“How to” books are everywhere.  How to . . . lose weight.  How to . . . become stronger.  How to . . . fix your dry wall.  You name it, there’s a “how to” book or pamphlet or internet site out there.

“How to” information seem almost spiritual in its scope, doesn’t it?  If you just find the right handyman site, you’ll be able to change the corroded washer hidden somewhere in that dripping faucet and save your marriage.  Or, if you just do steps 1 through 18, you’ll pass your bar exam and make millions in a downtown law firm while drinking margaritas on the patio at Dos Rios.  You want to be younger?  Here, drink this five times a day and eat only sausage pizza.  See, “how to” information is like going to Lourdes.  It can save you.

What if you want to be an author in Des Moines, Iowa?  You want to write fiction for young adults, you want to write fantasy, you want to explain your life in a memoir.  How do you do it?  What is the “how to”?

Rachel Eliason is a nurse at Iowa Lutheran Hospitals in the mental health unit.  Coming from a small Iowa town, she has lived in Des Moines most of her adult life.  She loves her job, she loves the people who work with her, and she loves her patients.  “However,” Eliason says, “there were two things I can remember I wanted to be from very young, the two “W’s.”  One of those “W’s” was to be a writer.”  How to?

Well, for a starter, Eliason says she writes.  She has stacks of notebooks full of her thoughts, stories, fantasy writing.  She has hundreds of novels . . . with just a page or two done on each.  But around five years ago, she began to complete her stories.  She joined the writing groups that meet at Beaverdale Books and Urbandale Library.  She became a columnist for the local publication, ACCESSline.  And she joined the self-publication community at Amazon.  If you put her name in your Kindle, five books will pop up on the screen.  It’s amazing.  She has a blog, she has a twitter account, she even has a YouTube channel.  All done to get her writing to the public.  And so she has.

But what about the other “W” that Eliason has pursued from a young age?

“I always knew I wanted to be a woman,” says Rachel Eliason, formerly Richard Eliason.   This was a complicated “how to.”  She had no idea what this meant when she lived in rural Iowa.  She knew she wanted to be a writer, but, she says, “the other one was very much hidden.”

“I had no realization of the world of transgender.  It was more likely that I would wish to be a wizard.  I just kind of buried this urge and was very much in denial a good chunk of my life.”

Eliason met a woman, fell in love, and had a kid.  Seven years passed.  As her marriage began to unravel, she came out as a gay man.  She soon discovered this also didn’t work.
“Being a gay man wasn’t satisfying if I had to be the man.”

So after research, therapy, and joining like-minded folks for support, off to Bangkok she went.  And Richard returned as Rachel.

How did this play?  Her work group responded “surprisingly well.”  “My fellow workers see and hear everything in our job in mental health.  A few were surprised by the transformation and a few said they knew all along that I was female.  They all welcomed me.”

And your son?  “My son has done well with it too.  When I told my son, he said that you have to do what makes you happy.  When we go to school events now, he loves to mess with people by saying ‘this is Rachel, she’s my dad.’  He finds the confusion funny.”

So, no problems?  “Well, I was nervous about my patient population.  Not because the mentally ill are any more conservative or “trans” phobic, but when they’re angry, they’re going to say whatever hurts you the most.  So, I thought I’d have to endure slur words, but really it’s only happened a time or two.”

“Listen, Des Moines has been enormously accepting.  I always thought I’d live in a big city, like Seattle, but the big city has come here.”

Really?  So, the message on how to become a writer?  “People want to be an author, but don’t want to be a writer.  You have to write.”

And to become your true gender?  Eliason smiles.  “I have to pick up my son from school.”

Joe

Do you ever wonder what rules you live by?  Sure you do.  Your rules can be as simple as “thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife,” or as complex as trying to determine if donuts are part of the Mediterranean Diet.   But we all have rules.  These rules are frequently not spoken and may not even be conscious.  Like always eating your corn on the cob before eating your burger.  See, that’s a rule, but you don’t even register it as one.  What other rules are out there?  Well, here’s The Starter’s Rules.

Rule 1: Your money and pedigree mean nothing — stay right there!

Do you really have a choice?  Of course not.  That’s Tom Benjamin, the starter at Prairie Meadows Racetrack and Casino.  He’s the guy who actually pushes the button that opens the gate for the races.  No kidding.  Right now he’s doing his early morning school, where he helps horses figure out how to get into the gate and to get focused for the start.  And, yes, he’s pointing at you on top of that 1200-pound, dancing race horse.  You’re supposed to chill your jets until he’s ready.  No, he’s not looking at you in fawning admiration as you sit high on your horse.   He’s not looking at you at all.  You’re not the  center of his world.   He is taking care of that other rider and horse at the gate, who may have finished last place every race this year.  It doesn’t matter to him.

But don’t think for a minute that you can take your eyes off Benjamin.  He is the center of your world.  If he says, “yes,” your horse races.  If he says, “no,” you’re eating froyo at Orange Leaf come race time.   You won the Kentucky Derby?  Stay right there.

