An alley can be a fiendish place. Tales from a host of ghoulish writers speak of dark deeds done in dark alleys.  Perhaps the concern is that once you are in an alley, fleeing to the left or to the right is no longer an option.  You’re penned in and the cattle prod is pushing at your back.  And when you hear your steps echo off the decaying wood of the abandoned loading docks, there’s that rustle of someone back there in the gloom.  Someone who has not friended you on Facebook.  Someone who may not know of your trick knee that is unreliable when you’re anxious.  Someone your mom told you may not have your best interest at heart — unlike Francis, who is now in the Seminary.   THIS IS NOT GOOD!

So, I thought I’d check out an alley in Des Moines.

Tucked down behind Court Avenue, on a cold, fall afternoon, I saw a wagon-train of a bike parked near the entrance of a deserted alley.The ingenuity to string this together and actually have it get the owner from one place to another astounded me.  Then I heard the “rustle in the gloom” coming out of the alley.  And there was Jerry.   Warily, he checked me out.

Gerald Raymond Collette.  49 years old.  Lost his job.  Lost his apartment.  One would think a casualty of the Great Recession.  Nope.  Lost his job in 1992.  He said he’d been on the streets for twenty years.

Twenty years?  “No friends, no family,” Jerry told me with a shrug.  Attempts to rejoin the world failed because of “ethics, morals, and values.”  Articulate and clear-eyed, he said he preferred the street.  When it gets too cold, he goes to a shelter.  When he gets too sick, he goes to Broadlawns.  When it gets too dark, he goes to sleep.  Period.

He rolled a cigarette from a pouch of tobacco and contemplated his life — quietly.   Was he thinking of the lucky Bondurant family that won the 202.1 million Powerball jackpot?  Was he wondering if the legislature would again be in gridlock?  And what about the fourth season of Glee?

“The secret is to keep bundled up,” he told me with a half-smile as he tightened his bike straps.   Oddly enough, the only unlatched item on Jerry’s bike was the cleaning supply bucket hanging from the back of the trailer.

Jerry smoked his cigarette and then slowly headed off east towards the river — leaving us again alone in the alley.  Did you hear that rustle back there in the gloom?

Joe

Thirty-two years.  That’s a long time even without doing the dog-years calculation.  How exactly do we measure thirty-two years?  Let’s see, if you add one year, you’d be old enough to have four gospels written about your teachings and life.  If you add eight years, it would be the beginning of all those jokes about aging and perhaps a coffee mug proclaiming you’re Forty Years Young .  If you subtract eleven, you could buy your first beer.  And if you add thirty-three, you’d make the cut for the Senior Citizen Discount at the Hy Vee Deli.  Did that clarify things?

Let’s try measuring with this guy — Sgt. Vince Valdez.  A cop with the Des Moines Police Department for twenty-seven years.  What has he acquired in those twenty-seven years?  Well, he’s got a radio.  And that’s a gun strapped to his belt.  Those stripes on his arm mean he’s been around the block a few times.  His beat is in fact the neighborhood block — he’s a member of the Neighborhood Patrol Unit.

Not so long ago he followed up on a complaint in his assigned neighborhood and busted a meth house.  Not a TV meth house, but a real meth house. This guy is not pretend.

So, is that it?  Do we look at the toys and professional deeds and say that is the measure of those years?  That certainly can’t be the whole answer.  Shall we go a little deeper?

You could measure his boxing years as a young man.    Golden Gloves.  Not bad.  But that’s every cop in Des Moines.  And, let’s face it, does he flip tractor tires with Jason Statham?  I don’t think so.

How about his five years cutting and styling hair at his shop in the extinct Commodore Hotel?  I have to admit that’s impressive, but I don’t think that’s going to land him opposite Shawn Johnson on Dancing with the Stars.  Not to mention, he probably cut your mom’s or grandma’s hair.  That’s troublesome.

Or, his career as a singer, bass player, and percussionist with various local groups, most recently Tony Valdez and the Large Band.  Certainly interesting, but isn’t everyone and their mother now finding their inner artist by discovering that $59.95 Karaoke Machine at Kmart?

Then there’s Vince’s career as a videographer.  Besides a great video for historical Valley Junction, he’s done several recent videos for Day of the Dead at the Art Center.   Big deal, right?  But, come on, didn’t you just do an awesome video of your stomach and wiggling toes with your iPhone?  Now, that is videography.

