The fire blazes nearly seven-stories high as the North Sea wind whips the flames from one side of the structure to the other.  The crowd of a couple thousand ebbs and flows around the giant wick as techno music throbs to the beat of the burning light show.  And at the base, Christmas trees burst into flames scenting the area with the fine smell of cedar.  Ah, but there is a wildness in the air — in the dark and the smoke and the flame — a hunger that makes your skin thirsty.  For what?  Anything is possible at this gigantic campfire.

How did we possibly get here?

Let’s start with the notion of a little healthy competition.  We all love a little healthy competition.  But, the idea that a  “little healthy competition” might prevent anarchy and violence?  Now that is a new one to me.  Would that mean that the athletic games between Iowa and Iowa State are actually needed to prevent a mob of Eastern Iowans from coming down Interstate 80 and sacking Ames?  Got me.  But let me tell you a tale.

Once upon a time there was a city sitting in one of the most populous areas of Europe.  I mean a ton of people.  People were squeezed tight in this city.  So tight that if you parked your car in the middle of one of the narrow streets, you blocked access by hundreds of people to their front doors.  Tight.

Within this city are many distinct neighborhoods.  These neighborhoods are orderly, clean, and quiet.  In fact, your neighbor to the left, right, or above, will knock on your door without hesitation if you’re listening to Grey’s Anatomy just a bit too loud.  And, heaven forbid you talk in more than a whisper after 11 at night.  It is time to settle down and be respectful.  So if you plan to have a fight with your wife, please watch the clock.

Ah, but once a year, the kettle releases a bit of steam.  It originally began quite innocently.  On New Year’s Eve, neighborhoods started shooting off fireworks and lighting bonfires made from discarded Christmas trees and wood pallets.  Then neighborhoods started competing with other neighborhoods for the biggest and best bonfires.  Then neighborhoods started stealing Christmas trees and wooden pallets from other neighborhoods  — you can see this is going south quickly —  and, unsurprisingly, these thefts caused a bit of animosity.  Fights broke out.  Serious fights.  People were hurt and the cops were overwhelmed with complaints.

The City stepped in.  There’s going to be a competition.  There will be designated spots on the beach where neighborhoods can construct their bonfires.  Two spots eventually.  From December 27th to New Year’s Eve, neighborhoods will compete to see who can build the biggest torch.

And that’s what happened.

“The fights were years ago in The Hague.  They were small fights.  We were stealing Christmas trees from each other.  And pallets from each other.  And hitting each other.  But now it is all legal.”  Danny patiently explains.  He is in his fourth day of building this gigantic pyre overlooking the North Sea.

Danny is supporting the Duindorp neighborhood.  The pyre on the other side of the harbor is being built by the Scheveningen neighborhood.   Both are scrappy, blue-collar enclaves historically made up of hard-working fishing families.  Tough folks to this day.

“This is tradition.  I did it since I was 12-13.  It started with small fires in the square.  Then we moved up and became a little bit bigger.  But we became too big.  So the mayor told us to go to the beach.  Now it is tradition.  The 27th of December, we start with building on the beach.  On the other side of the harbor, they build.  There is a competition as to who is going to be a largest one.  Last year we won.  We had 1200 of these pallets.”  Danny smiles at me with pride.

“We all have jobs.  Most of the people take off the job.  It is from builders to office people. Everybody, the whole neighborhood, it is a tradition every year.  Ours is a real neighborhood. Everybody knows each other.  You can let your child out and your neighbor will take care of them.  Everybody takes care of each other.  Once a year, it is a five-day party.  No sleep.  No rest.  No work.”

Danny’s friend, Ron, joins us.  He is laughing and talking rapid Dutch.  He doesn’t know that I don’t understand a word.  He is talking to me as if I might be a potential volunteer to climb the tower with a wood pallet on my back.  At that very moment, I stumble off the teetering wood pallet I’m perched on.  Clearly, I’m not a promising candidate.  Ron changes his tact.

“This is the most fun tomorrow night.  It is the largest bonfire in the world.  Not the tallest one, but the largest one.”  Ron invites me to the neighborhood party that accompanies the blaze.

But isn’t this crazy dangerous to build?

Ron looks at me no longer smiling:  “It is really dangerous.  The pallet will catch the wind and fly far down the beach.  It is really dangerous.  But a crane will come and help tomorrow.  Although if the crane turns wrong, the wind will catch it and tip it over.”

Oh my . . .  and after the fire, what will you do?

“For the first three days we sleep, and then we get to our normal work again.”  Danny and Ron, neighborhood friends, smile with exhaustion.

As they are walking away, Ron tells me I need to go see the 10,000 people run into the North Sea on New Year’s Day at noon.  I ask him if he plans to go swim with them.

“We are crazy, but not that crazy.”  And they each grab a pallet, laughing loudly, as they head towards the wooden mountain, side by side.

Joe

Rain is falling in sheets from the North Sea today.  It’s a cold rain.  So cold that hail periodically bursts down from the heavens in a slushy mix sending ice pellets bouncing across the cobblestones.  Shoppers are walking with heads down and umbrellas collapsed inward by the wind.   They are all moving with a purpose.  They walk the straight-line of a coyote across a snowy Iowa farm field — no meandering dog path of window shopping for them today.

Sitting with a cup of hot wine in a warm cafe is how to best appreciate this day.  My wife and I are drinking gluhwein.   It is a traditional mulled wine in Holland that warms your hands and your cold insides and casts life in a rosy glow.  The streets outside the cafe window are dark and wet and puddled.

A group is gathering on the other side of the street.  They are tucked under a shop awning to get out of the cold rain.  It is hard to see through the small smattering of umbrellas what is happening on the other side.

As we approach, there is singing.  It’s a chorus.  A beautiful chorus lead by a fur-hatted conductor.  They are singing us all home on this cold blustery evening with English Christmas carols.  A small scene out of a Charles Dickens story perhaps.