Rule 2: Fear is contagious, so get a grip.  

“Okay, in you go,” says Benjamin.  

This is complicated.  This rippling mass of muscle will not get a chance to show its stuff if it can’t get up to the gate to start.  And this gate is what your horse sees at the start of the race.  Trust me.  This little, narrow enclosure is not very inviting.  And that is true even with the gate open.  With the front gate closed, one of Benjamin’s guys is going to lead the horse into the stall until that guy’s back is tight against the gate.  That guy will then jump up onto that little ledge you see there.  You, the jockey, will pull up your feet so they don’t get crushed on the edges of the chute.  Great.  Now, go ahead and get your horse to go into that nightmare of padded walls and clanging metal.

“Everyone thinks I just push a button,” says Benjamin.   “The fear is you’re handling a 1200-pound animal and he’s trying to eat you up in there.”  Really?  Are you sure I should be this close?

“It’s very intense up here.  If you’re not scared when handling horses, you’re crazy.  However, you have to get your ‘being scared’ under control as fast as you can because that’s how you get the horse under control.  The quicker you can get yourself under control, the quicker the horse can get under control.”

So get a grip.

Rule 3: You have to have “good hands on you.”

“I can look in a horse’s eye and tell if he’s mean or if he’s scared.  I’ve done it for so long.  I’ve learned long ago that you have to be the leader because the horse is looking for help in there if he’s scared.  He’s looking for someone to take control, to lead him.  You have to have good hands on you.  Pretty soon the horse has confidence in you.  You want him to get trust in you.”

What the heck does this mean?  “Good hands on you”?  Is Benjamin some New Age masseur?  Maybe.  As you stand in the loam of the track and watch these wired animals prance in the early morning gray, only Benjamin is still and quiet, watching.  A horse bolts behind the gate.  Nine men are present, all competently working the horses as part of Benjamin’s hand-picked crew.  The backpedaling horse is standing on his hind legs, the front legs are ten feet up, pawing at the air.  And, like lightning, there’s  Benjamin in front of the horse.  He has the horse’s head down in moments.  Gentling.  Calming.  Soothing.

“Good hands on him,” you might say.

Rule 4: You need a boss and crew you can trust.

What happens when things really go south?  “My worst position was when a horse was upside down in there and I was laying on the horse’s chest.  And the horse was kicking the front doors with his hind feet.  One of my guys pulled me out.  We all work together.  You need to know what to do to get that horse right.”

Benjamin is referred to as “boss” by his men.  That might be an understatement.  While Benjamin’s eyes squint to take in the big picture, all the horses ebbing and flowing on this early cold morning, his men’s eyes are on him like bird dogs waiting for a signal.

“I have good guys, it makes it a lot easier and makes me look more professional.  I have a lot of confidence in them and they have a lot of confidence in me.”

Rule 5: If you do your best, you can live with whatever the outcome — maybe.

“I was born on the racetrack, basically.  Nothing makes you feel worse than a horse doesn’t get off for you.  Just do the best you can.  If things go bad, or if a horse gets scratched or a rider gets hurt or something, always be the best you can be no matter what.   You’ll always be okay with it.  You can live with it.  Just be the best you can.”

Come on.  Is this guy for real?

Then Benjamin adds without breaking a smile, “Oh, did I mention, because of racing TV, everybody in the country is watching your mistake.”

The Starter’s Rules.

Joe

Drama is in our blood.  We love the show.   Unfortunately, when we look in the mirror at our own lives, we don’t see that we are playing the lead.   So we buy People magazine or watch the Kardashians or eavesdrop on Honey Boo Boo, because we are fairly certain that Kate’s baby bump is infinitely more thrilling than the life and death struggle in our daily lives.  It’s a shame.  We sell ourselves short.  Come on.  We are so the stars opening in the Civic Center’s Broadway Series.

Here’s a story.  Once upon a time there were two brothers right here in Des Moines.  Born towards the tail end of a large Catholic family.  Blue-collar upbringing.  Both somewhat lost in the shuffle of all those kids.  The older one drops out of high school.  And both struggle along in all sorts of jobs.  Eventually they end up together opening a restaurant.  The restaurant takes off like a bang.  They are a team that works.  And they know how to bring quality and ease to the restaurant experience.  They are so good, they are courted by Principal to open up in their new high-rise.  They are a success by any measure.

So, of course, they break up.

Why?   Because any good story demands a bit of tension, right?  Who wants to read about Cain and Abel, if Cain doesn’t veer a little south of accepted morality.  In any case, that’s how life really goes.  In our story, two more times the brothers come together.  And, yes, two more times they break up.  One of those times, they don’t talk for five years.  I’m not kidding.  We could call these the dark years if you’d like.

What is going on here?  Why can’t our two leading brothers embrace their joint success?

