“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

Should I take the steep, black diamond run on the mountain to the left, or the longer, curving run on the mountain to the right? Do I want deep snow that sprays at every turn, or a slick track with speed? A chair lift for three, or a moving platform in a tunnel?

Colorado offers endless possibilities. The snow is powder. The staff is always great. The ski outfits are exotically amazing. The lift lines are frequently short. The runs are long.

You want to sashay around moguls or ride up the slope in a gondola built for kings? Colorado is for you. It is fun and wild and refreshing.  

But that was the skiing of my youth. 

Today I’m at a crossroads.

On my left is a bean field. On my right is a cow pasture.

I’m several miles from any town. I’m wearing winter bicycle tights, running underwear with a protective panel, a wind jacket that has half a sleeve burned by the hot exhaust of a snowblower, a nubby wool sweater, an Elmer Fudd hat, and a large woolen cowl that was hand-knit by my wife. I suspect, as usual, that I am ahead of the fashion curve.  

I slide my skis into the bean field with our dog Charlie by my side and begin my ascent.

Skiing was not part of my family repertoire. But in early high school I started hanging with three guys more adventurous than me. None of us knew a parallel turn from a parallelogram, but they decided we were all downhill skiers. So we loaded up a car and drove to the nearest ski resort at that time, Chestnut Mountain, across the river from Dubuque. In those days, it was a few groomed runs down to the Mississippi. It was great.

Of course, we had not a clue what we were doing. We were 16 and stupid. Our go-to move was to just point the skis downward, crouch, and pray to the patron saint of broken bones. 

And over time we got bolder. 

We packed up the car and went to the next-nearest ski resort, which was in La Crosse, Wisconsin. We pulled a pop-up tent trailer. We skied all day and froze all night. By the second night, we figured out we could go to the movie theater at 5 and stay until after midnight. Toasty warm.

No wine, women, or song for us. Just three showings of Disney’s The Love Bug. “Wild” was our group’s middle name. 

Then we discovered Colorado. Our target destinations were usually Vail and Aspen. We would drive all night from Iowa and begin skiing at dawn. We’d try every run before we left town. Crazy and without fear.

Our biggest concern was how to come up with the money for Vail’s exorbitant lift tickets: $10 a day! We were shocked at the price — more so than we would be by today’s Vail day-pass: $229. Times change. Money was a little tight back then. We would stay in a flophouse with bunkbeds lining the walls, one blanket on each bunk, and strange men snoring beside us. We were unperturbed. 

It was from another time. Long before skiing bean fields.

The quiet slips through the layers of my clothes and rests gently against my chest. Nobody is out in this deep Iowa snow. My skis slide and grip, slide and grip. I slowly make my way up the bean-field hill. 

The rolling landscape, the old railroad trail, and the endless corn and bean fields. I might be the only person in existence. Alone and stark and awesome.

“One small step for man . . .” 

It’s not out of line to think about death when you’re cross-country skiing in an Iowa bean field. The cold air and the white snow and the limitless sky overwhelm the small dot you make on the landscape. It gives you a little perspective. It’s hard to be a narcissist in a bean field. 

I see my wife in the distance as I top the hill. I raise my ski poles in “V” for victory. Charlie the dog looks on unimpressed.

I ski down the hill and go home. I snuggle under wool blankets with a hot coffee mixed with chocolate. Charlie is asleep on the cool tile. My wife hooks a wool rug in the corner. And on the small screen . . . The Love Bug. 

A good day in Iowa. 

Joe

“Thou shall not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain.”

Yikes, I am in deep trouble navigating that commandment.

Let me explain.

Cursing was not tolerated as I was growing up. Not out of respect or good manners, but because it was a sin. As in, if you add up enough of those violations, the pearly gates close and you are left with the harsh taste of sulphur in your mouth. Forever.

Sure, you could purchase indulgences, do good deeds, confess your sins to a priest, but it might only get a leg or an arm into the fresh air. Even a toe left behind is not a good thing. Trust me. 

“Bless me father for I have sinned. I cursed three times in the last week.”

Let’s make that 30 times because cursing is a little tricky. In my family, there were gateway curse words.

“Geez, you smell like a pig.”

Listen, you might actually smell like a pig, and I did live for a year on a pig farm and did smell like a pig, but “geez”? You guessed it, a slippery slope that begins with “geez” and inevitably ends with “Jesus.” A major violation with major consequences.

