Becoming an old man takes years of work. Trust me. You can’t just wake up one day and proclaim, “I am an old man.” That won’t get you the old-man certificate or even an introductory visit to the old-man clubhouse.

And even if you do declare yourself an old man, the definition seems to be a moving target. I grew up in the 1960’s. The mantra coming out of the peace and civil rights demonstrations during that time was “don’t trust anyone over 30.” Yup, you were already over the hill by 30. Thirty-one and you’re an old man. 

I don’t think so. 

On the other hand, today there is a book titled — 70 is the new 40. Does that make 40 the new 10?   

Again, not likely.

And then there is Sam the Barber. Sam Reese ran the barbershop on 42nd Street and University Avenue from the beginning of time.  

“Aging is a journey that many don’t experience. They were born old and they die old.” 

Sam is 80. He was always philosophical about life, but has only become more so as the years have passed.   

“Unfortunately, living a specific number of years is not the real gauge of ‘old.’ You are not old because you are not as handsome, or because your step is challenged, or because you have a different body ache daily,” says the handsome, lithe Sam the Barber.

Really? Old is all in your head? 

“It’s kind of crazy! I don’t see ME in the mirror. When I see a photo, I just say I’m not photogenic anymore.”

Then what is old, Sam?

“You are old when you can’t physically and mentally enjoy how wonderful life was when you fell in LOVE!”

Lord help me. And, by the way, Sam the Barber is a kindred spirit of Gabriel Garcia Marquez, a Nobel Prize winner in literature:

“To all, I would say how mistaken they are when they think that they stop falling in love when they grow old, without knowing that they grow old when they stop falling in love.”

My oh my.  

Then there are those who believe that age is measured by a certain amount of loss. Loss of hearing, sight, bone and muscle. Loss of clear thinking  and memory. Loss of friends and society.   

That seems a bit of a downer.

Dr. Alfried Laengle argues that old age occurs when one is able to turn away from all the loss and turn inward and discover the unchartered territory of the inner world:

Ellyn Lym argues in the Washington Post that we become happier as we age:

“Research also has noted that the majority of people worldwide become happier as they age, perhaps because they accept inevitable changes that occur over time and develop appreciation for the good that remains in their lives.”

So maybe the happier you are, the older you are?

COVID-19 has provided all sorts of lines in the sand when it comes to age. The CDC says:

“In general, your risk of getting severely ill from COVID-19 increases as you get older. In fact, 8 out of 10 COVID-19-related deaths reported in the United States have been among adults aged 65 years and older.”

Sixty-four years and 364 days old and you’re safe. One more day? You might as well pack it in. I guess that’s old age during a pandemic. 

So, what is truly old age?

Got me. 

Although I do remember my grandpa at 94. He shaved every day. I know because I lived with him for a time. He would lower the suspenders attached to his pants, take his ironed shirt off, uncover his union suit, and shave with a straight razor sharpened on a leather strap. Talk about living on a razor’s edge.

I would watch this routine over a cup of coffee as I sat at the kitchen table waiting to call 911. Hopefully they would arrive in time to reattach an ear or a nose. But he never did slice anything off. To my amazement. 

My grandpa was an old farmer who didn’t miss planting and harvesting and caring for livestock. He passed his retirement watching the Kentucky Derby and ogling women. Oh, yes, and shaving with a straight razor. He finally died at 98.

Was he old? Depends on your definition. Did he give it a moment’s worry?

Nope.

Joe

The boxwood stump, buried by leaves, snagged my dragging foot and landed me face first in the soft ground. Ker-plop. No fanfare. No discussion. And certainly no dissent on the part of my lightening quick reflexes. Just . . . bang. 

So here I am in the leaves. Observing the world from a new perspective, low to the ground.

When I was young and fell down, I laughed, picked myself up, and hurried on to the next fun event. Now when I fall, I find myself going through a check list: right arm — not broken; left wrist — bruised; head — shaken but still on. You get the idea.

I’m in no rush to get up today. I turn over on my back and look at the blue Iowa sky.

Perhaps I need a makeover? Something that shouts out I am still alive? What about a new hot car???