“We get upset about stupid stuff,” says the eldest of the two brothers, with a small smile.  Quiet, soft-spoken, Steve Logsdon is open-faced, welcoming, with a twinkle in his eyes.  He leans slightly inwards as he talks, making you feel as if you are at that point in the sleep-over when confidences are shared.

And then there is younger brother, Joe Logsdon.  Joe is constantly moving, smiling, greeting, talking, shaking-and-baking.  A sense of whirlwind accompanies him even when he’s off-scene.  He’s the party you don’t want to miss.  Wrapped in sincerity.

Joe claims that his relationship with Steve in the past was “like being in a rock band.” “I’m much faster with my mouth, he’s much bigger, and we both wanted to be our own boss.”

So, there’s the cast of characters.  Two brothers.  Seemingly in endless tension with each other.  First, pulling one way and then the other way.   Certainly, history shows they can’t exist together.

Hah, and now the plot twist — they can only exist together.  Yup, you heard me correctly.  In our story, these two boys are joined at the hip even though they run two totally separate restaurants in two different parts of town.  Let’s just pan over their restaurants that sit a river apart in the Roosevelt area and East Village.

Joe’s restaurant, La Mie, serves breakfast and lunch.  Open kitchen at the center.  Exposed ceilings.  Simple building materials with eloquent lines.  Pride in the quality of food.  Pastry and bread to die for.  Right?  Steve’s restaurant, Lucca, serves lunch and dinner.  Open kitchen in the center.  Exposed ceilings.  Simple building materials with eloquent lines.  Pride in the quality of all his dishes.   Mushroom risotto to die for.  Are you seeing what’s happening here?  Is this two peas in a pod?

You want more?  Joe recently opened a second restaurant in the exact location of Steve’s restaurant from years ago in the East Village.  Steve’s old building.  Coincidence?  There is no such thing as coincidence in a story.

Listen to their separate conversations at different times and places:

“Honestly, Joe and I are the perfect match.  I love doing the back part of the business, and he loves doing the front part of the business,” says Steve.

“The reality is we are both simple guys. . . .  People want us to be more than we are,”  says Joe shaking his head.  “Listen, Steve and I both come back to the same place, sincere integrity to do it right.”

“We are all about consistency in each of our restaurants,” according to Steve.  “Yes, Joe and I made a good team, but now, not sharing a restaurant, we are very close to each other.”

“Steve is sincere,”  says Joe.

“Joe’s more of a family guy,” says Steve.

“We need each other to make this work,” says Joe.

“I enjoy Joe, he’s my favorite,” says Steve.

Okay.  Did you hear that whisper?  Is that brotherly love?  Our two leading men are merely an old married couple.  They’ve bumped and bruised each other over the years, but they can’t imagine a life without the other.  They just need to have their own bedrooms.  Simple.

You think I’m making up this story of brotherly love?  Maybe.  But, check out the Downtown Farmer’s Market some Saturday.  Here’s what you’ll see — side by side.

Lucca and La Mie.  La Mie and Lucca.

A tale of two brothers.

Joe

Sue Bullard-Fisher died the other day.  Most of you don’t know her.  She was a probation officer here in Polk County for 40 years, but, really, she should have been a probation officer in the first half of the last century.  She was from a different time with a different ethic.

I first met Sue years ago in the chaos of room 204 at the Polk County Courthouse.  A wild scene in those days at best.  All the folks charged with felonies showed up for arraignment in the early morning — many with an entourage of lawyers, girlfriends, and family members.   Pleas of “not-guilty” were entered.  Formal appearances were made.  The judge set bond and appointed counsel.  Children cried in the back of the room as lawyers spoke in hushed tones to their clients.   Legal documents flew as we’d try to move people out of the room to get to the other scheduled matters for the day.   And the judge would remain on the bench, calling out names, and handling case after case.

Sue sat quietly in the front row.  As a probation officer, she was there because something went wrong.  Probation officers are the folks on the front line.  Punishment is meted out by the judge, but it was Sue’s job to make sure her clients stayed on the straight and narrow.  Sitting in room 204 meant that someone strayed off the path.  They didn’t show up for work, or they failed to go to substance abuse treatment, or maybe they dropped a dirty urine sample once too often.  It could be many things.  But one of her clients did something wrong and now we had to figure out what to do next.

Sue was not tall, but she was solid, with a no-nonsense look.  I did not know her that first day.  As the prosecutor, I rattled off to her in my busy and self-important manner what exactly was going to happen to her client for whatever misdeed he did.   I told her that I had already written up the proposed order to present to the judge, and that she just needed to stand when I gave the sign.  Did she understand?

Apparently not.

In a raspy voice that still echoes in my ears, she told me that wasn’t what her client needed. (What?  Was she talking back to me?)  And then she began to school me on what was best for her client and for the public.  I sat down.  She was tough, she was passionate, and she knew what was the right thing to do.  I was in awe.  I had run into June Cleaver crossed with Teddy Roosevelt.  A loving mother who carried a big stick.  It became imminently clear that every client was important to her and she was more than willing to wrestle me to the ground for what she believed was right.  Before we were done, I wanted her as my probation officer.

