The rain is gentle in Dublin, Ireland, unlike the hard rain in Iowa this spring. The rain washes down the old slate roofs flowing into gutters and spills into private gardens hidden in the back of buildings. High stone and brick walls keep me from spying on people dallying inside those gardens, as I look out a window high above. But there is nothing to hide today as most take cover from the rain while the gutters fill to the brim and the Irish green turns greener.

“We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.”

This Oscar Wilde quote, carved in stone near Wilde’s statute in Merrion Square Park, certainly sounds great. Who doesn’t want to see stars? But, trust me, it’s harder to see those stars when blocked by the ever-present clouds of COVID.

Yup, COVID. Even though my wife is fully vaccinated and has two boosters on board, she was just diagnosed with COVID for the second time in the last six months. Really? Can’t she get a break? I suspect the gods are frowning on her ill-advised marriage. But still. Really?

And to make matters even more daunting, my daughter and her partner, both living in Dublin, also tested positive for COVID. Yup, my family is a contagion.

And the cherry on top of this COVID sundae? We can’t fly home to Des Moines. We have to cancel our flight and scramble for housing as my wife sits in lockdown for the next 16 days.

Which leaves me. Unscathed. A thorn in all their COVID-sick sides. Footloose and fancy free in Ireland … as long as I keep testing negative and wear a mask.

Which is why I’m in Merrion Square Park looking for good bread — “the staff of life,” according to another Dublin writer, Jonathon Swift.

This is not a small matter.

Our daughter has already attempted to distract me with early morning Irish scones. Delicious in their own right. But not bread. Then she brought cinnamon rolls and donuts. Certainly a staple of the good life, but, let’s face it, not bread. Then my daughter brought Irish Guinness, purportedly a beer that is the same as eating a loaf of bread. The jury is still out because of the need for multiple-day sampling, but I’m fairly certain it’s not bread.

Where’s the good bread?

Merrion Square park is tucked between massive homes that used to be where Oscar Wilde and William Butler Yeats and Daniel O’Connell lived and hung out. Of course they were concerned with politics and writing and poetry, not food. Although, it was Oscar Wilde who said, “I can’t stand people who don’t take food seriously.” So I’m looking to see if there might be good bread at the Thursday morning market in Merrion Square.

Leif Jensen hasn’t begun selling yet. But I am drawn to stacks and stacks of heavy, crusty, just-made bread. The smell of sourdough and yeast is swoon-producing. The other stalls are just lifting their awnings. But Leif is ready to go.

“I am here because I was missing a good bread from home.” Leif says in a German accent. “In Germany we have a very high bread culture.”

Leif actually left Germany 12 years ago as a chef.

“I worked in a lot of Michelin star restaurants. But I first left Germany to work as a chef on tall ships sailing around Scandinavia, the Mediterranean, and West Africa. I returned to Hamburg to be the head chef in a French restaurant. After that I was a chef in Normandy, France, and then a chef in London.”

I didn’t tell Leif about my similar experience selling foot long hotdogs around Iowa.

“But I was always traveling between these other countries and Northern Ireland because my wife lived there. Although she is actually from Botswana.”

Of course she is.

“She became pregnant so I moved to Northern Ireland. And then with all the COVID restrictions and my hunger for good bread I decided to open a bakery. Now I am delivering to restaurants and cafes traditionally baked bread. The real bread.”

I buy two loafs. Yup, he’s not lying, it is the real bread.

Leif, what is next for you?

“I am 34. I’m trying to write a good life story. And I love to engage with people. Just yesterday I had 15 young students in my kitchen as I taught them how to make sourdough bread. That is special.”

Yes it is. A good life story. And it is special.

Leif goes back to selling bread, and I head back to our apartment.

Six days pass. Every day I have a negative COVID test. I eat Leif’s bread. I walk in the rain. All is good.

On the seventh day, two colored lines appear in my test box. I’m positive for COVID.

Aargh!

So now I stand in a shadowy alley in Dublin, masked and distanced, waiting for the side door to open so I can take a more definitive test as a marker to start the clock for qualifying to fly home. The graffiti-covered walls of the alley drip with the soft rain drizzling between the buildings. The gutters fill. There is not a star in sight.

But when I leave after my test, I take a wrong turn. Wandering around the Temple Bar area in the rain, I come upon a closed bookstore — The Gutter Bookshop. Go figure. Named after that same darn Oscar Wilde quote about gutters and stars. I look inside the window that’s holding in all those stories hidden behind their covers — as many stories as stars in the sky.