Where does that leave us on our scale of the years?

“I’m crazy about my wife,” Vince told me.  What?  Vince — the guy who takes down meth houses — is crazy about his wife?  I asked for a photo.  Here’s what he gave me:

Is that the Art Center Rose Garden in the background?  Did Vince take a picture of his wife in the Art Center Rose Garden?  Lord, he’s a hopeless romantic, crazy about his wife.  “How long have you been married?” I asked.  “Thirty-two years.”

There’s your measure.

Joe

When your wife is on the “edge,” you know that you need to tread lightly.  She’s edgy.  If you’re walking on the boat dock at Gray’s Lake, you know that you need to stay away from the edge.  A misstep could find you in deep water.   And you know you have to be a tiny bit concerned about traveling all the way to the edge of Iowa.  A small nudge, and you could end up in Missouri.

Edges are dangerous.  Cliffs have edges, as do sharp knifes.  The signs could not be more clear: Beware! Stay back! Danger!

But what’s happening at the edge?  If the edge is the farthest point from the center, aren’t you just a little curious.  Perhaps the edge is where the party is.  Remember, you were told things were dangerous and needed to be avoided, but then you discovered that deep-fat-fried butter on a stick was pretty darned good.  How can you stay down on the farm after that glance over the edge?

Tom Brown is a nut — my kind of nut.  He has published a slew of books on tracking animals and living in nature.  He can be found at http://www.trackerschool.com.  Yes, he says things like:  “Explore the Spiritual teachings of Grandfather and become one with the Spirit-That- Moves-Through- All-Thing.”  Really?  Out loud?   However, he has a ton of information about the wilderness wrapped in a Zen-like approach.  A piece of advice that he frequently gives in his Field Guide is that the action in the outdoors occurs at the edge.  The edge of a field.  The edge of a woods.  The edge of a stream.

And remember Robert Waller?  Yup, the Iowa boy who penned The Bridges of Madison County  and then high-tailed it to Texas.  Before he took that strange turn, he wrote a wonderful book of essays called Just Beyond the Firelight.  In one essay on romance, he states: “Romance dances just beyond the firelight, in the corner of your eye.”  Could Bob have been more clear: romance is at the edge of things.

Finally, there’s this quirky neuroscientist called David Eagleman.  In his recent book, Incognito, he writes about perception and a phenomenon called Mach bands.  When two paint strips of  different colors are put side by side, where the two edges meet, the color will look a little darker on the lighter strip and a little lighter on the darker strip.  They are in fact not darker or lighter.  Weird.  But the lesson: at the edge, strange and wondrous events are occurring.

So what is on the edge right now in Iowa?  Well, on the edges of city parks . . .

They all came to see how the slim-looking, middle-aged man would respond.  Certainly, after a week where it was hinted by his opponents that, at best, he might be the reincarnation of Lucifer, or, at worst, the horrible, peace-loving Jimmy Carter, they didn’t know what to expect.  But their expectations were high nonetheless.  So, they lined up.  I mean really lined up.

After snaking through the mammoth parking lot, they made their way to the roped barriers looping back and forth.  The conveyor belt of people then bunched to a stop as purses were searched, bags were emptied, metal detectors did their jobs, and beeping hand-held wands were brought to bear on those with knee and hip replacements.  Quite a scene.

Then the line was funneled out into a throng of over 10,000 people.  My oh my.  Raucous.  Loud.  Music blaring.  Laughter.   Yelling.   Crying babies.   The push and press of fellow humans in a cattle chute.  And the main attraction hadn’t even arrived.

And security?  This is a nightmare.  Right?  Certainly, there are the dark-suited, polished-shoe, federal security officers — over to the left.  There are the undercover officers in pressed short-sleeved shirts with smiles plastered to their faces as they swiveled their heads back and forth scanning the crowd — over to the right.  There is the helicopter looping around the crowd, flying just a little higher than the two hawks who must have been perplexed by their newest member.   Finally, there are all the in-shape looking men and women talking into attached phones interspersed in the crowd.   But, as the mob pushed back and forth as one entity, there is no doubt that THIS IS NOT ENOUGH SECURITY for 10,000 people!

No problem.  Because, lo and behold, there were two officers from the local Clive Police Department — in blue — on the job.

