“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

Everyone has to start somewhere. Perhaps it’s your first car, or it’s your first day after graduation, or it’s your first baby, or it’s your first love, or it’s your first Monday back in the office after a year and a half appearing for work in your pajama bottoms — yes, I know, cleverly accessorized with a white shirt and tie.

But there is always an “In the beginning” moment.

As the Good Book says, God woke up and decided to begin the first day by creating “the heaven and the earth.” See, that was a good start. Sort of like when you were drifting along in an Instagram haze and suddenly decided to make that Angel Food Cake with lemon icing that someone posted. Excellent first effort.

But it’s never a straight line from here to there, is it?

Paul Houston was a young man with goals. His big ambition was to do music.

“Played the trombone in high school. I was mediocre. Went on to Northeast Missouri State to be a band director. My faculty advisor, who also taught Music Theory 101, called me in at the end of my first semester and said: ‘Paul, have you thought of a different career because I probably should give you an F but I’m gonna give you a D-.’ I thanked him for showing me the light.”

Paul — silver goateed, eyes crinkled with mischief, coffee cup smothered in his hand — laughs. 

“I switched majors to criminal justice.” 

The deal was that Paul had little money. His dad had died when he was 15 and his mom didn’t make enough as a school teacher.

“So I signed up to be a campus cop and worked with the future chief of police in Forest City, Doug Book. After school, I was hired to be a cop in Forest City.”

Not quite the band director career Paul imagined.

“I was a rookie cop, wet behind the ears. Nothing teaches you more quickly than working the street and sometimes it will teach you a harsh lesson.”

A new beginning . . .

“It was Halloween and I was patrolling by Waldorf College and suddenly I had a whole bunch of eggs thrown on my car. Of course, being 21 years of age, I’m out the squad car door running after these guys.

Did you catch them?

“Well, I was running through backyards when suddenly– kaboom!”

Were you shot?

“Nope, I ran into a clothesline.”

Life is tricky and rarely heroic.

“There’s more,” Paul says. 

“I was on patrol one evening and I caught Dave Gambell taking a whiz on the side of the courthouse.”

A whiz? Really?

Gambell was arrested for public intoxication and open container. While in custody, Gambell had other legal problems and he ended up in the Winnebago County Courthouse for a bond hearing. 

Gambell’s lawyer came in to meet with his client while Paul waited in the courtroom. 

“The young lawyer, who had just started his law practice, met Gambell in the little room off the courtroom on the second floor,” Paul says. 

Before long it was time for Gambell’s hearing and he was called to court.

A small problem. Gambell was no longer in the small room. The screen was out of the window and Gambell had vanished. 

“The window was open. It was a panic. ‘Ring the bells! The suspect has fled.'” Paul raises the cry nearly 50 years later. 

Gambell was free just a short time before being arrested by the Clear Lake Police Department. And a young Paul Houston was photographed taking Gambell back to jail by the Forest City Summit newspaper. 

Paul went on to be an Urbandale cop and then many years as an investigator and chief investigator for the Polk County Attorney’s Office. Murders, sexual abuse, kidnappings, robbery, and corralling wayward prosecutors were his bailiwick. Quite the life.

But it all began with a dangerous clothesline and a poor guy taking a “whiz.”

And the young lawyer whose client jumped out the window?

Former Governor Terry Branstad.

Beginnings are never a straight line. 

Joe

The goldfinches land on the feeder, quickly eat, then dart away. Dine and dash. They don’t hang around with the other birds for small talk and local gossip. But they have been long forecasting the change from winter to summer, dark days to light, hot coffee to iced lattes.

The end of one time and the beginning of another. 

Loaded with two shots in my arm, I sit outside at the coffee shop with my friend Bill. Unmasked, we slowly drink our coffee. Only a few folks out and about. Fifteen months since we sat at this outside table. Two old men together. 

“I had to put one of our dogs down this week,” I tell Bill after a bit. 

“Oh no,” he says, wanting me to tell more. Talking to Bill is like talking to my therapist.

“Joe, tell me how that makes you feel,” she says, knowing that I have to consult a “feelings” chart for a list of options. And even then I tentatively ask, “Happy? No, sad? How about melancholy?” 

Bear was a rescue puppy. Yup, a rescue from some young neighbors. We found him left alone for hours and sometimes days in a small enclosed porch with little water or food and an unsurprising stench. My wife and kids would repeatedly rescue him and bring him to live for a short time at our house. Make no mistake, I was not a fan of bringing another dog into our family — even out of compassion. We already had three cats, two dogs and a goldfish. Oh yeah, and three kids. I was compassioned out. 

