To look at the world out of 18-year-old eyes brings a certain clarity to the landscape, a certain freshness to encounters.  Every day is literally a new day because you haven’t experienced that many days as an adult.  When you’re 18, relationships are budding, flowering, or blossoming.  “Withering on the vine” isn’t part of the discussion.  It is a time when all your body parts work like a charm and the mysteries of aspirin and ice are yet to be discovered.  When you are 18, the seductions of your world are driven by passion and excellence and biology.  It is a holy time.

Although, there is a curse to being 18.  When you’re 18, older adults, and definitely relatives, are given a playbook with a set litany of questions to ask on any occasion.  Trust me.  You could be jogging down the road or sitting at Thanksgiving meal, it doesn’t really matter.  Be prepared for any one of the following: (1) What are you going to do with your life? (2) Do you have a boyfriend (girlfriend)? (3) Do you have a job? (4) When are you going to get a real job?  (5) And don’t you think it’s time to get serious?

These questions are anything but fresh.  And when asked of an eighteen year old, you can see their eyes go dead and their fingers twitch for the comfort of the touch screen.  It is confounding why any older adult would ever ask these loaded and judgmental questions.     It seems just lazy.

So, I began by asking 18-year-old Robert what he was going to do with his life . . . . See, that’s him down the sidewalk.  Incongruously pushing a dustpan and broom amidst all the snow.  But Robert is cleaning up after you and me.   Several months ago, he had a bit of good fortune, assisted by his grandma, and became an employee of Operation Downtown.  They’re the group that tithe the downtown businesses and then plow the money back into beautification, clean-up, and keeping an eye on the downtown.   This day, Robert’s job is to pick up cigarette butts and garbage that didn’t quite make it to the trash bins.  There wasn’t much to pick up on this morning, the day after Christmas, with temps in the single digits.

Robert told me that he is the youngest on the downtown crew.  “Everyone else is at least 50 years older,” he says smiling, which would put the next youngest employee at 68.   “They all make fun of me — in a good way,” he says by explanation.

A recent graduate of Southeast Polk High School, this is Robert’s first year without a winter break — a vacation during the holidays.  He hunches his shoulders at the thought of working on the day after Christmas, twists his head down to the ground, and bemoans the loss of those younger years with a Job-like cry: “Come on, really.” However, Robert is thrilled to have the work.  He sees it as building character.  He hopes that it will open doors to his ultimate goal of becoming a construction worker.  “I hate the cold and the heat, but this job shows that I can work in the cold and heat.”

And the fun?   “I like walking around.  Everyone is friendly here.”  And the perks?  “They provide everything but shoes, underwear, and socks.”  And what are you going to do with your life?  Robert smiles . . . .

18 years old.  What did I tell you.

Joe

He was an old man when I lived with him years ago.  But I suspect this was his pattern even as a young farmer.  Up early in the kitchen.  Mandatory dress of union suit, ironed pants, and dangling suspenders.  Two white bowls placed on the table.  No one washed.  No one shaved.  The smell of sleep strong in the air.  Coffee was put on.  Toast was brought out for dipping.  And, at last, Grandpa and I could look life in the eye as we smelled the coffee percolating.

Traveling into the past is inevitable if you’re on Ingersoll Avenue and the wind is blowing.  The smell of roasting coffee wafts up and down the street — beckoning memories.  The source of inspiration can be confusing as you make your way past the smells of pizza, pasta, and tacos, but it’s somewhere in there.  A dark smell.  An acrid smell.  A smell that is so good it is almost bad.  But there it is.  Zanzibar’s.

Julie presides over this world — a world of coffee.  When you walk in the door these days, she is not the greeter, she will not likely wait on you, but there is no doubt who is calling the shots as she briskly manages the whole enterprise.   More often than not, she’ll bring your coffee and clear your table as she is moving between tasks.   A few kind words are spoken and she moves on.  She is just a little daunting in her demeanor of quick efficiency wrapped in a small-boned, porcelain frame — a quick gust of wind across the field.

“I’m most proud that this actually works,” she says while carefully considering the advantages.  “I’m gainfully employed, I provide employment for others, and I’ve created a comfortable place where people can come.”  You think?  And any disappointment?  “That I’m still here twenty years later.”