Suddenly, I feel a nudge.  I’m bumped by a young boy standing no taller than my waist with his father in tow.  The father looks kindly at me and begins an entire spiel in Dutch.  At the end of the speech, the boy holds out a gold ball ornament.

I have not a clue as to what is expected of me and don’t understand a word the father said.  My go-to response in Holland is to smile stupidly and mumble in pidgin Dutch that I only speak English.  Of course I might actually be asking how to find turnips.  Unclear.

Without even a tired sigh, the young father begins all over again in English.  “We are collecting for the Gouden Kerst.”  He goes on to explain that this is a local group that tries to fulfill the wishes of folks that need help.  Out of thousands of requests, they are able to address a few needs.  He points to a Dutch bike with the long wooden basket in front.  “We were able to convert one of those last year so that a young woman with bad legs could pedal with her hands.  That is an example.”  This guy, his son, the chorus and its director, are all volunteers.  I look at them as the rain drips off their cold faces.  The father looks back with the same kind smile. 

“Would you like to buy an ornament?” he says.

Okay, let’s just pause here for a moment.  Charitable giving is complicated.  Sure, we all want to do it.  Who doesn’t’?  A chance to help someone less fortunate, someone in need.  To bring good cheer to those whose lives are just a little bleak, a little dreary.  And, truly, the bang for the buck seems absurdly disproportionate — if you only save enough soup-can labels, you can pull some poor family from debtors prison.  Really, how can you possibly refuse?

But then there’s the rub.  Why are these people in debtor’s prison?  Maybe they defrauded someone?  Maybe they were foolish?  Maybe they didn’t work as hard as you?  Heaven knows you’ve earned your way!  What’s their problem?  And on top of it all, how can the pittance that you provide possibly make any difference?  The need is so great.  So many people, so many organizations, and even your lame brother is asking you to give.  They will take your last nickel.  And then where will you be?  Yup, in debtor’s prison.  Nobody wants that.  See?  Complicated.

Carla Dawson, now a teacher at North High School, worked many years for the Catholic Worker House over on 7th Street.  She cleaned, cooked, and mothered all who dropped in for help.  A loud, aggressive, kind, huge-hearted woman, she had (and has) everyone’s number.  Including mine.

As she was handing out vegetables to a long line of people one Saturday morning several years ago, I  talked to her of my confusion about charity and good deeds and giving money to street people.  I presented a brilliant argument about how any amounts given just go to drugs and booze, that we were just funding more of the problem, and that maybe people need to hit rock bottom to change.  “Clearly,” I summed up with a flourish, “giving money to folks on the street is a bad idea.”

Carla looked at me with her typical half-smile that said she might be looking at the biggest dope she had ever seen.

“Weeg, just give them a dollar.  You can do a dollar.  Don’t be stupid.”  And she handed out another handful of red peppers to the tired young mother coming through the line.  End of discussion.

So, a gold ball ornament from this little boy and his father waiting in the rain on this wet street in Holland?

Joe

Skating is a terrifying activity wrapped in a bow-tied package of exhilaration.  Certainly, there is all that floating and gliding and whooshing-air-past-rosy-cheeks stuff.   A giddy time to be sure.   But, if you look in the dark corner at the edge of your vision, off to the far right, you see a spectacular spray of shaved ice, flailing arms, flying mittens, and then hear the muffled thump of a coat-padded body hitting the surface with a remarkable lack of grace. Of course, you tell yourself that such a fall will never happen to you.  You are young and virile and inordinately good-looking.  But, trust me, if you skate long enough, you will fall.  Count on it.

This winter, I’m deep in the world of Hans Brinker and the Silver Skates.  You remember the story set in Holland during the 19th century, where Hans single-handedly saves his sister, mother, father, a doctor, and miscellaneous friends through his relentlessly selfless actions.  Yup, it’s one of those stories you want to read with a glass of wine and not too much self-reflection.  But the backdrop of the story is skating.  Without a doubt, skating is truly a big deal in this neck of the woods.  Every town in the Netherlands has its own manufactured ice skating rink as the locals wait for a hard freeze of the canals.  The Hague is no exception.

And once there is a freeze, everyone is on the canals.  In fact, if it gets really cold, they have a 124-mile marathon through 11 cities in the northern province of Friesland.  16,000 skaters show up for that little skating event.

While wandering around Delft the other day, I actually thought I saw Hans Brinker.  Of course, he was no longer that young idealistic boy of the 1865 story.  Now, he’s a little seasoned.

“I am 80 years in March.  I say I am 80 now because 80 is nicer than 79.  I was born in a small village before the war.”   Koos Rozenburg gives me a wide smile.  Cautious, but wide.

Rozenburg was six years old when World War II  started for the Netherlands.  In 1940, Rotterdam was bombed into nothing, forcing the Netherlands to capitulate.  Rozenburg lived in a small village between The Hague and Rotterdam.  He remembers the bombs, the brown paper covering the windows, and the starvation.  Their family was fortunate because his dad ran a laundry where he had stockpiled coal in anticipation of war.   “My father would change coal with the farmers for cheese and butter and milk.  We survived the war. We were lucky.”

After the war, Rozenburg was taken out of school at the age of 14 and worked in his father’s laundry.  He eventually  started his own laundry.  But his true love as a young man was cycling.

“I was a cycle racer when I was 18.  It went in a good way.  Then I saw a lovely girl, my wife.   And my mother said you cannot earn your money in cycle racing that way.  It was forbidden to pay money to the racers.  Some years later that was another thing.  In my time, I was very energetic, but you never get enough money for the future.”

So, he gave up racing and focused on his laundry.  Oh, yes, and collecting skates.

“We earn our money in the laundry.  But I was always collecting painted tiles and old skates.  I remember the day we were ten years married, had small children, the house was so full, my wife said please let me sell something for it is too much.   When the last of our children were married and goes out, I stopped the washing, and then we started this small shop here 30 years ago.”  So, Rozenburg now sells old ice skates in his corner shop on a canal in Delft.