I make it back to our apartment — aka, the quarantine apartment — COVID central — the Dublin Annex for the Iowa Maximum Security Prison.

Safe and sound.

I cut a slice of Leif’s bread. I watch the rain through the front window. And I think about Leif trying to live a good life story … and other people I know and their good life stories.

Outside the window the rain continues to softly fall. The streets fill with water. And the lamplights shine … like stars?

At least that’s the view from the gutter.

Joe

The mud-brown leaves, pressed flat and brittle by winter snow, swirl around on my blue tarp looking for a way to escape the mulch pile. A gust blows from the west. I run to the far side of the tarp to push the leaves back. A gust blows from the east. I run back to the other side flailing with my rake against the rising tide.

Help.

But the leaves will do what they want. They hang in balance against the edge of the tarp and then whisk out over the top to scoot across the road and rest in the neighbor’s yard. A flight to freedom.

Let’s face it, the wind is a fickle friend. Sometimes it corrals the leaves into a twirling pile ready to be scooped onto my tarp; other times, it sits up in the tree tops, moaning like spirits at a seance, only to swoop down with a splat, scattering dead leaves and grass.

“Our strongest winds are in the fall and the spring. It’s really about low pressure. Wind moves from high to low pressure. With high pressure, you have descending air and air that kind of spreads out. With low pressure, everything goes toward the area of low pressure and lifts from that. The stronger the low pressure system, the stronger the winds we are going to have.”

Are you sure the wind’s not triggered by me coming outside with a rake?

Rod Donavon gives a slow smile that starts in his eyes long before it makes his mouth. A Senior Meteorologist for the National Weather Service located in Des Moines, Iowa, he has a radio voice that speaks with calm assurance.

At least he is calming to me as he talks over the computer — the only way to communicate because of COVID restrictions at the National Weather Service offices.

“I grew up in Northeast Iowa. Have been at the Des Moines office for the past 18 years. We are open at the National Weather Service 365 days a year, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.”

Shift work for all the employees. Great for us. Not so easy for Rod and his family with kids and activities.

And while Rod’s working, the wind is blustering.

Winnie the Pooh says when talking about a blustery day in the 100 Acre Wood:

“Oh, then I think I shall wish everyone a Happy Windsday.”

Really? “Windsday”?

So, Rod, why do such a crazy job as predicting the weather?

“The National Weather Service logo is protection of life and property, and that’s really what drew me to the National Weather Service because we are the sole voice for issuing a severe thunderstorm, tornado warning, a winter storm warning, etc.”

Okay.

“I wanted to be part of that process and make a difference.”

Or as our own Herbert Hoover said about this notion:

“Being a politician is a poor profession. Being a public servant is a noble one.”

This spring brought tornadoes that left terrible tragedies and death. Rod was in the middle from the National Weather Service offices.

NBC News — “The tornado may have touched down, skipped and touched down again, with ‘a couple different segments,’ said Rod Donavon, a meteorologist in the NWS Des Moines office.” 

“This last event of March 5th was the biggest event we’ve had with loss of life for a long time,” Rod tells me.

A total of seven dead — including two children. Loss of property. Families devastated.

“You have to remain focused and get the job done. But afterwards it is an emotional roller coaster we go through.”

The wind rattles the window behind my computer screen. I take a slow drink of coffee.

So, what about the weather today?

“We have a severe weather potential tonight. There’s going to be hail. We’re not done with winter weather with the wind and the cold coming in tomorrow, and chance of snowfall coming in. It is complicated and figuring it out will take up most of my day.”

And the wind?

“We are in the cold side and the warm side. The closer together the pressure lines, the stronger the winds are going to be. Boone, Webster City and Hampton, gusts are at 40 mph right now. So today is a windy day.”

I go back outside. I listen to the trees talking high above as their  branches rock back and forth with the gusts. The dead leaves are still waiting for my rake. But at my feet I see the wind has uncovered a surprise.

Mmmm . . . no one got hurt today, the sun is shining, and here at my feet is the yearly promise of rebirth. Perhaps it is a Happy “Windsday” after all.

Joe

“I actually thought I’d die with the shears in my hands.”

The old man stands behind his barber chair — his podium for an audience of one. He looks at me. He looks down at his notes. He reads carefully.