“Several studies have shown that appearance is the most significant factor when making a first impression. The vehicle one drives contributes as much to appearance as attire or hairstyle. A car is more than just a mode of transportation for some; it is an extension of the driver’s image.” Jeffrey Harper, writing for Hotcars. 

But cars have never been my friend. No matter how shiny and bright, they have been fickle companions at best. Sometimes reliable, usually not. And cars go out of their way to hurt me. I have the distinction of being hit by cars while on my bike in three different states and over three different decades of my life. Cars must communicate with each other when I cross the state line — “There’s Joe. Run him over.”  

Let’s take a brief tour of cars I’ve owned. There was the Toyota Corolla with three million miles on it. The roof was caved in. The front passenger door didn’t properly close. And the gas gauge was unreliable. Oh, yeah, and the gas tank leaked. It was a gem of a car. I still recall running out of gas on the 42nd Street bridge over I-235. Three kids in the back seat. A gas station in the distance. And, unbeknownst to me, my wife driving past on I-235 wondering what that pitiful guy was doing up on the overpass with three kids hanging out the back windows. Once the harsh reality hit home — HER husband and HER kids — it turned into one of those moments where the marriage could have gone either way.

Or the old Ford Taurus my wife was driving in West Des Moines when the engine collapsed onto the front axle. No kidding. The engine just let loose. The tires were turned at the time, so she could still move the car. But only in a circle.

Then there was the Toyota van that had no heating on the front passenger side, resulting in a small ice rink beneath the passenger’s frozen feet on blustery winter days. A feature you can’t find much these days . . . a passenger seat that doubles as a meat locker. 

Love affair with cars? I don’t think so. 

But yesterday, I had a car to sell. My daughter’s. A sporty little Toyota Scion with a spoiler, moon roof, and quick acceleration. I know these car facts because my daughter is living overseas and I’m in charge of the sale and had to drive the car to get it out of storage. 

As you have probably gathered, my stable of cars has always leaned towards bulky, hard to handle, and license plates that say “LOSR#1.”

I touched my daughter’s gas pedal and found myself a block down the road. Like that. ZIP. I turned a corner. BAM. It hugged the road so tight the breath whooshed out of my lungs and I shouted, “Yippee!” I don’t think I’ve ever shouted “yippee” in my life. No one with half a brain shouts yippee. 

“Yippee!” I shouted again as I rounded another corner. 

Why didn’t anyone tell me? 

Sport cars are fun. Sport cars are a carnival ride. Sport cars are me.

So I said to my wife: “Look, this is the real me. Fast and loose and wild.”

My wife emitted an unpleasant guffawing sound. 

I persisted, “Sure, it’s an old man cliche, but I was born to drive a sport car.”

My wife took a breath. 

She patiently explained to me that I didn’t fit in my daughter’s car. My body was too long for that little space. Even with my head two inches into the moonroof, there was still a couple of inches that had nowhere to go. I was driving almost laying down on my back, barely able to see out the front.

“So?”

But that is how love affairs die. 

Today my sports car is sold. I am driving a large, bulky car with license plates that say “LOSR#1.” 

Makeover of Joe? Not so much. 

And now here I am looking at the fallen leaves, low to the ground, wondering how to get up.

Mmmmm . . . maybe I should get a tattoo?

 Joe

The first time I saw him I was sitting high up in a balcony overlooking 800 people. Young college students all of us. Noisy, flirting, unsure of ourselves. The unkempt and the uncomfortably tidy. We were all a mess after being kicked out of the nest. This discombobulation was frightening for some, a relief for others, and more than a few thinking they were in the wrong place at the wrong time.

It didn’t matter.

The front of the room exploded, all college angst immediately vanished, and out stepped a fireball of a man. Jay Holstein.

Not a big physical presence. Not a deep commanding voice. No threat of violence. But . . . more than all that.

Holstein was raw, unfiltered, with zero intellectual boundaries. We were spellbound in our little wooden seats as he challenged every thought we’d ever had about life, death, how to live, morality, good and bad, courage, honesty.

“YOU HAVE TO THINK FOR YOURSELVES!”