I was invited to her home in the south-east bottoms of Des Moines on a hot summer day more than a few years ago.  Three large dogs greeted my arrival.  Perhaps “large” does not accurately describe these small ponies that sniffed and pranced around me.  Sue waded among them with cheery calm as I unsuccessfully tried to find somewhere high to climb for safety.  I came to find out her home was essentially a safe home for dogs where humans were allowed to board.  And, of course, I eventually left her home with my own soon-to-be 130-pound puppy.

But her home was also really a safe home for her family and friends.  On one of my few visits, Marcia, Sue’s wife, was well enough to see me.  I was brought into a dimmed front room, where a bed had been arranged, and Marcia was carefully tucked beneath the covers.  Sue gently stroked Marcia’s forehead as Marcia gamely engaged me in conversation.  Sue eventually shooed me from the room and I overheard Sue’s gravelly voice soothing Marcia to sleep.

After Marcia’s death, Sue found a new life and a new wife.  That was a wonderful gift.  But the image remains of this tough woman, this hardened probation officer, gently stroking the forehead of her sick wife.  And this is how I will always remember her.

May she rest in peace.

Joe

Hubris is an interesting quality.  In my day, they would have called you “stuck-up.”  A little too sure of yourself.  Self-confidence on steroids, perhaps.  Whatever you call it, “arrogance” is a label that doesn’t sit well with our Midwestern ethic.  To say that your cubicle neighbor might be a bit snooty is the kiss of death for him, right?  In fact, it may be a venial sin to be too self-assured in Iowa.  I don’t know.  For that, you might ask a priest.  I, on the other hand, was looking to ask a particular nurse.

On a late spring day, I headed north of downtown to Iowa Methodist Hospital.  In the heart of the hospital is Younker Rehabilitation Center.  They’ve remodeled it since my stay nearly nine years ago.   Cozy.  Warm.  State of the art.  And, most importantly, it doesn’t feel like a hospital — except, of course, it is.  Sadly, most of the nurses and therapists are gone who tended me back in the day.   But there is a familiarity even as I look at the newly created rooms, hallways, nurse stations, and an amazing rehab room with a vibrant artificial tree smack in the middle.

I came to be in rehab in an honest fashion.  I tangled with a van while riding my bicycle.  I lost.  My throat took the blow, which punched through all that cartilage and tissue we need for speaking, breathing, and eating.   And the punch still had enough strength to give my spine a love tap.  So, there I was at rehab, nine years ago, needing to figure out how to talk, walk, and eat.  Oh, yeah, and breathe.

My particular problem, and salvation, was a trach.   Formally known as a tracheostomy.  Yup, I had an emergency hole cut in my throat with a tube inserted to help me breathe.  That darn thing was a messy affair.  What would you expect?  You’ve got a brand new hole in a spot that shouldn’t have a hole.  Your body sends an army of fluid to take care of the problem.  See, messy.

After two weeks or so, it was decided by whoever decides these important milestones that it was time to try eating.  “Patient was reeducated regarding swallow strategies,” and I was off to my first meal.  One of my favorite nurses wheeled me into the dining room.

I love nurses.  Doctors come and go, but nurses are stuck with you for the shift.  Mostly women, but some men.  Tough.  Willing to brush aside with a shrug and a smile the shame of your body and its functions.  They are your shield against the night.  Many of my nurses were lovingly sassy.  So many things seemed gone, but humor was a wonderful vestige of “before accident.”  And these folks were funny, and sometimes in a raw way.  I mean, what hadn’t they seen?

As we went through the dining room doors for my first meal, the drop-down tables all had a patient with a nurse.   During my time, almost all the patients were stroke victims.   When we rolled into the room, many were gamely struggling with the lasagna on their plates.  My nurse kindly wheeled me to the far side of the room so that I could look out on the beautiful garden that is hidden in a courtyard inside the hospital.

After my own efforts to eat, the nurse wheeled me out.  In route, since I did not yet have a speaking trach, I wrote to my nurse that I was grateful for her kindness in moving me to a spot to look out over the garden rather than over the efforts of the other patients.

My friend the nurse, who had seen me through thick and thin, responded with a wicked smile:  “I didn’t move you over to the window to make it easier for you.  You were the grossest person in the room.  I didn’t want to ruin the other patients’ meals.”

Okay.  I worship at the feet of this gal.  “The grossest person in the room”? Really?  And, by the way, there’s your test.  How do you figure out if you’re being too arrogant, too self-assured, exhibiting too much hubris?  Easy.  Did you remember that you were the grossest person in the room?  There you go.  Simple.  Take that to the bank.

I looked but couldn’t find my nurse nine years later.  However, I send her this gift.  With love.  A picture of the hidden garden in the courtyard — as seen out the window at Methodist.