I watched as they helped people up and down stairs, pushed wheel chairs, retrieved lost sunglasses, assisted with the dehydrated, agreed to a request by one young man to pose next to him as he delightedly held high the sign of his candidate — and they watched the crowd.  No fake beards were used by them.  No subterfuge was employed.  And no sneaky communication were mumbled into their wrists.  They were just cops.  Our cops.

I saw Clive Officer Adam Jones looking out over the crowd.  Watching.  Without a doubt, every person present was his responsibility.  He took an oath to protect, and he was there to do just that.  Very Clint Eastwood, wouldn’t you say?   He sauntered over to me.  I expected to hear the clink of spurs and the rising sound of spaghetti-western music.

“My intentions were good,” Officer Jones said to me, a former prosecutor.  “What?” I exclaimed totally confused.  Was there a fight I missed?  Did he just pepper spray someone?  Did a pregnant woman deliver on the boardwalk?   “I stopped that guy because he hit a sign,” he said apologetically.

My Lord, Officer Jones wasn’t coming over to flex his cop muscles.  He didn’t come over to pick up his six-shooter before saddling up.   He wasn’t even looking steely eyed under the brim of his hat.  He was concerned about a several-months-old criticism for a stop he’d made of a drunk over a year ago.  He was concerned that he appeared less than fair to the public.

Okay, 10,000 volatile people moving in the sun; Officer Jones and his fellow Clive officer are the only men or women in blue, as far as my eyes could see; and this cop was concerned about proper ethical conduct for the stop of a man who blew over three times the legal limit for alcohol over a year ago?   He was worried about morality?  Justice was at the top of his troubles?

We all came to see this man in the white shirt and tie waving to us in the far distance . . .

. . .  but I like to think that man was waving to this man in the blue shirt and hat who was just doing his job as he took care of 10,000 people.  Oh yeah, and worried about doing his job right.  That was sort of presidential, don’t you think?

Joe

We in the Midwest are pretty serious folk.  Jens Jensen, a wonderful Danish writer and landscape architect who settled in Chicago in the early 20th century, claims our environment dictates our personalities.  Perhaps the fact that we are children of the prairie, with its endless fields and a horizon line leading to infinity, explains our somberness of character.

Just think about the recent conversations you’ve had with your friends.   Politics is discussed with deadly import at most coffee shops, bars, and restaurants this time of year.   Whomever you support, the opposite candidate spells doom for the universe: it is a choice between FREEDOM or THE DEVIL.  And when we momentarily take a break from politics and start talking of our kids traipsing off to school, lord help us — we decry the technology, we shudder at lower teacher standards, and we gladly point to others as examples of bad parenting.   Somber talk.  Finally, when all of this “less serious discussion” is done, we get to the weather.  Yikes, drought and doom are traveling our back roads.  We are all going to lose the farm.

See, as I said, we are a serious folk.

Or are we?  In the heart of Downtown Des Moines is the oddest sculpture.  You’ve all driven past it.  Possibly even Ethel has elbowed you in the ribs and remarked: “Henry, I think that’s a darn umbrella.”   Yes, you can now tell Ethel it is an umbrella.  The Crusoe Umbrella by artists Claus Oldenburg and Coosje van Bruggen.  It is gigantic; it is amazing in it’s lines; and it will make you smile.

The Crusoe Umbrella is not serious.  For a starter, it is based on a fictional story by Daniel Defoe — The Life and Strange Surprising Adventures of Robinson Crusoe, of York, Mariner, as Related by Himself.  The umbrella is pretend!  It’s made up.  Moreover, the sculpture is not based on one of those mechanical umbrellas that shrink to the size of your palm when folded and has a cup holder for your coffee next to the GPS locator.  Nope.  This umbrella is modeled on one made from wood, plants, and fur.  Honest.  Still have doubts that this sculpture is about fun?  How about this: the Crusoe Umbrella doesn’t work.  Yup, on a rare rainy day, I went down to check out if the Crusoe Umbrella kept out the rain.  See for yourself:

So I stepped under the umbrella.

Trust me, I got wet.  This sculpture has one purpose — to make you smile.

Maybe the Midwest environment does make us all serious.  But a giant umbrella in Downtown Des Moines based on the made-up story of a castaway?   Come on.  Even if the devil is elected, our children need remediation due to bad parenting, and the weather destroys the crop, doesn’t this goofy umbrella bring a small smile to the corner of your lips?  No?  Okay, did you smile at the 4th of July float that consisted of portable toilets on a flatbed?

