Congressman Steve King’s recent comments are confounding.  You know, his statement about the “dreamers” having “calves the size of cantaloupes because they’re hauling seventy-five pounds of marijuana across the desert.”   It is so strange that you begin wondering if there is a play within the play.  Without a doubt, to believe that bad people are identifiable by their calf size would certainly keep our streets safe from all those exercise fanatics in Des Moines.   But really?  Are we missing the end game in all this chicanery?  Is King a pawn being used as a feint or is he just a reflection of the lack of civility in all of us?  Got me.  But does poor behavior have to be the last word?

Let me tell you a story.

Marwan Gazali is from Hollywood.  He is an actor.  A fairly successful actor.  Stints on popular TV shows and roles in movies make up his resume.  He has an agent.  He has a manager.  And he’s on a roll.  People want him.  You can see why from this headshot from the movie Excelsior (and, by the way, when was the last photo taken of you in armor?).

Gazali comes from a large family out of Lebanon.  Beirut, to be exact.  His dad, now deceased for three years, was a cop.  His mom’s job was to feed and manage their eight children.  Gazali had a different dream than his parents.  He wanted to act.

“Acting?  I want to do it not for fame, not for name, not for money. . . .   It’s my passion.”  Gazali speaks with intensity.  Not surprising.  He began acting by age six, when he starred in a kid’s program in Beirut.  During this same time, there was a civil war in Lebanon.  He and his childhood buddies, instead of collecting Pokemon cards, collected ammunition found on the streets of Beirut.  “The shells just got bigger as time went on,” Gazali says somberly.

At eighteen, he applied to be an airline steward for Emirates Airline.  There was a small catch, however, he’d never flown on an airplane.  When asked in the interview whether he would be frightened to fly, he responded: “Look around you.  I’m from Beirut.  I was born here.  What worse is going to happen on an airplane.”  And so he became a steward.

Eventually, Gazali ended up in Hollywood.  He hustled, he did any kind of work, he lived in dumps, and he sacrificed.  After roles in some short films, he was eventually noticed.  Success at last.  He became a full-fledged actor.  A dream accomplished.

See, a nice story with a nice ending.

I wind my way into the depths of the suburbs on a dry and hot August day.  The sun-burnt grass and singing cicadas dominate the senses.  I knock on a flower-decorated door and am ushered into the shadows of the interior.   There is much gesturing and retreating by an older woman named Toufica as she maneuvers me onto a back porch.  No English is spoken.  I am gently deposited in a chair after both my cheeks are patted and kissed.

Gazali appears.  He is in Des Moines for the summer.  After his father’s death in Beirut, his mother and a sister came to Des Moines.  Why?  Because his family was here to care for the them.  Brother Jay, amongst other jobs, runs Gazali’s, a wonderful restaurant in the Drake neighborhood.  And brother Mario (along with his singing Irish wife) runs Open Sesame, the wonderful restaurant in the East Village.  They take care of their mom and sister with the help of other family members.  It’s complicated.  Ju Ju, the sister, needs special attention and recently broke a bone in her knee.   The family responsibilities are heavy and just got heavier.  So, Gazali came home to help.

Toufica, Gazali’s mom, comes and goes from the back porch.  Each time with food.  Each time apologizing in broken English for the intrusion.  Fruit and yoghurt.  Cherries.  A special tea.  More kisses for me.  More gentle pats on my cheeks.  Ju Ju appears.  Her involuntary verbal interruptions are met with hugs and reassurances from her brother.  She sits as close as possible to Gazali.  This part is not complicated.  And the fact that Gazali is frequently cast in Hollywood as a Jesus figure blurs my perception.

My visit is over.  I prepare to leave.  Apparently, this is not the end.  Toufica slips me a small gift, food is bagged and placed in my other hand, and I am told to fetch my wife for lunch with Jay at his restaurant.  Are you kidding?  I’ve worked for the government for 31 years.  We don’t do gifts.  Toufica smiles with a look that does not concede any ground.  Lunch it is.

What can I say about all this?  Immigrants.  From Beirut.  Right here in Des Moines.  Unfortunately, I was so amazed by their kindness, their hospitality, their caring for each other, and their love, I totally forgot to check the size of their calves.

I’d better go back for another visit.

Joe

The long hair is what first catches your eye.   Dramatic for a man of middle age.  Caught in tendrils by sweat, it frames his angular face and hawked nose to make him even more exotic.  But it is the energy coiled that really grabs your attention.  An energy that is just slightly scary.  It might be a controlled rage. And it might be directed at you.  Suddenly he flies into motion.  Jumping and kicking and spinning in the air.  1000 boards smashed with his hands and feet in one afternoon.  2000 boards.  5000 boards.  We all stood with mouths agape and gladly counted ourselves as followers.

For countless years, lawyers, teachers, magazine editors, carpenters, and businessmen made the pilgrimage to the  Eric Heintz Black Belt Academy.   We were there to learn Tae Kwon Do.  We were there for fitness.  We were there to get away from the pressures of work.  We were certainly there to exorcise as much as exercise.  Pick your demon.  But confusion as to motive did not lead to confusion as to who was the boss.  Eric Heintz was the master.   Period.  For good reason. We all knew he would walk us out of the wilderness.   And he did.

For me, it was fear.  Fear of the bully.  Straight out of my childhood.  But to show up in the courtroom, with knuckles bloodied from breaking bricks, and with bruises from sparring, it was a wonderful antidote.  And when I would slide back into fear, Heintz would admonish me to act with virtue and restraint — unless virtue and restraint was not an option.  Then he assured me I could release my wrath.  I didn’t even know I had a “wrath” to release.  Apparently I did.