Joe

Remember last Thanksgiving?  Here, let me help.  That was when your mom questioned your wife’s ability to make cranberry salad and both women marched angrily out of the kitchen.  I would not call that a win-win for you.  And you remember your sister?  She arrived with her husband, which is all well and good, but, as you know, that guy was just days away from becoming her ex-husband.  Not the smartest move on your sibling’s part.  Then there was your wife’s brother who had a few drinks before he arrived and spent an inordinate amount of time in conversation with the fish tank.  Go figure.  And your kids?  All three decided this was the day to act out their existential separation anxiety from their parents by fighting, yelling, and throwing tantrums.  So that leaves you.  You were the only adult left in the room.  And, let’s be honest, even you thought about leaving for the Greenwood Lounge.

Do you have that picture in your mind?

Now, let’s extend that Thanksgiving guest list to several million folks behaving just like your family.  Welcome to the everyday world of Clint Pursley.

To find Pursley, you have to head to Altoona.  Prairie Meadows is our destination.

When you walk in, the lights are what you notice first.  The gold and the blue, the white and the red, the strange pastels. Watch what happens when you look closely.  The color from the stacked-up slot machines flows directly into your eyes, bounces off the back of your skull, then ricochets back out your pupils in a kaleidoscope of hearts and spades and silly cartoon characters, causing your brain to shout “Jackpot!”  Say, how much money did you bring?

It does seem a small step to become seduced by it all.  Is that a jingle in the background?  Has someone won the big one?  Is your body twirling around?   Are you teetering out of control?  Are you thrilled to be losing?

Just breathe.  There is only one certainty in this strange place.  You’re going to leave with less.  In any case, you’re not here for all the clamor.   You’re looking for Pursley.  You know he’s here keeping an eye on things.  He will not let this be your FAMILY THANKSGIVING GONE WILD.

But as you’re looking, you squint into the corners  and up at the ceilings, past the flashing lights, past the noises of the slots, and past the soft sounds of cards against the green cloth, and you see carefully placed cameras. You realize that in some room upstairs there are walls of computer screens.  And on one of those screens you have a starring role.  Yup, you’re getting a cameo. Last year over 3 million people visited this place.  Hard to imagine.  But it’s not hard to imagine how mixing a little gambling, with a little drinking, with a little horse racing, with a little music thrown in for good measure, and you’ve got trouble with a capital “T.”  And it’s that concern that brings  Pursley to work every day as head of security.  He is in charge of over 130 officers who keep Prairie Meadows safe and friendly.  And, thanks to Pursley and his crew, it is safe and friendly. His major line of defense is Big Brother.  “We have one of the best surveillance systems in the country,” Pursley says with pride.  “Any place the public will be is monitored.”

You understand what this means, of course?  From the farthest spot in the parking lot to the darkest corner of the casino and racetrack, if you scratch, it is being watched and recorded.  Around the clock.

“We’re a casino, we’re a racetrack, we’re an all-around entertainment facility.  Sometimes when people come out here and they drink a little bit and their inhibitions get lowered, they forget and get lost in the fantasy world of gaming and they forget where they’re at.”

I’ll translate: yes, there are even cameras in the elevators.  So behave yourself.

Besides solving real crimes, the cameras also prevent many a scam.  “We’ve had everything from cheats at our gaming tables, people trying to cap a bet or pull a bet down before it is eligible, to false claims of robbery or assault,” Pursley says shaking his head.  An odd hustle is when people claim their car has been damaged in the parking lot and want compensation.  But, sadly for this scam, the cameras will show every ding on the car when it is first driven onto the lot.  Pursley says to give up on this trick.  Good to know.

Any issues unique to men or women?  “Women have a tendency to get entranced at a slot machine and they forget about their surroundings and they forget about their belongings.  Tracking down purses is another helpful tool of the surveillance.”

Protector of women.  Thwarter of evil plots by cheaters.  Enforcer of the rules of etiquette and civility.  I’m expecting an introduction to this man as “Pursley, Clint Pursley.”  Instead, I find Pursely squirreled away in a nondescript office looking, not like James Bond, but like . . . an adult. “Listen, we want everybody to have a good time.  We want everyone to enjoy themselves.  We want them to be able to laugh and talk and have fun.  But we want them to do it responsibly.  One person’s idea of a good time isn’t necessarily another person’s.  We try to promote behavior that works for all.”

See, what did I tell you?  One adult in the room.  Thank goodness.

Joe

“Pushing  paint” doesn’t much sound like how a masterpiece is created.  You push the grocery cart at Hy Vee.  Or you push your bike up the hill.  Or you push your stalled car.  When you push something, there is a grunting sound you make, like when you are moving around heavy crates in a warehouse.  It’s what you do to get through the unruly crowd — you push.

Artists are the opposite of pushing.  They exist in a world of delicate flowers, soft sensibilities, pastel vases, and easily bruised fruits.   Artists are the beautiful goldfinches of the Iowa countryside.  They sip a little absinthe, they wear funny hats, and they are languorous in their desires.   Sure, periodically they cut off an ear, but no one would think they push anything.

