Why not bike all the Des Moines area bike trails and write about them?

Well, there is the fact that my knees are unwilling to bend after two, fun-filled knee replacements. Listen, I’m not complaining, but to get out of the swimming pool with my granddaughter, I have to shoot up like a whale next to the edge of the pool, land on my side, and then do a downward dog to get to my feet. This advanced whale-maneuver does not help in getting on a bike or, surprisingly, getting a date — as my wife tells me.

And if that circus show wasn’t enough, I’m now weighing in at such a hefty amount that my belly is a sentient being demanding the right to vote, own property, and, like all good Americans, carry a machine gun without a permit. I get it. Live free or die. But now I have an unwanted guest claiming election fraud and going wherever I go. 

And finally, perhaps the coup de grâce, I’m afraid of falling off my bike after multiple bike accidents. Seriously, I don’t have that many remaining front teeth or remaining unfused vertebrae to put Humpty Dumpty back together again.

So, it’s decided.

Let’s start with Urbandale. 

South Karen Acres Park. Shooting off Roseland Drive, I cross a narrow wooden bridge and ride into a treed park hidden in the middle of residential backyards. Tennis courts (top notch), playgrounds, and bathrooms. This is a place to get away from the world. Peaceful. Quiet. A spiritual retreat.

“Whack!” I flinch as a tennis ball rockets across the court. Two women, aged somewhere between 30 and 80, are playing a no-holds-barred match. The volley is fierce as I weave around the courts trying to avoid becoming collateral damage. Thank goodness for my bicycle flack helmet.

Suddenly the volley ends and the two women laugh with exhaustion and grab their water bottles. 

Whew. Thank goodness our murderous instincts require hydration.

Down the hill I go, past the apartments, around a small golf course, and across 78th Street.

Flowers flowers flowers.

And the trail turns into a tunnel of trees following the winding North Walnut Creek. Rabbits, squirrels, birds, baby deer. Breathtaking.

But what is really breathtaking is to look into people’s back yards. This should be called the Gladys Kravitz Thruway. It is a snooper’s paradise, which is fortunate because I am a professional. And those folks living along the trail have outdone themselves. Beautiful flower gardens. Sculptures. Carved walkways of crushed stone or cinders. One resident even has signs “blessing you” for not letting your dog poop in their flowers.

I would love to live in this neighborhood, but I’d never meet the “be kind” zoning requirement. It’s my joy in teasing my granddaughter that is at fault. And, really, who’s to say I’m wrong when I tell her that her parents might not be coming back? 

Down through the tunnel under 86th Street and into Colby Woods Park and the Charles Gabus Memorial Tree Park. A place of small winding trails, sculptures at every turn, massive trees, and a grandfather reading a book to both his granddaughter and a crazed biker. 

Past the dancing children sculpture, I cross the bridge to Walker Johnson Park. 

Walker Johnson Park is a paradise of slides and swings and tennis courts and ball fields and a skate park and a pond. At the pond, two little boys drink pop and try to catch minnows with a small net. I’d love to bother them, but they are looking too happy. And I already know their story. 

Once upon a time there were two young boys, Owen and Zach. They were quiet boys who did not draw much attention from anyone except when they were told to “Watch out! Get out of the way!”

And they did watch out and they did get out of the way.

One day, Owen was at the tennis court watching his sister and her friends. And Zach was at the skate park watching his brother and his friends. Owen’s sister told him to get out of the way. Zach’s brother told him to get out of the way.

So Owen went to the pond to see if there were any frogs. And Zach went to the pond to see if there were any turtles. They didn’t see any turtles or frogs, but they did see each other.

Zach went and got two nets from his brother’s car. And Owen went and got two pops from his sister’s car. And Owen and Zach looked for minnows and drank pop. Happily. Quietly. Together. The End. 

It could be true. 

Time to climb back out of the parks and head home. 

My oh my, what’s this on the side of the trail?

A manhole cover painted by Buck Jones and sponsored by the Urbandale Public Art Committee. 

So I text Buck.

“Buck, was this some wild, out-of-control flashback?”