Looking back over the years, it was a simple matter of belief.  Not just the belief that you could break two stacked bricks, or you could fly in the air and execute a side kick, or you could defend against three attackers at once.  It was much more mundane.  Heintz simply believed in you.  And if he believed in you, how could you not believe in you?  It was a wonderful thing.

And then it all came to an end.

Surgeries, botched and otherwise, left Heintz extremely ill.  Fed by a tube, his days were numbered.   He was a dead man, according to the doctors.   And it was the close of an era.  The Eric Heintz Black Belt Academy was no more.  I went on with my life.  And Eric Heintz faded gently from my universe.

20 years passed.

The Buddhist priest, tethered by a feeding tube, gingerly sat on the couch and smiled.

“Everyone’s life is full of burdens, aches and pains, catastrophes, losses, . . . fill in the blank.   There is no solid ground beneath your feet.  Being in a certain kind of shape doesn’t help.  Having a whole lot of money or a job with status or prestige in the community, doesn’t help.  Basically, you’re just kind of out there and you’re going to be a bug on a windshield at some point.”

“Life is precious.  But if you start taking it so seriously that you must get some kind of control and maintain it to have value, for you to be safe, that control is not going to happen.    Deep inside we think horrible things can happen to other people, but at the same time we don’t think it could happen to us.”

“Well, it does happen.  But, you can still laugh at a joke.  You can still enjoy what you enjoyed before.  And even if you can’t, you can take a hard look, or a soft look, around you and find something else that will satisfy whatever in yourself that needs attention.  You can find it.”

“Each of us is going to have pain and each of us is going to die.  It is just a question of how you want to spend your time.  It may be a matter of minutes or longer.  Nobody has any assurances.  But, do you want to spend your time saying, ‘I’m really hurting’?  Or can you let go of the absolute need to have something solid under your feet and be a happy, fulfilled person?”

The locks are shorn.  The muscle is gone.  A tube is connected to his insides.  There’s no leaping.  There’s no spinning.  No boards are broken in a demonstration of masterful technique.  Instead there is laughter and talk.  A lot of it.  As I take my leave, the man who became a Buddhist priest after falling deathly ill, Tetsugen Eric Heintz, grips my hand.  It is a grip of sinewy steel muscle.   One more reminder that nothing is as it appears.  And he laughs and tells me to watch my step.

Joe

Way to go, George.  You’ve been born at last.  8 pounds, 6 ounces of joy.  Congratulations.  You survived the media hype with barely a spit-up.  Now you will be getting all sorts of presents and well-wishes from just about everyone.  Precious stones, beautiful artisan works, and the latest in baby fashions.  Gold, frankincense, and myrrh.  Of course, you won’t really know what’s going on.  But, be patient.  In a blink, you’ll be ready to either become a poorly behaved prince or an adored royal.  Your call.  Confused?  Ask the ghost of your beloved Grandma Di about confusion.

But I have a special gift for you.  Before you say “no,” I’m going to up-sell it just a little bit.  Okay, how’s this?  I guarantee that if you accept this gift you will have no problem weaving your way through the moral ambiguity of your soon-to-be strange life.  Yup.  My promise sounds grandiose, but I’m not kidding.  Listen, at some point you’re going to be driving down the nine circles of hell wondering which is your exit.  That happens to everyone who is given too much. But this gift will guide you out of Dante’s mess with barely a singed hair.    I promise.  Still hesitating?  Okay, if you are ever wondering whether your car can clear the embankment, whether you’re too much for one woman or man to handle, or whether you should drink, sniff, or inject the latest concoction, this gift will do the trick.  Scout’s honor.  You on board?  Great.

My gift to you is a job.  In Des Moines.  Working for Louie.  No, not tomorrow.  But perhaps when you’re out of  trainers.  Certainly not much later than that.  Let me introduce you.

Yup, this is Luigi (“Louie”) Baratta.  As you can see, Baratta has no problem talking.  Yes, you’re right, Baratta is quite animated and I know that can be scary.  And, yes, Baratta laughs more in a day than your paternal grandfather has laughed in his life.  But that’s the point.

Baratta runs a small restaurant on the skywalk downtown — Something Italian.  His specialty is pizza to die for.  When I tell you he “runs” it, I mean he is there laughing, talking, cooking, every day from before the sun comes up until the lunch crowd is long gone.  This guy works.

You need to understand that Baratta was born on the south side of Des Moines to Italian immigrant parents.   Italian was the only language spoken in the home because that’s all his mom and pop knew in those days as they struggled just to survive.  But, George, this is important: these are sharp folks who know how to navigate the world.

“My dad went to school up to the sixth grade.  Smartest dude ever.  Way smarter than I am.  This guy didn’t have nothing.  Couldn’t speak a lick of English.  He made a good life for himself here.”  Baratta speaks while he quickly and efficiently cuts slices of pizza.

So, what’s in it for you, George, to come under Baratta’s wing?  Let’s count the ways.

1.  Baratta will teach you about work.  “You have to work to get what you get.  Very seldom are you going to get lucky.  I start my kids from the very bottom.  They clean some tables.  Go around and say hi to some people.  Wipe the little counter tops off.  Clean trays.  Work their way.  Then maybe they can start rolling dough.”  Now, don’t get nervous, George, but, after working for Baratta, the next time you parade through London in a horse-drawn carriage, you’ll be thinking about the guy who cleans up the horse poop.  That’s a good thing.