As I wandered around the shop, I saw a well-tuned road bike tucked into a window well.  Raising my eyebrows,  Rozenberg gave a true wide smile.  “I come every day by bike.  Every morning I make 40 kilometers [nearly 25 miles] before I come.  It is the long way.   At night, I return the shortest way because my wife wants me home before seven for dinner.”

Really?

“I have happy life.  Every morning — here we are again.  Go with cycling.  And see what’s happening in Delft.  Some days I sell nothing.  It doesn’t matter.”

But what about winter?

“It becomes to be colder.  Every day I go.  It is a changeable universe.  So close to the sea, we never know.  Every day we are still here, I take the bike and I’m going.  In Dutch we say, ‘we sullen zien way er gebeurt.’   It means, ‘we’ll see what happens.’  It’s always a surprise.”

But you’re 80 years old?

“I don’t think to stop here.  One day I will feel it is not possible.  I’m feeling now every day.  I’m still here.  It is just fine.  Like a Rooster.”

The Brenton Skating Plaza in downtown Des Moines shines this holiday season.  It is delightfully enticing as you watch the skaters from the safety of your car where you are warm and cosy.

But really?  Come on.  Sure, those skate parties in high school were a few years ago.  And, yes, your hips aren’t all they used to be.   And don’t even start about those wobbly knees.  But . . . it is the beginning of a new year.  Who knows where life will take you?  What were Rozenburg’s words?  Oh yes, “We’ll see what happens.”  Well, then, maybe you should strap on the skates and go see what happens

By the way, when you are laying splayed on the ice after an earth-shaking tumble, and wonder why you ever did this, remember Koos Rozenburg, and tell those passing gawkers that you are skating like a Rooster.  So there.  That’ll ring in the new year.

Joe

“Bless me father, for I have sinned, it has been several decades since my last confession.”

Primarily out of laziness, and perhaps a lack of creativity, I had a fairly reliable list of sins I would confess to the priest at St. Mary’s Church in Iowa City.  I usually warmed the priest up with confessing to “talking back” to my mom and dad.  That was easy and would only require a minor punishment, a “Hail Mary” or two.  And then I would give a nod to lying as my second sin, which, of course, should have tipped the priest off as to my overall credibility.  Finally, I’d pull out my big gun-of-a-sin — cursing.  I would even give a specific number.  Seven.  Yup, I’m not lying.  Seven times I cursed.  I felt that was a good, round, biblical number.

As I grew older, got married, had children, cursing was nonexistent in my life.  It took becoming a teacher of law students and police officers before I discovered something wonderful — a well-placed curse could bring a class to full attention.  One simple profanity had the magical ability to focus the students’ minds into the present moment out of sheer shock.

Sure, it was a cheap trick.  Instead of honestly earning the students’ attention, I was willing to resort to gimmicks.   But who ever said teaching was honorable?  If I could have gotten away with turning one student into a pillar of salt during the first fifteen minutes, just as a gentle reminder for the others to listen up, there would have been a salt lick in each of my classes.  Duh.

What a surprise, then, to discover the truth about cursing.

It happened because I met Harriet Priester.  Harriet Priester is first and foremost a mother.  To be sure, she is also a business woman who works nearly every day at her family-owned gym in Holland.  Greeting folks at the front desk, providing towels, answering questions, she takes care of everything.  But what she really does is mother all of us who visit the gym — young, old, female, male, Dutch, or foreigners — we are all her children.

Unfortunately for mothers everywhere, there is always a bad child in the bunch.

Harriet made the simple mistake of introducing me to two of her adult sons.  Since I am really a twelve year old who needs to be in permanent time-out, I asked her sons about Dutch swear words — specifically, what is the very worst word to say in Dutch?

Luc, the oldest son, looked around, leaned in, and softly whispered — “kanker.”  Harriet immediately turned a deep red and covered her mouth.  Rik, the youngest, looked away with a nervous snicker.  The room turned dead quiet.

Wow.  “Kanker.”  This is a great word.  It made a young man turn away, a mother blush, and it silenced a room.  Awesome.  What’s it mean?

Luc looked at me.  “Kanker.  You know.”  No, I didn’t.  “Kanker, kanker.”  Nope, I still didn’t know.  “Cancer,” Luc said.

Of course.

Luc explained that the worst swear words in Dutch (and The Hague, according to him, is known as the cursing capitol of Holland) are diseases, with kanker being the very worse.  It is so bad that a child will be grounded if he or she even says the word out loud.  Tied for second place is “tyfus” and “colera.”  No, kidding.

I was stunned!  So, the slang word for having sex is not a bad word in Holland, but to call someone a disease is a bad word.  Go figure.  This sounded like a topic that needed some type of doctoral thesis.  So, off I went up the road to the renowned university town of Leiden — a town not only full of smart people but of beautiful canals and twirling windmills.

My plan was to talk to the foremost expert on the Pilgrims.  Yup, those same Pilgrims who left Leiden on a boat called the Mayflower and may have influenced our “puritanical” American swear words.  Listen, it seemed reasonable to me at the time.

Dr. Jeremy Bangs, author of several seminal books on the Pilgrims and Director of the Leiden American Pilgrim Museum, is a professorial man of a certain age.  Learned, proper, somberly dressed, he stood in a home built in 1365 to talk to us about the Pilgrims who stood where we were now standing, but in the 1600’s.  With slow, measured speech, and a hint in his tone that he may know more than you do on any subject, he is a  transfixing speaker.

Unfortunately, he was so erudite as he spoke about the Pilgrims’ commitment to the concept of separation of church and state, their influence on our notion of free will, and their tolerance of different religions, it didn’t seem the opportune time to raise my hand and ask what curse words the Pilgrims might have used while eating cranberry salad that first Thanksgiving.