Buck texted me that there were (or are) beavers in this area: “So that design was picked because of that and for its playfulness, thinking it might bring smiles to those passing by.”

And I smile.

Playfully.

And I bike home.

Joe

This is not going to be an unbiased examination of John Sarcone’s tenure as Polk County Attorney — with an accompanying hard-hitting look at why he prefers Italian sausage sandwiches to beef burgers.

Sorry.

Nor is this going to be a tell-all about Sarcone’s staff and why someone, they know who they are, felt the urge to eat more than their share of donuts on Friday donut days. Certainly a pertinent line of inquiry, but not today.  

Sorry again. 

And don’t think for a moment that this going to be a serious discussion about charging decisions, or office administrative practices, or a review of important court cases in Polk County. Listen, I’ve been retired for 10 years and I don’t even know where the criminal courthouse is presently located. Is it by the Crusoe Umbrella? Gray’s Lake? Upstairs at Lucca?

So so sorry.

Rather, this is going to be about bosses. My boss, to be exact. 

John Sarcone was my boss for two-thirds of my legal career.

He was a painfully straight-laced guy.

I was raised Catholic before I turned to the warmer climates of the fallen away. I knew folks just like Sarcone when I was growing up. Those older Catholic men who belonged to charitable organizations and the Knights of Columbus and were very much concerned about right and wrong, deeply loyal to family and friends, and extremely devout, … but also wanting to sin just a little, like eating cheesy pasta for lunch when they’re supposed to be eating salads. Yup, wild and crazy guys, that’s Sarcone’s gang.

What you saw of Sarcone was exactly who he was. No hidden agendas. No double speak. No playing the angles. When I would disagree with him, it did not require guesswork as to his real position, which was as evident as the ashes on his forehead from Ash Wednesday services. And he did love the tussle over disagreements. Thank goodness he became a lawyer and thank goodness he married a tough woman.

Look at Sarcone’s start. He was a defense lawyer in the public defenders office where he fought for those who had no voice. Trust me, he remembers every case and every individual because he talked about them on our noon-hour runs until I wanted to jump in the Des Moines River to escape all law-related discussions. And, also trust me, never once did I hear him speak ill of his clients — only opposing counsel. Yup, if a lawyer was on his bad list, they definitely earned a lump of coal from him at Christmas.

Sarcone then turned around and fought to protect the environment in Iowa. Long before Greta Thunberg was even born. When I was teaching cops up and down the Missouri River, Sarcone had me drive out to the river to see evidence of his legal battles for the Iowa Attorney General’s Office, Environmental Division. He was proud of their success and should be. 

And then Sarcone became my boss after politically defeating my old boss, Jim Smith. Oops. That left me sitting a little precariously on the tightrope of politics. But he kept me out of the purge. Why? Maybe he just wanted to put a lawyer in the dead-end, hallway cubicle that overlooked the fire escape. I did know how to open those windows in an emergency. As my mom says, make yourself useful.

So he gave me a job and 20 years disappeared under Sarcone.

And here’s how I passed the time:

— I investigated the death of a young man in a small neighboring town. Sarcone was urged to prosecute by the media and the public. After Shirley Ballard, my right-arm investigator, and I interviewed witnesses and examined all the evidence, we told Sarcone there was no case. He grilled me, thought about it, and refused to charge. He took a hit in the press. His response? It was the right thing to do.  

— I lost a high-profile murder case — front page news — because damning evidence was excluded. Sarcone searched me out, bought me a coffee, and told me I did the right thing. Then reminded me to not take it personally and to get started on the next case. Of course, that was baloney. We all took it personally . . . including him. But I appreciated the sentiment. 

— He and I were door-knocking to get out the vote for one of his many races for County Attorney. Neighbor after neighbor complained about a recent case in the news — unbeknownst to them, my case. Their complaints were aggressive and negative. He heard it all. After we were done, he ignored the negativity, laughed at my discomfort, and asked me if I wanted to go get a “real” sausage sandwich at a joint he knew around the corner. 

Did you know that the job of prosecutor, as defined by law, is to do justice? Not to charge people. Not to win cases. Not to be popular.

To do justice.