Mmmm . . . is that burnt toast or your future?

But then I started teaching cops about search and seizure, interrogations, and charging decisions. How do I hold the attention of a student who the night before class faced down a crazy husband who hit his wife? Or a cop who walked into an active burglary not knowing what to expect in the back room? Or a cop who approached a car on the side of the road unable to see what the driver grabbed under the seat?

A smart audience weary in body and world weary in spirit. 

So I started swearing. I knew that this was a cheap teacher trick. I knew that it was not creative. I knew the shock was double-edged in that it could grab their attention but it could also rebound negatively on me. But it worked. 

And my favorite curse word was one that sounded nothing like “foos” as in foosball.

“What the ‘foos’ were you thinking to give chase to that person merely because he ran?”

I liked the soft beginning and the hard guttural at the end. Short and sweet. And bracing.

No gods were invoked. No gender was slandered. No body part was emphasized. As the years passed, the word became innocent with my overuse. Almost a lazy “golly gee whiz.”  

And it started popping up in my everyday speech outside of the classroom.

“‘Foos me,” as I turned on the wrong street.

“That fooser,” I’d say to describe someone who displeased me.

“Foosing right,” I’d deliver with a high five. 

Then I went to the Netherlands. My word of choice had zero shock value. Old Dutch ladies, little kids, nuns — nope, the word was water off their backs. Foos meant nothing in that world. 

So foos disappeared from my vocabulary. But I discovered something far worse in that world. The word “kanker.”. You guessed it, “cancer.” The word makes a hardened Dutch criminal turn Delft blue. It is one of the very worst word in Dutch. Horrible to say. Horrible to even think. Nasty.

And you know what? It is the worst word.

Last night, I talked to another friend battling cancer. One of a growing list. How can this be? How can people live six or seven or eight decades in good health and then WHAM — cancer? Isn’t there a point where people get a free pass? Haven’t we all escaped car accidents, falling bricks from buildings, electrocution while doing home repair? Doesn’t our rewards card gives us a discount on cancer free zones?

Apparently not.

So, here’s what I have to say about that — foos cancer.

Bless me father for I have sinned . . . 

Joe

We are late, my friend and I. The doors to the hall at Hoyt Sherman Place are already closed. We can hear the murmur of voices as we rush up the stairs to the entrance. He and I are breathing hard and still sweaty from our noon workout.

We pull open the double doors with a whoosh and a bang. 

We stop. Jaws drop. Eyes widen.  

Hundreds of women. Row after row after row. Not a man in sight.

“In the majority of couples, men sit at the bottom of the seesaw when it comes to emotional competence.” Harriet Lerner, The Dance of Anger.

Of course we do. 

Harriet Lerner is moments from being introduced. Women are frowning and shaking their heads at the two of us. There we are — sweaty, late, standing in the middle of the aisle. Men.

We are definitely at the bottom of the seesaw, or perhaps something on the bottom of their shoe. 

We spot two empty seats toward the front.

Let’s pause for just a moment to wonder why I am at a Harriet Lerner lecture. It’s simple. I LOVE self-help books.

One of my earliest self-help books was Thirty Days to Better Spelling. I needed it. I’ve always been a rotten speller. And in just 30 days the book promised I could be a better speller. No small order. But this wasn’t about spelling alone. No way. A self-help book, no matter the subject matter, promises that you will get the girl or boy, be happy, and defeat death. 

Getting the girl or boy, being happy, and defeating death does not seem like a big ask. Right?

8 Weeks to Optimum Health, by Andrew Weil, says that his program will get you started in “building a lifestyle that will protect you from premature disability and death.” Mmmm . . . that’s a tough call: option 1 – premature disability and death; or option 2 – normal disability and death. But what if I want option 3 – NO disability and NO death?

Fortunately, we have Ellen Langer. Dr. Langer, in Counter Clockwise, found that giving the elderly autonomy to make decisions and responsibility over a plant (yes, a plant!) resulted in greater happiness and AFFECTED MORTALITY RATES. I love this! Dr. Langer goes on citing study after study suggesting we control our own illnesses, we control our own health, we control whether the Hawkeyes win or lose (okay, I made that last one up). 

But this is awesome!