So, I took the weak-man’s way out and I wrote him last night.  Within moments he wrote back. He thought there was one reference to cursing in the Pilgrims literature and would gladly check into it.  He then added:

“Other than your experience with the disease-related words, one of the more emphatic denunciations is to call someone a ‘klootzak.’  My children were born here and grew up bi-lingual. When we moved to Massachusetts in 1986, they had to get along with non-Dutch speaking friends. One day my son, twelve years old, came running into the house, breathlessly asking, ‘Papa, what’s “klootzak” in English?’  Looking up from whatever I was reading, I said, ‘scrotum.’ He rushed out the door, furiously yelling his loudest at some American kid, ‘Scrotum ! Scrotum ! You Scrotum !’”

Why, that darn Dr. Bangs is a jokester.  And if he’s a jokester, then those Pilgrims must have also been jokesters, and maybe even enjoyed a good curse word.  And if the Pilgrims enjoyed a good curse word, and every culture’s curse words are different, where’s the sin?  My research is done.

Father Benda, I take back item three on my checklist.  Forget the seven times of cursing.  Thank goodness.  Surely that gets my heretical little toe out of purgatory.  Or not.

Joe

Holiday shopping requires a certain level of maturity that I just don’t possess.  Let’s take Black Friday.  I’ve tried it.  My sister-in-law had everything all mapped out for us the year we headed out in the early morning to stand in line at the Target store at Merle Hay Mall.  All was good for the first hour as we sipped lattes and laughed with the fun-loving crowd.  But the tone changed as the sun rose and people realized they had to buy five gazillion gifts before they were allowed to go home.  We all got a little serious.  So when the crowd surged, I surged with it. Hence, my proud possession of two photo printers that never saw the light of day except to go to Goodwill.  I’m just thankful we didn’t start our Black Friday rounds at Toyota.

Then there’s this whole what-to-buy business.  I’m always a bit confused.  Is the amount I spend on a gift supposed to reflect how much I love someone?   Yikes — that’s complicated.   Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for buying love, but what if you don’t even know what your special someone wants as you embark on the inevitable purchase of a bathrobe from Sears.  Or is it a gold box from Josephs Jewelry?  See, confused already.  Perhaps Scrooge was doing Bob Cratchit a favor by keeping him late at work every night during the holiday season.  I mean, once you’ve had a turkey “twice the size of Tiny Tim,” how do you top that?

And let’s not forget the sheer quantity of gifts.  You need gifts for your overly-concerned mom, your scolding older sister, your melted-down kids, and your “do you want that promotion” boss.  Oh, and the secret Santa gift, you didn’t forget that, did you?

It’s just too much.

So, today only, I’m giving you a gift for which you need to do NOTHING.  Flowers from Holland.  Just for you.  They’re provided by my favorite Dutch florist, Corrine Kooper.

Kooper, 45 years old, has been in the flower business her whole life.  Her father used to have an open air stand in the big market downtown in The Hague.   Kooper’s old man would hawk flowers above the din of the market, shouting out his wares to all the passerby’s.  Shades of an old peddler.  Clearly, Kooper comes by the profession honestly.

Her flower shop is found on the colorful street of Frederik Hendriklaan.  The shop is narrow and cramped and spills out onto the sidewalk like an upended flower vase.

Three times a week new flowers arrive at the shop.  Yup, three times a week.   “The Dutch people always have flowers in our houses, always,” Kooper explains.  “So, it is necessary to continually have fresh flowers.”

Really?

“My father buys the flowers for me.  He goes three maybe four times in a week to the flower auction outside of The Hague.   My brother, who has his own flower shop, buys the flowers on his computer while he is in his pajamas at home with a cup of coffee.  My father says, ‘You are a lazy flower man.’  But it is the future.”

I ask for Kooper’s help in giving you a gift of flowers.

“When you’re going to help a customer then you ask: ‘Can I help you?’  ‘Yes, I’m looking for a bouquet.’  ‘Is it for a lady or for a man?’  If it’s for a lady, then you’re going to say is it an older one, is it a young lady, these are the things we ask.  What is it for? Is it for a birthday? Is it for someone sick?  All these things you have to know.   This is what the customer needs.  You must get the conversation.  It is so important.”

So what if I want to give flowers to a young lady?

“Romance is for a gift for a young woman.  Red is the color of love.  Okay, the roses are always for this.  We need to put it in a nice paper.  We do a card.  You have to guide the customer in it.  Especially men don’t know the color combination.  You learn this in the years.”

And flowers for someone not feeling well?

“Bouquet to cheer them up, orange, yellow, bright flowers.  Someone very sick, never do white.  Soft pink colors for a lady.  Not too bright because at that moment it’s not too bright.  The future is not bright for that person.  So you have to pick out the softer colors.”

And what about flowers for a couple married for a long time?

“Use white to show the wedding, and a little pink and little red to bring romance back,”  Kooper says knowingly.

Kooper herself was twice disappointed in love.  “I’m very strong in the shop.  In a relationship, I’m very insecure.  I always pick the wrong man.  I do everything for the other one, and I expect it back.  It has not worked.  And that’s why you build a wall very high to protect yourself. . . .  If someone is coming with a big hammer to open up that wall, we’ll see.”

Today, however, Kooper worries about other problems.  She is a single mom taking care of her own teenage daughter.   Her daughter’s first hockey game is in an hour.  She wants to be there.  She also realizes her father is getting older.  “My dad is not having the life forever.  I have to learn the flower auction.”  And what will happen to her shop?  Maybe her daughter will continue in her footsteps?  “Maybe,”  Kooper says doubtfully.  And on top of it all, she is worried about the economy and anxiously hopes Christmas sales can give her shop a boost.

Kooper takes a deep breath and glances out of her shop at the flowing passersby on the sidewalk.