Is she kidding?  Nope.  You see, Julie is a traveler.  You probably know a few folks like her.  They’re frequently hidden among the laborers cleaning your motel room, or pouring your drink, or delivering your pizza, or washing your car.  Jobs that provide a quick getaway.  They’re generally well-educated, smart, and looking ahead to that next trip.  They want to go.  Anywhere.

Julie spent her younger years roaming, interspersed with college.  A stint in Australia (yes, even working at a sheep station), in Europe, and then in California.  Her time in California as a barista gave her a passion for coffee.  So, using her college degree in international business, without the “international” part, she decided to open a coffee shop in her home town of Des Moines.  She’d do it for five years.  “I never had any intention to live in Des Moines, but I knew I could make this work.”  In any case, it was “just for five years.”

And now, twenty years later, what happened?  “When I was younger I was always looking ahead.  But one of the things you give up with that approach is attention to today. . . .  This thought allows me not to be so angry that I’m still in Des Moines.”

Really?  Is that why she is here?  Zen and the Art of the Coffee Shop?  Perhaps.  But then Julie starts glowing as she talks about  Zanzibar’s, her blue-collar background, and her struggles to succeed. “My first requirement for this shop was my own roaster.  If you’re not roasting you don’t have control over the freshness.”   And so she bought the Big Red Roaster, which she placed in the center of the coffee shop.  And she exposed the tin ceiling, and she laid the wood floor, and she built the counter, and she bought an espresso machine, and she hired help, and she solicited artists to hang their works.  Whew.  Catching her breath for a moment, she gives a tight smile.

Then she speaks with pride of the woman who does the roasting, who took over after her then-retired father retired from roasting.  She ticks off the names of her employees who are all important to her, not least because of their individualism (“I’m not interested in having everyone the same behind the counter — I want different looks, different personalities, and different styles — and I don’t want to babysit them”).  She speaks of her customers and her devotion to making a visit to her shop “comfortable,” “accepting,” and an “experience.”  Which thought sends her off on the importance of customer service and the lamentable loss of such skills and the importance of exposure to people and the danger of the cell phone age and the concept of living a sustainable life and . . . .

Excuse me, and travel?  “Every day you could have an adventure just by having a cup of coffee.”

And so my Grandpa would fill the white bowls, and we’d savor the first shared sip in the cold, early morning air.

Joe

If we are all facing the Mayan End of the World in one fashion or another, where do we find the courage to look over the edge, slap our chests, and beckon the unknown to give us its best shot?   Mmmm . . . you don’t think it’s the end of the world?  Listen, you’re going to the in-laws Christmas morning, your parents for Hanukkah in the afternoon, and all three kids are sick.  This smells a bit like disaster.   And gifts?  Lord, did you remember the paper carrier, the mail carrier, and your spouse?  I didn’t think so.  Oh, yeah, you forgot to order the ham.  And where are your decorations — the neighbors are wondering.  By the way, will you keep your job after that dance you did at the work holiday party?

See what I’m saying — the End of the World is upon us.

Where can you find the strength to face such adversity?  How can you find that wonderful shake-your-fist-at-the-heavens feeling where you do the dance from Rocky at the top of the Iowa Capitol stairs?   Where exactly is a cure?

Don’t look at me.  Lord, I’m just trying to keep my foolish behavior to a minimum.   And, in any case, I was more concerned about those strange lights hovering in the cemetery off of 55th Street.

In the daylight, Glendale Cemetery’s gently rolling hills, pond, and narrow roads would be the perfect setting for a Bed-and-Breakfast.

As you continue to drive west, you will dead-end at the Veterans section abutting 55th Street.  Hundreds of flat markers show the final resting place of many of the men and women who served and their spouses.

Trust me — it is a place of somber reflection about the brevity of life and about duty to country.  But what about the strange lights?  Look closely at what is going on over the slight ridge to the south in Block 51 . . . .

Yup, IN THE GRAVEYARD!  Block 51 has been transformed into a holiday destination.  Come on, don’t these decorations speak about joy and dance and love in the face of sadness?  Aren’t they the fist in the air?  Don’t you want to stand up a little straighter? This is powerful stuff.

