Holding her thin hand and rubbing her thin back, I sit quietly beside her wheelchair.

She smiles and I swear a light comes into her eyes. 

I know what you’re going to say — it is all malarky about the “eyes lighting up,” or “sparkling eyes,” or “twinkling eyes,” or a “wink of the eye,” but I’ll be darned, her eyes did light up.

Clearly, Sister Marla Smith is here and ready to be counted.

“That feels nice,” she says out of nowhere.

It is late fall in Iowa. The birdbath is frozen when I leave Des Moines in the morning. The sun is a bit dimmer. The grass is matted and brown. The orange and red and yellow leaves are now a shade of mud. 

“Winter is coming.”

Dire words written by George R.R. Martin in his Game of Thrones series for the fictional land of Westeros. 

Yup, winter is coming. Sure, maybe not White Walkers, but certainly snow plows and subzero temps. 

For my aunt, Sister Marla Smith, this is her 99th winter. Ninety-nine years gives one a bit of perspective, I imagine. And with no one left alive of her generation, who is going to argue with her about how much snow actually fell in the great blizzard when her father had to drive draft horses through giant drifts to get to the barn? No one. Even her father who loved a good story can’t back her up any more.  

A thin, tough woman with iron grey hair and bright eyes, Sister Marla is dogged and compassionate and kind and smart. Just a few months ago she laughed and joked and ate dark chocolates. But she has taken a turn and is struggling a bit.

The inevitable change of seasons I guess, but what a ride it has been. 

My aunt used to order her life very specifically — church and work, work and church. Which is why she surprised me 45 years ago when she rented a piano for me, an obnoxious unbeliever, to practice on as I lived with her elderly father. And if that wasn’t out of her wheelhouse, she then she set me up on dates with her other dietitian friends and interns. Unbelievable as it sounds, I had never dated anyone who specialized in white sauce for their degree. But thanks to Sister Marla, that empty spot on my to-do list is now checked. 

But where she caught me most by surprise is when she insisted we take disco dance classes together. My only regret of that time is that the Franciscans were no longer wearing their habits. That would have been a picture. And she was a superb dancer. Naturally. 

“Now is the winter of our discontent . . . ”  A young King Richard delivers this line for Shakespeare. And it might describe a winter day in Iowa where the snow is dirty and hard-packed and the wind slices through the small, exposed neck of your coat and there is a real possibility that spring will never come and you might as well lie down in the snow and call it quits.

Really? Is that helpful? 

Winter IS coming, but don’t you love the quiet, peacefulness of an Iowa winter day where nothing stirs, you are the only living person outside, and the crystal air is sharp and pure and the sun reflects bright off the tops of the snow? You are alone in the universe and the universe is good. 

When asked a couple of months ago about whether she was sad after the death of a dear friend, Sister Marla said, “Why? She is in a great place.” 

As is Iowa, when the wind blows down from Canada and the smell of woodsmoke drifts across the snow and the eagles and hawks float gracefully over a pure, white world.  

I drive away from my aunt’s home at Saint Francis Convent in Dubuque thinking about life. Playing on the radio is the classic hit by KC and the Sunshine Band:

“Oh, do a little dance, make a little love
Get down tonight, get down tonight
Do a little dance, make a little love
Get down tonight, get down tonight”

And there she is. Doing the hustle. Wide smiled and loose limbed. And look at that — she is ending with a dramatic John Travolta point towards the heavens.

And her eyes light up. Trust me.    

Joe

The parking lot is full. Men in dress pants and jackets, women in dresses and skirts. Many my age, but I recognize only a few souls. In hushed voices we enter the church. It’s a weekday afternoon.

The obit read: “Yes, that’s a Monday, Sam’s day off. We knew he would not want to miss any work.”

Listen, over 35 years ago I walk into the shop on 42nd street without an appointment. A man with a kind smile is cutting hair. He tells me to sit and that he’ll be right with me. He goes back to his conversation with the guy in the barber chair. 

I pick up a newspaper. 

Now you may be wondering what I’m doing in a barbershop. Believe it or not, there was a time I had some hair. Not much. But some. And my wife directed me to get the few hairs I had cut. This was all part of my wife’s ongoing program to make me presentable to the public. A thankless task. So here I was at Uptown Barber Stylist trying to get some style.

I found something else.

The barber, Sam Reese, is talking. But not just passing-the-time talking. He talks of life, women, marriage, kids. He talks about manhood and its real meaning. He talks about compassion and understanding. He talks about truth.

All before I even get in the chair!

I am smitten.

It dawns on me that this is a sacred place and this job of getting a haircut is a sacred event.