2.  Baratta will teach you about building a community of loyalty.   “I worked forever growing up. I worked for Giudo Fenu, when he had the Hotel Savery, and then Frank Graziano.  I’m thinking: ‘Damn, two hard-core Italians.’  I still do things they told me to do.  They were real smart people.  George Formaro then helped gigantic.  Joe Gatto helped.  He is like the consignere.  He’s a big part.  I’ll  call him all the time: ‘Dude, I have a party for 600, what do I need to do on this?  [imitating the Godfather voice] Heh, this is what you do . . . .'”  George, even you are going to need help.  So buck up.  And we all need a Godfather.

3.  Baratta will teach you about discipline — and, tangentially, Italian: “When we are at a function, and my kids are getting in trouble, we can yell at them in Italian and no one knows we’re yelling at them.  It’s great.”  (Lots of laughter — “no, no, my kids are wonderful.”)  Yes, George, it’s good for you to hear “no” . . . in any language.

4.  Baratta will teach you about family.  “I live in one house.  My mom and dad live right next to me.  And my sister lives on the other side of them.  It’s the best thing ever.  My wife, Sara, loves it more than anybody [this last statement has not been fact-checked, but is within the realm of possibility] . . . .  My mom was a tailor her whole life.  But she cooked all the time.  We still eat there every Sunday.  At 1 o’clock.  Whether she’s sick or not sick, there is always food on the table.”  Your family is going to be crazy, George.  I’m sorry to be the one to tell you.  But whose isn’t?  Every Sunday, you got that?

5.  Baratta will teach you about simplicity.  “My parents were just regular southern Italian people.  As a result, I love normal southern food.  Nothing crazy.  Normal red sauce, white sauce, lasagna, manicotti, meatball, sausage that normal people know of.  Just nice, southern peasant food.  That’s the best.”  George, the lesson is clear, just keep it to a red sauce or a white sauce.   End of story.

6.  Finally, Baratta will teach you about achieving the good life.  “This restaurant is my dream.  If I could do this the rest of my life and be happy, why change it.”  So, what’s your dream, George?  That’s the question.

And some day, George, when you’re the boss and worried about the unsettled Middle East, global warming, and international terrorism,  I want you to remember Baratta’s last excited announcement to me as he smiled and gestured and appeared to taste his words:  “You know what we’re eating tonight?  Meat loaf sandwiches.  I’ve been thinking about them all day.  I’m going to put barbecue sauce in there and  some prosciutto.   A little country Italian meatloaf, mashed potatoes and gravy.  Nice and easy.”

“What’s for supper?” The perfect question when your life is upside down.   Just another lesson from Baratta.  Nice and easy.

So, when should we expect you?

Joe

Come, sit next to me in the back of the room.  Don’t worry, you won’t have to say anything. Yes, I know it’s after work hours and we should be at home with our families.  Oh, I’m sorry, you were actually going to the bar to hang with your buddies?  It’s okay.  Just sit and listen for a bit.

Look at that guy up there.  He’s way too young and hipster-looking to be a judge.  My goodness, he can’t be much older than the kids in the room.  And look over there at her.  She’s way too young to be a juvenile delinquent.  Lord, it’s uncomfortably easy to see her as your own daughter of many years ago.  And the probation officer near the front?  Now he’s the right age.  He radiates an implacable force.

Juvenile Drug Court on Wednesday night.

Chairs scrape, adolescents squirm, and parents sit with stolid faces.  A low murmur drifts around the room as they wait for the start.  Judge Witt begins by requesting an accounting.

Young men and women stand up and catalog their drugs of choice and their dates of sobriety.  “Marijuana last smoked on May 3rd.”  “K2 last used June 10th.”  “Benzos taken two weeks ago.”  Illegal drugs and legal drugs taken illegally.  Not exactly something to write home about.

“Nobody wants to be in Drug Court.  When I first got here, I hated it.  I can’t tell you how much.”  Riana Johnson somberly reflected.  “But they got my head straightened.  It was crooked you know.”

Johnson is infectiously joyful.  Her large smile and brown eyes, with just a touch of sadness at the corners, dominate her face.

She is on-fire with enthusiasm on Wednesday night.   She is radiant.   She shouts out to the group:  “Look where I am right now.  I’m here.  I’m alive.”

Her story isn’t so radiant.  Eight foster homes, abuse, kidnappings, addictions.   The horror of homelessness along the Des Moines River, the dangers on the street, the failed treatment programs, the running away, the violence, the anger.  A lifetime of suffering crammed into 18 years.

“Every time I got high I was happy.  I needed to do it to hide all the pain . . . to hide all the hurt. . . .  Eventually I ended up in the hospital almost dead from alcohol poisoning.  It’s a miracle I’m even alive.”

Johnson made it into Juvenile Drug Court here in Des Moines almost two years ago.  “The first time I went to court I was really scared.  All these rules.  Get your school work done.  Get your work done.  Listen, I stopped working a long time ago.  But once I started doing school I started feeling a lot better.”

“John Hawkins (the Juvenile Court Officer assigned to Johnson) talked to me.  I hated him.  I hated the judge.  I didn’t want anything to do with them.  I get that I almost died.  Being so close to death is scary.  John Hawkins changed my life.  He said to me that one day I’m going to thank him.  ‘No, I’m not.  I’m not going to thank you.’  Well, I’m here and I’m thanking him.”

Hawkins is no-nonsense, buttoned-down, and serious.  Although, if you watch closely, a smile is constantly leaking from his military demeanor.

Hanging in his office, next to two paintings of color and light, are leg and arm restraints.   The dichotomy of his trade.