“But a young barber came to me and said he’d like to start his own business. ‘The best time to sell is when you have a buyer,’ is an old saying in real estate. I have an old clientele because I too am old and with that it made me think maybe it is time.”

We just met, two old men, and I suspect he’s worried that I won’t get his life right. I don’t tell him that no one gets a life right, even the person living it. But he’s come prepared — three small yellow pages, one side only. Fifty-five years as a Des Moines barber distilled into a space small enough to fit on a retirement banner. 

“My wife and I want to travel more to Arizona because I have a daughter there with her family. This shop is ready for some new blood. Ian and Travis will make it happen. I would like to thank Eric Hutchinson, Ian and Travis’ previous boss, for his role in mentoring these young barbers into an entrepreneurial position.”

Lannie Hale’s ironed shirt is tucked tightly into his creased pants. Shoes are polished. Hair and beard recently trimmed. Intent gaze. He wants to exit stage left, but then there’s always the final soliloquy.  

I smile encouragingly as he reads from the prepared text that gives thanks to his clients and explains how he got where he is today.   

He looks down at his last page.  

“The old saying goes, find a job you love and you never have to go to work a day in your life. I will miss all of you a lot.”

I remain quiet as Lannie shuffles the pages into a straight deck and hands them to me.

Fifty-five years of barbering . . . that’s a long time to do any one thing. 

“You just think positive. I’ve been very fortunate to have loyal customers. You can make a living working 40 hours a week, but you can make money working 50 hours a week. I start at 7 a.m. and sometime I don’t end until 6 p.m. As I got older, my legs couldn’t do it. I needed to pace myself.”

But don’t people really just want fast food? Whatever is quick and easy seems to be the first choice. 

“Well, first, people want a good haircut, and they want it repeated — not one out of three. And price is important. And they want to be comfortable.”

Lannie comes around the podium and sits at last. A long sigh. 

“Listen to your clients. Remember what they talked about and bring it up again. It could be a trip, or something the grandkids were involved with. Keep it about them. By doing that you really need to keep your mouth shut and your ears open.”

I nod, but I can never remember what people say about the interesting bits, and I always flunk my wife’s debriefing back home as to any good gossip. 

“I would make notes. You have to. But after awhile, you actually do want to hear the end of the story: How did that granddaughter do in the spelling bee? How was that trip to Florida? How do you like the guy your daughter is dating? You want a client, not a guy coming in the door. You want them to leave believing truly that Lannie wanted to hear their story.” 

And I suspect you’ve outlived a few clients after all these years. 

“I’ve lost clients. I’ve been to too many funerals.” 

Lannie stops. Wipes his eyes. Breathes.

“They’re family.”

We pause.

“I’ve actually given haircuts to people in the casket where the wive has called and said, ‘Lannie we had a viewing and he doesn’t look like my husband. Would you come?’ It’s a little tough, but I do it. He’s part of the family.”

Lannie stops again.

So tell me how a typical haircut goes?

“Being an older barber in an old shop, you want something that the client remembers.”

Of course. 

“So first and most importantly you give a good cut. Then it is important to have a good hot lather shave around your ears when you are done cutting hair. It’s kind of an old fashioned thing. And the bay rum aftershave. I love the smell in the shop and the talcum powder.”

Lannie sprays bay rum in my direction. We both stop, take a deep breath, and smile.  

“So when I’m done with the haircut, I warm up the lather, give the shave around the ears, wrap up the conversation, wipe off the lather, then the bay rum, then finish off with an electric massager on the shoulders and neck.” 

I roll my shoulders . . . imagining. 

“Okay, get in the chair,” Lannie says to me.

As the massager shakes my shoulders, Lannie says, “You know, Joe, my only sadness is that I’ll miss everyone.”

I murmur something incoherent hoping he won’t stop the massage.

Lannie quotes from his last line on the last page of his yellow notes: “As Bob Hope would say to the troops, ‘Thanks guys — thanks for the memories — God Bless.'” 

And perhaps God will. But isn’t it too soon? Don’t you just sign up for another production?  Audition for a new role? Become a different super hero?

And, by the way, wouldn’t God want to know what happens in the fourth yellow page? 

I do. 

Joe

“Here, take a look at this.” Raul Lopez the plumber gestures toward the drain. 

I bend over to look at the black hole that extends deep below the tub down to . . . Australia?

“Do you see it?” Raul persists.

Like most things to do with electricity, cars, or marriage, I nod my head knowingly, while trying to hide the not-a-clue neon sign on my forehead. Merely nodding is usually not enough to throw the questioner off, so I quickly follow with an old lawyer dodge.