Joe

It is probably best not to reveal too much of our inner workings, don’t you think?   If people saw how weird we truly are, I suspect our neighbors’ fences and hedgerows would all get a little higher.  As they should.  And, frankly, it’s just hard to argue why you shouldn’t get electric shock and be placed in lock down.  Who better knows than you, right?

On the other hand, isn’t it a little bit weeny to hide your insides?  False fronts are certainly complicated, distracting, and safe, but aren’t you bored stiff?  What about YOU?  Sure, your few friends will disown you, your mom will mention that you’re not her child, and when you go to the grocery store, they will assign a clerk to follow you around while you do your shopping.  Do we care?  Apparently so.

However, there are some activities that allow the public to window-peak into our heads against all our desires.   Yes, I’m speaking about dancing.   Certainly, it seems simple enough.  In fact, the novice might mistakenly believe that you could count your way around the waltz in Germanic precision and keep the real you out of the picture.  Or that alcohol-fueled gyrations at a wedding would be considered the actions of an inner demon still lingering after the exorcism.  Sorry.  Good try.  Dancing shows your soul.  It just does.

Which gets us to Josh.  During the heat of an August afternoon, Josh can be seen watering the plants in the Des Moines downtown area between Grand and Locust streets.  You’ve driven past him a thousand times.  See, there he is:

But I want you to look closely.

Josh is wired up.  He’s wired for sound.  As he waters our plants, he’s listening to music.  Dance music.  And he’s dancing.  When he first started working for the City, he was worried what people would think.  He played his music and quietly watered the plants.  But as the hot summer progressed, caution went out the window.  “I tried to be reserved, but I was just bound up,” Josh told me.  So, he dances.  His partner is the hose.  He’ll boogie back and forth on the edge of the sidewalk.  Two-stepping and dipping.  Then, he’ll take a flourish off the edge of the curb, with a twirl of his partner.  Shoulder dip to the right.  Then back up on the curb with a chest thrust and a shuffle step. Really.

With a tall basketball player’s body, long tied-back hair, tattooed arms, and reflective vest, you still barely see him as you speed down Grand Avenue to escape work.  For Josh, work is a little different:  “Music is my life work; music makes me move.”  And off he goes without a good-bye, two-stepping west on Grand Avenue; his partner held gently in his arms.

Joe

Ethical behavior is a tricky subject, one I’d suggest not raising when you’re waiting in line to  buy the deep-fat fried pickles at the Iowa State Fair.  There are many reasons for this advice, but the most obvious is such a conversation will detract from the religious experience of worshipping the pickle in all its glory (believe me, there is a pickle under all that delicious breading).

However, isn’t it a safe time to talk about manners?  Since manners are the cushion for all our pushing and shoving and bumping against each other, perhaps we should give them a nod.  And what better place to study manners than the Iowa State Fair.

As we all know from our school days, if you want to measure the degree a group displays manners, go to the lunch room.  That’s what I did.  I stood in many a food line and I’m here to report: no one shoved, no one was upset, no one cut in line, and everyone was smiling.  Bizarre but true.

This was particularly surprising when you think that manners are learned behavior.  You just don’t have manners because of a winning personality.  You all remember: Sister Timothy Mary told you that if you pushed Billy one more time she would break your left kneecap so as to spare your right for genuflecting.   Iowans clearly learned that lesson.  Time and again folks at the Fair would apologize for being in my way, for slowing me down, for not making my day just a little bit brighter.  Really.  Go see for yourself.

On top of this wonderful behavior at the food concessions, you know Iowans are well-mannered when only the most obscure manners need to be posted by a sign.  For example, there is no sign about trampling across a flower bed at the Fair.  We all know not to do that.  But what about cows on the sidewalk?

We might need a sign for that.  And I’m here to attest that there was nary a cow or even a pig on the sidewalk.  So there you go.

Further evidence of Iowa manners requires a detour to the Olympics.  I’m referring to the greatest manners moment in London.  You might have missed it.  Gabby Douglas, the daughter adopted by Iowa, was waiting to see if she won the gold medal for all-around in gymnastics.  The camera showed her sitting on the mat, one leg tucked in an every-girl teenage pose.  Next to her was her coach, Liang Chow, from West Des Moines.  Liang Chow correctly saw that his young student was not being properly respectful of the moment in her relaxed manner of sitting.  He whispered to her and she immediately jumped off the mat and stood tall waiting for the results.  Amazing.  Instead of looking at the point total to see whether his student won the gold medal, this coach was concerned that Gabby show good manners.  She did.  When it was announced she had won, she now looked to Liang Chow, and he directed her back up onto the mat to acknowledge the accolades.  Wow.  That was manners and that was a manners teacher.  That’s what’s expected of an Iowan.