So you may or may not like John Sarcone. That’s all right. You may fault his charging decisions. Everyone has an opinion. You may think he stayed on too long or not long enough. Who doesn’t suffer from that complaint?

You might not even like his haircut.

Really?

Here’s what I care about — I had a boss that always tried to do justice. Did he get it right every time? Of course not. Did he try? Yup.

That deserves an Italian sausage sandwich.

May John Sarcone enjoy his retirement. 

Joe

“When I was in Indianapolis during World War II, I lived in a large house that only boarded girls. I was 17 years old.” 

My 94-year-old mom sits low in the front passenger seat as we drive across Iowa.

Clutched in her left hand is a bag full of crackers, cookies, and apples. Clutched in her right hand is a white cotton sweater. The bank says the temperature is 91 degrees outside. 

“One of the girls had a fiancé in the war. One day they came and told her he had been killed. Her fiancé was actually the brother of another girl in the house. It was very hard.”

Very hard? I feel sick at the idea.

“But, you know, that Christmas salad you’ve love so much? That recipe came from the mother who ran that boarding house,” says my mom smiling. 

I rub my neck from the whiplash. 

We speed past Webster City and continue east toward Dubuque.  

A road trip. It’s time for my 94-year-old mom to visit her 98-year-old sister and put this pandemic in the rearview mirror. Everyone has their shots and the convent where my aunt the Catholic nun is staying is cautiously opening its doors. It’s time for a visit between these two women with 192 years lived between them. 

A questionnaire, a temperature check, and the strong gaze from the statute of the mother of Jesus, allows our admittance to the wing that houses my aunt.

A white haired woman in a wheel chair is roaming the halls on the second floor waiting for us.

Yahoo! My 98-year-old aunt.

Laughter, joy, embrace, embrace, embrace, and more laughter.

My aunt’s namesake, my sister, Marla, joins us and gives a gift of a box of chocolates to my aunt. A holy moment as we all rifle through the chocolates like we were youngsters.  

And the next morning, my aunt remembers those chocolates.

“Someone came to visit me yesterday and brought me a lovely gift. I’m not sure who it was, but you have to try these chocolates.” 

My aunt gives my sister a sly smile to let us know she isn’t a bit confused, and then laughs uproariously at her own joke as she once more passes the box of chocolates.

High humor at the convent.

Although, I did need a little levity after a tense early morning.

My mother was on the first floor of a motel, while my room was on the second. About 8 a.m., I start worrying about this 94-year-old alone in a motel room. So I call her cell phone.

No answer.

I knock on her door for about five minutes.

No answer.

Admittedly, she is hard of hearing even with hearing aids.

I knock harder and louder.

No answer.

I go to the manager’s office about a half block away and have another key made and ask them to call her room on a landline.

The key doesn’t work. She doesn’t pick up the phone.

Back at the manager’s office, they agree to contact the mechanic to take her door off. 

I walk back to her room wondering who I contact to transport her body back home.

I knock on the door again, hopelessly. 

Suddenly she opens the door.

“What is all this fuss is all about? I’m trying to sleep.”

So you see, I needed a little humor at the convent. And the two of them are silly happy. 

As they talk about the last year, it is hard to ignore the vitality of these two women. I eavesdrop on their conversations.

“I’m so sorry your friend died a week ago,” my mom says.

“Why?” says my aunt, eyes wide, surprised. “She is in a good place.” 

They both nod and look into the distance. 

Listening to them, I know my heretical soul is in trouble. Even when I was a believer I couldn’t get all my body parts out of purgatory. I am so clearly one of the damned. 

I eat another chocolate. 

Finally, it is time to go. A sad glance back at my waving aunt.

As we drive away, my mom hands me an apple from her bag and pushes her sweater in my direction.

I take a bite.  

“So, did I tell you where I got the recipe for the Christmas salad?” she says. 

Joe

“Ouch!”

I touch the sun-heated metal on the snow shovels stacked in the driveway.

Who would have thought? A burn from a snow shovel? Is it an omen?

It’s moving day during an Iowa summer. No time for whining. Get those dishes packed into boxes. Carry that massive table outside. Bend and curve the dining hutch out the too-small door. Get to work, Weeg.