“Gosh, what do you think?” 

Raul is not so easily fooled. He smiles at my not-a-clue neon sign, and goes back to work. I get it. But I know the real secret — plumbing is magic. Pure and simple. And Raul is a magician.

Raul Lopez is a gregarious, smiling, joking, lively, fit man somewhere on the other side of 40. He spends his life in Denver in small spaces, where he curses, cajoles, and laughs trying to convince toilets, sinks, and tubs to bend to his will.

I know this because I listen to his one-sided discussions from the other room. Does Raul expects the tub faucet to respond to his plaintive request to work correctly? Does the pipe agree that it should turn at a right angle so that the soldering gun can more easily reach it? Does telling a toilet that it is a “son of a biscuit eater” really persuade the toilet to place itself properly? 

Of course, the pipe and the tub and the toilet never answer Raul — at least as far as I can tell. Although somebody must have listened because when I glance into the bathroom everything is in the right place, the job is done, and Raul is smiling.

Magic. 

Nate Staniforth, a professional magician, wrote a book called Here is Real Magic. It is a great book about his search for wonder in a cynical world. 

“Wonder . . . that sense of waking up and seeing things the way you saw them before they became ordinary . . . . This is magic.”

This is also plumbing — the magical land of fittings and gaskets and soil pipes. Oh yes, and people.

“I like the people I meet here in Denver,” Raul says laughing. “If I don’t make money on a job, I’ll still make a friend.” 

Is this guy real? 

And just like Harry Potter goes to the Ollivanders Wand Shop to get his magic wand, Raul goes to the plumbing supply store to get a “shower valve rough-in and trim.”

And I tag along.  

Listen, I know Denver has a gazillion attractions from art to theater to dance to sports, but, trust me, your experience of Denver would be incomplete if you missed perhaps its greatest landmark —  the plumbing supply store.

Rampart Supply is buried among warehouses and concrete in the heart of Denver. Pickup trucks and work vans are the vehicles of choice, while splattered work boots and work pants are the mandatory dress code. The magic occurs in a large showroom that displays wrenches and pipes and fittings. You might have seen a Mona Lisa in your travels, but have you ever seen a wrench bigger than your femur? Well, it’s not too late. 

Logan Phillips takes our order. A no-nonsense, get-it-done, kind of man. He carefully makes sure we have forgotten nothing, and then disappears into the back rooms. A short time later, he returns, smiling, everything Raul ordered in hand. I suspect he is also a magician.

Raul introduces me to everyone — sales people, managers, other customers. They smile. They joke with Raul. And back to work they go. A community of people who move water from one pipe to the next. Denver’s lifeline.  

Raul and I sit high in his truck as we drive away. One working man and one hanger-on. But Raul, like all good magicians, has another trick up his sleeve.

“Joe, have you ever had an empanada from Maria’s?”

Okay, folks, forget plumbing and plumbers and plumbing supply stores in Denver, empanadas are magic . . .

Joe

The woman pauses, coffee in hand, as she looks down at the crack in the floor.

“What am I doing?” she says. 

Coughing and rubbing her eyes, she wipes her nose with the small napkin.

“This damn cold weather.”

An escaped tear rolls down her cheek, around the curve of her chin, and drops silently into the the smooth crack running across the coffeeshop floor.  

She drinks another swallow of coffee.

“Well, I can still ‘crack’ jokes.” She laughs hollowly and scratches at her pale wrist exposing a slow pulse of blue veins.  

“Let me think. What did that kid say? Oh yeah . . . ‘What is a pile of kittens?’ he said. ‘What?’ I dutifully responded. ‘A meown-tain.'” She shakes her head. “The kid doubled over at his own joke. I’m not kidding, doubled over, and then held his gigantic overflowing bag of candy out for more.”

“And speaking of ‘cracks,’ who doesn’t like the cracking sound of a bat?” She looks up at me. 

“I’m not sure I’ve ever hit a baseball in my life,” I admit.  

“Hah, I remember being a little kid, scared of my own heartbeat. I was in fourth grade when it happened. I was sure that older boy was going to bean me with his fastball.”

“And?” 

“You’ll never guess. I didn’t die. Instead I connected solidly — CRACK — sending that ball over the playground fence.”

And she looks over the espresso machine watching that ball fly out of sight.

“Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit a homer. Isn’t that what Matthew said in the New Testament?”