But my wife, out of town when I saw the owner’s “for sale” sign go up, ordered me to permanently rescue the puppy. Dutifully, I knocked on the door and told the owner he knew he could not take care of the dog and that we were taking the puppy to our house for good. He sheepishly agreed, and gave me the dog. Within 24 hours he was chipped and tagged and ours.

Now we had Bear, some kind of 45-pound shepherd mix. A herding dog. So he herded the 130-pound yellow lab around the house and yard. And they frolicked and played, and Bear kept the lab’s ears clean. Quite the pack. 

In the country, the two dogs hunted as a team. Bear, quick and darting, rousted the prey. And the lab came in to close the deal. Generally all I would find is a few tufts of fur to mark their success. Of course, they’d both be sick for a day and sometimes smelled of skunk for much longer.

Years ticked away. The big lab died of old age, and the cats did too, and Goldy the goldfish expired one morning, cause unknown. 

And Bear lived on. He cleaned the ears of the new German Shepherd and tried to herd the new cat. Life was still sweet. 

But Bear grew older and older. Sight, hearing, hips, all left for a warmer climate. And dementia set in. It was time.

“I called the vet and he came out to the house yesterday.” I pause to clear my throat before continuing my story with Bill. 

“And . . . that was it.”

We buried him with the other animals that have come and gone through our life. But we’d saved the ashes from his old friend, the yellow lab, who was too big to bury. Together they went into the ground.

“So, what do you think?” says Bill.

“I think we’re next,” I say.

Bill says nothing for a moment.

“I’m planning to live at least until 90,” Bill says.

“Why not.” I smile.  

We look at the bright yellow goldfinches and order another coffee.

Joe

The reading of the second book is always the most challenging.

I sit next to my two-year-old son and force my eyes wide while reading that riveting thriller — One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish. 

“From there to here, from here to there, funny things are everywhere.” 

Ain’t that the truth?

And then I fall sound asleep on the floor while my son sleeps in the bed behind me. 

After awhile, I startle awake and begin the crawl out of the bedroom. So quiet. Each knee and hand gently moving forward. One bump — disaster. One bump and the child my wife’s mom warned would be her penance for her teenage years will wake up.

Arggggggggg . . . 

Dad????

“And some are very very bad. Why are they sad and glad and bad? I do not know. Go ask your dad.”

Seriously? A grown man? Crawling on his knees? 

Night after night this ritual played its course. 

Then the second and third kid came along. One on the bed and two on either side. I no longer fell sound asleep by the second book, but would usually last until book number three. But now the books took emotionally dark twists.

“At one time most of my friends could hear the bell, but as years passed, it fell silent for all of them. Even Sarah found one Christmas that she could no longer hear its sweet sound. Though I’ve grown old, the bell still rings for me as it does for all who truly believe.” 

Devastation.

That last sentence of The Polar Express came out in gasps as I tried to hold onto the words.

I couldn’t.

My kids looked at me slightly perplexed . . . and demanded the next book.

Sniffling quietly and briefly composing myself, I started Love You Forever:

“I’ll love you forever. I’ll like you for always. As long as I’m living my baby you’ll be.”

Heaven help me. Tears run down my cheeks as the mother goes from young to old and the words of love pass from mother to son. A Lion King circle-of-life moment, sure enough. The sentences become blurry. I can’t continue. 

My children fall sound asleep without a care in the world. I, on the other hand, am staring at the wall wondering why I shouldn’t just eat a tub of ice cream and watch Notting Hill one more time. 

And now, many years later my wife reads to our granddaughter as we babysit. I listen at a safe distance.

Stories of making tamales and the vagaries of friendship and the joy of wild beasts. Each is better than the last. I am enraptured.

But then bedtime rolls around. No mom and dad present. The instructions left for grandma and grandpa appears to be the procedure for a nuclear bomb launch.

1. The baby undresses and throws you her soggy diaper;
2. Do bath;
3. Wrap her in llama towel;
4. Put on lotions, otherwise known as “toppings;”
5. Put on night-time diaper;
6. Put on pajamas;
7. Take her to bedroom;
8. Provide a cup of warm milk;
9. Provide a bowl of strawberries and dried mango strips;
10. Read two books;
11. Brush teeth;
12. Put her in sleep sack;
13. Read two more books;
14. Have her turn on the noise machine and humidifier;
15. Turn off lights;
16. Sing a song;
17. Put her into bed.
18. Go to local bar.