Smack — he’d shoot down this notion. Pop — he’d knock down that idea. Boom — out with the bath water and the proverbial baby. Especially the proverbial baby. 

Our mouths hung open. We sweated through our shirts. Time stopped. We were transformed.

It was like watching a cage fight in the front of the room. Holstein vs. Holstein. Who would walk away alive?

My oh my.

I loved it.

And Rabbi Jay Holstein has done this for 50 years. Hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of students at the University of Iowa. All under the auspices of the School of Religion. But, frankly, the title of all his classes could be “Living Life 101.”

My time with Holstein was all the above. I took every course he ever taught and then some independent studies he made up. It was a riot. And it affected all my thoughts afterwards.

For example, when I was in Court thirty years later, the judge said, “Mr. Weeg, do you have any response to defense counsel’s highly persuasive argument?”

Of course I didn’t.

But I stood and said: “May it please the Court, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, have you ever heard of the Epic of Gilgamesh?”

Pure Holstein.

But my real School of Holstein was on the blacktop road on the backside of the Coralville Reservoir. 

We ran together. Multiple times a week. We started with 10 mile runs and soon were pushing 15. Of course, road races and marathons followed. You want to run 26.2 miles? Why not?

But all this running had nothing to do with running, just like his classes had nothing to do with the title of the class.

How should I live? How does one have courage? What does honesty really mean? How do I deal with dying? And, in my own case, what is there left to believe when cancer is killing your dying father?

Oh, yes, and women. Jay was worried that my lack of knowledge would disadvantage me in this area. So he spoke of love and responsibility and respect. And there was that lecture he earnestly began with, “Joe, do you know the most important part of female anatomy?” 

Education doesn’t get any better. 

All this as we slugged out mile after mile. Physical exhaustion opening mental and emotional possibilities. 

A gift from heaven.

And then we’d go back to the old Rec Building and take a sauna and drink Mountain Dew, which was like crack cocaine after all that dehydration. And usually Holstein would utter his favorite phrase I’d previously heard only on the carnival: “Joe, you pay your money and take your chance.” Meaning, life is risky, but you gotta choose. 

Well, Holstein paid his money, he taught students for 50 years how to live life honorably. But what did he win at the end of the day? What is the big payout? Where is Vanna White and the new car? 

And, by the way, who did win the cage fight at the front of the room?

That’s easy . . . we won.  

Joe

“Joe, this is going to hurt.”

No kidding. I lie on my back trying to visualize a white sand beach with crystal blue water and a cabana worker offering an ice-cold beverage in an oversized glass.

Instead, my go-to visualization usually involves buying a footlong hotdog with extra mustard from the grill-guy outside Hy Vee. A good visualization, of course, but not very helpful when it comes to side-stepping something unpleasant. 

“So you’re going to need to just suck it up,” says Kristina Foster, my physical therapist at Unity Point Health Physical Therapy, West Des Moines, as she pushes me into the edges of pain.

I worship Kristina. She is my link to recovery. She promises to help me walk again after knee surgeries, and, perhaps more importantly, she will make it so I can continue my lucrative career as a male model.

Okay, I made up that “model” part, but she really is my pathway to learning how to climb the basement stairs without ropes or a spotter. 

And, yes, even though I’m the guy that eats pain for breakfast, Kristina knows the truth about me. At my first session I was on the therapy table as Kristina, all masked up, explained the rules.

“Joe, as I straighten your leg, just tap out if it gets to be too much.”

I tapped.

“I haven’t started yet,” Kristina said with a frown.

So, who knew? 

Today, Kristina bends my right knee closer and closer to my thigh while, yes, small tears form in the corner of my eye.

Ouch!

Kristina is correct. Pain does suck. 

But, then again, aren’t stories with a little pain the best stories we share with each other?

For example, years ago my oldest boy ran off the playing field in high school and dramatically slid onto the wooden bench next to his coach. The slide was flamboyant youthful energy with a dash of teenage devil-may-care. I loved it. But the story only endures because, in his slide, my son embedded a two-inch splinter into his butt so deep that my wife and I had to take him to the emergency room to get it out. Now that’s a story to be told and retold to his wife and daughter.  