And I become a fan even though I have no hair to cut.

“Aging is a journey that many don’t experience. They were born old and they die old.”

Sam told me this last winter. He was always a philosopher, but he carried the mantle more openly as the years passed.

“Unfortunately, living a specific number of years is not the real gauge of ‘old.’ You are not old because you are not as handsome, or because your step is challenged, or because you have a different body ache daily,” said the handsome Sam the Barber.

Really? Old is all in your head?

“It’s kind of crazy! I don’t see ME in the mirror. When I see a photo, I just say I’m not photogenic anymore.”

Then what is old, Sam?

“You are old when you can’t physically and mentally enjoy how wonderful life was when you fell in LOVE!”

A romantic down to the marrow. Sam then always made fun of his “foolish” self. But then he would make the same romantic observation again — just in case you missed it. 

And time passed. Sam married and cut hair. He had children and cut hair. He married again and cut hair. He had another child and cut hair. He had nine grandchildren and cut hair. 

Several years ago he talked about retirement.

“When I retire, I’ll probably go to work for Trader Joe’s. Cause I like that store. And, you  know, I have enough personal skills I could get hired out there. In fact, everybody out there ought to be my age. Cause we go to work. We don’t get sick. We just die. If he didn’t show up, well he’s dead.”

This honesty is unnerving in a guy with a scissors so close to your ears.

A guy who says things like: “There is really only one attribute you’re looking for in a woman . . . it’s that she likes you for you. And then you can look for something else you like about her. If you don’t have that one, you have nothing.”

“Amen,” the barbershop chorus says.

Saint Anthony’s Catholic Church is full. The family greets each person at the door. I sit uncomfortably in the back of the church where I imagine the unbelievers should sit. The priest, Father PJ McManus, talks about the emergency haircut he got from Sam when just a little boy and this story leads to the return of Lazarus. Colin Reese, Sam’s son, talks emotionally about the lessons his father gave him growing up and as a grown man. The chorus sings beautiful haunting hymns.

I wipe my eyes.

Sam’s mantra rings in my ears: “Cause we go to work. We don’t get sick. We just die.” 

And he did go to work.

And he didn’t get sick.

And he did just die.

But didn’t he have a hell of a lot to say to the rest of us in the in-betweens . . . ?

May Sam rest in peace.

Joe

The street is narrow, poorly lit, and foreign. Cobblestones poke into my thin-soled sandals. White sheets on clotheslines flutter like bat wings high above our heads. A shadowed man lumbers down the street. Black and white sidewalk tiles, arranged in strange, ancient patterns, point us forward to . . .  

. . . to the restaurant recommended by the guy at our hotel in Lisbon.

“If you want true Portuguese food, this is the place to go,” he says.

We walk into a small bar with three tables up against the wall. Five men at the bar are glued to the soccer game on the mounted TV. 

A loud cheer comes from the men as we enter.

The cheer is not for us. 

The server smiles and ushers us to one of the tables. Dione is his name.

After serving us Portuguese wine, Portuguese olives, and Portuguese cheese, Dione hesitates when we order a very traditional Portuguese main dish off the menu.

“Tourists generally do not like this dish,” he says.

Well, apparently he doesn’t get too many tourists from Iowa. 

Bacalhau com natas — or as we would say in Des Moines — Hash Brown Casserole. Yup, just a slight variation on the ever popular Tater Tot Casserole. Which is a slight variation on Tuna Noodle Casserole. Which ultimately leads to Macaroni and Cheese Casserole. In other words, this is HOME cooking.

I dig in and am transported back to grade school lunches in Iowa City, a gazillion years ago, where the lunch ladies in white hairnets served large portions of mashed potatoes mixed with any leftovers from yesterday’s meal. These delicacies were dished up in an ice cream scoop and plopped into the middle of a divided, plastic plate. 

Fine dining at its best.

So, Dione, what’s in this?

“Fried potatoes, coriander, eggs, leeks, cream, and cod.”

Of course.

Or as my mom would call it — leftovers mixed with potatoes. 

Okay, this restaurant, and many folks who follow casserole recipes, use only the freshest ingredients. I get it. The fresher the better. Right?

That seems a loss. 

Now follow me here, this is about old age, which you’ll grow into if you’re lucky. 

I want you to imagine your last family and friends holiday meal. Christmas, for example, if you are of that bent. In our home we make potatoes, gravy, turkey, stuffing, corn, beans, cranberry salad, and pie. It is a madhouse of labor. A labor of love to be sure. But it is truly hard work. 

The next day, I mix nearly everything into one pot and fry it up. Yup, a mashed-up mess. Easy peasy. 