Liang Chow won no award.  So, in recognition of his excellent work in the field of manners, he is bestowed the original deep-fat fried food from the State Fair: the cheese curd.

I’d have offered the butter-on-a-stick, but my son ate it.

Now was that good manners?

Joe

Aren’t you loving the Olympics?  It’s seductive viewing.  In an unexpected way, it makes you feel good about humanity — which may be the surprising point of the whole endeavor (in addition to the clear Olympic mandate to sell us each a new car before the last gold medal is hung).  But have you noticed the emphasis by winner after winner that at last all their hard work paid off.  And they are right.  They sacrificed their time and put in the disciplined effort to get where they got.  Without a doubt, they’ve earned the accolades.

But, in applying the sacrificed-their-time theory, what about Roy and his gold medal?  Roy generally pulls up with his battered pickup truck about nine every morning in a post-apocalyptic parking lot off Urbandale Avenue.

He then sells Grimes Sweet Corn until as late as seven at night.

He has worked every day but one since the 4th of July.  Even as I talked to him, a steady stream of customers approached, clutching crumpled bills as they negotiated.  He would up-sell in a friendly banter: “Just corn?  How about tomatoes and watermelon?  You’re the only one that eats watermelon in your family?  Well, then you better get you one.”  See, better than therapy and Roy hasn’t even yet mentioned that he’s throwing in an extra ear of corn.  Everyone gets a prize.

Roy will work this spot right up through September.  When asked what he does in the off-season, he said he delivers pizza in Grimes, he moves snow, and he sells a car or two.  In other words, what Roy does is work.  He works in the blistering heat and he works in the numbing cold.  He doesn’t complain (who would he complain to — he doesn’t yet have his twitter site up and running) and he shows up.

Roy turned 45 last Tuesday.  He has three kids and a grandson.  What’s Roy’s plan for the future?  Where is he going?  Is he thinking about competing in Rio?  Nope.  Roy told me he plans to work.  Period.

Olympic champion?  Why not.

Joe

“I was born in the Waxahachie Texas Insane Asylum.”

Where can you possibly go after a street performer opens with those lines?  It was so outlandish, I did an involuntary check of my wallet.   Still there.  Okay.   I’m getting scammed, right?  But, isn’t the actual truth always just a bit elusive anyway?  And maybe the “actual truth” is never reached in a connect-the-dots sort of way — maybe it’s a ways down the mine shaft — maybe we have to work for it — maybe this guy is a prophet speaking in parables.   Or maybe I’m going to end up wiring money to Nigeria.  Mmmm . . . , but as my carny friends used to say as they enticed you into buying another set of rings for the ring toss —  you can’t win if you don’t play.

Encamped in Council Bluffs for a couple of days, I meandered over the Bob Kerrey Pedestrian Bridge that snakes across the Missouri River into Omaha.  Climbing out of the river bottom, I walked into Omaha’s Old Market area.   It was already in the 90’s and the streets were empty at mid-morning.  The lone exception to the smell of drying grass and the chirping of grasshoppers was the melancholy sound of a blues harmonica in the distance.   Down at the end of the block, tucked well out of the sun, was my harpist as you can see in this picture when you look deep into the shadows.

With a case open for tips, he was playing for no one that I could see — and playing his heart out.  I was hooked.

I asked about his life.  “I was born in the Waxahachie Texas Insane Asylum,” is how he began his story.  He explained that his mom was 31 miles from the “black hospital” in Dallas, she was ready to deliver, and had no medical facility that would accept her.  As a result, the insane asylum was his birth place, he explained with an infectious laugh.  “I’ve seen the birth certificate,” he assured me.

He was born James Ronald Alexander.  People call him Ron.  He was the oldest of three boys and lived a life marred by racism.  He told stories of education without books, violence in the classroom perpetrated by teachers, white men throwing bricks at him and his brothers, and being forced to attend a “school for the retarded.”  He painted his formative years as not too formative.

This story was related by a master story-teller.  His tones and vocabulary ranged from Southern Preacher to College Professor.  He was a modern-day bard.  I could barely hang onto one thread when he was off and running with a second thread.   He was amazingly brilliant.