She smiles and rubs the side of her head, repositioning a strand of gray hair that slipped from behind her ear and was beginning to swing like a clock pendulum in front of her eyes. 

“My grandpa was a ‘crack’ shot,” she said.

“True?”

“Yup. I used to walk with him through the harvested fields, shotgun at the ready, no words spoken between us, deadly as a heart attack.” She pauses. “Really, the low-flying pheasants didn’t stand a chance even against his old eyes.” 

“My goodness.” 

“He let me shoot once. Carefully giving me instructions and then picking me up from the ground with a red bruise already showing on my shoulder.” 

“Ouch.” 

“I’ve never hit anything,” she said. “Well, unless you want to count the time I hit my husband, may he rest in peace, with a Lemon Meringue Pie. He never saw it coming.”

We laugh. 

“Time to go. Tomorrow is the day. I can’t put it off any further. The doc said it is either do or die . . .  and in the doing I might die.” She gives a forced laugh. “That sucks. But there it is.”

She sits quietly without moving.  

“Thank the lord the surgery isn’t at the ‘crack’ of dawn.” She wipes at her eyes.  

“Ha ha,” I say. 

And she carries her empty cup to the bin, placing it carefully inside. And walks back, the muscles visible in her jaw. 

Before putting on her coat, she points to the middle of her chest where her thin bones are pressed tight against her sweater. 

“Here is where they are going to crack it open.” Her voice hitches. “I guess I should say crack ME open.” 

She takes a jagged breath.

Steady, steady, steady.

She puts on her stocking cap.

Breath. Breath. Breath. 

Slowly she tries to grin.

“If it goes badly, remember to ‘crack’ a beer for me.” 

And she walks alone out into the cold. 

____________________________________________________________________________

“What do you think?” My friend Bill Roach says with a smile.

“Really?” I say.

“Yup. I dare you to write a made-up story about this crack in the floor.”

We both laugh.

“Okay, I’ll do it, but I dare you to do one of your photographs of that same crack in the floor.”

Here we are. Two old men having coffee. One a writer and one a photographer. Talking foolishly about creativity, which is an unfortunate deviation from our normal talk about wine, women, and song. 

“I’ll do it if you will.”

“No, I’ll do it if you will.”

“Deal?”

“Deal!”

The refrain of two 10-year-olds.

So we did. 

Joe

Sometimes it seems like the only thing you can win is the short end of the stick. Why is that? Did you break a mirror, walk under a ladder, step on a crack? Honestly, it doesn’t matter how careful you are, some days bad luck seems to be the only road. Sure, Good Luck Avenue is out there somewhere, but there you are in Bad Luck Canyon — with a flat tire — no air in the spare — and is that the last donut?

By the way, I’m not talking serious bad luck, but the kind of bad luck where things just don’t seem to be cutting in your favor. You know what I’m talking about. Like today I’m in the self check-out lane at the grocery store and the person in front of me is trying to buy some beer. Fine. Of course the attendant has to verify that the beer-drinker is 21, so I wait. No big deal. Holding my heavy purchases, I wait patiently. Shifting from one foot to the other. Waiting. Yup, that’s me. Waiting. 

Ah, there’s the attendant.

But the attendant goes to help the guy in the other lane who is apparently on some type of fruit fast that requires the weighing and identifying of 32 unusual types of fruit. This could be hours. And now I’m pretty sure that the kid in front of me with the beer is actually skipping class from middle school. 

This is just bad luck. Pure and simple.

Or how many of you have taken your car in for a tuneup and thought there won’t be anything major wrong? Don’t be silly. It’s Bad Luck Tuesday. Of course there will be major things wrong.

“Sure, you can drive the car, Joe,” my mechanic said last week, “and all that carbon monoxide coming in through your heater shouldn’t kill you as long as you keep the windows open.”

Dead or chilly? Trust me, those are bad luck choices.

Or my personal favorite, when the windstorm hits and all the houses around me are unscathed. Yahoo for them. But then I see the neighbors standing around on the sidewalk looking at my house. Mmmm . . . and when I go outside to see what fun I’m missing, there is the old sycamore tree, my sycamore tree, apparently taking a timeout on my roof.

Such is the life of one who has bad luck.

So it’s time for a little good luck. For all of us. But where exactly does one find good luck?

“If you touch a chimney sweep it is considered good luck.” The smiling chimney sweep, Tim Hughes, tells me.