“Juvenile Drug Court, in a nutshell, is probation on steroids.  It is an intensive, community-based supervision program for kids who have significant substance-abuse problems or addictions.  We try to keep the kids at home as long as possible.  But some kids don’t let us.”

And Hawkins’ role?  “I’m dad, probation officer, in some cases big brother.   In a lot of ways I’m the realist in their lives.   Sometimes I’m the mediator between the kid and the parent.   I’m the advocate and at the same time the adversary.  I’m the first one to give the kid props . . . but if the kid won’t comply, I’m the first one to say here’s where we are.”

Back at the Wednesday Drug Court, Hawkins is clear in his message to the juveniles: “If you hate me, then so be it.”

Of course, those audience members don’t know that earlier that same day, Riana Johnson was again without a home.  She made a call for help.  Hawkins and another juvenile court officer drove 30 miles, helped her move her belongings to storage (on the hottest day of the year), and made sure she was safe.  Just another day for a juvenile court officer.

Tonight, Judge Witt wants more for the juveniles in his charge:  “You have to figure out something more than stopping using.  You’ve got to figure out something more than making it through this program.  You’ve got to figure out your dreams and how you’re going to accomplish them.  You have to choose.”

Johnson has chosen, she told me.  “I want to be a speaker.  A motivational speaker.  I want to help others.”  She smiles broadly leaving little doubt that she has the charisma to achieve her dream.

“Riana has graduated the program,” Judge Witt tells the audience.  “Her case has been dismissed.  She’s moving towards helping others.  Case closed.”

Riana Johnson radiates with the sudden applause.  And she twirls around at the front of the room beaming with delight.  “Thank you, thank you , thank you.”

Joe

You first notice the smell of wax.  It clings to your nose even after the reflected sunlight causes you to look up from the polished surface.  Wow, that is glossy smooth. You slowly bend to get a closer look and your gaze involuntarily drifts down the entire stretch.   Lord, it runs the length of the building and is twice as wide as most folk’s work cubicles. Shadows of dark and light play over the top.  And mirror images appear on the surface, opening up as windows, illuminating different scenes and different places.  It is truly beautiful.

And then a group of men and women get off the elevator.  They scuff the polish, chase away the shadows, and shatter the magical windows.  Is this some evil sent to destroy art?  No, it’s just employees walking down the hall going to lunch.

The creator smiles with pride.

Gordon Avritt laughs easily and often.  He’s a janitor.  He’s cleaned for the State of Iowa for 40 years.  At 62 years old, he stands straight, looks you in the eye, and wants to talk.  About his work.

“I began at Des Moines General Hospital back in 1971.  At that time there was little carpeting.  I loved looking at that terrible floor at Des Moines General and seeing the beauty I could put on it when my work was all done.  I seen the satisfaction I had at how beautiful that floor was.”  From then on he was hooked.

For the last seven years, Avritt has worked at the newly remodeled Oran Pape Building, which houses the Department of Public Safety.

“I love working here and I love the people here and what I do.  Probably ‘what I do’ is number one to me. . . .   In the morning I clean bathrooms and that.  Then we vacuum for an hour to an hour-and-a-half.  Then I do some dusting.  Then trash probably the rest of the day.  If I get done with the trash, then dusting some more.  Here, let me show you another higher floor.”  Again, he beams with pride.

“They treat us terrific here.  And I guess I feel very special to even get an opportunity to work in this building because this is a building you have to go through so much security to work here.  And I’m proud that I’ve always been a good person and not in trouble in my life.”

Avritt works 40 hours a week as a janitor for the State, and then spends both days on the weekend cleaning at Calvin Community, a retirement community.   His wife, Norma, works also, and they send any extra money to their adult son who has serious health issues.

“Both my children are adopted from Korea.  Now, when you write this, don’t say we adopted to save them.  We adopted for me and my wife.  We wanted children and couldn’t have them.”  Avritt talks as he empties the trash.

“Daughter and two babies live with us.  I help on the babysitting part.  I’d much rather deal with the people here.  The kids can be more work.”  He laughs.  “I love them to pieces.”

“I take pride in the work,” he says as he continues emptying trash.  “We just got done doing the hallway floors.  The satisfaction of looking at that floor and how pretty it is.  And when people walk in the building they see that.”

But doesn’t it all just get dirty again tomorrow?  Isn’t this discouraging?  “No, huh-uh,  if they didn’t dirty it, I wouldn’t have a job.”  Laughing loudly.   “Job security.”

Avritt never sees himself as truly retiring.  “I’ll work here another 4 years until I can get my social security.  I’ll always work a part-time job somewhere.   That’s just me.  I’ll always be doing something.  If my health lets me.  I’ve got a lot of old-people diseases.  I’ve got high blood pressure. . . .   It went up a little higher with the grandchildren.”  Again, knee-slapping laughter.

And for fun?  “When my brother was well, we’d go to the Hawkeye football games.  Me and him.”  Avritt looks sadly away.  His brother is two years gone.

Anything else?  “I was always so proud of my work.”

***************************************************************************************************************

“When you are washing the dishes, washing the dishes must be the most important thing in your life.”  Thich Nhat Hanh, Vietnamese Zen Buddhist monk, explaining how to live a mindful life.

“Seeing the beauty I can put on it.”  Gordon Avritt, janitor, Oran Pape Building, explaining his goal in cleaning a floor.