Oh, by the way, there are a few lights in Block 51.

Now go face the end of the world.

Joe

Okay, it is the dark and dreary days of January with the bulk of winter ahead of us.  I know what you’re thinking.  Yup, I overheard your conversation.  You’re beginning again to lay out your crazy theory of Des Moines as a rest stop, aren’t you?  You know what I mean.  This is where you say that you just ran out of steam on your trek across the plains and exhaustion left you on the banks of the Des Moines River — for what you thought was a bathroom break.  And now you’re stuck.  You can’t move on to satisfy your REAL DREAMS, which are clearly not in Des Moines.   But you are just too tired to go forward.  The Midwest has mired you in mediocrity.  What a shame, too, when you arrived so talented and so good-looking.

Perhaps you’re right.  Perhaps you do belong in the mountains, or at the ocean, or around creative, artistic people like yourself.  But perhaps, just perhaps, you’re missing that Des Moines is akin to a closing argument.  If the purpose of closing argument is to walk the jury down the path until almost the end, and then let the jury walk the last few steps alone so that they have the excitement and thrill and ownership of discovering the truth for themselves, then Des Moines is a good closing argument.

You just called me crazy!  Well, what about the copper crown?  You know that funky one by James Ellwanger hovering over the south-west edge of downtown Des Moines.

Whose head did you put the crown on?  Does the copper tiara fit your boyfriend, your mother, or the remainder of the Statute of Liberty?  That’s the point isn’t it.  You get to walk the last few steps yourselves.  You get to create.   Or not.  Your choice.

Still not convinced?  Okay, what about Balzac’s Coat?  You know, Judith Shea’s work in the Sculpture Garden.

How did you fill up the coat?  Did you put the portly Balzac back in the coat?  Or did you imagine the coat draping that young, bony hipster who hangs out in the East Village?  Or did you wrap yourself in that mysterious mantle?  See, you decide.  You get the thrill.

Okay, I’m going to give you only one more.  Check out the work by Claes Oldenburg and Coosje van Bruggen:

No, not really an umbrella, right?  This large piece of whimsy is a gift from Des Moines to you.  You get to see Robinson Crusoe or not.  You get to imagine any scenario from the Lilliputians gazing up at Gulliver to Fred Astaire dancing in the rain.  You get to complete the story.  See, a good closing argument.

Are you buying this?

Don’t worry, relax, I don’t quite buy the good-closing-argument theory either.  On the other hand, what about the State-Fair-fried-pickles theory?

Joe

“Thank you, sweetheart, Happy Holidays.”

Tucked close to Dahl’s, barely sheltered from the weather, is a bundled-up figure standing outside the store.  Julie rings her bell, smiles, and in a soft, husky voice wishes everyone good cheer.  Many smile back.  It’s an older crowd this bright, cold morning.  They almost all put money in the red kettle.

“I make eye contact and wish them a happy holiday,” is how Julie explains her technique.  But she leaves out the genuine warmth she shares with everyone.  And she leaves out her use of endearments like “sweetheart” and “hon” that spill off her tongue with a trace of Southern drawl.  Oh, yeah, she also leaves out that she is standing on cold concrete in low-30’s weather.

“Thank you, hon.”

Julie is a bell-ringer for the Salvation Army.  She is paid a small salary to man the kettle.  And she does.  Every morning, all morning, outside the Dahl’s on Beaver Avenue, she rings her bell.  The store patrons come up and visit — ask if she needs coffee — and drop money in the kettle.  “I love my regulars; they make it all worthwhile.”

Julie has been in this spot for three years.  Her life is not easy: her children  are back in California, she has seen the inside and outside of marriage, and she is living with very little extra.   But she feels that the Salvation Army helped her back in the day, and it is a gift to work for them now.

“Thank you.  Happy Holidays.”

But the cold?  She laughs and pulls out the blanket she wraps herself in when the wind is blowing from the south.

“I am spoiled,” she states matter-of-factly.   One of the Dahl’s baggers sometimes buys her lunch, and they all make sure she has coffee on a cold day.  And she glows when she speaks about the woman in the Dahl’s bakery that greets her with “Hi, Sugar” and a warm hug.  “I just love these people here.”