This is not made up (okay, except for the last one). And I begin to wonder how these kids with these amazing bedtime routines will survive in a world that might not be so caring? You know, a world struggling with climate change and income inequality and racism and sexism and domestic terrorists and guns. Oh, yes, and a pandemic. 

It just doesn’t seem to be a world that honors ANY steps in a bedtime routine.

Then I see a book on my granddaughter’s shelf. My old favorite: The Polar Express!

“Though I’ve grown old, the bell still rings for me as it does for all who truly believe.”

Perhaps in this time of vaccines and free Krispy Kremes, it’s time to believe in the future? Time to look forward? Time to breathe?

Why not?

Then my granddaughter, beginning at step “1,” throws her soggy diaper at me.

Joe

this is for testing purposes, please ignore.

The rain drizzles against my hat in a steady pat-pat-pat. It can’t decide whether to come down in a torrent or to give up and go back home. Perhaps it’s waiting until a May wedding or a fun Fourth-of-July picnic or that special barbecue with your sweetheart. 

“Oops!”  

I fight to stay upright as my shoes slide across the mud on the washed-out sidewalk. After swinging to the left and dipping to the right, I amazingly don’t fall. I raise my arms. A victory for old men everywhere. 

But I do love rain, even though it is a fickle companion given recent floods occurring at the same time as recent droughts. All or nothing seems to be the only bet on the table with Mother Nature this past year. 

But there is one reliable truth when it comes to rain — it will blow in your face. I’m all right with that because, as usual, it’s all about the gear.

And I’ve got the right stuff today. My “waterproof” jacket only leaks at the arms, causing a watery stream from my armpit to my waist. My “waterproof” shoes keep my toes dry and the rest of my feet comfortably wet. And my “waterproof” hat drips water on my “waterproof” jacket and my “waterproof” shoes.

You have to be a smart dresser to be outside in the spring.

And it is Iowa. One day the flowers are just beginning to pop and the next day Old Man Winter wonders whether we’ve really shoveled our quota.

But today it’s just rain. When it first started, I could smell that earthy odor they call “petrichor.” A great word. It sounds like the name of an ancient whale who rises up from the dank earth to return home to the ocean.

“Petrichor sighting in Des Moines!” 

Iowa was once covered by oceans. It’s been awhile since there was actual water, but check out a bean field when the wind blows hard across the top in cresting, swirling waves. Or watch the head-shaking mystery of seagulls flying around the concrete parking lot at Merle Hay Mall.

When I was a young man I lived for awhile in Estes Park, Colorado. Every day in the early afternoon, the bright blue skies would cloud over and a quick shower would sweep through the valley. If it was raining, it was 2 p.m. By 3 p.m. the streets were dry, pine resin was in the air, and no one would believe you if you told them there had been a deluge minutes before. 

The tourists were a little outraged by this drenching — to the smugness of us residents. Although little did we know that later that summer the rain would come bursting down the Big Thompson Canyon causing death and destruction. A sobering wakeup. When I called my mom back in Iowa to tell her I was safe, she immediately contacted the local newspaper to announce the amazing news that her son, who was in absolutely no danger, survived. Moms did that back then. And the newspapers printed it. 

When I lived in The Hague, Netherlands, the rain would settle in for several months. Usually, it was a gentle rain, but sometimes it would come in with the North Sea wind and rip up trees and tulips. A fierce storm.

But the Dutch ignore the rain. Up on their bikes, rain streaming off their faces, off to work or school they go.

And the kids? Along for the ride. Usually in the very front. No helmet and no hat. Like a hood ornament. No wonder little Dutch kids can save whole towns by putting their fingers in leaking dikes. Piece of cake. 

Today the rain drips steady. The woods are damp and heavy. The country roads are mud. And the farmers are staring out their front windows with anxious attention. 

But the spring flowers?

They’re doing just fine.

And while the rain drizzles against my hat in a steady pat-pat-pat, I keep on the lookout for Petrichors. Word is that they can be found in Des Moines. Heading for the river, I suspect.

If you see one, call your mom. Don’t worry, she’ll call the newspaper. And tomorrow’s headline?

“Petrichor sighting in Des Moines.”

Moms are like that.   

Joe

“Weeg,” my eighth-grade basketball coach yelled, “go in for Brown.”

Sure. Behind by 30 points, the coach thinks it’s safe for me to enter the game.