There is a big tree in the heart of Kooper’s street.  A couple of weeks ago, a violent storm blowing out of the North Sea ripped it clean from its roots.  The large upturned trunk and the tomblike dirt hole are all that remain from the triage performed by the City crews.   But, if you look closely next to the dirt hole and trunk, you will see bouquets of flowers.  Those flowers appeared the day after the storm.  For the tree, it seems.

Apparently, we all need flowers this time of year.

So, Corrine, we’d like a bouquet.  Your choice.  And make one for yourself while you’re at it.

Joe

Mazes are fun.  I know this because people pay money to walk into cut-out Iowa corn fields to experience being trapped and lost.  Yup, pay money.  I’m sure this whole maze-thing started because on some dark autumn night a disgusted Iowa farmer, on a never-ending wait for Congress to pass a farm bill, finally cracked. 

Don’t believe me?  Let’s take a look.  There’s the poor guy or gal worrying their coffee as they sit slumped at the kitchen table still dressed in their chore clothes — wondering why, with all the uncertainty, they ever became a farmer.  Suddenly, they sit up, bump the table causing the coffee to slosh, and look around with a strange glint to their eye.  In the time it takes to crank the engine, there they are, outside on the combine, cutting a labyrinth into the back-forty corn by the light of the moon.   The farmer’s  totally cracked.  The next day the neighbor kids discover the cut-out and are soon screaming with delight at being trapped and lost in the corn.  Which is surprisingly fun for the farmer because the farmer never liked the neighbor kids anyway.  Voila, the corn maze is born.

Maybe that explains the layout for the downtown in The Hague — some city designer just  cracked.  Several times a week, I hop on Tram #17 with great bravado and head downtown.  The tram dumps me out next to this gorgeous pond in front of the Dutch Parliament.  All is fine.  I blithely take a right into the downtown business district, walk five steps, and am immediately lost in the corn.  I couldn’t tell you how I got in or how I’m going to get out.  To be fair, there are four or five streets running into the same square.  Square after square.  These streets can start out the width of a car, and turn into four-foot wide paths that wind and curve.   And even as I look around perplexed, bikes, tiny cars, and motor scooters fly past, making me even more topsy-turvy.  But whether it’s fair or not, if you look closely on your Google Earth, that would be me at a standstill in the middle of the road.  Lost and confused.

Ah, but last week was different.

Don’t get me wrong, I was lost as usual as I walked up this partially deserted street in the downtown district under an early morning grey sky.

But what caught my eye was a store that was no wider than its front entrance.  A yellow flag announced its name, “Verse Friet” — fresh fries.

And inside was Mirjam Badwy-Kraan.  Making fries in a flurry of motion.

“When I was young I had horses.  My father and I went riding. I lived in the north of Holland.”

Mirjam works along as she talks in her crisp, second-language English that wonderfully removes all non-essential words and says everything.  I’m thinking Ernest Hemingway may be editing her speech.  She barely glances at me as she multitasks.  She has no choice.  It is getting close to the noon-hour rush when lines will form outside the single door.  She needs to be ready.

“I met my husband in Haarlem.  We married.  We had children.  My husband worked with his cousin.  They sold fried chicken, bread, and coffee and tea.”

Three children in total.  Now, they are grown eighteen-year-old twins and Marwan, an eleven-year-old boy hanging out at the store because of a holiday.  The couple bought this small shop in the downtown district  thirteen years ago.  Something to have of their own.

Potatoes are thrown into the large wok.  Sizzling and crackling overwhelms all sound.  The potatoes are whisked out of one pan into another.  Salt is added and Mirjam flips the fries dramatically into the air.  But she is no showman.  This is business.

The lines are beginning to form.  Cones of fries dolloped high with mayonnaise are handed out the door.  People are now lined up ten deep.  Twenty deep.  Construction workers in hard hats on lunch break.  A swarm of women on holiday.  Teenagers.  Old men and old women.  Laughter, shouts back and forth, and large smiles.

“The most important thing is to earn enough money to live.  When I was young I had  a rich life because my father was rich.  It was very nice.  Sometimes I miss that life.  I like nature very much.  I like animals very much.  Sometimes I would like to have some moments to do that again.  You know.  I like the life I have now also.  It is more with people.  When I was young, I didn’t need to work.  Now I am in quite another situation that we are not so rich.  So it is quite different life.  It is nice to feel how that is.  When I was young, what I wanted I could get from my father.  Now, when I want something I have to wait a long time before I get it.  Because I had the other life, I can leave it.  If I want something, I can say it’s not the moment now.  And it doesn’t matter.”

Mirjam is warming to her speech, but, at the same time, she starts to get cautious.  She tells me she is talking too much.  Too much about herself.  The unwritten rules of Dutch etiquette, I expect.  Or perhaps Mirjam’s rules.  Unfortunately for her, I don’t know the rules.  But Mirjam is clearly having an internal dialogue where the voice cautioning silence is losing.  I smile.  Coming to a decision, she stops her work.

“People need to feel more together with each other.  I found that in yoga and meditation.  From meditation you feel more equal with other people.  That we are together, all one family.  I think a very important thing.  When we feel all together, one family, there is less fight, less war perhaps.  I think this is very important.  I want to tell to the people that it is important.  We must be more aware of what we eat, what we do.  Every day we can choose.  We have so many opportunity to choose.  When you have a pretty good life, every day you can choose, and think how you can live your life the best.  The best not only for yourself, but also for the other people.  And also for nature.  It’s we are not thinking the right way.  It has to change to save, finally, the world.  And ourselves.”

“That’s the thing I was thinking about.”

She smiles at me.  And hands me a cone of fries.  I smile back.  And slowly wander away, still lost in the corn, but happily licking fingers coated with mayonnaise.

Joe

The decorated tree, the sleigh that flies, the landing on the roof with a bag of toys, the chimney just wide enough, and, of course, “On, Comet!  On, Cupid!  On, Donder and Blitzen.”  Stir that all together and you get Christmas.   Right?  Ah, yes, and Santa.  Don’t forget Santa.