Or what about when I was riding on the front handle bars of my friend’s bike in the fourth grade? My pants were so baggy (when everyone was wearing tight jeans like they are today) that they curled up into the spokes and flipped me face-first onto the pavement. Voila, one chipped tooth. It’s a good story that underscores my complete lack of any fashion sense. And pain? Front and center.

And that naturally leads into the dramatic “fly eating” story. One day I promised my three kids that I was going to catch a fly in my mouth as it buzzed around the kitchen. 

“You can’t catch that fly,” they all shouted with glee. 

“Hah, I spit on your doubts.” And I launched myself high into the air as the fly flew over the refrigerator. 

Of course, the fly lived to raise a large family, but my non-chipped front tooth caught the top of the refrigerator on my return flight to the ground. And now I have a matching set of chipped teeth and a great story. All because of a little pain. 

“Pain is perceived in the brain.” Kristina patiently explains as I lie on the table whimpering. “Pain is a perception of a stimulus to your body. And so sometimes there are other factors playing into pain like stress, anxiety, or fear.”

“Or how about something is just flat out painful?” I mumble face-down on the therapy table. 

“Obviously there is something physical to pain — we call it a noxious stimulus. A stimulus to the body that is not normal. We need to treat the noxious stimulus. We need to treat the tight muscle or the bone that is out of place. We also need to address the other factors so that you can perceive the stimulus as not quite as painful.” 

So, Kristina, what’s in this job for you?

“I love getting to know people. I love hearing their stories. I love hearing about their family. And it’s fascinating how much that plays into their therapy. So, the joy is that.”

But then your patients all leave you, don’t they?

“Of course, the joy is also when people are done. As much as I love them, I love when they say, ‘I’m pleased as punch.’ Or ‘I’m back running.’ Or ‘I can finally go up and down the stairs when I haven’t done that in a year.’ The joy of seeing people accomplish their goals is exciting.”

Kristina gives my knee another push.

Ow!

“By the way, I know what it’s like to be in pain. I know what it is to be sad. I don’t judge my patients.”

Lucky for me.

“Now this is going to hurt.”

Joe

We sit on the bench. Both of us mouths open, heads leaned back, eyes wide. Glazed donuts melting in our hands as we watch. Clearly, no parent is in charge of the two of us. We grab a second donut before the show really begins. 

BIG TREE CUTTING. . . starring tree cutters and a crane operator and a cast of thousands. 

Alex Wickett is my buddy for the day. We sit six feet apart in distance and fifty-three years apart in age. He’s too young and inexperienced and I’m too old and banged up. So we’re benched. 

We are sitting together because Alex’s grandfather, John Fogwell, is high up in the tree. He’s harnessed in with ropes. He has tools strapped to his waist. Both boots are cleated and sunk deep into the bark. A chainsaw dangles from his belt, which he periodically grabs to cut off 3000-pound chunks of tree. His sweat is all that falls without ropes.

I want to yell up and ask whether he sees any pirates on the horizon. Alex would appreciate that. But I need a few more years on me before I can be comfortable with such hilarious humor.

The other person we watch is the crane operator. He has threaded his crane between flower beds and drainage tiles and bushes, planted the stabilizers on giant wooden blocks, and slowly telescoped the crane high above the tallest trees. He carefully lifts off the the cut portion and slowly maneuvers it to the ground to put it to bed in a large flatbed trailer. It is a dance involving enormous weights, spinning cables, and deft, small movements of the operator’s hands. 

In other words, it’s magic.

“I’m actually afraid of heights,” I tell Alex between donuts. 

I didn’t really know I was afraid of heights until I was up on top of my old two-story house trying to repair a few shingles. I did the repair and then froze. In total terror. I couldn’t get down. I couldn’t move forwards or back. I wanted to cry. My only question — could they send a helicopter? 

Clay Grubb was my neighbor back then. He worked for the post office. Quiet and unassuming. He moved with grace and laughed easily, but I never saw him put on a cape or reference his superpowers. Not once. 

Clay saw me frozen high on the roof. He began talking to me in his soft, unassuming voice.      

“Joe, are you all right?”

I scream that I’m seconds from screaming.

“Joe, put your left hand back a few inches.” 