Okay, I have done a few moves in my day. And moving is certainly one measure of my fitness level, my annoying good cheer, and how many days until my wife files for divorce.

It’s a simple measurement, really, I am either the largest pumpkin at the Iowa State Fair . . .

.  . . or the stuff that gets carried away in a cart at the end of the day.

I’m not too worried. Heck, I’ve moved before. This isn’t my first U-Haul.

More than a few years ago, a friend and I filled a giant truck in the rain in Indianola only to discover that the tires were stuck deep in the mud while my pregnant wife and his pregnant wife sat on the front porch and provided helpful encouragement.

And we were encouraged. Soon we had the truck out and headed down the road to our new home.

A half dozen years later, I moved with my two-year-old (in a buckled carseat, I swear!). She magically opened the backseat door at the corner of Merle Hay Road and Urbandale Avenue and let the two cats out. Disaster.

And then she tumbled out. Oh no!

And then passerbys helpfully yelled at me for being a rotten dad. Just what I needed.

But, trust me, I got everyone back in the car and safely home before I was sent to the slammer. Another successful move.

And I’m not even counting all the moves of my adult kids and their significant others — who I helped many more times than good parenting required. I’m sure it’s true that I single-handedly ushered in a narcissistic generation when I moved kids out of our home, moved kids back into our home, moved kids out, and then moved them back in for another round.

Yup, I am one heck of a mover.

And I am moving today.

But I am old. And I am tired. And perhaps I should be drinking beer under a tent on the Grand Concourse with the other old men. This is going to be a chasing-youth disaster.

But the die has been cast.

So I get up early and swallow a few anticipatory ibuprofen. I put sunscreen on my nose hoping my rosacea won’t scare small children and puppies. I dress in battered shorts and a Raygun t-shirt that says “It’s rainbow time, bitch.” I flex my fingers.

I’m ready.

My middle son and I lurch out of the parking lot of the U-Haul store with a large truck, our heads snapping forwards and back as the automatic shifting bounces my already muddled brains. And we’re off.

“I know that I might not really be up for this,” I tell my son as I drive along. “It’s been more than a few years since I last moved anyone.”

My son looks grim.

“But our neighbor is going to help. We got this,” I say with a hollow cheer.

My son just shakes his head, turns away from me, and takes a long draw on his vape.

The neighbor and my son help with the heavy lifting. My wife and I sweat through our shirts. And the house is emptied. Eight hours later.

Success.

I am euphoric. I didn’t die. The job is done. We are moved out.

My son and I sit high in the truck and cruise down the road. Team Weeg.

Which of course reminds me of when I was a young boy and sat high in a U-haul with my thirty-something dad and my younger brother moving from Michigan to Iowa. After the truck was unloaded, we all laid back against the front porch eating watermelon that we cracked open on the edge of the step. And we spat watermelon seeds for distance. We were giants.

“That was a good time,” I tell my own son as we are driving back to the U-haul store.

Then . . . I turn too tight, smack the curb, drive over some landscaping, and crash back on the road.

We gasp.

We stop.

We slowly breath.

“I won’t tell anyone,” says my son generously.

Too late . . . the State Fair judges point to the manure cart.

Really?

Which is why I am now at the big slide.

Duh. I was just in the wrong competition. I’m a great slider from way back.

Let me tell you about that time I . . .

Joe

Everyone has to start somewhere. Perhaps it’s your first car, or it’s your first day after graduation, or it’s your first baby, or it’s your first love, or it’s your first Monday back in the office after a year and a half appearing for work in your pajama bottoms — yes, I know, cleverly accessorized with a white shirt and tie.

But there is always an “In the beginning” moment.

As the Good Book says, God woke up and decided to begin the first day by creating “the heaven and the earth.” See, that was a good start. Sort of like when you were drifting along in an Instagram haze and suddenly decided to make that Angel Food Cake with lemon icing that someone posted. Excellent first effort.

But it’s never a straight line from here to there, is it?

Paul Houston was a young man with goals. His big ambition was to do music.