This picture is slightly confusing in this chimney-less era and with the early arrival of mall Santas at Merle Hay, Valley West, Southridge, and Jordan Creek.  I love those mall Santas, by the way.  I go to the malls just to watch these white-bearded heroes deal with anxious and partially deranged parents (of which I used to be one).  You should go check them out.

Jerry Julian is a mall Santa for several months every year up at Rochester, Minnesota.  He’s done it for years.  If you are ever fortunate enough to see him, he is the spitting image of Santa.  Which is great, I suppose, unless you’re on a date with him.  Yup, even in the dead of summer, he does not drop his Santa persona.  He will be perched on his Harley in red suspender pants with his long white beard tucked into his shirt waiting for the light to change.  Suddenly, he’ll be spotted by the kids in an adjacent car.  The kids go wild because, of course, Jerry is Santa.  And Jerry?  He’ll lean from his bike and knock patiently on the driver’s window.  The startled mom will slowly roll down the window expecting a car jacking by a crazed bearded man.  Jerry, gently smiling like the elf he is, will hand small Santa rings through the window and admonish the kids and mom to be good.  There are worse things to do in this world.

But everyone knows that Santa arrives by landing on the roof and coming down a chimney.  Ah, but not so in Holland where Santa Claus was born.  Sinterklaas comes from Spain.  On a boat.  And he arrives in mid-November with a retinue of helpers called Zwarte Pieten, or Black Petes.  No North Pole, no sled with reindeer, no elves.  Okay, is this even the same guy?  I needed to check this out.

So, down to the harbor I go.

Thousands of children line the harbor.  Many are dressed as Black Petes — the court jester of all these shenanigans.  You should know that  the Zwarte Pieten are embroiled in a nation-wide debate about whether the black-faced depiction is a racial caricature.  Even the U.N. is involved.  However, the costumed children of all colors seem unaware of the turmoil on this day as they dance and laugh to the music of the children’s choir singing on the other side of the harbor.

Time passes.  60,000 of us look with diminishing hope to the harbor entrance, longing for the boat from Spain.  The smallest children are beginning to melt down.  I feel like melting down.  At last, a murmur goes up.  We look to the sea.  And one child, perched high on his father’s shoulders, sees the first ship rounding into the harbor.

Ship after ship arrive.  Each filled with Zwarte Pieten and full bands.  All playing raucous music to which the thousands of people bob and sway.  But no Sinterklaas.

Personally, I give up all hope.  It is time for all these parents to turn to their crazed children (who miraculously are not falling into the harbor) and tell them there will be no Sinterklaas this year.  But then it happens.  The last ship arrives, and there, standing on the roof of the pilot house, is Sinterklaas.  Christmas is saved.

And if that isn’t enough, Sinterklaas then gets on a white horse and parades through the town.  We all wave with joy.  And he waves back.

Jerry Julian recently wrote of his arrival the other day in Rochester, Minnesota, to begin his job as a mall Santa.  He tells of flying in on a small plane from Colorado.  However, he makes no mention of welcoming crowds.  Nor does he mention raucous bands playing on the plane or beautiful white horses prancing on the boulevard.  Instead, Jerry ate lunch at a fast food joint upon arrival.  A girl of 18 approached and wanted a picture with Santa.  The girl wondered if Jerry was at Rochester for medical treatment at the Mayo Clinic.   With a twinkle in his eye, he said that he did need a visit  with Dr. Phil.  She smiled.  He then asked the same question of her — “her face became stone cold in reality.”  Jerry then wrote of her response in his cryptic and creative manner that says everything you need to know.

“I am really sick and have been for 5 years only now it has gotten worse.  They have Chemo and Radiation planned so it is going to be pretty tough this year to make it through.  She mentioned the Glass Angel Santa gave her 4 years ago and she still has it – Thank You.  Santa handed out the Red Ribbon of being on Santa’s Nice List.   Santa asked if she has a signed photo from Santa ?   Well, she does now.  Hard to think that she is so up-beat yet there is bad JU-JU going on inside.  Evening thoughts with her name were shared out to the Universe.”

Yup, I think Sinterklaas has finally arrived.

Joe

Sir, you do not know me, but I write to thank you for all you’ve done concerning drug dealing and illegal immigrants.  As my representative from Iowa, I wanted to share with you how your observations were my salvation.   And perhaps my story will be a cautionary tale to others who don’t appreciate your commitment to keeping our borders safe.

You probably recall your statement made in response to those who want to allow children of illegal immigrants a pathway to citizenship:

“For everyone who’s a valedictorian, there’s another 100 out there who weigh 130 pounds — and they’ve got calves the size of cantaloupes because they’re hauling 75 pounds of marijuana across the desert.”

I was fascinated by your direct linkage between illegal immigrants’ kids and drug dealing.   Little did I know when I read your remarks that I myself would soon be put to the test.

It all began because I am a stranger in a strange land.   I am residing for a time in the Netherlands.  And even in this land of the Red Light District, certain legal niceties are required for an extended visit.  Yes, I needed some type of permit to legally stay with my working wife.  Unfortunately, I ran into a few difficulties.

Rest assured that I attempted to comply with all the government regulations.  I began with a visit to the immigration office.  I took a number at their main office and waited in line.  After a time, I was invited to give my request to a nice young woman.  Notes were taken.  She conferred with her supervisor.  Unfortunately, the young woman eventually told me I was in the wrong place and needed to set up an appointment to register with the City.

I happily followed that directive and off to the City I went.  When I talked to the representative from the City, that gentleman also took notes of our conversation.  Many in-depth questions were asked.  Discussions with fellow employees took place.  But, sadly, he was forced to tell me I was again in the wrong place and needed to talk to an expat group with the Government.

I contacted them, of course.   This young man also took notes.  He also conferred with his supervisor.  He also spent time carefully reviewing my case.  Alas, I was advised that I needed to talk to someone in the immigration office, where, of course, I had earlier waited in line with a number.