Joe

In the basement of the old Catholic elementary school in Iowa City, we all lined up with our vendor trays attached by straps across the back of our necks.  Ranging in ages from 10 to 13, we were loaded down with homecoming mums.   After a quick lecture from Sister Timothy Mary (in those days still clothed in black and white from head to toe), we waited impatiently for the signal.  The whistle was blown, the big double doors were thrown open, and down Clinton Street we went, through the mass of people lining the sidewalk, where we hawked flowers to the boisterous parade watchers.  I was euphoric.  Homecoming floats drifted past in a haze, the University of Iowa band played to the night sky, and people yelled and laughed with abandon.  My first parade.

Now, of course, this isn’t your first parade.  But you’re wondering how to navigate this year’s parade season.  Sure, you know to avoid the drunken leprechaun marching on Saint Patrick’s Day, and maybe even the need to steer clear of all farm tractors so large the driver can’t see the parade watchers, let alone the clowns in the small cars.  But what about the rest?  Well, it’s your lucky day.  Parade 101 is just beginning.

The night before.  The night before the big event, the truly eager parade watchers mark their spots.  You can place your reservation with lawn chairs, caution tape, tarps and blankets.  This is equal opportunity at its best.  Squatter rules apply.  However, you should probably not leave the family heirloom quilt on someone’s front lawn.  And, as tempting as it sounds, your kids should not be left holding down the tarp while you head to Stormy’s.

Preparation for marching.  You’re going to be a participant?  Great?  You have only one job — candy.  And lots of it.  Do you have enough?  There is no such thing as “enough.”  Your ability to provide a satisfactory candy experience is of utmost importance.   You want to see why?

Yup, that’s Governor Terry Branstad at Urbandale’s parade on the Fourth of July.  Okay, he’s been governor on and off for 300 years.  He’s gamely walking this two-mile route, waving and talking to folks.  But where are all the kids looking?  Not at Governor Branstad.  They’re looking for the candy.  Do you want this to happen to you?  I didn’t think so.

You need a visual of how much to bring?  These gentlemen figured it out.  Yes, that is preparation.

Moms and kids viewing.  Moms and kids make up the bulk of the people watching any parade.  Moms, be aware that there may be a few confusing images for your children.  Be prepared to be flexible in answering the obvious questions.  My favorite mom was at the Pride Parade last year.  She was overseeing a group of little kids (yes, their hands outstretched for candy), when this float came rolling past.

I overheard her explain to the smallest boy, who was genuinely puzzled, that, yes, these men were only wearing underwear, but it was because it was just so hot outside.  See, moms generally know the right answer.

Humble yourself.  It’s one thing to watch a parade from the comfortable anonymity of the crowd.  It’s quite another to march in the parade itself.  Most walkers generally follow  a fairly typical progression. You begin very self-consciously.  Why?  Because you feel like a fool walking in a parade.  It’s not a mystery why most parade marchers disguise themselves as clowns or animals or politicians.  So, you start out by demurely handing out your candy, then rushing back to the parade vehicle, where you are hoping you will be lost to the crowd.  You’re not lost to the crowd.  I mean, you’re in the middle of the road with nowhere to hide.  And as you’re feeling more and more silly and wondering how you were ever talked into this craziness, suddenly, there is an amazing transformation.  It starts with you throwing the candy with a bit of a flourish.  Next, you begin bantering with the kids and their parents.  And before you know it, you’re a true parade marcher and start belting out the greatest hits by Aretha Franklin and doing cartwheels down the road.  It is stunning to the casual observer.  I can’t explain this phenomenon, but it happens every time.  Trust me.

Now, by the end of the parade, you’ll just want some shade and a chair.  Unfortunately, the end of the parade occurs for most marchers about four blocks from the start.  You have another two miles.  Sorry.

Secret parade information.  I talked to a grizzled veteran of parades, Terry Rich.  Yes, the same Terry Rich who runs the Iowa Lottery.  His most recent foray into parades was marching with a group called “Old Farts with Carts.”  He would be the “D.”

This group breaks into looping, shopping cart configurations that are amazing pieces of choreography reminiscent of the Olympic synchronized swimmers.   Astounding, but true.

Rich confided the secret of participating in a parade:  “After three years we finally got it right.  We try to look for little kids who don’t have much candy, and we load them up.”

There you have it.  Pearls of wisdom.  Parade 101.

Joe

Come on.  This is just weird.  He’s sitting way too close.  His knee is almost touching yours.  Can you tell him to back up?  Is your breathing getting a little ragged?  Does he notice that your eyes are moistening?

The lean of his body into yours is as intimate as a third date.  Lord, you even notice the color of his blue eyes.  You want to fiddle with the pen on the table just to break away from his intensity.   It’s OK to look away, right?  Just do it!  Look away, now!  Ah, but you can’t.

And then he begins to speak softly . . . .

“Something went wrong here, didn’t it?”

Really?  No kidding?  You have the urge to start putting all the things that went wrong into categories to help the discussion along.  Perhaps this explains how some poor schmuck in early Christianity, when faced with the same observation by some blue-eyed priest, rattled off a list of wrongs: lust, greed, envy, pride, wrath, sloth, and gluttony.  They’re a good starting point for most of us.

“They don’t understand you, do they?”

What is this guy talking about?  Doesn’t he know that you just committed murder?  Your life is over.  This is so the end.  You’re going to prison for life.  No one has ever understood you.  Why should anyone start now.  Is this guy saying he understands the problems you’ve had to face?  Is he touching your knee with his hand?

“I see you’re wearing a Cubs hat.  What do you think of their season so far?”

Whaaaat?  This guy is crazy, but the Cubs season is really not going well.  “Jeez, they’re having another bad year.  That pitcher . . . .”

Oops, John Quinn has you.  In fact, he had you the moment you decided to stay in the room.  You might as well confess because you’re going to eventually.  Let me explain.