“Played the trombone in high school. I was mediocre. Went on to Northeast Missouri State to be a band director. My faculty advisor, who also taught Music Theory 101, called me in at the end of my first semester and said: ‘Paul, have you thought of a different career because I probably should give you an F but I’m gonna give you a D-.’ I thanked him for showing me the light.”

Paul — silver goateed, eyes crinkled with mischief, coffee cup smothered in his hand — laughs. 

“I switched majors to criminal justice.” 

The deal was that Paul had little money. His dad had died when he was 15 and his mom didn’t make enough as a school teacher.

“So I signed up to be a campus cop and worked with the future chief of police in Forest City, Doug Book. After school, I was hired to be a cop in Forest City.”

Not quite the band director career Paul imagined.

“I was a rookie cop, wet behind the ears. Nothing teaches you more quickly than working the street and sometimes it will teach you a harsh lesson.”

A new beginning . . .

“It was Halloween and I was patrolling by Waldorf College and suddenly I had a whole bunch of eggs thrown on my car. Of course, being 21 years of age, I’m out the squad car door running after these guys.

Did you catch them?

“Well, I was running through backyards when suddenly– kaboom!”

Were you shot?

“Nope, I ran into a clothesline.”

Life is tricky and rarely heroic.

“There’s more,” Paul says. 

“I was on patrol one evening and I caught Dave Gambell taking a whiz on the side of the courthouse.”

A whiz? Really?

Gambell was arrested for public intoxication and open container. While in custody, Gambell had other legal problems and he ended up in the Winnebago County Courthouse for a bond hearing. 

Gambell’s lawyer came in to meet with his client while Paul waited in the courtroom. 

“The young lawyer, who had just started his law practice, met Gambell in the little room off the courtroom on the second floor,” Paul says. 

Before long it was time for Gambell’s hearing and he was called to court.

A small problem. Gambell was no longer in the small room. The screen was out of the window and Gambell had vanished. 

“The window was open. It was a panic. ‘Ring the bells! The suspect has fled.'” Paul raises the cry nearly 50 years later. 

Gambell was free just a short time before being arrested by the Clear Lake Police Department. And a young Paul Houston was photographed taking Gambell back to jail by the Forest City Summit newspaper. 

Paul went on to be an Urbandale cop and then many years as an investigator and chief investigator for the Polk County Attorney’s Office. Murders, sexual abuse, kidnappings, robbery, and corralling wayward prosecutors were his bailiwick. Quite the life.

But it all began with a dangerous clothesline and a poor guy taking a “whiz.”

And the young lawyer whose client jumped out the window?

Former Governor Terry Branstad.

Beginnings are never a straight line. 

Joe

The goldfinches land on the feeder, quickly eat, then dart away. Dine and dash. They don’t hang around with the other birds for small talk and local gossip. But they have been long forecasting the change from winter to summer, dark days to light, hot coffee to iced lattes.

The end of one time and the beginning of another. 

Loaded with two shots in my arm, I sit outside at the coffee shop with my friend Bill. Unmasked, we slowly drink our coffee. Only a few folks out and about. Fifteen months since we sat at this outside table. Two old men together. 

“I had to put one of our dogs down this week,” I tell Bill after a bit. 

“Oh no,” he says, wanting me to tell more. Talking to Bill is like talking to my therapist.

“Joe, tell me how that makes you feel,” she says, knowing that I have to consult a “feelings” chart for a list of options. And even then I tentatively ask, “Happy? No, sad? How about melancholy?” 

Bear was a rescue puppy. Yup, a rescue from some young neighbors. We found him left alone for hours and sometimes days in a small enclosed porch with little water or food and an unsurprising stench. My wife and kids would repeatedly rescue him and bring him to live for a short time at our house. Make no mistake, I was not a fan of bringing another dog into our family — even out of compassion. We already had three cats, two dogs and a goldfish. Oh yeah, and three kids. I was compassioned out. 

But my wife, out of town when I saw the owner’s “for sale” sign go up, ordered me to permanently rescue the puppy. Dutifully, I knocked on the door and told the owner he knew he could not take care of the dog and that we were taking the puppy to our house for good. He sheepishly agreed, and gave me the dog. Within 24 hours he was chipped and tagged and ours.