Although, the dark underbelly of Dr. Langer’s theories is that if you die it’s your own fault for not controlling your death. The graveyard is apparently full of losers. Ouch. 

But, on a happier note, let’s not forget Paul McKenna of I Can Make You Thin fame. All diets are thrown out the door and you’re left with four simple rules — eat when you’re hungry, stop when you’re full, slow down and pay attention to your eating, eat only food you like. Wonderful. Particularly for someone like me who is always hungry, never full, and prefers french fries.

Which is why I eat french fries mindfully as directed by Thich Nhat Hanh in Peace is Every Step and Jon Kabat-Zinn in Full Catastrophe Living. Instead of going to some long weekend meditation retreat, I just order the large fries. Same same. 

Listen, my love of fries makes me sound less than perfect. And that’s okay, according to Brené Brown, author of The Gifts of Imperfection. The gifts of imperfection, according to Dr. Brown, are “courage, compassion, and connection.” And, I’m sure she just forgot to add . . . “french fries.” 

Which, of course, gets us back to Harriet Lerner and her seminal book — The Dance of Anger. I think Harriet Lerner is brilliant. I think she is speaking to me in her book. I want to hear her in person. So does my friend. So we hustle to the two remaining seats in the auditorium

I sit. I give a quick nod to the woman at my right. The woman stares past me at my friend. 

“Hello,” she says to my friend.

Yup, you probably guessed it, the woman to my right, among a whole throng of anonymous, faceless women, is MY FRIEND’S EX-WIFE. I am not making this up. 

Amidst a sea of roiling, angry women.

Blood misting in the air.

A quick, merciful death the only hope.

I slump lower in my chair. 

Fortunately, I have other self-help skills. I’ve read Marshall Rosenberg’s Nonviolent Communication. He recommends a four-part approach: observe what’s happening, what feelings result from this observation, what are my needs, and do I have a request. 

Okay, let’s give it a shot.

    1. I’m observing that we are going to be killed.

   2. I feel badly about dying in a riot of angry women.

   3. I need an escape.

   4. Can we go get french fries? 

So we do.

Self-help books and fries. Need I say more. 

Joe

The dull squish of knuckles against concrete rips up my arm, across my chest, and deep into my jaw. Every muscle in my body immediately hurts. My vision dims. I am done. 

All the students of the school are watching. My fellow classmates of the last eight years are watching. Eric Heintz, my teacher, is watching.

I have nothing to give them.

Moments before I had positioned myself directly over three concrete blocks stacked on top of each other. I had focused, focused, focused, . . . and let loose with a mighty yell as I punched downwards. The result? A dull thud, no breaking concrete, just bloodied knuckles.

Failure.

How did I get in this predicament?

The old gym at the YWCA in downtown Des Moines is slick with sweat. Not a good thing as you’re marching up and down doing side kicks and front kicks and roundhouse kicks.

Sweat and bare feet and zero balance is a deadly combination for me. Add a polished gym floor, and I spend a fair amount of time being helped up by someone half my age. However, my kicks tonight are awesome. Sure, they are about three inches off the ground, but if I ever have an attacker who grovels at my feet, watch out. 

You guessed it, I am not a natural at this. 

This is Tai Kwon Do. It was 1982. Des Moines, Iowa. My friend, Liza Ovrom, employed in the Attorney General’s office, was training in Tai Kwon Do. She was taking a class from a guy who also worked in the AG’s office and who actually headed up the DOT division. I too worked in the AG’s office and joined at Liza’a encouragement. While my wife, also in the AG’s office, joined a year or so later. Clearly, the AG’s office was a feeder program for the martial arts. Who knew. 

The long-haired, angular-faced man at the front of the gym was our teacher, Eric Heintz. Calm, patient, and deadly. At least that’s what we all thought. “Mr. Heintz,” we honorifically called him back before he rose in the ranks to earn the further title of “Master,” and later when he became a Zen Buddhist priest and was called “Tetsugen.”

He taught us all Tae Kwon Do. He taught us how to fight and how to break boards and how to defend ourselves. He taught us a multitude of advanced combinations involving kicking and punching. He taught us to take a hit and to fall and to smack the heavy bag so hard it tore down the middle. 

And we kept our part of the bargain. We kicked and yelled and spun and grappled and flew through the air. We learned. 