What is it called? Delicious.

Is this turkey casserole better than the previous day meal? By a mile.

There you go.

So, are you following?

We all grow up. We are in relationships — or not. We have children — or not. We have work friends and school friends and church friends and gym friends and we are friends to the parents of our kids’ friends — or we aren’t.

And we get older. We get a bit dinged up and we do rehab to partially un-ding ourselves. People come into our lives and people leave our lives. We stay in our jobs and we leave our jobs. We become caretakers and we are taken care of. We wear out in subtle and not so subtle ways.

Yup, we become leftovers.

You can guess where I’m going here.

Just mix in a few potatoes and we are better than ever. We are the turkey casserole the day after Christmas. We are tater tot casserole with double the tater tots. We are mac and cheese with potato chips sprinkled on top. 

We are delicious.

Really?

Who knows. 

But I still love casseroles. 

Joe

The endless white sand beaches of southern Portugal are baked in bright sun, sprinkled  with salty air, and filled with thousands of people up and down the coastline. Families, teenagers, the very old and the very young.

And us.

We are so not beach people. Coming from Northern European stock, my wife and I have major parts of the body that have never seen the light of day. We don’t quite bathe in our long underwear, but if the sun does hit a patch of my wife’s skin, the choice of colors are red or bright red.

So we come to the beach with hats, sunglasses, long-sleeved sun shirts, umbrellas, SPF 1000 sunscreen, and large beach towels wrapped around our legs. Eye-catching.

Whereas everyone else comes to the Portugal beaches with, you guessed it, a thong.

Yup, a thin piece of cloth that seems at most an afterthought. And I mean “everyone.” Okay, not the men, but every adult woman, regardless of age and regardless of any preconceived notions of the “proper” size or shape, wears a thong.

I’m not really sure how to think about it. On the one hand, my traditional religious upbringing tells me to look politely away because they obviously left the house forgetting to put on their pants. On the other hand, my old-man sensibilities are that life is short, the body is beautiful, the less clothes the better — “let freedom ring.”

And I get what’s going on. The heat and the bright sun and the sand and the water all whisper in your ear that there should be no barrier between you and the elements. I remember my oldest boy when he was a child and first saw Lake Michigan. He ran ahead of us, down the sand dune, screaming with delight and shedding clothes all the way to the water, where he stood as naked as Adam and Eve in the Garden.

It just makes sense . . . as I adjust my long underwear and peek out from under our umbrella at the people having fun.

My rumination ends, however, when I hear a sing-song shout over the beach crowd:

“BOLINHAS! BOLINHAS! BOLINNNNNNNNNHAS!”

Given my carny relations, I recognize the bark of a vendor anywhere in the world.

“BOLINNNNNNNNHAS!”

And in case you missed what what occurring with the sing-song shouts, the bolinhas man pumps the bulb on a horn straight from Harpo Marx.

“Honk, honk, hoooooonk.”

My two-year-old granddaughter and I are sold. We wave to the man.

Two baskets are strapped over his shoulders. He gestures to donut custard delights on one side or donut Nutella delights on the other. Bolinhas!

We buy both kinds.

My granddaughter heartily bites into a creme-filled donut the size of her head. Custard gushes out and smears her face. Who cares about a mess when the ocean is steps away? Mine tastes of the sand on my face and the ocean salt in my mouth and deliciousness.

Ahhhhhhhhhhh.

What is going on? Donuts on the beach?

Yup.

And like all wondrous thing, this donut has a twisting path. According to Etienne Roeder, writing for Deutchlandfunk Kultur (and translated by Google Translate), it all began in the 1930’s when Jews were fleeing the Nazis and finding some kind of refuge in Portugal. A Jewish woman began baking and selling a popular Berlin donut as a way to survive without a work permit. This fried, hole-less donut was filled with jam. When the filling switched to an egg-based yellow cream (creme pasteleiro) to accommodate the Portuguese passion for custard, it became a hit.

I worked at a bakery in Iowa City when I was young, where we sold this same donut as bismarcks (a variation on the original German donut called a berliner). When left alone in the bakery at 3 a.m., I would deep-fat fry the bismarck dough, pump the inside with twice the usual amount of custard, and sit on a box eating a bit of paradise.

Heaven.

So each day we drive from our home in the hills to the white-sand beaches. We park and trek across the wooden boardwalks above cactus, scurrying crabs, and long grasses. At the sand, we slip out of our shoes and begin to look for a spot among the hundreds of beach umbrellas. And it is then, if we listen closely, we hear a cry softly floating on the wind.

“Bolinhas!”

“Do I hear somethin’?” My granddaughter excitedly shakes her grandma’s and grandpa’s hands.