Or, do they ever stop pushing?

Jim Calhoun is a big man.   He out-greets the best with his large, open smile and extended hand reaching out from across the room, and as he gets closer, you suddenly realize this greeting might turn into a bear hug that will involve throwing you into the air and twirling you around while you squeal.  You need a father figure?  You might consider his application first.

A house painter by trade, Calhoun will paint your house indoors and out.  Having done it for nearly 40 years, he knows what he’s doing.  And he looks every bit the part.  White painter pants speckled with various colored paints.  Old sweat shirt thrown over a stretched polo shirt.  Eyes creased with laugh lines and slightly squinting from too much sun.  And a bald top with shaved sides and a tightly trimmed goatee.  A typical house painter.

Calhoun’s life is settled at age 59.  He lives in a comfortable home in Highland Park.  He has a wife who still loves him, and two successfully grown kids.  He has given long stints of his life to his church.  He is a good man by any measure.  But  . . .  in 1993, Calhoun had an epiphany that didn’t involve wife, kids, painting houses, or the church.  He was visiting an artist’s studio and he decided he wanted to paint.  “When I saw the studio . . . all the latent things in me to be an artist started bubbling.”

No training in art.  No courses at DMACC or at the Art Center.  But, what the heck, it’s Iowa, he wanted to be an artist.  And as we all do when we are going to take that path less travelled in our life — we buy the gear.  We purchase a new outfit for the yet-to-be-prepared big presentation, or new running shoes for the fitness program we’re going to start once Dahl’s stops making creme-filled pastries, or a pedicure before the job interview  to drive a big rig.

Calhoun was no different.  He went to an art store.

Unfortunately, this was not a world he was used to frequenting.   “I buy paint in five gallon buckets,” Calhoun said shaking his head.  “This was crazy to pay this much for a little tube of paint.”  But being resourceful, he saw a box of damaged paint tubes in the corner.  “The owner sold me the whole box for 20 bucks,” he said with a laugh.  And so he began.

“I would paint down in the basement.  I’d sit on a five-gallon bucket and do the painting.”  Every night, he’d set it all up.  And every night, he’d put it all away.   He painted 30 paintings over the next seven years from his five-gallon bucket.

Kids grew up, left home, and an abandoned bedroom became his studio.  Calhoun needed a little elbow room, it seems.   35 paintings that year.  He was off and running.

Now he sits with 350 or so paintings from ballerinas to fishermen to golfers to portrait after portrait.   And what does he do with them?  ABSOLUTELY NOTHING!

“I would sell them if anyone had an interest.  I’ve never been invited to a show.  I don’t have connections.  I sometimes give these away.  The paintings find a home over time.” Calhoun smiles, a little embarrassed.

And what about all these portraits of folks?  Don’t they pay a commission?   “All these portraits are about my relationships with these people . . . when I paint them I think of the pleasure of that relationship.”  In other words, Jim Calhoun doesn’t make a nickel.

If no one is buying these, and he has no art shows, why’s he doing this?

“Listen, my enjoyment of art is simple.  I love the actual pushing of the paint . . . .”

So, there you have it.  A portrait of the artist.  In a garret in Highland Park.  On the left bank of the Des Moines River.  Pushing paint.

Joe

Secret information has to be out there, right?  Some super top-secret information that tells us how to be strong, smart, and beautiful.  Otherwise it just doesn’t make any sense.  You’re not sure what I mean?  Okay, go out to the Abercrombie & Fitch store in Jordan Creek and pick up a bag depicting a model of your gender.  Good.  Now go home and stand naked in front of the mirror and put the bag up next to you.  Now just contemplate the difference between you and the model for a moment.

See, there has to be secret information out there that we missed.

Take this whole bullying dilemma.  The schools, churches, and communities are teaching wonderful techniques to address the problem of bullying in a nonviolent manner.  But, the cultural message in movie after movie is to buck up, be a man or a woman, and fight back against the bully with old-fashioned fisticuffs.   Of course, this ignores the obvious problem — you are a 97-pound weakling who works at Nationwide, or Principal, or Meredith, and drive a van with a child seat in the back.  What is the 97-pound weakling supposed to do?  There must be secret information about how to survive in a world that allows bullies, right?

Angelo Siciliano, otherwise known as Charles Atlas, totally recognized this problem.  Mr. Atlas had a plan. Sand kicked in your face?  Well, he had secret information, the “Dynamic Tension” program, that would put an end to all that sand-kicking.  I know, because I read this in the back of comic books when I was growing up.  Of course, these same comic books also advertised small sets of dice that, when put into a glass of water, would transform into pictures of scantily clad women.   I only had enough money for the dice.  But, you understand, there was secret information out there that once obtained would change your life for the better.