However, when pressed, Julie admits that she has a little “God-box” at home.  She puts inside lists of things she would do differently about her life.  “I pray over it.”  As to her future, however, she is clear eyed: “There is no job without an education.”  And now she has just two tests left before she gets her GED.   “With that piece of paper and the grace of God things will pick up for me.”

“Hon, you have a Happy Holiday.”

What is the downside with being a bell-ringer?  “I don’t care if someone puts nothing in the kettle, but what burns my hide is when I give someone a smile and they turn away with their nose up in the air.”  Hold it.  Are you telling me that you’re willing to stand for hours in the cold for a small returned smile?

“Thank you, sweetheart, Happy Holidays.”

Joe

Convenience is not a bad thing.  You can buy your milk, pick up your dry cleaning, fill your prescriptions, gas your car, and — Is that your girlfriend in the canned-goods aisle? — go on a date, all in the name of one-stop shopping.  Not bad.  Moreover, the neon and the bustle can give you the sense of belonging to a larger group of people.   Your people.  People who reflect your life.  Grocery store as a destination wedding.  I’m good with that.

However, there does seem just a slight lack of magic.   I mean, really?  Don’t you want a little unusualness in your grocery shopping experience?    For example, what if there’s no mammoth parking lot with motorized cart gatherers?  What if the interior smells like spices instead of cleaner?  What if the multiplex checkout aisles are limited to one checkout lady?  And what if that checkout lady is able to yell to the meat department in the back of the store without the crackle of a speaker; or there is no unnerving tin voice requesting “customer assistance needed in aisle two”?  What exactly does this alternative look like?

In a brick, square building off of South Union Street is a place we’ve all heard about but rarely seen: Graziano’s Grocery.  Don’t be surprised when you ignore the GPS Lady and drive past.   No, this small warehouse in the south-east bottoms is not a deserted building.  It is a place of magic.

Upon opening the only entrance door, your nostrils will flair and your throat will prickle with the amazing smells of oregano, thyme, basil, and fresh garlic.

And there you will see Teresa, her gray hair pulled back in a thick braid, and a tidy apron clinched tight at her waist.  She’s busy.  Talking to each customer, she scoots the purchased items down the counter into bags with calm efficiency.

Teresa is the Fairy Godmother of the store.  Literally.  Asked about “customers,” she will correct you and tell you she calls them “friends.”  She’ll tell you of her love of the work — her love of the children who come into the store — and her love of the young adults who were those same children a few years back and now bring in their children.  She is seriously starry-eyed.

The men behind the meat counter in the back of the store (a Greek Chorus to be sure) respectfully speak of Teresa as “full of love,”  “never mean to anybody,” and “the hardest worker.”  She is the “surrogate grandmother for all,” claim the butchers, who never stop slicing and stacking meat and cheese as they talk.

But at 71 years, Teresa has seen more than her share of life.  She started at the store on June 17th, 1993, after being a stay-at-home mom for 18 years.  By Labor Day of that year, her husband had died and she needed to work to raise her youngest child still at home.    And, 19 years later, she still quietly labors.

“I love this small store.”  Leaving?  “No, I would miss these people.”  Boyfriend?  “Heck, no,” she looks at me over her glasses with a very slight smile.

After losing her husband, her mother passed, and then, five years ago, her twin sister.  Teresa pauses in the retelling and says: “Hard when you lose a twin.”  After a brief moment, she casually sweeps her arm with a gesture encompassing the store and all the past and future customers — “this is my family.”

So, it’s not complicated, as you dodge the motorized cart gatherers and pick up your dry cleaning.  Do you need a Fairy Godmother with a Greek Chorus for the holidays or not?

Joe

If you made it this far, I’m too late.  I should have given a warning or a cry or just a small clearing of my throat.  If I just wouldn’t have dilly-dallied around with elections and warm weather and the smell of leaves, I could have prevented it.  Sorry.  I was distracted.