Now we had Bear, some kind of 45-pound shepherd mix. A herding dog. So he herded the 130-pound yellow lab around the house and yard. And they frolicked and played, and Bear kept the lab’s ears clean. Quite the pack. 

In the country, the two dogs hunted as a team. Bear, quick and darting, rousted the prey. And the lab came in to close the deal. Generally all I would find is a few tufts of fur to mark their success. Of course, they’d both be sick for a day and sometimes smelled of skunk for much longer.

Years ticked away. The big lab died of old age, and the cats did too, and Goldy the goldfish expired one morning, cause unknown. 

And Bear lived on. He cleaned the ears of the new German Shepherd and tried to herd the new cat. Life was still sweet. 

But Bear grew older and older. Sight, hearing, hips, all left for a warmer climate. And dementia set in. It was time.

“I called the vet and he came out to the house yesterday.” I pause to clear my throat before continuing my story with Bill. 

“And . . . that was it.”

We buried him with the other animals that have come and gone through our life. But we’d saved the ashes from his old friend, the yellow lab, who was too big to bury. Together they went into the ground.

“So, what do you think?” says Bill.

“I think we’re next,” I say.

Bill says nothing for a moment.

“I’m planning to live at least until 90,” Bill says.

“Why not.” I smile.  

We look at the bright yellow goldfinches and order another coffee.

Joe

The reading of the second book is always the most challenging.

I sit next to my two-year-old son and force my eyes wide while reading that riveting thriller — One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish. 

“From there to here, from here to there, funny things are everywhere.” 

Ain’t that the truth?

And then I fall sound asleep on the floor while my son sleeps in the bed behind me. 

After awhile, I startle awake and begin the crawl out of the bedroom. So quiet. Each knee and hand gently moving forward. One bump — disaster. One bump and the child my wife’s mom warned would be her penance for her teenage years will wake up.

Arggggggggg . . . 

Dad????

“And some are very very bad. Why are they sad and glad and bad? I do not know. Go ask your dad.”

Seriously? A grown man? Crawling on his knees? 

Night after night this ritual played its course. 

Then the second and third kid came along. One on the bed and two on either side. I no longer fell sound asleep by the second book, but would usually last until book number three. But now the books took emotionally dark twists.

“At one time most of my friends could hear the bell, but as years passed, it fell silent for all of them. Even Sarah found one Christmas that she could no longer hear its sweet sound. Though I’ve grown old, the bell still rings for me as it does for all who truly believe.” 

Devastation.

That last sentence of The Polar Express came out in gasps as I tried to hold onto the words.

I couldn’t.

My kids looked at me slightly perplexed . . . and demanded the next book.

Sniffling quietly and briefly composing myself, I started Love You Forever:

“I’ll love you forever. I’ll like you for always. As long as I’m living my baby you’ll be.”

Heaven help me. Tears run down my cheeks as the mother goes from young to old and the words of love pass from mother to son. A Lion King circle-of-life moment, sure enough. The sentences become blurry. I can’t continue. 

My children fall sound asleep without a care in the world. I, on the other hand, am staring at the wall wondering why I shouldn’t just eat a tub of ice cream and watch Notting Hill one more time. 

And now, many years later my wife reads to our granddaughter as we babysit. I listen at a safe distance.

Stories of making tamales and the vagaries of friendship and the joy of wild beasts. Each is better than the last. I am enraptured.

But then bedtime rolls around. No mom and dad present. The instructions left for grandma and grandpa appears to be the procedure for a nuclear bomb launch.

1. The baby undresses and throws you her soggy diaper;
2. Do bath;
3. Wrap her in llama towel;
4. Put on lotions, otherwise known as “toppings;”
5. Put on night-time diaper;
6. Put on pajamas;
7. Take her to bedroom;
8. Provide a cup of warm milk;
9. Provide a bowl of strawberries and dried mango strips;
10. Read two books;
11. Brush teeth;
12. Put her in sleep sack;
13. Read two more books;
14. Have her turn on the noise machine and humidifier;
15. Turn off lights;
16. Sing a song;
17. Put her into bed.
18. Go to local bar.