But is it really?

First, doesn’t the coach know that I don’t want to touch the basketball? Duh. Once you touch the ball there are expectations. People expect you to do something. I can’t dribble. I can’t pass. I can’t shoot. My options are limited. I could always just throw the ball away, but then I usually get yelled at — even by my teammates. Perhaps the bench is where I belong?

Second, I don’t know how to check into the game. I saw what happened to the kid before me who just ran right onto the floor. Yup, yelled at by the ref, the scorekeeper, and the coach for failing to “check in.” No, I’d rather not. Shouldn’t I stay seated on the bench until things get sorted out with this whole check-in fiasco?

Third, a jock strap with a plastic cup? Really? Who thought of this. Come on, I’m being taught by nuns who only expose part of their faces. My sisters and mom still cover their hair before going into church. My family comes from civilized religious people who acknowledge no bodily functions. Nothing. Ever. All eight children in my family? Yup, immaculately conceived. 

Can’t I play a sport with normal underwear?

And so it went 50 years ago. I was a basketball disaster. The ball hit me in the head more often than I caught it in my hands. My dribble never exceeded one bounce against my foot. And group showers? Sorry.

Unfortunately, my wife comes from a basketball family. Her father, shown below in 1940, was a high school star, a college star, an Air Force star, and then played semi-professional ball. And his children were all gifted athletes. Everyone was beautiful and strong and the family belonged to a country club. 

Whereas, I cleaned bathrooms in office buildings, I had bad acne, and I was more comfortable with a toilet brush than a tennis racket.

I might have had a small inferiority complex.

So at my FIRST family dinner where my wife was introducing me for the FIRST time to her family and also informing them for the FIRST time that we were getting married — I was a tad nervous.

It was high school basketball season so I cleverly prepared basketball questions.

“Eileen,” I asked the middle daughter, who was a high school senior and a great basketball player, “how is your basketball season going?”  

See? Wasn’t that a good, neutral question?

Eileen quietly stared at me, then burst into racking, sobbing, death-defying tears. 

Oh my goodness!!! 

In my family of origin, we did not cry. You fell down and skinned your knee? No tears. You broke your two front teeth? No tears. Your father died? No tears. Really. I’m not proud of this, but it’s true. 

And now this young woman sitting next to me at the table was crying. Hysterically. It must be the end of the world. She must be dying. I was stunned. Call 911. 

And the family response to this tragedy?

My future wife asked her mom to pass the beefed-up biscuit casserole. My father-in-law turned to his youngest and asked her about school. My wonderful mother-in-law wondered if I would like another serving.

Ahhhhhhhhh . . . was it too late to call for a time out and run to the side lines? 

Eventually Eileen’s tears subsided with sharp, jerking intakes of breath and small sniffles, and without pause she continued eating.

I come to find out later that Eileen had been unfairly benched by a new coach who preferred to play the juniors. Oh my. 

That was then.

I’ve learned my lesson. Now I keep my mouth shut. Not a word from me about basketball, or any sport for that matter. I see the hoop in my neighborhood park and watch the young men and women play with grace and skill as I walk the dog. But I don’t engage. 

Except today. 

Three young men, John and Paul and Colton, were having a hard and fast game when the ball flew over to the walking path. Not wanting to be a total loser, I picked it up and threw it back.

I knew in my heart I was throwing it right into John’s hands. 

Maybe I threw the ball intentionally high so that John could tip it right into the basket without a dribble.

Perhaps I was even trying for my own three-pointer.   

Sadly, none of this occurred. The ball veered off my hand, flew high into the air past the basketball court, and hit a picnic table — nowhere near any player in Polk County, Iowa.

Really.

No one laughed out loud. 

Except for me. But that might be because my family doesn’t cry.

Joe

Early morning in bed. I don’t want to leave. My stocking cap is pulled down tight. Wool socks are on my feet. Blankets are pulled up to my ears.

“And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.”

Who wears a bed cap in the 21st century? Perhaps just those old men who hear Dasher and Dancer landing on their roof. And, yes, bald-headed me. 

It is coooold. Brrrrrrrr….

 Minus 17 degrees outside! Wind chill of -33. Really? And I have to get out of bed?

Yup, time to go outside and see what’s going on.