Really? That is all it takes? I just have to find a chimney sweep?

“Occasionally I’ll be somewhere and someone comes up and touches me. They tell me they just wanted some good luck.” Tim laughs.

Tim Hughes and Eddie Buntenbach are out cleaning and inspecting chimneys for Chiminey Cricket Family Chimney Sweeps — originally started by Tim’s dad in 1983.

 “My dad has even been invited to a few weddings because having a chimney sweep at your wedding is considered good luck.” 

I’m 41 years too late for the wedding, but how are chimney sweeps at funerals?

“And not only chimney sweeps bring good luck,” Eddie adds, “but a cricket on the hearth brings good luck.”

You’re kidding?

“There is actually a ‘roof cricket’ on your chimney that diverts water,” Tims says, “but a chimney cricket, a little model of a cricket on the hearth, is really supposed to bring good luck.”

This, of course, leads to the obvious next question:

“So, while you’re up on the roof do you ever want to play Bert the Chimney Sweep singing and dancing in Mary Poppins?” 

Tim and Eddie look at each other with a twinkle in their eyes. 

“Of course, this is a serious job.” Tim says smiling. “We are trying to make it safe. I think we have really saved people from very dangerous issues like carbon monoxide poisoning. We have gone into houses and seen wood up in the chimney — not a good idea and a real chance of fire. To be able to help people out means a lot to us.” 

“We can leave people with confidence their chimney is safe,” Eddie adds.

But . . .

“But there is something special about being up on a rooftop around sunset and you have a great view,” Tim says. “So, yes, I have done Step in Time up on the roof occasionally.”

“Step in Time” is the call-and-response tune sung by Dick Van Dyke and other chimney sweeps on the rooftops of London and composed by the Sherman brothers for Mary Poppins: 

“Round the chimney, step in time
Round the chimney, step in time
Never need a reason
Never need a rhyme
Round the chimney, you step in time!”

There you go. Today only. Chimney sweeps. Change your bad luck to good. And, for an added bonus, you now know the correct song to sing when you’re on a rooftop.

By the way, Tim and Eddie inform me that my chimney is totally unsafe and a fire hazard. 

Yup, the short end of the stick. That’s me. Stuck in Bad Luck Canyon. 

Joe

The two young girls shared nearly everything. No surprise. The Great Depression guaranteed a certain equality even though the girls were four years apart in age. 

“So you shared your sister’s dresses?” I ask.

“Of course,” she says.

“Weren’t you tired of only wearing hand-me-downs?”

She laughs.

‘Well, my sister’s clothes were handed down from relatives and then they were handed down to me. It was hard to be jealous of that.”

She smiles at the memory.

“And did the two of you fight?”

“Only when I wanted to play dolls and she became too old to play with me.”

She frowns, clearly still not happy at her sister’s decision — 90 years ago. Yup, whoever said time heals all wounds apparently never had a sibling. 

In truth, these two sisters were very close. They grew up on the farm but left home early to go work in the city. Eventually they both ended up in Indianapolis. Working in businesses.  As single women during those times, they lived in a boarding house for women only. Their home had rules for most things, but particularly forbidding visits by men and requiring a strict curfew at night.

But these were the war years. Two of their roommates were related by marriage — the brother to one roommate was the husband to another. 

“And I remember to this day the knock on the door by a man in full uniform. We all knew what that meant. And just like that there were two grieving women. Our home was a sad home.”

World War II ended and both sisters went to college at Iowa State University. Boys and dances and more boys and more dances. A good time for all.

But then their paths diverged. One went on to become a nun and a dietician and one went on to become a housewife and mother of eight kids. 

This didn’t matter. They were close in other ways: letters, during the early years; in person, during the middle years; by phone, most days in the latter years. They shared news of birthdays and jobs and promotions and weddings . . . and what one or the other was making for dinner that night. The big and the small. It really didn’t matter to them. 

And don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t all roses. They were stubborn women who at various times thought the other was too stubborn and clearly incorrect. But then they’d talk the next day as if no disagreement had occurred. Peas in a pod? Of course. 

Together they buried their mother, then they buried their father, then they buried a husband, and finally they buried their older brother. Together.

And as life goes, the older sister finally started failing in health. At 98, she still talked every day with the younger sister until she couldn’t. And even when she couldn’t talk, the younger sister called while a nurse or nun held the phone up to the older sister’s ear. 

And finally the older sister could neither talk nor listen.