“Good,” Clay says encouragingly when he sees that this is going to be a long day.

“Now slide your right knee back a few inches.”

“Great.”

And so it went from right to left until I was at the ladder. Clay did it. Then he got me onto the ladder. Yahoo. Then he got me off the roof. Amazing. And then he got me home safely. Cancel the helicopter.  

The crane operator, Kendel Laughman, leans back in his cushioned seat shaped like a World War II cockpit and slowly lifts the the top of the tree high into the blue. He gazes out the open skylight cut in the roof of the cab. The damage from the storm is already done. Most streets are passable. Power is on. Today all he needs to do is take a tree off a roof without tearing a hole in the house or ripping up the shingles or dropping the tree on anyone. Piece of cake.

So, Kendel, isn’t this dangerous?

“Common sense goes a long way.” Kendel smiles.

Really?

“Listen, I have one goal in my job, at the end of the day I want everyone to go home safe.”

Amen to that.

I go back and sit with Alex.

“I don’t like going up in a Ferris wheels,” Alex volunteers.

Of course, who does?

Alex and I take another donut. 

Joe

The tree rests comfortably on the roof. Nonchalantly, really. Not a care in the world. Might as well be in a pushed-back recliner with feet up. Perhaps a cigar would be in order. Or at least one of those new cocktails that are so popular at the local bars. It would seem only right that the tree should be able to smoke and drink and tell tall tales.

Tales about life on the long-ago Urbandale dairy farm where the tree provided shade to the cows and the dairy farmer, for example. Or maybe something about the clanging streetcars that rolled up Urbandale Avenue to the roundabout just a block away before heading back downtown in the opposite direction. Or maybe it could tell of the three old sisters who lived in this house with a large garden and a few secret rooms and who passed on years ago, living lives with little fanfare and no complaints.

How did our tree get in this predicament?

Suddenly for sure.

We all lived the story. The wind whipped ferociously. The trees swayed dangerously. And there was a roar that sounded loudly. Derecho, the storm was called, sounding much like a gunslinger from a Western movie.

Our tree could only take so much. It did its very best. But at last it bent at the knees and rested on the roof.

Take a load off. Relax. 

To sit here on the roof is a great way to see the City hustle around as it cleans up all the debris and repairs all the downed power lines. And this tree has stared at this roof for over 80 years. And now here it is. Up close and personal. At last.

So stay awhile.

When this tree was middle-aged, I was a Religion major at the University of Iowa. I wanted to study death and dying and how one should live their life. Religion seemed to be the ticket. The fact that I wasn’t much of a believer didn’t matter for this quest. 

My dad was dying of a brain tumor during this time. A steady stream of bad news over three years as he lost all his functions while the family constantly adjusted to care for him. A hard time.

What was not helpful during this three years was well-meaning people who would pat me on the back, look me directly in the eye, and say: “When God closes a door, he opens a window.” As I helped my dad with the most basic functions such as going to the bathroom or taking a shower, I failed to see the window and wanted to show the giver of such good advice the door. Perhaps that is what the quote actually means. Who knows? Even today when I hear someone give this advice, I appreciate the kindness, I truly do, but I fight the strong desire to poke myself in the eye. 

But what did happen from this experience was EXPERIENCE. My dad’s dying became the mantra for facing adversity. It became a measuring stick.

So if one of my kids was crying all night with an ear infection, that was bad. Was it like taking care of my dying dad? Hah! Not even close.

And once a defense lawyer was upset with me in a murder trial, called me a racist. The next day that quote was in the newspaper. Was this even remotely like lifting my limp father from his chair to his bed every day? Get serious.

Financial loss, marital spats, disappointments, thwarted ambitions . . . all worse than seeing my father slowly disappear? Please.

Now a tree on the roof? Hah! Not even in the ballpark. 

So the tree sits on my roof, languidly enjoying the view, as the Iowa summer turns into fall.

And me? I raise a glass — to the tree and to my dad. 