This is not made up (okay, except for the last one). And I begin to wonder how these kids with these amazing bedtime routines will survive in a world that might not be so caring? You know, a world struggling with climate change and income inequality and racism and sexism and domestic terrorists and guns. Oh, yes, and a pandemic. 

It just doesn’t seem to be a world that honors ANY steps in a bedtime routine.

Then I see a book on my granddaughter’s shelf. My old favorite: The Polar Express!

“Though I’ve grown old, the bell still rings for me as it does for all who truly believe.”

Perhaps in this time of vaccines and free Krispy Kremes, it’s time to believe in the future? Time to look forward? Time to breathe?

Why not?

Then my granddaughter, beginning at step “1,” throws her soggy diaper at me.

Joe

this is for testing purposes, please ignore.

The rain drizzles against my hat in a steady pat-pat-pat. It can’t decide whether to come down in a torrent or to give up and go back home. Perhaps it’s waiting until a May wedding or a fun Fourth-of-July picnic or that special barbecue with your sweetheart. 

“Oops!”  

I fight to stay upright as my shoes slide across the mud on the washed-out sidewalk. After swinging to the left and dipping to the right, I amazingly don’t fall. I raise my arms. A victory for old men everywhere. 

But I do love rain, even though it is a fickle companion given recent floods occurring at the same time as recent droughts. All or nothing seems to be the only bet on the table with Mother Nature this past year. 

But there is one reliable truth when it comes to rain — it will blow in your face. I’m all right with that because, as usual, it’s all about the gear.

And I’ve got the right stuff today. My “waterproof” jacket only leaks at the arms, causing a watery stream from my armpit to my waist. My “waterproof” shoes keep my toes dry and the rest of my feet comfortably wet. And my “waterproof” hat drips water on my “waterproof” jacket and my “waterproof” shoes.

You have to be a smart dresser to be outside in the spring.

And it is Iowa. One day the flowers are just beginning to pop and the next day Old Man Winter wonders whether we’ve really shoveled our quota.

But today it’s just rain. When it first started, I could smell that earthy odor they call “petrichor.” A great word. It sounds like the name of an ancient whale who rises up from the dank earth to return home to the ocean.

“Petrichor sighting in Des Moines!” 

Iowa was once covered by oceans. It’s been awhile since there was actual water, but check out a bean field when the wind blows hard across the top in cresting, swirling waves. Or watch the head-shaking mystery of seagulls flying around the concrete parking lot at Merle Hay Mall.

When I was a young man I lived for awhile in Estes Park, Colorado. Every day in the early afternoon, the bright blue skies would cloud over and a quick shower would sweep through the valley. If it was raining, it was 2 p.m. By 3 p.m. the streets were dry, pine resin was in the air, and no one would believe you if you told them there had been a deluge minutes before. 

The tourists were a little outraged by this drenching — to the smugness of us residents. Although little did we know that later that summer the rain would come bursting down the Big Thompson Canyon causing death and destruction. A sobering wakeup. When I called my mom back in Iowa to tell her I was safe, she immediately contacted the local newspaper to announce the amazing news that her son, who was in absolutely no danger, survived. Moms did that back then. And the newspapers printed it. 

When I lived in The Hague, Netherlands, the rain would settle in for several months. Usually, it was a gentle rain, but sometimes it would come in with the North Sea wind and rip up trees and tulips. A fierce storm.

But the Dutch ignore the rain. Up on their bikes, rain streaming off their faces, off to work or school they go.

And the kids? Along for the ride. Usually in the very front. No helmet and no hat. Like a hood ornament. No wonder little Dutch kids can save whole towns by putting their fingers in leaking dikes. Piece of cake. 

Today the rain drips steady. The woods are damp and heavy. The country roads are mud. And the farmers are staring out their front windows with anxious attention. 

But the spring flowers?

They’re doing just fine.

And while the rain drizzles against my hat in a steady pat-pat-pat, I keep on the lookout for Petrichors. Word is that they can be found in Des Moines. Heading for the river, I suspect.