“I think so,” I say.

We strip off our towels, hats, sunglasses, sun shirts and race to get our first donut of the day.

At last.

Custard sticks to my face. My eyes are slightly glazed. And my belly is transforming into a bolinha.

Mmmm . . . I wonder if we could race to the bolinhas man more quickly in a thong?

Joe

The train station’s awning stretches out over the platform with a slight ironic flip just before the tracks. Stucco walls, clay-tile roof, tile floors. The tracks out front run from the western Atlantic all the way to eastern Spain. 

A busy center of transportation.

Or not.  

With backpacks slung over our shoulders, we blink in the bleach-bright sun as we step off the train. It is nearly 6 p.m. on a Saturday. The town is Tavira. Not a soul around.  

Having taken the train from Lisbon, we are to meet our son in his rental car. Of course, we are supposed to call him to say we’re here. But as luck would have it, we have no battery left on either phone and no place to charge them. Our only hope is the train station.

Shoot! The station is locked solid. Even the bathrooms. 

Oh well. There is a bar attached to the station. It has a counter at the door and outside seating on a small patio with plastic red and black chairs. I order a beer and ask the owner, who speaks exactly as much English as I speak Portuguese, whether we could plug in a phone behind the counter. After multiple foolish hand gestures on my part, he smiles, takes my cord, and plugs me in. 

My wife leaves me for the grocery store across the street.

I sit with my beer.

Three men, the only other customers, sit in a small circle on the other side of the patio. The older one of the three calls me over.

“How are you?” he says in British English, capped with a large friendly smile.

Being married to an Irish woman, I realize how little it takes to get a storyteller to tell a story. One moment you are asking them to pass the salt, and the next moment they are telling you that they were born in Hastings, Nebraska, and their great-grandmother, who lived in Hastings for a time, had rescued all 9 of her children from a burning farm house in western Minnesota but was supposedly unable to rescue her husband.

“Really?” you say. Which is a response like manna to a storyteller. 

And when my wife — excuse me, the storyteller — shares information about her relative’s murderous past, you feel compelled to open up and tell a few stories of your own — ne’er-do-well uncles, philandering husbands, adult children without prospects.  

And before you know it, you have a new best friend. 

Jeff, my British new best friend, is a storyteller. He speaks of his 41 years in Portugal, his conversion experience from agnosticism, his job running a charitable organization, and his wish to buy me another beer and a delicious sandwich of homemade bread stuffed with pork and cheese — bar food in this neck of the woods.

“You’ve never had anything like this,” he promises. 

I bite the sandwich.

I decide to move to Portugal. 

Jeff introduces me to Pedro, who, Jeff informs me, can’t understand me and I can’t understand him.

Pedro give me an encouraging nod.

The third man, says hello in a strong Russian accent.

“Dmitri.” And he stands and shakes my hand. 

I ask Dmitri if he’s from Russia. 

Dmitri looks at me with cool-blue eyes and tells me that he is ex-KGB. He laughs quietly. 

Just like I’d expect an ex-KGB agent to laugh.

Dmitri pulls his chair over, a burning cigarette cupped carefully in one hand, and asks about my life and interests in Iowa.  

“Is this an interrogation?” I ask, partially joking. 

Dmitri smiles. We finish our beers.  

Dmitri offers to buy another round. He has been painting walls all day at the school across the street and explains he has a thirst. 

Jeff thinks we should also buy more sandwiches. “Life is short,” he shrugs. 

The beers arrive and we toast each other in high spirits. 

I eat another sandwich.

Pedro smiles. 

More Portuguese beer. More sandwiches. 

At the age of 67, I’ve experienced a bit of life’s ups and downs. More ups than downs, but I’ve been around. So I make a momentous life decision in my red plastic chair on a bar patio in Portugal . . .

I’m never leaving my new friends, this bar, or Portugal.   

Just then I see my wife waving at me across the street, pointing to a car driven by my son, and gesturing for me to hurry over.

My three friends give me knowing smiles and I realize it’s too late to pretend I don’t know the hand-waving woman.  

Mmmmm . . . train station in southern Portugal with my new best friends or life in Des Moines?

I unplug my phone, give everyone a handshake . . . and run to the car. 

Joe

Late August in southern Portugal. The air is clear and mildly salty. The sun beats hot and painfully bright. The cicadas sing in the trees.

Did you know the sound of cicadas comes from the contraction and release of their tummies? No kidding. And it’s the males being seductively noisy. Fortunately, neither the female nor the male die in the end. Well, they do die. But not from their amorous behavior. That’s always a blessing.  