Well, for starters, the fluffed-up birds are eating their weight in my wife’s birdseed. The cardinals are everywhere. Traveling in their large winter groups, the bright red males and the more subtly-colored females stand out against the white snow. They seem to crazily promise spring with a song of tweeeet — tweeeet  and then rapid fire — tututututu. At least I think it’s the promise of spring. You can’t always rely on Google Translate when you’re dealing with bird speak . . . especially when I suspect there are more than a few curse words about the cold. 

The squirrels have their tails draped up their back and on top of their heads — their own fur wrap — while they munch on dropped bird seeds. Once Charlie the German Shepherd sees them, he shoots through the back yard like a bottle rocket gone awry. This brings a small Darwinian moment that keeps everyone’s blood flowing. Although the frisbee in Charlie’s mouth seems an unhelpful indicator for the future of his genetic line. 

The rabbits hide in the dense shelter of tightly-knit brush, leaving small pellets on the ground that look suspiciously like a popular cereal. The trail they leave in the deep snow is connected as they gallop with their big bottoms dragging. Their large rear feet land in front of their front feet, which is highly confusing when you’re trying to figure out what’s what. And, unlike the galloping squirrels, the rabbits’ back prints in the snow (made by their front legs) are staggered instead of parallel. How is this fun fact of any value? It’s not — unless you’ve been in pandemic isolation for a year and have exhausted the “what about those Hawkeyes” conversational starters. 

And the deer? Hunkered down low to the ground waiting for the freeze to pass. Except they do take a few moments to snack on my wife’s young trees. This is not as cute to my wife as one would think. If there was a cage match between Bambi and my wife’s trees, my wife would be doing cartwheels in the evergreen’s corner. 

The mice skitter across the top of the snow . . . “dragging their tails behind them.” Which sounds like a fun nursery rhyme about sheep coming home and Little Bo Peep.  

Unfortunately, the mice have come home too many times. We first discovered mice in the house when my young children found additional roughage mixed in with their boxed cereal. Yum yum. We think they may have eaten just a few bowls. Don’t get me wrong, I love the old proverb that suggests kids eat a peck of dirt before they grow up . . . but mouse poop???

Up the walk comes the last outdoor creature.

The mailman. 

Frozen, he comes through the deep snow to deliver our mail. 

The snow storm whooshes up the street blowing hard and fast. Taking a right turn at my house, it joins the mini-storm blowing out of my snowblower and blasts everything back into my face with a splat. Yuck!

But I am undeterred. I am trailing in the fierce competition that has arisen during this year of pandemic and isolation. The stakes could not be higher. And I will not go home without the trophy. 

“Hah! I am willing to win at any cost.” I shake my fist at the snow gods.  

Let me explain.  

Old men have always taken care of my neighborhood. I was not around during the time they were young husbands and fathers, but as neighborhood caretakers, they were the very best. I used to turn to Erv — retired for many years and who lived across the street — for every need or question I had about our first house from repairing the clothes dryer to sheet rocking the wall. He would patiently explain what I needed to do and would frequently assist in the work. A real lifesaver. 

When I moved to our present home 30 years ago, Jim, an old retired warehouse man living two doors down, stepped in as my “old man in the neighborhood.” How to lay a brick, change the insides of a toilet, replace a car battery — Jim knew the answer and showed me how. Patiently and with kindness.

Erv and Jim passed on long ago. True losses. Irreplaceable men in my life.

But now it’s my turn to be the old man in the neighborhood.

The trouble is, I’m a total goof. Really. If you have any questions about plumbing or electricity or drywalls or cars or gardening or pretty much anything — I am not your guy. Sorry.  

But I am good for one thing — I can pull a heavy load.

You can harness me up and I’ll mow your lawn or shovel your snow or drag tree branches to the curb. I can loosen the old lug nuts on your tires or push your car out of the snow or shovel a hole. 

I have zero finesse, but I can plod with the best draft horse. 

That’s me.

So, during this time of pandemic and frequent snow storms, I have taken to cleaning the sidewalks of my neighbors. Why not? It is a plodding job right up my alley. And I have nothing but time and a great snowblower. Most importantly, it buys me “old guy taking care of the neighborhood” points. Right?

But here’s the problem. My friend, an Irish-American cop who lives down the street, is beating me to the punch. He’s young. He’s athletic. He’s handsome. He gets up before me and snowplows the block. Including my sidewalk. Especially my sidewalk. Even MY sidewalk. 

The gall. I have one job as the old man on the block. The only job I’m qualified for. And now this interloper is interfering???! 

So I have taken to getting up earlier. I start blowing snow before the storm stops. I blow snow in the dark. I blow snow even when there is no snow to blow.