“I’d like to put this rosary into the casket with my sister,” my mom says as we drive across Iowa to the funeral. “I want her to have it.”

She holds up the rosary for me to see.

“I don’t know,” I say to her, wary of my mom’s doggedness. “I think her religious community is deciding what goes in the casket.”

“Hmph,” she responds with arms crossed over her thin, 94-year-old chest. My answer is clearly unacceptable. Although I’ve been down this route before in years past, as various family members plotted to put things in or take things out of a casket. Never a good situation.

The casket sits open before us. The older sister lies on a pillow with a rosary wrapped around her crossed hands.

My mom puts her hands over her older sister’s hands as we stand together looking for the last time. 

“They’re cold,” she says.

“I know,” I say.

“Listen, I’m going to slip this rosary down next to her body,” she whispers loudly.

“I think that is a bad idea.” 

My mom glares at me as we stand in front of church.

“OK, how about we just ask the head nun if it would be all right to leave the rosary?” I suggest. 

Another glare.

“Of course it’s all right,” the head nun says without hesitation.

“It is a lovely idea,” she says to my mom.

“In fact,” she continues, “your sister told me before she died that the rosary she is holding right now is a special one from Rome and she wants me to give it to you before we close her casket.”

My mom is dead silent.

“So why don’t we take your rosary and wrap it around your sister’s hands, and you take the one she has.”

We walk away and my mom leans into me and says in her loud whisper: “What do you think of that?” 

Mmmm . . . I just saw two sisters who talked to each other even after death . . . that’s what I think of that.  

Joe

“The test is in the pneumatic tube,” the pharmacy tech’s crackly robotic voice says over the speaker.

Great. But which pneumatic tube? With all the other tubes and pipes and columns in the drive-thru lane, I can’t tell what’s what.

There’s a whoosh and suddenly the test appears in that tube over there — arriving like George Jetson home from Spacely’s Space Sprockets.

Darn it all, I can’t reach the tube. So I open the car door, still trying to reach through the open window, and am left hanging in space across the pavement.

How did I get in this predicament?

I blame my wife.

Although my wife and I have both shots and our boosters, my wife tested positive for COVID the other day (she is recovering nicely from her mild case, thank you). So here I am, taking my 73rd test since the pandemic began.

I slowly pull myself back in the car, bump my head on the door frame, and get out.

The lady in the car behind me glares. Now is that Iowa Nice???

Back in the car, the robot woman on the speaker tells me to open the package and remove the swab.

I can’t.

Listen, I try. Multiple times. But my big fingers can’s get that darn swab out of the package.

“Be careful, don’t touch the swab end,” blares the loudspeaker.

Really, I don’t know where the swab end is, let alone have any desire to touch anything.

Finally I get it open.

“Put the tip three-quarter inches inside your right nostril until it hits a hard spot.”

Well, the hard spot would be my brain, but I dutifully twist and twirl both nostrils.

“Now screw off the lid of the small container with liquid and put the swab in the container.”

I screw off the lid . . . and immediately drop the lid between the seat and the console.

Trust me, we have a nice enough car. Seats, steering wheel, the whole nine yards. But between the seat and the console we also have the Bermuda Triangle. Nothing and no one survives this area. Keys, popcorn, pens, French fries, and small children have dropped into this abyss and never been seen again. And now the Bermuda Triangle has swallowed the cap I’m supposed to screw back on.

I get out of the car.

Look at that. There are now five cars sitting patiently behind me. Although the woman in the first car doesn’t seem to be cheered up by my fun antics.

Moving the seat as far forward as possible, and holding high my unsealed container like a rodeo rider with a hand in the air and one hand on the rope, I bend over the back seat and reach into the dark.

“Are you having problems?” the loudspeaker lady says.

Mmmm . . . a dollar bill, a pretzel, a quarter of a glazed donut . . . and the cap.

I smile and hold it up victoriously for the cars waiting patiently in line to celebrate in my success.

The woman in the car behind me now has her head in her hands and may be crying.

I jump back in the car.

I close everything up and ask the loudspeaker lady where to put it.

“In the container.” Her tone has become tired.

I can’t see a container.

I get out of the car once more and try to forcibly open the tube door. No luck.

“In the styrofoam container,” she says after a long sigh.

Ah hah!

I open the styrofoam container, sitting on top of a garbage can next to the tube, and place my sample in with several others. When I get back into the car, I can’t close my door. So I give it a hard yank. The door knocks over the styrofoam container and the garbage can and they both crash into the parking lot.