Undaunted, I spoke to a gentleman back at immigration.  He had me go through my story twice.  Then, he sadly informed me I was in the wrong place and needed to register with the City.

Yes, a complete circle.

As you can see, Representative King, I did not rest on my laurels waiting for things to happen.  I was proactive.  But the clock was ticking.  Soon, I would become an illegal immigrant in the Netherlands.  And that’s where your words were nearly prophetic.

It began innocently enough, as sin always does.  I noticed, as my time to become an illegal immigrant drew near, I started walking past the coffeehouses.  Representative King, let me assure you these coffeehouses sell products you’ll never see at Starbucks.  Yes, we’re talking marijuana with a capital “M.”  I knew that to indulge in any such behavior was wrong and it went against all my years as a prosecutor.  But the inexorable pull of becoming an illegal immigrant was compelling me to want to sell and use drugs — just as you predicted.  75 pounds worth of drugs to be exact.   It hadn’t happened yet; but, as is clear from your statement, I knew the moment my status changed from legal to illegal, I would find myself giving drugs to young Dutch children strapped to the backs of their mom’s bikes, and, even worse, smoking dope while wearing a Rastafarian stocking cap.  Talk about trouble.

I tried to stem the tide of this horrible transformation by overwhelming my senses with Dutch flowers.

Nothing.  When that didn’t work, I tried Dutch chocolate.

To no avail.  So, I pulled out my biggest gun — Dutch pastry.

Sadly, failure, failure, failure.

Representative King, I am not ashamed to tell you, I became more and more distraught and frightened.  And yesterday, the unmentionable started to happen — my calves, those very calves that had honestly and truly served me for 59 years, grew larger and fruit-like during the night.  Deep despair hung like a cantaloupe around my neck.

Ah, but of course I’m writing because there is a happy ending.  Just as you would have predicted, all these illicit thoughts vanished today.  Why?  Well, immigration granted me a temporary permit.  I AM LEGAL.  My calves immediately shrunk.  I no longer walk past the coffeehouses.  And I don’t have to worry about my bad back and the need to carry around 75 pounds of marijuana.  Lord, what a relief.

The only sour note — I was unable to cancel my eBay order of three Rastafarian stocking caps.  Perhaps an early Christmas present?

Your fondest supporter in Holland,

Joe

The storm was forecast to come out of the west.  Strong winds were to hit England first in the morning, then scoot across the channel and slam northern Europe by the afternoon.  80-90 mph winds.  Maybe higher.  Flights were cancelled.  Trains were shutting down.  British television was warning that the next morning’s commute wasn’t going to happen.  It was time to batten down the hatches.

Sitting comfortably in The Hague, 194 miles across the North Sea from London, this Iowa boy began to wonder what it would be like to see an ocean storm.  You know, curious in an academic, sophisticated way.  Okay, maybe curious in a weird, storm-chasing way.   But I’ve been around.  I lived through the 1993 floods in Des Moines, where, just like you, I carried drinking water from an Iowa National Guard water truck home to the family.  And, believe it or not, I was folding sheets at the Holiday Inn in Estes Park the summer of 1976 when the Big Thompson roared down the canyon causing death and devastation.  So, I’ve seen a bit of water.  But never an ocean in a storm.  I wondered what that looked like.

So, wisely waiting until my wife left for work, I went to take a look.

We live several blocks from the North Sea.  As I leaned into the wind and rain heading for the shore, I started to get a little nervous.  I saw trees down.  Big trees.  Uprooted.  Yikes.  I forgot that we are living in a city built on a beach.  Roots are shallow.  It looked like a giant toddler had come and gently pushed the trees over on the way to the toy room.   And if trees were pushed over, what about all those clay roof tiles?  What if the toddler started throwing those?  “Brained by a roof tile in Holland.”  If I wasn’t killed outright, my wife would finish the task.

Bent over, leaning into the wind, I made it to the harbor.  Of course, the harbor was jammed with boats and ships looking for protection from the storm.  But I didn’t expect the noise.  Their wires and ropes screamed unrelentingly in the wind.  A little unsettling for my already jangled nerves.

Ah, one last sand berm to get to my destination — the beach.

OUCH!  The wind was sweeping across the beach so hard that my eyes were blinded by the hard-hitting sand.  And soon, I realized from licking my lips that it wasn’t rain drenching me, but salty ocean water.  OUCH again, as more sand pummeled my face.   Even when I turned my back to the wind, I was getting soaked to the bone.   With sand and salt in every nook of my body, freezing, partially blinded, scared stiff, I looked at the crashing roaring waves through my sand-encrusted eyes and raced home.  Terrified of nature.  As I should have been while sitting in my armchair.  Stupid.

But you already knew that.   I really wanted to tell you about another storm.

Mickey was 130 pounds in his prime.  A big lab from almost day one.  He would leap and buck with joy whenever anyone paid him any mind.  Which we all did.  He asked to be loved.  A simple demand.  So, without much thought, we complied.

My youngest wrote a ten-point manifesto as to why we needed another dog for our three cats and “lonely” female lab, and taped it across our bedroom door.  I resisted at first, but before long, I’m meeting Mickey’s grandfather, a gentle giant.  The deal was done.   To be fair, Mickey’s arrival did result in chewed-up shoes, gnawed-on chairs, and a couch eaten through to the wood frame.  But then he would put his large wet nose on my thigh, and his huge lab eyes would look up with joy and mischief.  What are you going to do?  So much for anger.  He was a balm for the soul.

Where he thrived was in the country.  The sight of a big dog running in the tall grass makes my heart sing.  Although, he did terrorize the deer, rabbit, and raccoon population.  And, a skunk or two.  But with his gentle mouth he would bring the terrified animal to our feet, leaving to us the task of what to do next.  And he’d sit wagging his tail.  He didn’t care what we did.  He did his part.