Joe

One moment there’s nothing, the next moment — beautiful flowers. Magic. Which must be why the blossoms stand at the very tippy top as if suddenly sprouting out of the head of a giraffe. Straight and tall on stems that are long and ungainly, it would seem that the wind blowing across the Iowa prairie would flatten these oddities with a puff. But they are stronger than they look. Typically Iowan. 

Amaryllis Belladonna is their official name.

“They’re called Naked Ladies,” says my wife.

And everyone does call them Naked Ladies. “Naked” because of the lack of leaves, and “Lady” because Belladonna means beautiful lady in Italian. 

They are stunning summer beauties.

Speaking of summer, this is the traditional season for fair time in Iowa. A chance for small towns and big to show off their prize animals, their death defying carnival rides, and their latest deep-fried creations. It is generally hot and crowded and smelling of straw and large animals and the fried breading of corn dogs. A treat for young and old — at least before the fairs were shut down because of the pandemic. 

But I remember working for my cousin for several summers selling footlong hotdogs on a circuit that took us around fairs in Iowa and into Wisconsin. A great time. We would generally dismantle the stand in one small town and drive into the late night to the next celebration, where we would set up, sell footlongs, and tear down again.

By the way, I was a total pretender of a carny. The real carnies were tough, hard working, and no-nonsense. I was not tough. If a fight broke out, I would cheer from the distant sidelines, encouraging the real carnies, who had hands like chewed knucklebones, to show the townies what’s what. My hands looked like I had just removed my white gloves to pick up the small biscuit meant to be served with tea. Yup, a poser. 

But I was a champion eater of church pie. Being raised a Catholic, I was particularly fond of the Methodists food tents. The Methodists seemed to have no concerns about keeping someone out of heaven. How do I know? Well, they served peach pie the size of dinner plates with melting ice cream hiding the top crust. One bite and it was if I had died and gone to — you guessed it — heaven. It was a golden ticket into the rapture. 

Really, carnivals have always fascinated me. Years earlier, as I was just discovering the wonder of women, my buddies and I once snuck into a carnival tent advertising women who apparently forgot to get totally dressed in the morning. Every carnival had such a tent back in the day. Long gone now. An old man on the stage sized us up and immediately began to pitch several special items made just for us young men. Perfect.

I bought two small dice. The pitch was that if I put the small dice into a glass of water, in a day or two would appear pictures of naked women on the dice. No kidding. What a deal. My lucky day. This was spinning straw into gold. I readily gave the old man my lawn-mowing money. 

All of us boys acted very hip and cool after leaving the tent, but when alone I sprinted home and placed the dice in a glass of water, checking it about every 10 minutes. 

Nope, nothing.

A day passed, two days passed, a week passed. Nothing. No naked ladies appeared. 

I decided that I must have failed to follow the instructions. Clearly I was at fault. I was way too smart to be conned.  

And I eventually forgot about the dice and the naked ladies. 

But today, at 66 years of age, here they are. Can you believe it? In my garden. Magic. The Naked Ladies. 

I just had to wait 52 years. 

Joe

“Go for the burn!”

And my 87-year-old mother-in-law and my 63-year-old wife do. At 10:30 every morning in the basement. Their legs go one way, their arms another, not necessarily in sync, but as close as I’m ever going to get to seeing the Radio City Rockettes in action.

And the low, husky voice of Jane Fonda on the small screen in my basement gym encourages even the most out-of-shape to join in.

“And back to the left, don’t hunch those shoulders,” she urges, as if the fate of the world is soon to be decided by good posture.

Jane Fonda is reborn for my family in this time of coronavirus. She is known for many things, but her fitness tapes from the 1980’s are still iconic. And, more importantly, back in the day they offered a hurried workout for my wife while doing a grapevine around kids and a job. Absent the big hair and the leg warmers, my wife was just one more member of those classes of bare-midriff women and, yes, the one or two token men.

“Roll up one vertebra at a time,” Jane directs with a smile.

And Jane even put together tapes for the older set as she herself aged and became a spokesperson for accepting the limitations brought by time. Jane was mortal, it turns out. She replaced a hip, a knee, and eventually said to Elle Canada: “There isn’t going to be any more plastic surgery.”

“Stretch it up long and tall,” Jane tells the class.