Jose Mendoza seems like the kind of guy that might have secret information.    A martial artist of some repute.  He teaches Chinese Martial Arts with an emphasis on Tai Chi, Kung Fu, Classical Chinese Weapons, and various esoteric internal martial arts.  He also runs an early morning fitness program for everyone, multiple children’s programs for various ages, and a senior healthy-living program.  He must have secret information, right?

For a starter, he grew up on the tough streets of Chicago where the Jets and the Sharks existed in reality.  “Was it tough growing up in Chicago?  Well, my mom bought Husky pants from Sears because I was a little chubby, and I wore a flat top haircut,” Mendoza said by way of apology for his decidedly un-tough beginnings.

Sure, sure, that’s the classic set up for the redemption story.   But then didn’t he transform himself into a killing machine like Bruce Lee?  “Before all the martial arts training, I would seek out the tough guys in the neighborhood and pretend I was one of them.”  And after?  Did he rain mayhem upon his enemies?

“I avoided the tough guys,” Mendoza said with a smile.

Mendoza started winning martial arts tournaments in the Chicago area by the age of 16.  This success, he claims, gave him the confidence to graduate near the top of his high school class, which enabled him to win a scholarship to Drake.  Before long he had his own martial arts school up and running in Windsor Heights.

Great.  Good to know that it all turned out.  But what about the secrets?  What about the Five Point Palm Exploding Heart Technique to take care of bullies?

“It’s not about the bullies.  Let me tell you . . . a mother came to me concerned that her son was acting like a girl.  She asked if I could change him.  Well, I can change him to be more confident.  I can change him to have the spirit of a Tiger, . . . but, I cannot change the mother.”

This is so not helping me.  What about secret killing techniques to feel powerful and beautiful?

“People are trying to eat everything on the menu — they want the end result, but they’ll get sick.  The real secret?  You have to work hard.  I can talk to you about the end result, but I can’t give it to you.  If you’re here for your anger, I would rather you punch me to see if you feel better.  It’s my job to keep things interesting, to move you forward every day, to give you an essence and a purpose — and to make you smile, which will make me smile.”

Recently, late at night, Mendoza sewed black belts for those students who trained with him over the last six to eight years and were to test for promotion.  “I smile too when I make the belt.  I reflect on the student to receive the belt.  Certainly, there are failures and setbacks, but I try to continue moving forward, . . . and by all of this I measure my life.   Not by toughness.”

So, is that all there is for secret information?  “Hard work”?  Sitting alone at a sewing machine late at night?  Where’s the public acclaim?  Where’s the adoring fans?  Where’s the Abercrombie & Fitch bag with my picture?

“I bought the Charles Atlas program when I was a kid,” Mendoza said.  “Saw it in a comic book and ordered it . . . $4.99 . . .  guess what, the real secret is that there is no secret.”

Joe

You have to love fear and its favorite step-child, anxiety.  I mean, what’s there not to love?  Here you have a basic emotion, fear, which makes all kinds of sense when it comes to keeping you safe from the invading North Koreans, but now you discover you can’t even leave your room to prepare kimchee for the marauders because the anticipation of fear, anxiety, has crippled you into immobility.  And, this is the kicker, there’s nary an angry North Korean in sight.  Nope.  Not a one.

So, what exactly is a person to do?  Where is the escape for the anxious?  Your friends might have all sorts of advice.  From meditation to cognitive therapy to immersion into the fear.  Perhaps they’ve even recommended that you cut back on lattes and eat only root vegetables grown near the Firestone plant and harvested by the full moon.  All well and good.  But think about this unsurprising solution . . . a friend with a safety rope.

Jeff Palmer is not a young man.  His creased, worn face, stringy hair, dark sunken eyes, and thinness of build, speak of hard times.   Surely, he wakes up each morning trying to get those 54-year-old muscles moving after the physical punishment from the day before.   If he was a boxer, you would say the bell for the next round has rung too soon, and my guess, . . . people have placed their money on the other guy.

But today?  Today he is that speck up in the tree — seventy feet in the air with a chain saw dangling from his waist.

Trust me, this is not your typical office cubicle.  Jeff, high in the sky on this brisk, cold day in early spring, sways back and forth with the tree in the morning breeze.  Perturbed squirrels voice their disgruntlement at the intruder with a raucous chatter usually reserved for dogs.  But Jeff can’t be distracted.  He has work to do.

“I can’t stand being inside,” Jeff explained.  “I get a lot of enjoyment seeing a tree look like a ‘tree’ when I’m done.”  And that’s what he does.  He cuts and prunes and snips, until he can walk away saying: “I made a tree look beautiful.”  Then his task is done.

But today, the broken branch dangling high above the houses, refuses to drop clear of the cable line.  So, without any cheerleading section, without coverage on ESPN, without being part of any reality show, Jeff lowered himself onto the branch and danced it clear of the line using a variation of the limbo.  No kidding.