Portugal. Land of Port wine, beautiful beaches, and unbelievable mosaic tiles. Camped out on top of a hill in an airbnb, my family is lethargic from the intense sun and endless ocean. At this moment, we are stretched out on chaise lounges with our bellies full of melons and figs picked from a nearby tree and every Portuguese pastry you can imagine. 

In the middle of a worldwide pandemic.

Yup, hospitals are again filling in the U.S. as the rate of COVID-19 infection climbs. New variants. Unvaccinated people. The sheer mind-numbing boredom of 18 months of fear and isolation. Argggggggg . . . .

But plane tickets and house reservations bought two years ago can no longer be delayed.

So here we are. Portugal. It took full vaccinations for all but the two year old, proof of negative COVID tests at four different checkpoints (two in the U.S., one in Paris, and one in Lisbon), and masks masks masks.   

Whew. 

We land in Lisbon, a wonderful, moody town of narrow streets and tiny restaurants.

That night, we pass a hole-in-the-wall bar, where old men sit with shirts partially unbuttoned and cocked, straw hats. Across the cobbled street is a well-lit restaurant — Restaurante Leitao do Prior.

Joao Simoes tells me in good English that their specialty is suckling pig.

“We clean the pig, put the sauce inside, close it up, and cook the whole pig.” 

Of course he does. 

The meal is served with home-cut potato chips, homemade bread, olives, goat cheese, salad drizzled in olive oil, and . . . a platter full of pork.

This is a family operation consisting of Joao, his brother-in-law, and the two sisters they married. Like all restauranteurs, it’s been a tough time during the pandemic. And the tough time isn’t over yet. Carry-out has saved the day so far, according to Joao. Just barely. 

There is only one other customer at the tables in the restaurant. It’s Friday night.

“The pig is only good the same day it is cooked. If we figure out the numbers wrong, we have to throw it away.”

But in spite of the doom and gloom of Covid, Joao welcomes us into his world.

First, the family is brought out from the kitchen and introduced as if we are the visiting in-laws. 

Then appetizers, the main course, and three different homemade desserts are brought to the table. Each more spectacular than the last.

Finally, after-dinner drinks are poured — Port wine, Portuguese brandy, and two espressos. 

“Do we want more?”

Only if you have a pushcart to get us home. 

The only other customer smiles. He says to be careful with the brandy. 

I ask if he eats here often.

He pats his stomach, “I don’t dare.” 

“And what do you do for work?” I ask.

“I’m an air traffic controller at the Lisbon Airport.”

Which, of course, opens the door for him and my youngest son to analyze every airplane disaster that has ever occurred. Really?

I sip my brandy and ignore them.

That was two days ago. 

And now I feel the bright heat in southern Portugal as the wind comes down from the hills and the cicadas do their alluring dance. 

Did I tell you the male and female survive?

Joe

Why not bike all the Des Moines area bike trails and write about them?

Well, there is the fact that my knees are unwilling to bend after two, fun-filled knee replacements. Listen, I’m not complaining, but to get out of the swimming pool with my granddaughter, I have to shoot up like a whale next to the edge of the pool, land on my side, and then do a downward dog to get to my feet. This advanced whale-maneuver does not help in getting on a bike or, surprisingly, getting a date — as my wife tells me.

And if that circus show wasn’t enough, I’m now weighing in at such a hefty amount that my belly is a sentient being demanding the right to vote, own property, and, like all good Americans, carry a machine gun without a permit. I get it. Live free or die. But now I have an unwanted guest claiming election fraud and going wherever I go. 

And finally, perhaps the coup de grâce, I’m afraid of falling off my bike after multiple bike accidents. Seriously, I don’t have that many remaining front teeth or remaining unfused vertebrae to put Humpty Dumpty back together again.

So, it’s decided.

Let’s start with Urbandale. 

South Karen Acres Park. Shooting off Roseland Drive, I cross a narrow wooden bridge and ride into a treed park hidden in the middle of residential backyards. Tennis courts (top notch), playgrounds, and bathrooms. This is a place to get away from the world. Peaceful. Quiet. A spiritual retreat.

“Whack!” I flinch as a tennis ball rockets across the court. Two women, aged somewhere between 30 and 80, are playing a no-holds-barred match. The volley is fierce as I weave around the courts trying to avoid becoming collateral damage. Thank goodness for my bicycle flack helmet.

Suddenly the volley ends and the two women laugh with exhaustion and grab their water bottles. 

Whew. Thank goodness our murderous instincts require hydration.

Down the hill I go, past the apartments, around a small golf course, and across 78th Street.

Flowers flowers flowers.