But what Mr. Heintz really taught was belief. 

“Joe, go teach Tae Kwon Do in Indianola.” 

Really? I’m not good enough.

But I did. Because he thought I could.

“Joe, enter this tournament and compete in fighting.”

Are you sure? I’m not strong enough. 

 I did. Because he thought I could.

“Joe, put on a Tai Kwon Do demonstration in downtown Des Moines.”

Ummm . . . are you sure? I’m not talented enough.

Yup, you guessed it, I did. Because he thought I could.

You can break these boards, you can spin in the air, you can do these kicks, and, as a result your standards change — you can raise your kids right, you can do good work, you can be a good husband, you can, you can, you can . . .

And we all did. Each and every one of his students felt his hand gently at their back. 

Eric Heintz believed in us. He prepared us. He taught us what needed to be done and then gave us the push to go do it.

His belief forced us to believe. A gift beyond measure. 

And now I stare at the three blocks for a second time. I look at Mr. Heintz. He smiles with complete assurance and gives me a nod. What the hell. I pull my arm back. Give a ferocious yell. And . . .

Eric Heintz talked to me a few years ago after retiring from teaching because of health issues. 

“Each of us is going to have pain and each of us is going to die. It is just a question of how you want to spend your time. It may be a matter of minutes or longer. Nobody has any assurances. But, do you want to spend your time saying, ‘I’m really hurting’? Or can you let go of the absolute need to have something solid under your feet and be a happy, fulfilled person?”

Even in poor health, there was a lesson. 

The other day I heard the whisper. Three former Tai Kwon Do students, three of my old friends:

“Eric Heintz died, have you heard?” 

. . . and the three concrete blocks shattered. 

Joe

Becoming an old man takes years of work. Trust me. You can’t just wake up one day and proclaim, “I am an old man.” That won’t get you the old-man certificate or even an introductory visit to the old-man clubhouse.

And even if you do declare yourself an old man, the definition seems to be a moving target. I grew up in the 1960’s. The mantra coming out of the peace and civil rights demonstrations during that time was “don’t trust anyone over 30.” Yup, you were already over the hill by 30. Thirty-one and you’re an old man. 

I don’t think so. 

On the other hand, today there is a book titled — 70 is the new 40. Does that make 40 the new 10?   

Again, not likely.

And then there is Sam the Barber. Sam Reese ran the barbershop on 42nd Street and University Avenue from the beginning of time.  

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

Sam is 80. He was always philosophical about life, but has only become more so as the years have 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,” says the handsome, lithe 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!”

Lord help me. And, by the way, Sam the Barber is a kindred spirit of Gabriel Garcia Marquez, a Nobel Prize winner in literature:

“To all, I would say how mistaken they are when they think that they stop falling in love when they grow old, without knowing that they grow old when they stop falling in love.”

My oh my.  

Then there are those who believe that age is measured by a certain amount of loss. Loss of hearing, sight, bone and muscle. Loss of clear thinking  and memory. Loss of friends and society.   

That seems a bit of a downer.

Dr. Alfried Laengle argues that old age occurs when one is able to turn away from all the loss and turn inward and discover the unchartered territory of the inner world:

Ellyn Lym argues in the Washington Post that we become happier as we age:

“Research also has noted that the majority of people worldwide become happier as they age, perhaps because they accept inevitable changes that occur over time and develop appreciation for the good that remains in their lives.”

So maybe the happier you are, the older you are?

COVID-19 has provided all sorts of lines in the sand when it comes to age. The CDC says:

“In general, your risk of getting severely ill from COVID-19 increases as you get older. In fact, 8 out of 10 COVID-19-related deaths reported in the United States have been among adults aged 65 years and older.”

Sixty-four years and 364 days old and you’re safe. One more day? You might as well pack it in. I guess that’s old age during a pandemic. 

So, what is truly old age?

Got me. 

Although I do remember my grandpa at 94. He shaved every day. I know because I lived with him for a time. He would lower the suspenders attached to his pants, take his ironed shirt off, uncover his union suit, and shave with a straight razor sharpened on a leather strap. Talk about living on a razor’s edge.

I would watch this routine over a cup of coffee as I sat at the kitchen table waiting to call 911. Hopefully they would arrive in time to reattach an ear or a nose. But he never did slice anything off. To my amazement. 