What about fear in this crazy job?  “I wasn’t afraid of nothing,” Jeff quietly asserted.  Until seven years ago.  Almost done working on a soft maple, he was perched 40 feet up in the air with his safety rope tied off on one of the few remaining branches.  There was apparently a “bad spot” in that branch.  A “bad spot” is not a good thing.

Okay, take a break.  Look up at your ceiling.  It’s probably about eight foot tall.  Now stack five of those.  There you go.  Forty feet.

Fortunately for Jeff, the branches he had earlier cut created a cushion on the ground.  Unfortunately for Jeff, he fell 40 feet.  Jeff remembers falling when the branch broke — but still doesn’t remember the next three days.  Elbow shattered. Pelvis cracked.  Permanent notches on his back from the chainsaw.  Jeff lived, but the doctor told Jeff his tree climbing days were over.  Jeff refused to believe it.  One year of rehabilitation followed.

And then fear and anxiety hit.  Jeff could not go up a tree.  He was physically able, but he couldn’t do it.  He wanted to, but the anticipation of fear, aka anxiety, destroyed him.  And time passed.  Then Benny stepped in.  Benny, Jeff’s 77-year-old friend and boss, climbed a tree, hooked the safety rope, and threw it to Jeff.  Told Jeff it was time to come up, he had the safety rope, and all would be well.  “I was shaking like a dog and shitting razor blades.”  But Jeff climbed the tree and never stopped.

Now, seven years later, Jeff descended from on high after dancing the limb past the wire.

“At the end of any job, I’m just proud as hell.”  And fear?  “To have no fear is a bad thing.”  Jeff smiled as he reverently untied himself.  And a friend with a safety rope?  Also not a bad thing.

Joe

Act I

The Greenwood Lounge sits shadowed by a marquee on the north side of Ingersoll.  Its exterior is reminiscent of an old strip club: 60’s style siding with windows covered by blinds so the patrons, who are clearly up to no good, are barely visible to their forsaken families.

Entering through the small vestibule does not calm the concerns raised by the exterior — you’re fairly certain that you might be stepping into that stranger’s car your mom warned you about.  But then, relief.  You see the old bar, the chandelier, the Constance Depler murals of dogs playing poker, and hear the soft murmur of voices.  You’ve walked into a different time.  A slower time.  A time of gentlemen and gentlewomen.

Behind the bar is Bobby.  Bobby would put an aloof Parisian waiter to shame.  You’ll get your drink, don’t worry.   But he’s not here to introduce himself by his first name, he’s not here to ask how your drink tastes, and he’s certainly not here to be a part of your experience.  To the contrary, this is a place where the bartenders are professionals.  You’ll be tended to when the time is right.  Bobby will let you know when that time is.  And, by the way, he’ll know your name and your drink long before you know his.  He’s a pro.

Jim, standing on the other side of the bar, is the repository of collective knowledge.  Comfortably out of the limelight, he smiles and greets as people approach.  And people do approach.  They want to talk about sports and teams and restaurants and food and music and the news topic of the day.  And Jim not only knows what they’re talking about, but he knows the parents of whom they’re talking about.  You wonder if maybe Jim has dropped out of some utopian commune given his ball cap, ponytail, and quietness.  Or did you just get hustled?

And holding down the end of the bar are two curmudgeons with wicked glints in their eyes.  Treading into their territory seems definitely ill-advised.  Old Jack and Jim smile like sharks for the camera.

Act II

Pictures over the bar show bartenders past.  Bobby reminisces over a graying photo of a young man in a white, pressed shirt, thin black tie, and an easy smile, with his arm draped around a friend: “Paul had an old-fashioned respect for the job that bartenders had sixty years ago and few have today. . . .”  Bobby rubs under his glasses as he’s thinking.  “I can’t hope to follow in Paul’s footsteps.”

Paul, a relatively young man in this aging group, used to be the bartender on the shift following Bobby’s.   A private person, Paul was admired for his propriety and  kindness.  His marriage a couple of years ago was big news for these patrons who considered him family.  Then, on the cusp of all this happiness — cancer.   Horrible cancer.    Incurable cancer.  Relentless cancer.  And it took his life in late winter, when the snows still blew.

How to acknowledge this tragedy?  How to right the inequity of this death?  How to bring the universe just a bit back in balance?  Noting that Paul always dressed in a pressed shirt, black tie, and waiter’s apron, Jim had an idea: “I thought we could all show up dressed as Paul was dressed, out of respect for Paul  — who dressed that way out of respect for the job.”  And so they did, on a cold Wednesday afternoon in March.

White shirts, black ties, and waiter’s aprons ushered a life out of the community.  And glasses were lifted in honor.  Reserved and respectful.  A wake from another time.  A bartender’s wake.

Act III

And what of the curmudgeons at the end of the bar?  Old Jack, seeing a drawing of Paul that was gifted to the bar several days after the wake, leaned into his buddy Jim and said, “I’ll have to get a picture of me, and you can put it up.”  Not missing a beat, Jim responded: “They can hang it in the john.”

Life at the Greenwood in three acts.

Joe