And, amazingly, she continues to act with her good buddy Lily Tomlin in the series “Grace and Frankie,” while standing up for the climate change fight, where she is protesting the lack of governmental action by marching on Washington and getting arrested — five times this last fall before the coronavirus hit.

All at the age of 82.

And let’s not forget Jane Fonda’s Terry Branstad connection.

You see, back in the day Jane protested the Vietnam War just like she is now fighting the climate change fight. In 1972, she was invited to North Vietnam where a photo was taken of her on an enemy anti-aircraft gun. This was not well received by some Americans. And is not well received by some folks even today. “Hanoi Jane” they call her. And nonsensically false rumors of her personal mistreatment of American POWS can still be found on the Internet.

By the way, Jane has apologized many times for the photograph and thought it was “horrible” for what it conveyed to American solders and their families.

Which brings us back to Terry Branstad.

Apparently he was instrumental in providing the written rationale for why Jane Fonda should not be on the base at Fort Bragg during the Vietnam War years. She came anyway and was arrested. The myth was that Terry Branstad slapped on her cuffs — this was furthered by U.S. Rep. Steve King in his statements about Branstad at a 2015 Iowa Freedom Summit.

“‘I will take you back to his service in the United States Army in 1969 to ’71 where he guarded Arlington Cemetery and the Pentagon,’ King said of Branstad. ‘He was based at Fort Bragg where there were war protesters that crossed the line and one of them was Jane Fonda. This individual was tasked with putting her under arrest.'” U.S.A. Today.

Not quite true, Branstad says.

Oh well. But what a near brush with fame.

And then there’s our very own Mary Brubaker, who began her TV career as an “exercise girl” for the Mary Jane Chinn show in the early 1960’s. This was nearly 20 years before Jane Fonda’s first workout video was released. As always, Mary was ahead of her time.

Mary Brubaker went on to have her own show on KCCI TV 8, where she interviewed everybody who was anybody — including Peter and Jane Fonda. With no photo of Jane, Peter is going to have to do.

Mary Brubaker spends the second half of her life lifting people up, helping them to connect, fighting the good fight. Not a bad legacy. And don’t forget, she did interview Jane Fonda.

But now we are in lockdown. My mother-in-law, my wife . . . and Jane.

“When you think you can’t do any more repetitions, do two more!” Jane encourages, with a smile.

That was of course young Jane. I prefer old Jane.

“When you’re older, what have you got to lose? You’re not in the marketplace for some guy who’s scared of a strong woman, so you can rise to yourself and become who you are meant to be, and you can be brave.” Jane Fonda talking with PBS Newshour, Judy Woodruff.

Not bad advice for this coronavirus time. Make it burn indeed.

Joe

Would it help your pandemic doldrums if someone told you that you are special? Of course, that “someone” may be a complete lunatic. Fine. But why not pay your money and take a chance?

I’ve generally been good with the fallout from the coronavirus — picking up groceries from masked teenagers; Zoom conversations with family who keep “accidentally” muting my voice; face masks that remind me how much I enjoy breathing.

And I am deadly tired of the never-ending fear that family, or friends, or really anyone, will get sick. Unfortunately, I’m afraid there is no getting off the pandemic bus until the bus stops for a vaccine. 

What to do in the meantime?

Hey, why not get my knees replaced?  

We’re locked down. My knees have been bad for years. I’m not traveling anywhere. Let’s just do it. 

And I did. 

Both knees.

No big deal. Several people I know did it in years past and love their new knees. And I will too. But . . . things started to take a different twist after the surgery.

Let’s start with a first for me — my wife appeared on a metal paper-towel dispenser on the wall in the hospital room. Yup, you heard me correctly. There she was. Right there on the dispenser. Talking to me. Telling me I was special. A Lourdes moment but without the Virgin Mary.

Or just possibly a post-surgery hallucination. 

No matter.

But then the plagues came. Spasms. Like full-body upheavals. Every 30 seconds. Oh my. I forgot that because of a bike/van accident 16 years ago, I was spastic. All this means is that if the doctor taps my knee with the little hammer, my leg shoots for the ceiling. Perhaps something I should have remembered before they tapped my knees with more than a little hammer. 