And the trail turns into a tunnel of trees following the winding North Walnut Creek. Rabbits, squirrels, birds, baby deer. Breathtaking.

But what is really breathtaking is to look into people’s back yards. This should be called the Gladys Kravitz Thruway. It is a snooper’s paradise, which is fortunate because I am a professional. And those folks living along the trail have outdone themselves. Beautiful flower gardens. Sculptures. Carved walkways of crushed stone or cinders. One resident even has signs “blessing you” for not letting your dog poop in their flowers.

I would love to live in this neighborhood, but I’d never meet the “be kind” zoning requirement. It’s my joy in teasing my granddaughter that is at fault. And, really, who’s to say I’m wrong when I tell her that her parents might not be coming back? 

Down through the tunnel under 86th Street and into Colby Woods Park and the Charles Gabus Memorial Tree Park. A place of small winding trails, sculptures at every turn, massive trees, and a grandfather reading a book to both his granddaughter and a crazed biker. 

Past the dancing children sculpture, I cross the bridge to Walker Johnson Park. 

Walker Johnson Park is a paradise of slides and swings and tennis courts and ball fields and a skate park and a pond. At the pond, two little boys drink pop and try to catch minnows with a small net. I’d love to bother them, but they are looking too happy. And I already know their story. 

Once upon a time there were two young boys, Owen and Zach. They were quiet boys who did not draw much attention from anyone except when they were told to “Watch out! Get out of the way!”

And they did watch out and they did get out of the way.

One day, Owen was at the tennis court watching his sister and her friends. And Zach was at the skate park watching his brother and his friends. Owen’s sister told him to get out of the way. Zach’s brother told him to get out of the way.

So Owen went to the pond to see if there were any frogs. And Zach went to the pond to see if there were any turtles. They didn’t see any turtles or frogs, but they did see each other.

Zach went and got two nets from his brother’s car. And Owen went and got two pops from his sister’s car. And Owen and Zach looked for minnows and drank pop. Happily. Quietly. Together. The End. 

It could be true. 

Time to climb back out of the parks and head home. 

My oh my, what’s this on the side of the trail?

A manhole cover painted by Buck Jones and sponsored by the Urbandale Public Art Committee. 

So I text Buck.

“Buck, was this some wild, out-of-control flashback?”

Buck texted me that there were (or are) beavers in this area: “So that design was picked because of that and for its playfulness, thinking it might bring smiles to those passing by.”

And I smile.

Playfully.

And I bike home.

Joe

This is not going to be an unbiased examination of John Sarcone’s tenure as Polk County Attorney — with an accompanying hard-hitting look at why he prefers Italian sausage sandwiches to beef burgers.

Sorry.

Nor is this going to be a tell-all about Sarcone’s staff and why someone, they know who they are, felt the urge to eat more than their share of donuts on Friday donut days. Certainly a pertinent line of inquiry, but not today.  

Sorry again. 

And don’t think for a moment that this going to be a serious discussion about charging decisions, or office administrative practices, or a review of important court cases in Polk County. Listen, I’ve been retired for 10 years and I don’t even know where the criminal courthouse is presently located. Is it by the Crusoe Umbrella? Gray’s Lake? Upstairs at Lucca?

So so sorry.

Rather, this is going to be about bosses. My boss, to be exact. 

John Sarcone was my boss for two-thirds of my legal career.

He was a painfully straight-laced guy.

I was raised Catholic before I turned to the warmer climates of the fallen away. I knew folks just like Sarcone when I was growing up. Those older Catholic men who belonged to charitable organizations and the Knights of Columbus and were very much concerned about right and wrong, deeply loyal to family and friends, and extremely devout, … but also wanting to sin just a little, like eating cheesy pasta for lunch when they’re supposed to be eating salads. Yup, wild and crazy guys, that’s Sarcone’s gang.

What you saw of Sarcone was exactly who he was. No hidden agendas. No double speak. No playing the angles. When I would disagree with him, it did not require guesswork as to his real position, which was as evident as the ashes on his forehead from Ash Wednesday services. And he did love the tussle over disagreements. Thank goodness he became a lawyer and thank goodness he married a tough woman.

Look at Sarcone’s start. He was a defense lawyer in the public defenders office where he fought for those who had no voice. Trust me, he remembers every case and every individual because he talked about them on our noon-hour runs until I wanted to jump in the Des Moines River to escape all law-related discussions. And, also trust me, never once did I hear him speak ill of his clients — only opposing counsel. Yup, if a lawyer was on his bad list, they definitely earned a lump of coal from him at Christmas.