For a starter, sheer volume.  “I’ve worked over 100 death cases,” Quinn said.  That’s about thirty years worth.  At the age of 24, Quinn became a Special Agent with the Department of Criminal Investigation.  He never left except to be the Assistant Director and then the Director and now back to Assistant Director.  Pretty impressive.  But it didn’t begin so well.

“To be honest with you, I was a good Catholic boy.  I went to Dowling High School.  Iowa State University playing college football.  Not really understanding what the world really consisted of.  And here I am working homicides in law enforcement.  I wasn’t ready.”

Quinn was called to investigate the murder of a young woman in 1984.  “They threw me up against a guy called Ron Gruber.  I wasn’t ready for him.  He was literally an executioner for the Sons of Silence [a motorcycle gang].  And he challenged me. Literally made fun of me in the interview room.  He was right.  I wasn’t ready to be in that room with him.  I wasn’t prepared to handle someone of his evil.  He caused me to go ahead and accept the challenge he laid out to me.  And that was to be the best interviewer and interrogator that I could be.”

So, Quinn buckled down, went to every school he could, and studied the art of interrogation.  He enlisted his wife to role-play bad guys so he could work on certain techniques (“Do I have to be Ron Gruber again?” she’d say.).  As amazing as it sounds, he started doing exit interviews with suspects to find out what worked and what didn’t.  “Kind of a strange conversation you’re having with somebody that just talked about killing somebody and you’re now asking them: ‘Now, when I was asking you this, how did you feel that went . . . .’”  And he latched onto any mentor he could find.

In 1985, I was called to a murder scene in Dallas County.  Quinn was the chief investigator and I was the prosecutor.  We had never met.  Quinn, fresh from his bad experience as an interrogator, wanted to try a new technique in interrogating the murder suspect. Unbeknownst to me, he was studying and experimenting to be the best.   I told him his idea was illegal and explained why.  He then explained to me why it was a good idea and said it was legal.  We stared at each other.  He said he was going to do it.  I said he wasn’t.  He said he was.  I then used a profanity that is not recommended in courses on nonviolent communication.  He responded with his own creative profanity.  We smiled.  Chest-thumping as bonding.

Quinn talks in sports-speak.   He’s a former quarterback for Iowa State and he readily admits that his experience calling plays in the huddle shaped his entire life.  So, in the jargon of  sport aphorisms, here’s what Quinn discovered in his search to be a great interrogator.

“Life is filled with adversity, you’re either going to go ahead and meet the challenges or not.  You can be on the sidelines or be a starter.  I knew it was going to take dedication on my part to learn these interrogation techniques.”

“It’s all about just being able to talk with people.  You have to be able to communicate.  The best part about interrogations?  God doesn’t make you an interrogator.  Anybody can be an interrogator.”

 “As you evaluate the suspects, they’re actually evaluating you.  They’re assessing you.  They can tell what they can get away with and what they can’t.”

“It is really helpful to be empathetic.  The biggest issue that people have when they commit a horrendous crime is that no one will understand why it is they did what they did.  Sometimes, they don’t even know.  It’s not that they want to tell somebody about it, it’s just that the situation dictates that they feel the need to tell somebody.  Our job is to be that conduit.  To be the facilitator to make sure the environment is correct  so that they can talk about it.”

“I never blame the victim as a technique in interrogation.  It has nothing to do with the victim. A lot of times victims are just random objects to the suspect.  It’s what’s transpired in the suspect’s life that actually leads them to that point of tangency where they actually intersect with the victim.”

“Being true to yourself is the secret to interrogation.  They can tell when you’re being fake.  Just talk to them in plain speak.  And be honest with them even though there not honest with you.”  

“It’s not what we do, but how we do it.”

“If they’re willing to sit in that room with you, they’re willing to confess.”

 “We all have vulnerabilities.”

John Quinn moves with confidence, speaks with confidence, and laughs with confidence.  His confidence is so overwhelming, that it is easy to mistake for arrogance.  “Humility is the key to the soul.  You can be confident, but if you’re humble, you have the total package,” Quinn says.  Is that a wink?  You tell me.

And Ron Gruber?  “It took me 12 years to get Ron Gruber.  But I got him.”

John Quinn is eight months from retiring.  For thirty years he made Iowa a safer place and raised the bar for police conduct.  He will be missed.

Joe

Fear can raise a rebellion even in the smallest of hearts.   It certainly was the force that propelled me at the age of eight to barricade myself in the family station wagon on a hot summer day, many years ago.   The windows were rolled up, and my parents and seven siblings clamored outside the car as they alternated between threats and promises to get me to open up.   This standoff began because I had just bolted from the doctor’s office out of sheer terror.  I had watched the doctor’s routine that morning just one too many times as he made his way through my large family.  Judy, Carol, Marla.   John, Joyce, Jim, Cathy.  Yikes, I was next . . . for a shot . . . with a needle!  No thank you.

“If afraid of needle, a lot of time is because they don’t know the needle.  The unknown is scary.  If they come in, I tap one needle in and they see it is comfortable.  A lot of time they sleep.  They relaxed.  It is very odd.  They not afraid anymore.  Children also.  Especially the children that don’t have regular shot experience, they come here, try the acupuncture, they just fine.”  Yimin Xu said in his soft voice.

Xu is ramrod straight, lean, and bespeckled.   The long, white lab coat, covering a shirt and tie, appears part of his person, and, perhaps, is what he wears even when lounging around the house.  His rare smile and laugh makes you a little self-conscious, causing you to smile more broadly and laugh more frequently.  You eventually see the smile is in his eyes, and the laughter is in the slight pull at his cheeks.  And you begin to wonder what else you are missing about this man.