Mickey lived long for a big dog.  His liver had problems, but he miraculously survived.  Then, his hips started going.  He didn’t care.  He just circled a little more slowly in the tall grass.  But now he can’t rise anymore.  Food is no longer a thought.  So, today, the vets from Starch Pet Hospital will appear at our house for the third time over the many years they have lovingly cared for our animals.  Each time, I say I will never do it again.  But, “again” is here.   And my two sons remain at home as witnesses.  One moment, Mickey will be alive.  The next moment, dead.  It is unthinkable.

And so go the storms of life.

Stunningly bright-blue clear skies followed this storm in the North Sea.  The winds were soft and warm.  The waves were gentle.  The sun was shining.  So, what to do after a storm?  How do you put yourself back together?  Perhaps you shake your fist at the heavens.  Perhaps you pull the covers over your head.  Or perhaps . . . you just put on your wet suit, hop on your bike, grab your surf board, and head to the beach.

There, you will hook up with your buddies and run into the ice cold water to frolic as we were meant to do.

And play in the North Sea all afternoon until your mom calls you home for supper.

There you go.  Perhaps that’s what you do after a storm hits your life.

And, for those who aren’t here to weather another storm, including my beloved Mickey, may they rest in peace in the tall grass.

Joe

Grey is the sky in Holland.  It comes in different shades of grey, of course.  But grey it is.  As you hang out in this world, you begin to respond to the small tonal shifts from dark grey to light grey in ways that may not be mentally sound.  For example, if it’s a dark grey day, you need to lock away any implements that might cause self-harm — like those two dozen ginger cookies in the shape of Dutch windmills.  They may look innocent sitting there on the counter early in the morning, but after the first hour of dark grey skies, you’ll have eaten the cookies and be using the internet to find the Dutch translation for “Hand over the apple tarts, NOW, or I’ll throw this carved wooden shoe with the little painted Dutch boy through your very clean window.”  Not a good turn.

Whereas if there are light grey skies, you awake in the Netherlands wondering if someone from the Iowa Lottery is knocking on your front door.  And, now that you think of it, today would be a good day to go back to school and become a people and animal doctor so you can do rescue operations that save small children, and animals that look like small children, but are nicer.  Like baby pandas.  Why not?

Ah, but today is a dark grey sky.

Through the misting rain, it’s hard to see what shops are in the narrow buildings on the other side of the boulevard.

Slugging across the puddled wet bricks in my squishy tennis shoes, I take a closer look.   Past the ever-present bicycles is a wondrous display of lights and colors, stuffed animals and wooden creatures, and puzzles and games.  It’s a toy store.  A Dutch toy store open on a dark grey Holland day.

I’m dying to look inside.  But a little wary.  I was just shamed by a clerk in a downtown store when I innocently went inside to purchase jeans.  Why am I purchasing jeans, you might ask.  Because, you can’t be a man in Holland and wear anything but jeans.  “Really?”  I said to my wife.  “Really,” she responded.  So, off to buy jeans.

“Size 36 waist, please,” I say, after I acknowledge to the clerk that I don’t know a speck of Dutch except  the word for pancakes.  The clerk in her early twenties cooly appraises me.  She shakes her stylish hair and swishes the elegantly tied scarf around her neck.  I can tell that she thinks I may not be quite right in the head.   She dramatically pulls out a waist size 34 and says, “This is your size.”  I smile.  I tell her I’m really truly a pudgy old man and wear a 36.  She does not smile.  “The dressing room is over there,” and she hands me the size 34.  I obediently go to the dressing room.

Of course the size 34 doesn’t even fit one leg — I’m being optimistic with size 36.  I bring out the pants.  Defeated by my pudge.  I tell her the size 34 does not fit.  Again, she openly looks me up and down.  She clearly believes I am lying in addition to being crazy.  She says the size 36 jeans are in a back room.  Of course they are.  No one in Holland is size 36.  I shrug my shoulders, hoping the gesture adequately apologizes for the years of eating French fries.  She doesn’t move.  Apparently, she is patiently waiting for me to break down and come clean about my real size.  I smile.  Finally, she sighs with boredom, and strolls slowly to the back of the store where they must put the jeans that are rejected by society.

After a while, she returns.  The jeans fit.  I put in my credit card to pay.  A long wait.  Then, horror of horrors, the “cancelled” flashes on the screen.  She looks at me.  All her expectations have been fulfilled — “what can one expect from someone who doesn’t realize they wear a 34.”  She tries twice more.  Each time I am “cancelled.”  Now she’s convinced I’m a crazy street person who has wandered in and the police need to be called.  I leave before she presses the under-the-counter emergency button.

So, here I am at the toy store, a little uncomfortable.  I feel pretty sure that if I walk in the door, they’ll have me arrested for some heinous child crime involving toys.   I don’t know.  My confidence has been shaken.  But I open the door.

A paradise.   A jungle of wooden birds and castles and rocking horses and stuffed giraffes.  Lights, and small rooms, and hidden alcoves abound.  And there is no corner that isn’t overflowing with something you want to lift up, shake up, wind-up, or give a small push.

A gentle-faced woman pokes her head around the corner from a back alcove of the store.  “Goedenmorgen.”  I stand looking wide-eyed at all the wonders.  She smiles.  I ask if I can take some pictures.  “Of course you can.”  Larger smile.  “But none of me.”  Naturally.  How could I take a picture of her?   She is a fairy godmother.  Everyone knows you’re not supposed to take pictures of fairy godmothers.

And there I am.  Fairly certain that Geppetto might be somewhere in the back putting together Pinocchio.  Why not?  And the Swan Princess is still a swan leaning against the far wall.  And Snow White is asleep in her bed around the corner.  And Rapunzel is draping her hair off the high shelf.  And in the upstairs loft?  Perhaps the miller’s daughter spinning golden, size-36 jeans out of straw.

Mmmmm.  Is that the sun shining through the dark grey sky onto that wooden rocking horse?

Joe