Sarcone then turned around and fought to protect the environment in Iowa. Long before Greta Thunberg was even born. When I was teaching cops up and down the Missouri River, Sarcone had me drive out to the river to see evidence of his legal battles for the Iowa Attorney General’s Office, Environmental Division. He was proud of their success and should be. 

And then Sarcone became my boss after politically defeating my old boss, Jim Smith. Oops. That left me sitting a little precariously on the tightrope of politics. But he kept me out of the purge. Why? Maybe he just wanted to put a lawyer in the dead-end, hallway cubicle that overlooked the fire escape. I did know how to open those windows in an emergency. As my mom says, make yourself useful.

So he gave me a job and 20 years disappeared under Sarcone.

And here’s how I passed the time:

— I investigated the death of a young man in a small neighboring town. Sarcone was urged to prosecute by the media and the public. After Shirley Ballard, my right-arm investigator, and I interviewed witnesses and examined all the evidence, we told Sarcone there was no case. He grilled me, thought about it, and refused to charge. He took a hit in the press. His response? It was the right thing to do.  

— I lost a high-profile murder case — front page news — because damning evidence was excluded. Sarcone searched me out, bought me a coffee, and told me I did the right thing. Then reminded me to not take it personally and to get started on the next case. Of course, that was baloney. We all took it personally . . . including him. But I appreciated the sentiment. 

— He and I were door-knocking to get out the vote for one of his many races for County Attorney. Neighbor after neighbor complained about a recent case in the news — unbeknownst to them, my case. Their complaints were aggressive and negative. He heard it all. After we were done, he ignored the negativity, laughed at my discomfort, and asked me if I wanted to go get a “real” sausage sandwich at a joint he knew around the corner. 

Did you know that the job of prosecutor, as defined by law, is to do justice? Not to charge people. Not to win cases. Not to be popular.

To do justice.

So you may or may not like John Sarcone. That’s all right. You may fault his charging decisions. Everyone has an opinion. You may think he stayed on too long or not long enough. Who doesn’t suffer from that complaint?

You might not even like his haircut.

Really?

Here’s what I care about — I had a boss that always tried to do justice. Did he get it right every time? Of course not. Did he try? Yup.

That deserves an Italian sausage sandwich.

May John Sarcone enjoy his retirement. 

Joe

“When I was in Indianapolis during World War II, I lived in a large house that only boarded girls. I was 17 years old.” 

My 94-year-old mom sits low in the front passenger seat as we drive across Iowa.

Clutched in her left hand is a bag full of crackers, cookies, and apples. Clutched in her right hand is a white cotton sweater. The bank says the temperature is 91 degrees outside. 

“One of the girls had a fiancé in the war. One day they came and told her he had been killed. Her fiancé was actually the brother of another girl in the house. It was very hard.”

Very hard? I feel sick at the idea.

“But, you know, that Christmas salad you’ve love so much? That recipe came from the mother who ran that boarding house,” says my mom smiling. 

I rub my neck from the whiplash. 

We speed past Webster City and continue east toward Dubuque.  

A road trip. It’s time for my 94-year-old mom to visit her 98-year-old sister and put this pandemic in the rearview mirror. Everyone has their shots and the convent where my aunt the Catholic nun is staying is cautiously opening its doors. It’s time for a visit between these two women with 192 years lived between them. 

A questionnaire, a temperature check, and the strong gaze from the statute of the mother of Jesus, allows our admittance to the wing that houses my aunt.

A white haired woman in a wheel chair is roaming the halls on the second floor waiting for us.

Yahoo! My 98-year-old aunt.

Laughter, joy, embrace, embrace, embrace, and more laughter.

My aunt’s namesake, my sister, Marla, joins us and gives a gift of a box of chocolates to my aunt. A holy moment as we all rifle through the chocolates like we were youngsters.  

And the next morning, my aunt remembers those chocolates.

“Someone came to visit me yesterday and brought me a lovely gift. I’m not sure who it was, but you have to try these chocolates.” 

My aunt gives my sister a sly smile to let us know she isn’t a bit confused, and then laughs uproariously at her own joke as she once more passes the box of chocolates.

High humor at the convent.

Although, I did need a little levity after a tense early morning.

My mother was on the first floor of a motel, while my room was on the second. About 8 a.m., I start worrying about this 94-year-old alone in a motel room. So I call her cell phone.

No answer.

I knock on her door for about five minutes.

No answer.

Admittedly, she is hard of hearing even with hearing aids.

I knock harder and louder.

No answer.

I go to the manager’s office about a half block away and have another key made and ask them to call her room on a landline.

The key doesn’t work. She doesn’t pick up the phone.

Back at the manager’s office, they agree to contact the mechanic to take her door off. 