“What a dope,” I thought, as the spasms turned me in half, and then in half again like an origami fold. 

And two weeks passed. 

I survived. The nerves finally got comfortable with my new knees and they started to be on speaking terms and exchange addresses. 

“Amsterdam has always been an open and international city, and we would love to welcome visitors as soon as possible . . . But the right visitors.” Geerte Udo, chief executive of amsterdam&partners, speaking to DutchNews.nl during the relative peace in the city created by the coronavirus restrictions.

Dear Ms. Udo:

You don’t know me, but I read of your recent concerns about the type of tourists who visit Amsterdam. I totally understand. However, I think we could come to an arrangement that would be good for both of us. Before you say no, let me explain.

My wife and I have a small, get-away house just outside of Mingo, Iowa — in the middle of a cornfield, if you can believe that. We don’t get condoms or needles thrown from tourists in our front yard, but we do get blowing corn stalks. More tractors and grain trucks travel the gravel road in front of our house than high-powered sports cars. In fact I’ve never once seen a high-powered sports car.  And the loud party noises we hear late at night don’t come from a drunken pack of young English and German men, but from a gang of coyotes on the other side of the ridge. And for entertainment in the winter, rather than going to the Red Light District, I wrap myself in a homemade quilt and usually read a romance involving a pirate.

“Wild and Crazy” is not tattooed anywhere on my body. 

And even without windmills or canals or Dutch flowers, I love this tiny spot in Iowa. 

And the people who live out here, our neighbors? They bring their tractors and shovel our driveway. They gift us with parsnips from their gardens, morels from their woods, and cherry pies, when we’re lucky. We need help with mowing? They are ready with their big mowers. Someone to cut down a tree? They push while we saw. Trouble with plumbing on a below-zero night? They hold the flashlight down the dark well.

You can see the problem right away. Mingo is out of sync with the hard-bit, unfriendly America of today. Mingo has way too much neighborliness, kindness, and we’re-all-in-this together nonsense.    

Clearly, Mingo, Iowa, is just not mean enough for today’s divisive America. This has to change, which is why I write.

But first, you have a problem. You are wrestling with how to return to the Amsterdam of canals and history and quiet, cobblestone lanes. You don’t want the hordes of partiers that urinate in your streets. You don’t want the congestion and drunken and drugged behavior. You prize tolerance but don’t want your culture destroyed in the name of freedom. I get it.

Amsterdam wants the right people. Mingo needs the wrong people. There you go. A match made in heaven. You ship the “wrong people” to Iowa and we’ll take them off your hands. Free of charge. Once they arrive at your city, bleary eyed and half drunk, bundle them up, put a stamp on their forehead, and we’ll pick them up at the Mingo post office. Everyone’s happy. 

Although I confess there is a minor wrinkle with this plan.  

Mingo might turn the wrong people into the right people. Maybe when the wrong people can’t disappear into a horde of reckless young men, their boldness might become a little bit meek under the concerned gaze of the Mingo librarian. Or maybe when the bitter Iowa winters turns public urination into a flash-freeze experience, it is less likely to happen twice. Or maybe those young men won’t be so keen about leering at anonymous women in windows when they find they can talk to a woman with a name who’s actually looking for a little conversation and a laugh at the Mingo Greencastle Tavern.

But the way I see it, Mingo becomes more mean and mainstream or the wrong people become civil. 

Win-win.

I even have a branding, your forte, already picked out. You have the wonderful “I AMSTERDAM.” What about this: I’MINGO.

Using your ideas, I think this could be the promotional lead-in for the I’MINGO ad campaign in just five slides and some slow guitar music  . .  .

I’M IN SADNESS. Picture of drunken tourist stumbling into a canal in Amsterdam.

I’M IN SEARCH. Picture of a tourist kneeling in front of the Old Church at the foot of the Red Light District praying for guidance

I’M IN HOPE. Picture of young man walking away from his vomiting friends on Dam Square and towards a departing train.

I’M IN LOVE. Picture of young man and young woman holding hands while walking down a country road.

I’MINGO! Fireworks over this small Iowa town.

Let me know if it’s a go. 

Sincerely yours, 

Joe