Oops.

Perhaps I should just drive away?

Maybe to New Zealand?

Instead, being a good Iowan, I jump out of the car once more. Pick up the container and the garbage can. Place everything back where it belongs.

I glance back at the woman behind me. I can’t see her. I think she may be lying down across her front seat.

I quickly drive off.

So . . . there you go. Failure to properly take your COVID test is a litmus that answers so many questions about a person. Certainly, one of those being herd immunity and who can society best do without.

Now where is that darn drive-thru for those to be culled from the herd?

Joe

It began when she was 14 years old. Secret voices. Shameful desires. Unholy thoughts of suicide and mayhem. This went on for 26 years until she had enough of the demons and took drastic action.

She went to a convent, was restrained in a bed, and was surrounded by the “strongest nuns” the Franciscans had to offer. All well and good, until the Catholic priest began to pray over her. Immediately she lapsed into unconsciousness. Her eyes locked shut. And then . . .

“With lightening speed the possessed dislodged herself from her bed and from the hands of her guards; and her body, carried through the air, landed high above the door of the room and clung to the wall with a tenacious grip. All present were struck with a trembling fear.”

And so began the exorcism of an unidentified woman in Earling, Iowa, in 1928, as told in BEGONE, SATAN!, by Father Carl Vogl, translated from the German in 1935 by Rev. Celestine Kapsner.

Yup, Earling, Iowa.

By 1936, Time even ran an article about BEGONE, SATAN! and noted that the truth of the event was vouched for by a bishop and a monsignor — “Hence it was presumed not to err in faith or morals,” said Time.  

Indeed.

And what an ordeal it was. Screaming, howling, and cursing from the possessed was the norm. The poor woman’s face became so distorted that the nuns had to leave the room because it was unbearably gruesome. And then there was the spitting and frothing and vomiting of “excrement.” Not to mention the smell. 

Exorcisms are not for the weak of heart.

The devils possessing the woman were an impressive cast of characters — Beelzebub, Judas Iscariot, the father of the possessed woman who had attempted to sexually abuse her, and the father’s mistress who had murdered four children — just to name the main players. But there were assorted other demons who came and went like “a swarm of mosquitoes.” 

Fortunately, the exorcist, the Reverend Theophilus Riesinger, was experienced, tenacious, and carried a “consecrated Host in a pyx upon his breast in order to safeguard himself against injuries and direct attacks by the evil one.”

After 23 days, Father Theophilus blessed the woman and said: “Depart, ye fiends of Hell! Begone, Satan, the Lion of Juda reigns!”

And that was that. 

Believe it or not.

Well, 61% of Americans actually do believe it — believe in the devil, that is, according to a Gallup poll in 2016.

I’d wager that number is even larger today after two years of pandemic, multiple years of climate disasters, and centuries of most people hating folks who act a smidgeon different than themselves. There’ve been some banner years for Satan.

But does Satan get the last word for the New Year?

I don’t know . . .

What about the Des Moines woman who prepares bags every week with all sorts of essentials and money, then hands them out to the folks asking for help at street intersections?

What about the Des Moines couple who take young women in tough situations into their home and provide a safe place for the them to thrive and be loved — forever after?

What about the Urbandale woman who cares for a sick husband, sick kids, sick grandchildren, and then drives to Florida to rescue an ill, elderly aunt?

What about the Des Moines man who sits on so many boards that are crucial to the quality of our lives, reads all the materials, and makes decisions that make our world better — all without pay?

What about the Des Moines man who retired early to take care of his ill, adult daughter around the clock but still has the energy to fight for her care in court after the State refused to help — and then won?

What about the Waukee woman who gives countless hours to support sustainable farming and healthy food for all of us?

And what about the genuine smiles from the staff at the coffee shops, the hardware stores, the restaurants and bars, and wherever I go for groceries?

Really? Smiles? With all these devils running around?

That same Gallup poll in 2016 found that 72% of Americans believe in angels.

Personally, I’ve never met either Beelzebub or Judas Iscariot, and am not much of a believer in devils. Although reading about the exorcism in Earling did scare the bejesus out of me — where did I put my consecrated Host in a pyx anyway?

But I am bullish on Iowa angels. I know more than a few. Good people. Good Iowans. And so I suggest a new book for Father Carl Vogl: 

COME HITHER, IOWA ANGELS! 

Why not?

Joe