Bring it on, Irish cop!

But I’m wondering if this is the right attitude? Is it really loving and kind to see the Irish cop as the enemy? Haven’t we as a country voted against such mean-spiritedness? Perhaps I am approaching this all wrong? 

So today I started the day with a meditation called the Loving Kindness Meditation. Oddly enough, the meditation is all about being loving and kind. It is a recognized meditative practice and is used the world over. And I decided to do it.

While I am doing it, I hear a snowblower. It’s the Irish cop. He’s plowing snow. Up and down the block. That son-of-a-buck beat me to the punch. He’s taking away my only job while I’m sitting cross-legged, counting my breath, and thinking how much I love my damn neighbors.

Which is why I’m out here. Angry and determined. Racing down the block with my snowblower.

I’ll show him loving kindness. Take that . . .

By the way, I’m thinking the Dalai Lama’s job is safe. 

Joe

Seven of my siblings wait in line before me. Judy, Carol, Marla, John, Joyce, Jim, and Cathy. I’m at the tail end. One at a time they go into a small room at our grade school and then out they come with one sleeve rolled up, a mark on their arm, and a few tears glistening on their cheeks. 

“Next,” the school nurse says. 

I’m not someone who embraces pain, like a Democrat in the Iowa legislature, but I’m not a chicken either, as I told the older boy who beat me up on the way home from school in fourth grade and who later in life became a priest. I’m just a little nervous about getting this vaccine.

Smallpox is the concern. The vaccine is delivered with a device that appears like a gun. Everyone tells me it is totally painless.

I don’t buy it.

“Next?” the school nurse asks again. 

I’m it???

I look around panic stricken. 

I flee the school.

Running into the large parking lot, I find our family station wagon, jump inside and lock all the doors.

No way am I getting that shot. 

And that was 60 years ago. 

So why am I at the grocery store parking lot today waiting for the COVID-19 shot?

Well . . .

Did I tell you that isolating with my wife during the pandemic has been a ton of fun?

The first fun moment was early on when she advised me to no longer follow her into her closet.

“Really? But I want to tell you about my dream from last night,” I said enthusiastically.

She glared at me as only she can — and in her best lawyerly voice threatened to get a restraining order.

Okay. I got it. I too am independent. I do what I want. I don’t need my wife’s constant companionship. I’m a man and will start doing man things that do not involve following my wife into the closet.

What are “man things,” by the way?

A week or two or three passed.

Then one day, after my morning monologue, she told me that the morning is her “quiet time” where she does the newspaper crossword puzzle. By herself.

“But what if I need to tell you that I filled the bird feeders or that the cat litter is clean?” I said with just a hint of desperation.

She ignored me. 

Certainly everyone needs a few moments to themselves. A chance to practice gratitude for the wonderfully strong marriage someone might have after 40 years of wedded bliss. Who am I to begrudge the love of my life a few moments to work on five down or even six across?

Anyway, I need some of my own me-time to begin some long overdue woodworking projects and maybe I’ll rewire the house or just pour some concrete.

Of course, I’ll start those projects after I finish this romance novel involving a pirate and an interesting weekend in Paris.  

Several months pass like this. In the meantime, my wife purchased multiple crossword puzzle books. She started doing the books after completing the daily newspaper crossword puzzle.

“Quiet time” started to take on a monastic length. 

“Austere monk taking a vow of silence.” Three across. “Trappist.”  

At least we still had our nights together.

Until a week ago . . .

I told my wife about my entire online therapy appointment I had that day. It was fascinating and conversationally took several unexpected twists. Quite entertaining. 

“Shhhh,” she said sharply, interrupting my clever observations, “I’m trying to finish the New York Times Thursday crossword.”

Ah ha! At last I got the message. She couldn’t have been more clear. I wasn’t listening. She wanted me to do crossword puzzles WITH her. The couple that plays together stays together. How romantic. 

Oops.

That interpretation of my wife’s message seems to have been aspirational only.

“Perhaps blinded by love,” I said to her.

She locked herself in the bedroom. Without me. 

So here I am in the grocery store parking lot waiting to get my first dose of the COVID-19 vaccine.

I am thrilled to death to be able to get the shot and feel lucky and grateful for all the obvious reasons. As my father told me 60 years ago when he dragged me from the family car by my feet to get my smallpox vaccine:

“This vaccine could save your life, you knucklehead.”

How true.

But did you know it could also save your marriage?

Yup, you heard it from this knucklehead first. 

Joe