I walk back to her room wondering who I contact to transport her body back home.

I knock on the door again, hopelessly. 

Suddenly she opens the door.

“What is all this fuss is all about? I’m trying to sleep.”

So you see, I needed a little humor at the convent. And the two of them are silly happy. 

As they talk about the last year, it is hard to ignore the vitality of these two women. I eavesdrop on their conversations.

“I’m so sorry your friend died a week ago,” my mom says.

“Why?” says my aunt, eyes wide, surprised. “She is in a good place.” 

They both nod and look into the distance. 

Listening to them, I know my heretical soul is in trouble. Even when I was a believer I couldn’t get all my body parts out of purgatory. I am so clearly one of the damned. 

I eat another chocolate. 

Finally, it is time to go. A sad glance back at my waving aunt.

As we drive away, my mom hands me an apple from her bag and pushes her sweater in my direction.

I take a bite.  

“So, did I tell you where I got the recipe for the Christmas salad?” she says. 

Joe

“Ouch!”

I touch the sun-heated metal on the snow shovels stacked in the driveway.

Who would have thought? A burn from a snow shovel? Is it an omen?

It’s moving day during an Iowa summer. No time for whining. Get those dishes packed into boxes. Carry that massive table outside. Bend and curve the dining hutch out the too-small door. Get to work, Weeg.

Okay, I have done a few moves in my day. And moving is certainly one measure of my fitness level, my annoying good cheer, and how many days until my wife files for divorce.

It’s a simple measurement, really, I am either the largest pumpkin at the Iowa State Fair . . .

.  . . or the stuff that gets carried away in a cart at the end of the day.

I’m not too worried. Heck, I’ve moved before. This isn’t my first U-Haul.

More than a few years ago, a friend and I filled a giant truck in the rain in Indianola only to discover that the tires were stuck deep in the mud while my pregnant wife and his pregnant wife sat on the front porch and provided helpful encouragement.

And we were encouraged. Soon we had the truck out and headed down the road to our new home.

A half dozen years later, I moved with my two-year-old (in a buckled carseat, I swear!). She magically opened the backseat door at the corner of Merle Hay Road and Urbandale Avenue and let the two cats out. Disaster.

And then she tumbled out. Oh no!

And then passerbys helpfully yelled at me for being a rotten dad. Just what I needed.

But, trust me, I got everyone back in the car and safely home before I was sent to the slammer. Another successful move.

And I’m not even counting all the moves of my adult kids and their significant others — who I helped many more times than good parenting required. I’m sure it’s true that I single-handedly ushered in a narcissistic generation when I moved kids out of our home, moved kids back into our home, moved kids out, and then moved them back in for another round.

Yup, I am one heck of a mover.

And I am moving today.

But I am old. And I am tired. And perhaps I should be drinking beer under a tent on the Grand Concourse with the other old men. This is going to be a chasing-youth disaster.

But the die has been cast.

So I get up early and swallow a few anticipatory ibuprofen. I put sunscreen on my nose hoping my rosacea won’t scare small children and puppies. I dress in battered shorts and a Raygun t-shirt that says “It’s rainbow time, bitch.” I flex my fingers.

I’m ready.

My middle son and I lurch out of the parking lot of the U-Haul store with a large truck, our heads snapping forwards and back as the automatic shifting bounces my already muddled brains. And we’re off.

“I know that I might not really be up for this,” I tell my son as I drive along. “It’s been more than a few years since I last moved anyone.”

My son looks grim.

“But our neighbor is going to help. We got this,” I say with a hollow cheer.

My son just shakes his head, turns away from me, and takes a long draw on his vape.

The neighbor and my son help with the heavy lifting. My wife and I sweat through our shirts. And the house is emptied. Eight hours later.

Success.

I am euphoric. I didn’t die. The job is done. We are moved out.

My son and I sit high in the truck and cruise down the road. Team Weeg.

Which of course reminds me of when I was a young boy and sat high in a U-haul with my thirty-something dad and my younger brother moving from Michigan to Iowa. After the truck was unloaded, we all laid back against the front porch eating watermelon that we cracked open on the edge of the step. And we spat watermelon seeds for distance. We were giants.

“That was a good time,” I tell my own son as we are driving back to the U-haul store.

Then . . . I turn too tight, smack the curb, drive over some landscaping, and crash back on the road.

We gasp.

We stop.

We slowly breath.

“I won’t tell anyone,” says my son generously.

Too late . . . the State Fair judges point to the manure cart.

Really?

Which is why I am now at the big slide.

Duh. I was just in the wrong competition. I’m a great slider from way back.

Let me tell you about that time I . . .

Joe