Xu is a licensed acupuncturist practicing in the Des Moines area.  He’s come a long way from his home in China.  It was there that he received a degree in traditional Chinese medicine and where he taught acupuncture for several years at the college level.  He then came to the United States in 1992 to study pharmacology at Northeastern University in Boston.  However, he was soon enticed to New Mexico to teach at the Southwest Acupuncture College.  And that he did for many years.  Better schools for his son, and the encouragement of two of his former students already in Des Moines, enticed him to Iowa.

That’s all nice to hear.  Good to know he’s licensed and trained and a teacher and smart.  But can we get back to the needles?

Acupuncture?  “I usually don’t need to explain the theory behind it, because if they have a problem, if I can do some changes, the trust will be immediately established.  One man from Camp Dodge, he sprain his ankle.  He doesn’t believe in acupuncture.  The girlfriend bring him here.  He doesnt’ want to be here.  I use scalp acupuncture.  Afterward, I ask him to walk.  He walks without pain.  He quickly apologized to me for the attitude.”

“I don’t need to explain, I just let them see the effect.  That’s my approach.”  Xu gave his small smile.

Okay, fine, thank you, and the needle . . . ?

Xu carefully unwraps a single needle from its individual sterile package.  It is as thin as a dog’s hair.

“As to how acupuncture works, there are a lot of theories.  In the traditional Chinese medical theory, if a person has pain, we believe it is energy stagnation or the blood has some stagnation.  If there is pain, there is stagnation, if there is stagnation, there is pain.  The modern theory is that the acupuncture needle is a pure physical stimulation.  No chemical there.  It is pure stainless steel.  When it is put into our body, there are chemical changes in the body.  For example, release of endorphins.”

“However, none of these theories adequately explain what happens.”

So there I was.  Stretched out on the table with over 20 needles sticking out of my feet, legs, arms, and hands.  Of course, this didn’t top last week appointment, when I sprouted a half-dozen needles from my head.  Somebody must be getting a kick out of this, right?  Some former high school bully turned YouTube producer is filming a horrible video: “Can we really get the bald guy to lay on the table and put needles in his head?”  Apparently so.

“More men than women are afraid of the needle,” Xu explains as he taps the last needle into place in my hand.

I snap the picture with the other hand . . . and promptly fall asleep.  A fearless pincushion at rest.

Joe

What would the Founding Fathers do?

There seems to be a wistful longing these days for when men were men and the likes of George Washington and Thomas Jefferson and Benjamin Franklin were the talk of the town.   But don’t you wonder how all those revolutionary heroes navigated their home life?

Let me tell you the story of a revolutionary father.

Let’s start with the daughter, Magdalena Beme Reese.  A success by any measure: young mom of a 13-month-old, good marriage, early stages of a successful career as a lawyer here in Polk County, and loving parents.  Trust me, there is no downside.  But her life began a little more complicated.  Let’s see.  Her parents were unemployed, no one spoke English, and the family fortune totaled $30 when they first arrived in the U.S.  Imagine.  One trip to the pizza joint and the need for a wallet disappeared.

“I had no accent.  No one would have known I was different while I attended Jackson Elementary School.  However, there were little things.  When we would go to the Food Fair, we brought Polish food,” Reese said with a small smile.

When Reese arrived in Iowa at the age of 4, she could only speak Polish.  Two years later, she graduated from the ESL program and never looked back.  “For me growing up, it was trying not to stand out, not to be different.  It wasn’t until I got older that I started to appreciate what my parents did and what they went through to come here.”

From notes on a piece of paper, Reese began to read aloud the history of her family.  “In May of 1982 my father was in jail.  By October of 1982, he was moved to the prison.”  

Really?

Stefan Beme is not a big man.  But he is square, solid, and not afraid to give you a clear-eyed look.  He just cleaned up after getting off his shift at Firestone with the maintenance department.

“I grew up in Communist Poland,” Beme says.  “It is a beautiful country today, a free democratic country, but different then. . . .  I graduated from trade school and worked for the Power Company.  I worked up high on the power lines and at transformer stations and with cable lines.  In 1974 I was drafted to the military.  You had to go for two years.  After service, I met my wife, Maria.  We got in love quickly.  I loved her from the first moment.  And in 1980, Magdalena was born.”

The world then became more complicated for Beme as he and Maria struggled with austere food rationing and loss of individual freedoms.  “The election of a Polish Pope gave people big hope.”  And Beme became a member of Solidarity — a consortium of unions from various industries around Poland, including the Power Company.   He soon became a leader in his group.  They demanded independent unions, more food, increased wages, safer conditions for workers, and the release of political prisoners.  This did not sit well with the communists, according to Beme.  On December 13, 1981, martial law was imposed and Beme’s activities with Solidarity were outlawed.  Beme went underground.

Beme began a printing press with others and distributed materials against the government.  He would run his press in various locations, and then go to churches, train stations, wherever people would gather, and hand out flyers.  “People were hungry for these flyers.”

The secret police were on to Beme.  One time too many he distributed flyers in a church.   He was arrested.

Beme was sentenced to four years in prison.  His religion, he claims, kept him strong during this time.  On Sunday, Catholic Mass would be said over the speakers in the prison.  “I tell you something.  Everyone in the cell would put on their nicest clothes and stand in front of the speakers.  People were crying.  It was something that kept you going.”