My grandpa was an old farmer who didn’t miss planting and harvesting and caring for livestock. He passed his retirement watching the Kentucky Derby and ogling women. Oh, yes, and shaving with a straight razor. He finally died at 98.

Was he old? Depends on your definition. Did he give it a moment’s worry?

Nope.

Joe

The boxwood stump, buried by leaves, snagged my dragging foot and landed me face first in the soft ground. Ker-plop. No fanfare. No discussion. And certainly no dissent on the part of my lightening quick reflexes. Just . . . bang. 

So here I am in the leaves. Observing the world from a new perspective, low to the ground.

When I was young and fell down, I laughed, picked myself up, and hurried on to the next fun event. Now when I fall, I find myself going through a check list: right arm — not broken; left wrist — bruised; head — shaken but still on. You get the idea.

I’m in no rush to get up today. I turn over on my back and look at the blue Iowa sky.

Perhaps I need a makeover? Something that shouts out I am still alive? What about a new hot car???

“Several studies have shown that appearance is the most significant factor when making a first impression. The vehicle one drives contributes as much to appearance as attire or hairstyle. A car is more than just a mode of transportation for some; it is an extension of the driver’s image.” Jeffrey Harper, writing for Hotcars. 

But cars have never been my friend. No matter how shiny and bright, they have been fickle companions at best. Sometimes reliable, usually not. And cars go out of their way to hurt me. I have the distinction of being hit by cars while on my bike in three different states and over three different decades of my life. Cars must communicate with each other when I cross the state line — “There’s Joe. Run him over.”  

Let’s take a brief tour of cars I’ve owned. There was the Toyota Corolla with three million miles on it. The roof was caved in. The front passenger door didn’t properly close. And the gas gauge was unreliable. Oh, yeah, and the gas tank leaked. It was a gem of a car. I still recall running out of gas on the 42nd Street bridge over I-235. Three kids in the back seat. A gas station in the distance. And, unbeknownst to me, my wife driving past on I-235 wondering what that pitiful guy was doing up on the overpass with three kids hanging out the back windows. Once the harsh reality hit home — HER husband and HER kids — it turned into one of those moments where the marriage could have gone either way.

Or the old Ford Taurus my wife was driving in West Des Moines when the engine collapsed onto the front axle. No kidding. The engine just let loose. The tires were turned at the time, so she could still move the car. But only in a circle.

Then there was the Toyota van that had no heating on the front passenger side, resulting in a small ice rink beneath the passenger’s frozen feet on blustery winter days. A feature you can’t find much these days . . . a passenger seat that doubles as a meat locker. 

Love affair with cars? I don’t think so. 

But yesterday, I had a car to sell. My daughter’s. A sporty little Toyota Scion with a spoiler, moon roof, and quick acceleration. I know these car facts because my daughter is living overseas and I’m in charge of the sale and had to drive the car to get it out of storage. 

As you have probably gathered, my stable of cars has always leaned towards bulky, hard to handle, and license plates that say “LOSR#1.”

I touched my daughter’s gas pedal and found myself a block down the road. Like that. ZIP. I turned a corner. BAM. It hugged the road so tight the breath whooshed out of my lungs and I shouted, “Yippee!” I don’t think I’ve ever shouted “yippee” in my life. No one with half a brain shouts yippee. 

“Yippee!” I shouted again as I rounded another corner. 

Why didn’t anyone tell me? 

Sport cars are fun. Sport cars are a carnival ride. Sport cars are me.

So I said to my wife: “Look, this is the real me. Fast and loose and wild.”

My wife emitted an unpleasant guffawing sound. 

I persisted, “Sure, it’s an old man cliche, but I was born to drive a sport car.”

My wife took a breath. 

She patiently explained to me that I didn’t fit in my daughter’s car. My body was too long for that little space. Even with my head two inches into the moonroof, there was still a couple of inches that had nowhere to go. I was driving almost laying down on my back, barely able to see out the front.

“So?”

But that is how love affairs die. 

Today my sports car is sold. I am driving a large, bulky car with license plates that say “LOSR#1.” 

Makeover of Joe? Not so much. 

And now here I am looking at the fallen leaves, low to the ground, wondering how to get up.

Mmmmm . . . maybe I should get a tattoo?

 Joe