarten where trigonometry is a prerequisite.  In your neighborhood, there is no time for whimsy because “tick-tock” you’re running out of time.  Yup, that’s death knocking — you need to pick up the pace.  Faster.   Faster.  Faster.  Ahhhhhhh . . . .

Perhaps all this running from whimsy is not the answer.  Perhaps we should be drifting towards whimsy.  That is what this writing is about — getting out of your serious head for a moment, feeling foot-loose and free, and smiling.   I am a former criminal prosecutor of 30 years — which has absolutely nothing to do with this blog.   I’m also a former janitor, baker, construction worker, and foot-long hot dog seller.  They also have nothing to do with this blog.  However, I formerly directed the epic adventures of Marky Maypo — the plastic doll that I obtained through saving cereal boxtops in the early 1960’s — that has everything to do with this blog.