I kept waiting for the hook.   Was there a mother with cancer needing just a few dollars for chemo?  Was he just short of gas on his way to be with his children in Colorado?  Would  another “tourist” soon appear who would accidentally nudge me and kindly lift the burden of any items I carried in my pockets?

And then he played for me.

Starting with a slow rendition of Amazing Grace that echoed back and forth on the empty market street leaving me mourning every sadness I’d ever experienced, he paused, took a breath, knew he had me, and then he really played.  Amazing Grace was still somewhere in the cascade of notes, which he would remind me by playing a short familiar riff, then off into the stratosphere he would go.  As he weaved his way around the spiritual, he transformed the funeral tones into a fist in the air in defiance.  And by the time he was finished, the cheers, the stomping, and the whistling from the suddenly appearing crowd brought me back to the present.

He goes by Dr. Spit.  His band is the Blues Mechanics.  Here’s a site for one of the many youtube videos of him performing in clubs around Omaha:  [http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-uJ7a4QkETk].  Why he was playing for change on a street corner in the Old Market is a mystery to me.  But playing he was.

And, by the way, in digging around some archives for the town of Waxahachie, I found that Waxahachie was all about cotton and had a large slave population back in the day.  After the Civil War, Jim Crow laws were the norm.  Additionally, I found this: “The town’s first hospital built expressly for that purpose opened in March 1912. . . .    The three-story brick structure . . . was known as the Waxahachie Sanatorium . . . .  Dr. Wallace opened a hospital for blacks by 1948 at 438 E. Main Street.”  [http://www.waxahachie.com/images/HistPresPDFS/HistoricResource1985Complete.pdf].

So, would you like to buy three more rings for the ring toss?

Joe

Bartenders are imbedded in the American psyche, don’t you think?  What isn’t there to like about a bartender?  He or she is the modern-day pirate.  Not ethically pure, by any means, and not overly empathic (we are just one customer among many), but pragmatic in their advice.  And, most importantly, they are there to represent our wild side.  Simple.  Or is it?

Tucked away on the north side of Locust Street, deep in the East Village, lies the small wonderful restaurant — Lucca.  Jason is the bartender.

Tall, fit, handsome, young, with a ready smile, Jason’s there wiping the bar, greeting the newest customer, and talking to you.

He fits the perfect bartender image: warm, witty, and, without a doubt, your best friend.  He swipes the bar, gives you a few words, and waits on the front tables.  Every woman, and a few men, flirt as they pass.  He’s kind, engaging, and then back to pouring drinks.     He is your man.  And you’re caught in the flow, the rhythm of his work as he banters, wipes, pours, smiles, and talks.  Seductive.

Take a sip of your beer.

Five middle-aged women tumble into the restaurant.  Unsure of their surroundings, they herd up, grab the front tables, and aggressively demand pretzels at this low-key, white-table-cloth restaurant.  With a warm and welcoming smile, Jason responds that they have no pretzels . . . no peanuts . . . no popcorn.   He then states: “My son probably left some Goldfish in the backseat of my car — can I get you some of those?”  The women hesitate, unsure what just happened.  Jason’s warm smile reassures them.  They laugh.  Wine is ordered.  The rhythm continues — wipe, pour, smile.

What did just happen?  Jason’s son is named Nolan.  He’s three-and-a-half.  As a single dad, Jason is Nolan’s day care.  Every day around 6 a.m. he picks up Nolan from his mom and they hang.   They get coffee from Zanzibar’s, peter away the morning, and then they swim.  Every day.   Jason works at Lucca for several reasons; but, foremost, it allows him to be with his son.  Quantity time.

What’s going on here?  Where is the wild and crazy bartender of yore?  We know where to find the squeaky-clean preacher, the overly loyal cowboy, and the fresh-faced farm girl,  but where is the morally loose pirate?  Jason leans across the flat surface, bar rag in hand, and tells me in his soft voice that he is in fact adopted.  “My son is the only blood relative I know,”  Jason tells me.   “Every day spent with  my son is a gift.”

Damn.  And Jason’s son, Nolan, does he want to be a pirate?  Nope.   Dressed in the latest deep-space gear that looks suspiciously like underwear, he informed his dad he wants to be an astronaut.

Who doesn’t — with the right gear and the right dad.

Joe