You voted, didn’t you?  Cityview’s Des Moines Sexiest People of 2012?  And you’ve already looked at the pictures and names and maybe even submitted a nomination.  Yes, this is not good.  No, you’re not in trouble — yet.  You need to get a grip and be ready for your next move.  Remember your training: move into the attack and absorb.

Let’s move in with a safe example.  Here’s Vermeer’s Girl with the Pearl Earring hanging in the Mauritshuis at The Hague.

Notice how Vermeer caught the moist corner of her lip.  You see it?  Okay, that’s the problem.  When that moist corner of the lip forces you to lie down and breathe slowly, you know from here on out, you’re going to be looking for the “moist lip.”  But, what if the moist lip isn’t there when you’re looking down the bar at Stormy’s?  What if the moist lip existed when you first got together, but the moist lip disappeared when your partner had to get up for the third time that night with crying little Billy?

And what if YOU don’t have the moist lip?  Oh my, now you’re in trouble.  You’ve tried to get the moist lip.  You went out to those doctors in West Des Moines for a quick fix, and even talked to that lady behind the counter at Walgreens (remember those harsh words to your mom when you told her you’d never talk to the Walgreens’ lady?) — but the moist lip is elusive and, when obtained, fleeting.

How do we absorb this mess?  Listen, here’s a secret: you are going to lose any comparison with this Pearl-Earring Gal.  Period.  It’s just the nature of all comparisons.  You lose.  Duh.  Why do I know you’ll lose?  Because you’re the judge and you’re a hanging judge.  YOU CANNOT WIN.  THE GAME IS RIGGED.  BY YOU!

All right.  Fine.  So what now?  Cityview is graced with all these beautiful people that are not you — and even if you’re one of the beautiful people, you’re saying you’re not — and now, to top it all off, I’m telling you that you’ll never win.  Yikes.  Where is the fried butter on a stick when you need it?

Well, here’s the beauty, if everyone loses at the fun, comparison game, then we are left with Rembrandt.  Yup, that’s correct, another old master.  He was in his mid-fifties, lost his wife, lost three children, lost all his money, and was forced to move to the outskirts of Amsterdam.  This guy was a loser!  And so he decided to draw this picture of himself, which is now hanging in the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam:

This is the “it’s all gone to hell, but I’m still looking for the party” painting.  And there’s your answer.

So, look at all the people in the Cityview pages, comment quietly to yourself how you might be lacking in the “moist lip” category, shrug your shoulders, and say after me: “It’s all gone to hell, but where’s the party?”  Don’t worry, you can still eat the fried butter on a stick.

Joe

Boys as a group are not all that complicated.   Just wave a few select items in front of their confused and suspicious eyes and they will normally focus and charge forward.  One such piece of shiny red cape that traditionally gets a boy’s attention — as demonstrated by the Wooden Horse of Troy — is a BIG TRUCK.  And even more attractive than a large man-made machine is DESTROYING A LARGE MAN-MADE STRUCTURE.  When these two are combined, sparks will fly.

On a cold, late-fall afternoon, just off the Scott Avenue Bridge, a couple of blocks to the north of Graziano’s Grocery, was the perfect merger of big-truck and destruction.  This wonderful feast for the eye was occurring deep on the Des Moines River Bottom.

Check it out yourself.  Take off work for the afternoon, park your car on the Scott Avenue Bridge, look down river, put your elbows up on the rail, and you’ll see a man ripping apart a trestle bridge.  Alone.  With a large claw of a machine as an extension of his arm.  You will be stunned into worshipful silence.

This is raw power.  Periodically, the man will saunter out of the Claw to slice some metal with fire.  No kidding.

Who is this mountain of a man?  Why has he come in off the range to wrangle metal in downtown Des Moines?  Does he carry a six-shooter?

Mike Howard rarely speaks without smiling.  He doesn’t have much to say about the Claw, the fire, or the trestle bridge.  Rather, he wants to talk about his children: Oskana, Mesha, Inna, and six-month-old Victoria.  “I love my kids,” he says.  He wants to show me pictures.

Is he serious?  What is going on here?  Can I operate the Claw?  When do we get to knock something down?