If you see one, call your mom. Don’t worry, she’ll call the newspaper. And tomorrow’s headline?

“Petrichor sighting in Des Moines.”

Moms are like that.   

Joe

“Weeg,” my eighth-grade basketball coach yelled, “go in for Brown.”

Sure. Behind by 30 points, the coach thinks it’s safe for me to enter the game.

But is it really?

First, doesn’t the coach know that I don’t want to touch the basketball? Duh. Once you touch the ball there are expectations. People expect you to do something. I can’t dribble. I can’t pass. I can’t shoot. My options are limited. I could always just throw the ball away, but then I usually get yelled at — even by my teammates. Perhaps the bench is where I belong?

Second, I don’t know how to check into the game. I saw what happened to the kid before me who just ran right onto the floor. Yup, yelled at by the ref, the scorekeeper, and the coach for failing to “check in.” No, I’d rather not. Shouldn’t I stay seated on the bench until things get sorted out with this whole check-in fiasco?

Third, a jock strap with a plastic cup? Really? Who thought of this. Come on, I’m being taught by nuns who only expose part of their faces. My sisters and mom still cover their hair before going into church. My family comes from civilized religious people who acknowledge no bodily functions. Nothing. Ever. All eight children in my family? Yup, immaculately conceived. 

Can’t I play a sport with normal underwear?

And so it went 50 years ago. I was a basketball disaster. The ball hit me in the head more often than I caught it in my hands. My dribble never exceeded one bounce against my foot. And group showers? Sorry.

Unfortunately, my wife comes from a basketball family. Her father, shown below in 1940, was a high school star, a college star, an Air Force star, and then played semi-professional ball. And his children were all gifted athletes. Everyone was beautiful and strong and the family belonged to a country club. 

Whereas, I cleaned bathrooms in office buildings, I had bad acne, and I was more comfortable with a toilet brush than a tennis racket.

I might have had a small inferiority complex.

So at my FIRST family dinner where my wife was introducing me for the FIRST time to her family and also informing them for the FIRST time that we were getting married — I was a tad nervous.

It was high school basketball season so I cleverly prepared basketball questions.

“Eileen,” I asked the middle daughter, who was a high school senior and a great basketball player, “how is your basketball season going?”  

See? Wasn’t that a good, neutral question?

Eileen quietly stared at me, then burst into racking, sobbing, death-defying tears. 

Oh my goodness!!! 

In my family of origin, we did not cry. You fell down and skinned your knee? No tears. You broke your two front teeth? No tears. Your father died? No tears. Really. I’m not proud of this, but it’s true. 

And now this young woman sitting next to me at the table was crying. Hysterically. It must be the end of the world. She must be dying. I was stunned. Call 911. 

And the family response to this tragedy?

My future wife asked her mom to pass the beefed-up biscuit casserole. My father-in-law turned to his youngest and asked her about school. My wonderful mother-in-law wondered if I would like another serving.

Ahhhhhhhhh . . . was it too late to call for a time out and run to the side lines? 

Eventually Eileen’s tears subsided with sharp, jerking intakes of breath and small sniffles, and without pause she continued eating.

I come to find out later that Eileen had been unfairly benched by a new coach who preferred to play the juniors. Oh my. 

That was then.

I’ve learned my lesson. Now I keep my mouth shut. Not a word from me about basketball, or any sport for that matter. I see the hoop in my neighborhood park and watch the young men and women play with grace and skill as I walk the dog. But I don’t engage. 

Except today. 

Three young men, John and Paul and Colton, were having a hard and fast game when the ball flew over to the walking path. Not wanting to be a total loser, I picked it up and threw it back.

I knew in my heart I was throwing it right into John’s hands. 

Maybe I threw the ball intentionally high so that John could tip it right into the basket without a dribble.

Perhaps I was even trying for my own three-pointer.   

Sadly, none of this occurred. The ball veered off my hand, flew high into the air past the basketball court, and hit a picnic table — nowhere near any player in Polk County, Iowa.

Really.

No one laughed out loud. 

Except for me. But that might be because my family doesn’t cry.

Joe