Epilepsy, according to Beme, was his salvation.  He had suffered from the disease for years.  Prison made it worse.  His seizures became more and more frequent.  The authorities eventually cut his sentence to two years.  He was released from prison, but fired from his job and harassed by the secret police.  Maria and Beme decided to leave the country.  They chose the United States.

To get a passport, they discovered they had to give up all monies and assets in Poland.   They did.  They were then each given $10, the clothes they could carry, and a passport.  By 1984, they were in Des Moines, not because they knew Des Moines, or even knew Iowa, but because Saint Stephen Lutheran Church and Saint John’s Lutheran Church sponsored them.  “We learned we are going to Iowa.  Where’s that?”

Maria and Beme then lived the immigrant story.  They worked night and day.  They slept little.  They went to school for English classes.  They did everything they could to survive.  Eventually Beme ended up at Firestone in the maintenance department.  Beme says that over 30 families from Poland were in Des Moines then.  All came because they fought for freedom in their own way in the home country.  These were survivors.

“When Magdalena went to Dowling, I did not make enough money at my job, so Maria and I cleaned houses, nothing wrong with this, and I worked in gardens to make extra.  I took all the job that was possible so Magda could go to the Dowling School.”

And now his little girl is a successful lawyer.  Maria has retired and watches her grandchild during the day, where she speaks only Polish at the request of her daughter.  And Beme goes off to work at Firestone.  A good life.

Looking back, Beme reflects with a slow shake of his head.  “I  knew it wasn’t easy at all for Maria when I went underground.  Maria knew I was pretty active with Solidarity.  Everybody knew if you got caught you ended up in jail.  We never had any serious talk about it.  Maria had to take the pressure of taking care of a six-month-old kid.  That was a lot of nerves Maria was in.  She didn’t agree. . . .  Sometimes we would print at our house.  I really admire Maria.  She was father and mother to Magdalena.”

“I’m blaming myself.  That I put my family and Solidarity activities on the same level.  Maria didn’t.  I think it was like a power to me.  I was young and didn’t look at the consequences of my decision.”

And Maria?  “The prison time wasn’t easy.  I wanted him home.  I never deal with police before and never deal with prison before.  I’d rather have him home than prison.  We are married only 4 years.”  Maria gave a long sigh and looked down.

What would the Founding Father’s do?  Got me.  So I read to Maria her husband’s words of loving her “from the first moment” and “getting in love quickly” and blaming himself for leaving her without really thinking it through.  And Maria looked up and smiled with glistening eyes.

A revolutionary father.

Joe

My uncle had one arm.  In my 1960‘s world view, this single difference — not intellect, not physical strength, not beauty — propelled my uncle into a mystical category.  He moved within the realm of the giants of those days, Tarzan, Robin Hood, and Davy Crockett.  He was a man amongst men as he strode the earth with one sleeve pinned up.  And now, at this late date, I discovered an even more amazing tidbit: he talked Latin to cows — and they listened.

Clem Smith lost his arm in a carnival accident before I was born.  Something to do with a Ferris wheel he was working on at the Pocahontas County Fair.  Uncle Clem began working for carnivals sometime around 1936.  By the 1960’s, he was an owner and booking county fairs around Iowa.  Of course, since this is Iowa, he was also a farmer.   He operated the carnival for part of the year and he farmed the remainder.  Both careers were too dependent on the weather to allow complacency to ever get a toe-hold in his psyche.  He would frequently forecast the financial ruin that was right around the corner, then he would scowl with concern and worry his stump with his good arm — a wringing of the hands.

Yes, Uncle Clem farmed with one arm.  Not a trick today, but quite the sight on the exposed cab of the old Farmall tractor.  Just too many levers for one hand.  He used the crook of his elbow to maximum advantage.  And it all worked.

He also had cattle in those years.  Black Angus.  His sons and I would move them out of the barns and across the road to the harvested corn fields to graze on the missed ears of corn.  Then, as night fell, we’d move them back into the barns.  Uncle Clem would have a staff gripped between his truncated arm and his chest and yell for the cattle to come home.  We all yelled the chant he taught us.  “Ca bos.”  “Caaa booos.”  “CAAA BOOOS.”  And the cows understood our words and came home.

A small memory from an earlier time.

There is an amazing poet, Tom Hennen, in a poem called Country Latin, who refers to “Ka Bas, Ka Bas,” as the “only Latin my father taught me.”  What’s this?  Is it possible that “ca bos” actually has a meaning?

John F. Finamore, a professor at the University of Iowa and the Chair of the Department of Classics, is a Latin pro.  He told me that bos is Latin for cow.  That makes sense.  Next time your partner calls you a little “bossy,” she’s not calling you a delicate flower, is she?   As for ca, Professor Finamore says it is definitely not Latin.  He speculates that ca may come from ca’ing, which is to drive a herd or to “call” the herd.  In other words, “ca bos” may be literally “calling cows.”

Wow.  The implications are staggering.  Right?  Who would have guessed?  We have bilingual cows in Iowa.  They not only know Iowan, they know Latin.  Amazing.

This required a test case.  So out on the Chichaqua Bike Trail, east of Bondurant, I called to a herd of young cattle.  “Ca bos.”  “Caaa boos.”  “CAAA BOOOS.”

And they lined the fence, listening with rapt attention.  There you go.  Bilingual cows.  End of story.

My uncle?  He is long gone, as is most of his generation.   But I clearly see him, with one sleeve empty, striding through the cut cornstalks, speaking Latin to those soft-eyed cows, as he safely shepherds them home for the night.  And the cows?  They listen patiently to my uncle, while lowing back to him their pleasure.

Joe