He laughs and speaks about his Grandma Nellie Stone.  She raised him and wouldn’t let him marry until she died.  As a good grandson, he didn’t.  But there he was, in his forties, no prospects in sight.  Lonely.  What to do?  His friend, a young Russian woman from Marshalltown, told him to go north to meet a nice girl.  And she didn’t mean Mason City.  So, off Mike went to St. Petersburg.  You heard me correctly.  He went to Russia.  Several trips later, he spotted a young woman in a St. Petersburg restaurant — Anna.  After courting her for a year and a half, they were married.  She moved to Iowa.  And now she is the mother of four.  Mike smiles with pride.

This is all very interesting, but what about the fire?  It must be pretty dangerous to knock down a bridge, right?  Won’t the flying metal cut you in half if you make a mistake?  Aren’t you worried about the endless death of being sucked into the dangerous waters below the dam?

“I’m taking off early today,” Mike smiled.  “It’s my eleventh-year anniversary.  I know Anna and I will be married forever, but I’m going home to be with her tonight.”  Is that a blush?

“Do you want to see a picture of my youngest?”  As if I had a choice.

So, there you have it.  No big truck.  No destruction.  Just Anna the Russian Bride and Four Kids.

May we all be so lucky.

Joe

In this heated political time, when dignity is lost to righteousness, when loudness is mistaken for passion, when conformity is the misguided refuge of the battered soul, where are we left at the end of the day?  Based on who won, you may be bemoaning the end of the world or rejoicing the dawn of a new era.  The beginning and the end.  Same thing, different angle, right?

So, where do we go for shelter after this political barrage?  Where do we find our spa weekend?  Where is home base?

Jack’s an old man now.  He used to be a cop long before my time.  He lives on a quiet street and comes from a quieter time.   He keeps an eye on things.  He moves a little slowly, has a few aches and pains, but the years have not dimmed his vision.

What is odd about Jack is his yard.  It is a large, old-city yard.  You know, one of those yards scattered throughout Des Moines metro that still smell of the remnants of dairy land and pasture.  At least an acre-and-a-half sitting right in town.  It is loaded with trees.  Many at different stages of growth.  It is a backyard that has turned into a forest.

What’s going on here?

Jack gives an explanation in a matter-of-fact voice: “When people die, it takes about five minutes to forget them, you know?”   “These are all my family and friends,” he says gesturing around him.  When a friend of Jack’s dies, when a family member dies, he plants a tree.  It’s no more complicated than that.   He’s done it for years.

“Here’s Uncle John and that’s Tim,” he tells me as we walk amongst the trees.  “And over there was a tree that I planted for my niece.  Hit by a car and had brain damage.  She died five to six years after I planted the tree for her.  The tree died at the same time she did.  Here’s the spot.” Jack gestured to a raised point next to a new pine.

Can you believe this?

Okay, as neighbors glare over the barrier of their front-yard campaign signs to their neighbor’s porch equally barricaded; and as you fume in your cubicle about how God has abandoned the world, perhaps you should take a pause with Jack.

“Every day I come out and talk to the trees,”  he says in a quiet voice.   Home base.  A visit with old friends.  A cure for the soul that gently tickles out a carefully buried thought that refuses to remain hidden.

Don’t be silly . . . you know the thought: who will plant a tree for me?

Joe

Okay, here’s a game.  I’m going to give you thirty-four letters.  Absolutely no more.  You get thirty-four letters to express all your love, sadness, joy, or pain — about anything. Thirty-four letters to sum up your life or the life of another.   I’m sorry, that’s all the directions there are in the box.  Whether you go the route of a tombstone or a campaign sign, that’s your business.  And, if you’re from Iowa, thirty-four is probably thirty-two letters too many.

You need more information?   Let’s start with the bridge.

In an old oxbow of the Raccoon River on the edge of downtown, there is a wonderful bridge.  It speaks of romance and memory.  It’s arcing form joins the southern sections of the Gray’s Lake Trail.  It is a long-legged, willowy bridge, whose farthest curve appears to stretch to eternity — or at least Altoona.

When you’re walking or running the Gray’s Lake loop, this bridge might feel a little daunting because there’s no turning back, there’s no dropping by the wayside, and, most importantly, there’s no bathroom until the end.  But if you look at the railings for a moment, this is what you see: