“No!”

It seems a simple enough word. Sure, I love my daughter and her notorious criminal accomplice, my wife, but the answer is clear.

“No, never, no way will we get another flea-bitten dog!”

But my adult daughter is wonderfully persistent in everything. Especially when it comes to dogs.

“It will be my dog. I’ll take care of it. I’ll only keep it at your house until I get my own place. I’ll pay all the vet bills. I’ll do all the training.”

That was six years ago.

Long before my daughter moved a continent away.

Long before my wife decided she loves dogs just a fraction more than she loves her husband.

Yup, even long before I forgot I once had hair.

The Iowa State Fairgrounds is packed. Twelve rings are up and running at the Cyclone Country Kennel Club Dog Show. Hundreds of people. Hundreds of dogs. Even a hundred dog groomers. There are sellers for every dog gizmo you’d ever want. And a passel of judges, tons of awards, and plenty of blue ribbons. Everywhere you look, it’s a dogpalooza. 

But no beer tent.

Trust me.

I looked.

My wife is competing today. Yup, she and Charlie, my daughter’s German Shepherd, are in four events each day for three days.

As I sip my 45th coffee, I wonder who are these people? What drives them to spend their weekends standing on concrete floors and scooping up dog poop? Are they actually one dog biscuit short, as I secretly suspect?

Let’s start with Julie King. She’s never going to be able to hide her dog inside a celebrities’ spangly purse . . . or even under a biblical bushel basket. 

“I grew up with large dogs and horses. Leisel is my third Great Dane. I have a wonderful trainer, Anna Childs, and she helped me with Leisel when I became frustrated. Anna is so positive about Leisel, I was encouraged to compete. So here I am.”

Julie smiles, shaking her head at the turn of events.

“And how’s Leisel at home?”

“When she goes outside, she spends most of the time playing with my horse. If the horse is not paying attention to her, Leisel will go up and yank on his tail. And if she’s not paying attention to my horse, he will go over and grab Leisel by the scruff and kind of pick her front end up and take off. And Leisel will chase him.”

Hah! Where’s that competitive event anyway? And what about their easing of interspecies hostilities? Don’t Leisel and Julie deserve a blue ribbon for that? I think so.

And look, here’s a mother-daughter-dog combo that looks like it might be a silent cry for help or a truly loving family. 

“This is our golden retriever, Lovie. She will show in novice obedience category,” says Amanda Lepper with her daughter Margot.

Great. But how can you juggle family, dog shows, and all that pink and red?

“I have four kids, so getting to a show is pretty hard because we’re usually doing soccer and basketball and dance and all that. But I have a mentor, Tanja Frye, one of the leaders at the Cyclone Kennel Club in Ames. She pushed me along to try class after class. And now here I am.” 

Really?

“I had two kids when I started. The dog was a way for me to work hard and achieve at something. As a stay-at-home mom, wonderful as that is, you don’t get a lot of ribbons for your effort. So dog training became my therapy for child raising.”

Amen to that. Okay, a blue ribbon to Amanda, Margot, and Lovie. 

But then let’s not forget Gary Shaffer.

“Been doing this 30 years. My wife and I love dogs. We have a small boarding kennel in Jesup, Iowa. We usually have Newfoundlands and Pomeranians, which is quite a combination. We love Pomeranians.”

No kidding. Gary moves around the competition ring with a gentle spring and a barely-contained smile.

“I try to keep the dogs happy. Honestly, it’s our escape from home. We just enjoy it. There’s no money except spending it. It’s just for pleasure.”

Seriously?

“I was in Vietnam for a tour and a half. Then I was in the car business in Seattle, Washington. And now we go to probably 20-25 dog shows a year. Then we take care of dogs when we go home. We are known as the dog people of Jesup. I love it.” 

Okay, okay, a blue ribbon for the dog people of Jesup.

So here we are. Ribbons for everyone. 

But what about my wife and Charlie? How did their day go?

“Amazing.” And she shows me their ribbons. “Let’s get another German Shepherd!” she gushes. 

I’m sure there’s a beer tent somewhere around here. 

Joe

The shovel runs smoothly along the driveway, pushing the not-too-heavy snow into the growing hill on the side. The sky brightens from dark gray to light gray. Sunrise. I pause, take a deep breath of sharp air. Suddenly, the wind swirls across the top of the snow pushing it back across the just-shoveled section.

“Hah!” I flip my scarf around my neck, square my shoulders, shout curses at the wind . . . and I slip on the sloping driveway, the shovel flies into the air, and I lie quietly on my back.

Another snow day in Iowa.

Snow days are a bit different when you’re an old man. No kids to get to school or daycare. No job waiting to be graced by your presence. No one wondering if you were swept away by the storm or if you are just at Stormy’s swept up in a beer or two.

Nope, here I am. On my back. In the long driveway. Enjoying the snow up close and personal.

It is truly winter. Days are short. The air is cold. Fresh snow is being heaped upon old snow. All the sounds are muted to a quiet hush.

A perfect time to think.

“Just had a good report at my physical,” says my friend Gordon.

“Great.”

“Was pretty sure I had something wrong, but it was nothing.”

“That’s a blessing.”

“Although, maybe it’s something and the doc missed it,” says Gordon.

Most conversations these days go this way. Knee replacements. Hip replacements. And wondering if that strange gurgle is just that extra piece of pie or the tentacled monster from the movie Alien.

“You pay your money and take your chances,” as my old friend the religion professor says.

Lying in the snow is not so bad. Only the sounds of the mourning doves at the feeders float down the hill. Really, this would be a good sledding hill.

A long time ago, Waveland Golf Course was my young family’s designated sledding hill. Full of long runs, steep slopes, and squeals of delight. My oldest always flew down the slope thrilled. And then refused to walk back up.

No kidding.

Ever indulging, I’d pull him and the sled back up the hill. It was only a couple of years later when his uncomplaining three-year-old brother pulled himself and his own sled up the hill did I realize I’d been conned. The innocence of children? Hah, raising children is like falling off a cliff. Survival is the only question.

And now our parents, who also carried us up the hill, are passing on.

“My mother was dying and just couldn’t let go,” says Gordon over coffee.

Death seemed as good a conversation as any as we looked out the Grounds for Celebration window in Windsor Heights. The snow storm was beginning to bury the parking lot and businesses were closing.

“So, what did you do?”

“I held her hand and sang her a song.”

“Your kidding. You ushered your mom out with a song?”

“Yup.”

We both sat quietly thinking about that.

“And what did you sing her while holding her hand?” I ask.

“A song written by someone else, but sung by Art Garfunkel. ‘Another Lullaby.'”

And that darn Gordon softly sang the song right then and there.

Close your eyes my pretty child,
Though the night is dark and the wind is wild,
I will stand beside your bed,
Tonight there is nothing you need fear or dread.

The coffee shop vanished. Only Gordon’s subdued voice could be heard as he sang to his mother.

Close your eyes my mother wise
When the waves are angry and the north train cries.
I stop those ghosts outside your door,
Mama, don’t worry ’bout those ghosts no more.

Two old men suddenly rubbing their eyes is not a pretty sight. If you are ever forced to witness such a thing, order a double espresso, be sure to do carry-out, and flee as quickly as possible. Trust me.

“And did the song work?” I eventually asked Gordon.

“She died soon after.”

You know the snow isn’t even cold as I lie here in my driveway. Lord, the birds are making a ruckus at the feeders. I suppose I should get up. But really this is quite comfortable.

Although what if somebody appears over my stretched out body in the driveway and starts singing Get Down Tonight by KC and the Sunshine Band. Is that a sign? Time to call it quits? The big goodbye?

Nah, I move my arms making a snow angel, it’s just another snow day in Iowa.

Joe

Dogs just aren’t my thing. Sorry all you dog lovers. It’s just the way it is.

Sure, I’ve had more than my share of the mangy critters. Why? Because my wife and kids keep bringing them home — over my loud objections. And it’s always the same. I feed the newest member of the family $3000 worth of dog food, they shed buckets of hair on the furniture and rugs, and then they poop in my neighbor’s front yard while my neighbor gestures at me from the window.

“Hi neighbor,” I say in my best Mr. Rogers’ voice. At the same time, I give a small shrug that when translated means — who am I to dictate the bathroom habits of an animal larger than most kids in middle school? I am a victim.

My neighbor does not seem sympathetic to this argument.

Listen, don’t get me wrong, I feel the same way about all the cats who stay with us and treat us with mild disdain. I felt the same for the 25-cent goldfish that lived for a thousand years in our kitchen and was generally a poor conversationalist. And even the turtles of my youth had little joie de vivre.

“Charlie, quit pulling on your leash.”

Lord, I think my left arm is actually dislocated. The obvious result of the machinations of this German shepherd who is constantly stretching my left arm just a bit too far. And not because he is trying to save me from an onrushing truck — nope — but because a month ago some shameless poodle peed on that blade of grass just out of our reach.

But my complaints are ignored by this 100-pound monster who nonchalantly continues snuffling with large gulps of his flared nostrils.

“I’m talking to you,” I say in a huff.

But it’s just like talking to my adult kids, who have taken to calling me “old man,” accompanied by a lot of eye-rolling, and ending with advice to not get up on a ladder.

So here I am. Everyone is busy. I can’t get up on a ladder. So I tend to tromp around with the dog.

I used to tromp around with my kids and our gigantic yellow lab, Micky, back when the kids were small. We would head down to the Des Moines river and walk on the dirt paths running close to the water. No one was around and the trees and water and bright sunshine were the ticket.

One of those winter days I walked up river with my kids, enjoying the cold and the woods. Children’s cries of joy were all that could be heard as they raced up and down the path.

Meanwhile, before I knew it, Micky ran out on the ice covering most of the river. You can guess what happened. He broke through. It was a shockingly simple turn of events. No fanfare. No crescendoing music. No thunder to introduce a plot change. He just slipped into the fast-moving water. End of story.

He fought it for awhile. He tried to climb out. But his 130-pound body refused to find a purchase on the remaining ice. He was wet and he was tired and he was stuck.

And then he started crying as he hung onto the edge of the ice. Long, mournful wails. A sound that echoed down your spine, triggering a distant memory of tooth and claw and sudden death. A wail of terror.

And I stood helpless.

I am unclear about many things, but I knew not to climb out on the ice. So we called 911, but were told they could not do dangerous dog rescues. Passerbys, attracted by the cries, yelled advice. I tried to get Micky to let go of the ice flow and swim downstream. I did things to entice him to the shore. I encouraged him to stay afloat. I pleaded for him to hold on.

But his cries faded as he became more and more exhausted and more and more aware that his time was running out.

And my children? They looked at me. Deadly quiet.

This was not going to end well.

So I did a really stupid thing — one of many stupid things I’ve done in my life. I crawled out on the ice holding onto a long branch that was held at the other end by a passerby, who was himself held by a second passerby. I grabbed the matted scruff of Mickey’s submerged neck and in an adrenaline-fueled moment flung his water-logged, flea-bitten carcass up on the ice.

Of course I wanted to brain him and throw him back in the river. Instead I held him close to warm him up, cursing the whole while that I was done with dogs, no more dogs, I hate dogs. Period.

Micky lived a long, fun-filled life, but he’s gone now . . . along with Emma, Midnight, Molokai, Cloudy, Bronson, Sophie, Harmonica, Chester, Spencer, Fishy, and Pete.

Today, I throw the frisbee for the millionth time to Charlie, a dog my now-absent daughter (really?) brought home. He catches it in midair and returns proudly with his prize.

It’s hard to take him seriously when he looks like this. But what’s to be done? Everyone is busy. I can’t climb ladders. So I tromp around with a dog.

Joe

“There were giants in the earth in those days.” Genesis 6.4.

Yup, that’s what the Bible says — giants. The heroes of long ago. The great men and women of the past. Solid folks. People you could rely on for a lift to the grocery store or to give you a little help if your drain was blocked. Men and women of renown.

And the giants today?

The email arrived with a ping.

“55 years ago on May 1, 1963, I played my Senior Clarinet Recital at Drake University. As I was about to go out on stage, scared to death, my clarinet prof, James Luke, gently pushed me on my back saying ‘May Day! May Day!'”

Kind, self-reflective, funny. David Twombley began writing me emails in 2014 in response to my columns in Cityview. Many emails followed. Some long, some short, some to many recipients, some just to me.

“I am a ‘retired’ instrumental music teacher; taught for 37 years in public schools. I am currently still playing clarinet in two groups here in the Des Moines area, and for the sixth year, teach part-time at Valley high school and Southwoods, the freshman building in the system. There is NOTHING more satisfying than working with youngsters, and seeing their world change when they realize what Music can do for them.”

Teaching was David’s thing. Music was David’s thing. And equality was David’s thing.

Which of course brings us to Chief Justice Mark Cady in Varnum v. Brien.

“This lawsuit is a civil rights action by twelve individuals who reside in six communities across Iowa. Like most Iowans, they are responsible, caring, and productive individuals . . . They include a nurse, business manager . . . and two retired teachers”.

Two retired teachers? They weren’t hard to spot in the crowd. Over there across the room is David Twombley and his partner Larry Hoch. Having committed most of their life to teaching, they found each other in retirement. And together they decided “enough was enough.” They became part of the infamous twelve.

“The twelve plaintiffs comprise six same-sex couples who live in committed relationships. Each maintains a hope of getting married one day, an aspiration shared by many throughout Iowa. Unlike opposite-sex couples in Iowa, same-sex couples are not permitted to marry in Iowa.”

Clear, concise, matter-of-fact. Chief Justice Cady didn’t mince words. Then he reminded us what it means to be an Iowan, in case we were distracted by our smart phones and forgot to look up.

“In the first reported case of the Supreme Court of the Territory of Iowa . . . we refused to treat a human being as property to enforce a contract for slavery and held our laws must extend equal protection to persons of all races and conditions. This decision was seventeen years before the United States Supreme Court infamously . . . upheld the rights of a slave owner to treat a person as property.”

And if that wasn’t enough, he followed this with examples of the Iowa Court dealing “blows to the concept” of segregation and supporting the rights of women.

“In each of those instances, our state approached a fork in the road toward fulfillment of our constitution’s ideals and reaffirmed the ‘absolute equality of all’ persons before the law as ‘the very foundation principle of our government.’”

Which brings us to the topic at hand — same-sex marriage.

“How can a state premised on the constitutional principle of equal protection justify exclusion of a class of Iowans from civil marriage?”

This is like your dad asking if it was a good idea to back the family car into the side of the garage. Perhaps it is best not to answer.

Chief Justice Cady continues. . .

“[T]he right of a gay or lesbian person under the marriage statute to enter into a civil marriage only with a person of the opposite sex is no right at all.”

I’ll translate that for you — sometimes that argument that sounds good in your head should stay in your head.

“We have a constitutional duty to ensure equal protection of the law. Faithfulness to that duty requires us to hold Iowa’s marriage statute violates the Iowa Constitution. To decide otherwise would be an abdication of our constitutional duty.”

There you have it. Chief Justice Cady approached the fork in the road and chose the path of equality. Nobody on his watch is going to be left out in the cold.

Victory for all.

But what happened to our retired teachers, David and Larry?

“We were married in September, 2009.” And David attached a smiling photo to his email.

All lived happily ever after.

The End.

Not really.

Life goes on. It is never the end until it is actually the end. With the recent death of Chief Justice Cady, all three men have passed. Each too early. Each leaving victories and defeats and battles un-fought. But each leaving a mark that made Iowa a little better.

For me, it’s been one year with no emails from David waiting in my in-box. An empty spot at the table. So, like many of you at the beginning of an Iowa winter, I look back to warmer days.

“Squeeker our cat has 3 strikes against him: he’s gay (at least he lives with two gay men), black, and handicapped. He is inside, except for our morning ‘constitutional’ when we go outside; not on a leash, and he explores around the yard and eats grass—Larry thinks he is crossed with a cow! He is a delight: very affectionate, and wants to be with us all the time. Larry says he is a dog in drag, as he seems to be more dog-like than the typical stereotype of a cat. He is the most loving cat I’ve ever had . . . He will be missed very much when his ‘time’ comes, for sure.”

“Giants,” the Bible called them. They are missed very much. For sure.

Joe

“So, you want to try the Fernet?” the bartender said as he leaned across the bar with a small shot of dark liquid.

Why not?

Although, I must admit that I’ve never quite taken to serious drinking. Years ago, an old prosecutor offered me a serious drink out of a flask as we chatted outside our motel rooms in western Iowa.

“You have a flask?” I asked, more excited about the container than what was in it.

He smiled conspiratorially.

I didn’t want to tell him that the closest thing to a flask I’d ever drunk out of was a canteen full of kool-aid belonging to my 5th grade buddy Bill. And usually Bill and I were sitting in a plywood fort high in a tree where we drank out of his “flask” and ate bologna sandwiches on buttered white bread.

I’m not stupid. After one swallow from the old prosecutor’s flask, I knew not to drink it while up a tree.

“Sure, I’ll try the Fernet.”

Bartender/Owner, Dave Murrin-von Ebers, offered me this free taste at his new bar on Ingersoll called The Bartender’s Handshake.

“A bartender’s handshake is a shot you would do with your bartender and also a term for shots a bartender likes to take. Fernet Branca is one of the more popular ones. Earlier in my career, Jamison was the go-to shot.”

A sip of Fernet courtesy of Dave. Delicious. A free taste. Like an amuse-bouche from the chef before you order dinner, or a complimentary digestif at the end that deliciously burns away your insides, or that wonderful sour cream dip handed out free with a few chips in aisle eight at Hy Vee.

“May I try two flavors?” I always ask the Hy Vee lady in the white apron.

A taste over here. A gift of lotion in a mailer over there. A cookie with your coffee. An extra sample in your bag. A surprise in a box of Cracker Jack.

Free stuff.

Back when I was a much younger man, my wife and I thought our three kids were spoiled rotten. Which they were, thanks to their enabling father. So we decided that they should help give out food on Saturday mornings under the auspices of the Catholic Worker House. This was based on some ill-advised notion that our kids would learn gratitude and humility and love by way of service.

Of course, it was a total failure.

Except for me.

The first day at the Catholic Worker House I met Carla Dawson. Tough, no-nonsense, hard working. Her booming voice greeted us at the door like a linebacker. And her hug rocked my kids off their feet into a limp pile of giggles.

After this introduction, Carla stood back and sized me up . . . and I was clearly lacking.

She handed me an apron, gave me a gentle push, and off to wash dishes I went with her loud laugh echoing around the small kitchen to my kids’ delight.

My kids peeled off over time, but I stayed for those Saturdays. Not because I was interested in doing good. Nope. I was interested in being around someone who did good. Loud and brassy and full of love, Carla created a world that took care of people. And it was all free for the taking.

“Weeg, this woman needs some extra help, go grab those vegetables in the back room.”

“What are you doing, sister? Come here for a hug.”

“Open those doors, Weeg, we’ve got a big crowd and they’re cold. Why are you sitting down?”

And I would get the vegetables and see the little girl squeal with delight at the hug and rush to open the door. Just as ordered. And I’d watch Carla scatter the gifts of herself like candy at a Fourth of July parade. A little love here, a little push there, a little encouragement wherever it was needed.

After a short while I moved on. And years later Carla moved on also. Community Youth Concepts is her new hangout, where she continues to do good for young people in a new space.

But, honestly, I miss her bossing me around.

Although I don’t doubt she is still who she is — one part sassiness and three parts love. Next time ask the bartender for that.

The Carla Dawson Handshake.

The real free stuff.

Joe

“Joe, it’s not so cozy.”

Really? “It’s not so cozy”? They have great fries. And I love their coffee. And look at their apple pie.

“I’m sorry, but it’s not so cozy,” repeats my Dutch friend, Margreet. And that is the end of the discussion. We move on.

And everybody in this Dutch world gets it. A house might not be cozy. A cafe might not be cozy. A situation might not be cozy. “Gezellig” is the untranslatable Dutch word for this idea of coziness. Something is not gezellig? You might as well pack up and go home. Good night, Irene.

The Dutch all nod their heads with understanding when you say something is not cozy. Clearly, not-coziness is to be avoided at all costs. It may be worse than murder in the Netherlands. At least when you murder someone, you can still have a cozy prison cell with a cozy meal. Not-coziness has the sour smell of bad manners. Why aren’t you making me comfortably cozy? Fine. I’ll go elsewhere.

Well, if not-coziness is so serious, how does an outsider from Iowa determine what is cozy? Especially because when I was growing up with seven other brothers and sisters, there was never a not-cozy moment. In fact, things were too cozy. At our very tight dinner table, if you raised your left arm too suddenly, you smacked the poor kid sitting next to you causing a chain reaction down the entire table until the tuna noodle casserole was knocked to the floor where Sam the mangy dog waited with tongue hanging out. No, being not so cozy was the goal in my family.

But the Netherlands is a different place in a different time.

So, Margreet, what is cozy?

“Flowers, candlelight, and dim the overhead lights please,” she says matter of factly.

Really?

“Of course.”

Let’s check this out.

I go to Frederik Hendriklaan in The Hague on a shopping Saturday. Flower sellers seem to be everywhere on this popular street of small businesses. I stop at one flower stand and talk to the owner as he bustles around with customers.

So, who is actually buying all these flowers, I ask, while I watch a young girl, an old man, a woman carrying a baby, a dad pushing a stroller, a smartly dressed teenager, and a man with his dog, all pull flowers from the various buckets.

“Everyone.”

No, I think you don’t understand, how many Dutch folks buy flowers?

“Everyone.”

Okay, this guy clearly just knows one English word.

I go to the next stand a little ways down the street to try again.

How many Dutch folks buy flowers?

“Everyone,” the busy, smiling Dutch woman says.

Really?

“Most of the Dutch have flowers because they live inside. It’s the weather. Other parts of the world, Italy and Spain for example, they live outside.”

And that’s that. Back to work she goes.

I think about this as I watch bike rider after bike rider peddle down the road with bouquets held with the blooms pointing down, stems clutched tightly, and usually a child or two strapped on the bike for good measure. It all seems crazy. But, having tried it myself, the flowers actually arrive home unsmashed. As for the hapless children with their little blonde hair plastered to their foreheads by the rain and cold and wind, they seem none the worse for wear either.

Fine.

And candles?

I started noticing in grocery stores and small soap shops and convenience stores whole aisles devoted to candles. Small votive candles, long taper candles, wide stand-alone candles, scented candles, unscented candles, candles for romance, candles to calm your mind, candles for energy, and even the “Lumberjack” collection of candles — “great gifts for him.”

I’ll be darned. Where have I been?

And lights? Do the Dutch have the neon lights of America with their crackling buzz of electricity? Lights that turn on back home with a blinding flash of alarm when a squirrel dares to pass near your front door? Lights that are so bright in U.S. convenience stores that it is possible to actually see people’s DNA?

So at dusk I bike through the various neighborhoods and look through the large Dutch windows into people’s homes. I admit, a very un-Dutch thing to do. In spite of my bad manners, I still notice the soft glow from the ever-present chandeliers. The light is golden. Warm. Inviting. Intimate. And, dare I say, cozy?

And it’s not hard to imagine that behind those Dutch windows is a woman smoothing the worry lines on the forehead of her partner with her cool firm hands, a grandpa rocking his grandbaby as her eyes flutter closed as both fall sleep, or an old man dreaming of a heron flying low over a Dutch canal as a gentle mist falls. Yup, coziness in action.

Margreet, can we please eat at this cafe?

She grabs a candle from another table, adjusts the flowers, asks the server to dim the lights, and then she gives a big sigh of satisfaction.

“Of course.”

Joe

Pick up backpack. Shuffle one step. Set down backpack. Breathe. Turn around to see if I’m somehow miraculously closer.

I’m not.

Pick up backpack. Shuffle one step. Set down backpack. Breathe. Turn around . . .

Listen, I had plenty of warning about this. My mom always told me if I kept on teasing my sisters I’d go to “hell in a hand basket.” I just didn’t know she meant the hand basket was located at passport control in the Minneapolis-Saint Paul International Airport.

But here I am.

The line curves back and forth and back and forth in a neatly carved maze of black bands connected to gleaming metal poles. I am at the very end. Perhaps 300 people in front of me. We can see directly in front of us the automatic machines that will read our passports, but we frustratingly turn away from our goal, first to the left and then to the right, in a slow mournful procession. All that’s missing is the casket.

I’m in the process of coming home to Des Moines. Gone for 30 days in the land of the Dutch. A retreat among windmills and art and Dutch friends.

“A journey of self-discovery that most folks take when they are 16 years old,” my wife kindly points out.

Perhaps.

“You’re working on your self esteem?” She says with a barely-contained smile.

Well . . . sure.

“Didn’t you get participation ribbons when you were a little kid?”

This is her quaint way of saying that she is wholly supportive of this adventure.

A preacher in a white collar is 20 people in front of me. I pass him after each switchback. I bet this is a real challenge to his faith. You know, the whole “first shall be last and last shall be first” thing. Clearly, as the line barely moves, the last shall be even further last at this airport.

Being gone from home for so long, I had to think about something special to bring home for my wife. Something that really speaks to my consistent vows of loyalty and love for her, something that pops with astounding amazement and surprise, something that just sweeps her off her feet so she lands in my arms singing “You’re the One.”

Peanut butter seemed the obvious choice.

Lordy, I’ve finally made it to the automatic passport machine. In goes the passport. Oops, wrong direction. Re-insert. Yikes, it’s taking a photo. Only half my face is on the screen. Reposition. Out shoots a slip of paper. Giddily, I present it to the uniformed man. He nods and sends me not into the airport as I expected, but into another maze going BACK to the end of a new line, just where I started 300 people ago.

Ahhhhhhhh . . . am I being punished for secretly liking romance novels featuring a pirate as the main character?

As for my wife’s gift, trust me, my wife really likes peanut butter. And Dutch peanut butter is her very favorite. She has everything already — earrings, a grandchild, the love of a good man. But what does she not have? You guessed it, Dutch peanut butter.

Oh my goodness, I’m finally talking to a live agent at passport control.

“Why were you in The Netherlands?” the uniformed young woman asks.

I have a gut feeling that to say I was working on Brene Brown’s notion of self esteem is not the right answer.

“Pleasure?” But that sounds like I’ve spent my time smoking dope and going to the Red Light District.

How about “visiting friends?”

“Welcome home,” she says.

Before I leave Holland I buy my wife’s gift of Dutch peanut butter. I bury it deep in my backpack so that it will not break. I easily make it through the stringent controls at the Amsterdam Airport, where you stand in a large machine with your hands raised while the security folks count the freckles on your back.

One last security line to go through before I get on my final plane to Des Moines. I place my backpack on the rollers and give it a push towards the scanner. I patiently wait on the other side. And wait. And wait.

“Is this your bag?”

Uh-oh.

“Don’t touch it,” one uniformed woman shouts.

I jump back. Even I become concerned. Does it have secret nuclear codes buried in my long-sleeve wool shirts? Are there illegal designer drugs tucked into my SmartWool socks? Is the answer to the disappearance of Amelia Earhart hidden in my art book on Pieter de Hooch?

The two women open the crammed backpack and root around.

No luck. They pull out my red underwear. Really? For everyone to see? Again, no luck.

Finally, they look at me in exasperation and ask if I have anything in a jar.

I look dumb, have an aha moment, and then guiltily say: “Peanut butter????!”

And there’s the culprit.

So, today only, an awesome jar of Dutch peanut butter is now owned by the Minneapolis-Saint Paul International Airport.

And my wife?

No gift. Our marriage is left to founder on the rocks of the loveless. The hopes of salvaging   the unsalvageable is dashed. No couple can survive a peanut butter caper.

But . . . no worries, folks.

She’s Irish. Her favorite gift? A story. Everyone knows that. So when we land, here’s her story. Just written. 800 words. Simple and sweet. What a great gift. What a thoughtful husband. How clever am I.

By the way, do you think that jewelry store is still open downtown?

Joe

The tall, strong-looking Dutch woman began her story by telling me about fish. The story suddenly took a right turn into speed dating. And then the darn thing ended up about Dutch character. Her character.

People are never a straight line.

Sort of like the story of fish.

I’m from landlocked Iowa, and in my youth, fish consisted of one thing — fish sticks. A highly processed, deep-fat fried delicacy that was a staple of meat-free Friday’s for my large Catholic family of birth. And, frankly, fish sticks are a treat to this day. Drowned in tartar sauce, they are a salty, greasy delight that taste mostly like the same tartar sauce they were dipped in, but crunchy.

I must admit as I grew older my understanding of what constituted fish was challenged. My wife is an adventurous eater and began ordering fish that actually looked like fish. And grocery stores all over Iowa are selling fresh fish, while restaurants are offering fish entrees, and my own children are betraying me by eating, of all things, sushi.

Where did I go wrong?

“Dad, you have to try this. It’s called a Dynamite Roll,” my son Emmett says.

“Raw fish?” I watch the chef preparing the fish in front of us until finally I choke a little, turn pale, and run for the door. My son just shakes his head.

So here I am visiting The Netherlands. Fish paradise. 

Which is why I’m talking to a tall, Dutch woman knowledgeable about all things fishy.

“I have worked for 15 years with fish.” Marie-Claire David gives me her easy smile.

“In English, I would be called a fishmonger.”

So, she is the perfect person to ask penetrating fish questions like . . .

Are you sick of fish after being around it all day long?

“Not at all, I eat it even at night after work, I love it. I am really fish girly.” Marie-Claire laughs at the silliness of my question.

Okay, here’s a subtle one.

Doesn’t this fish gross you out?

“No, of course not. I don’t have any problems holding that fish, cleaning that fish, or eating that fish.”

Seriously? You got to be kidding. What about that slippery thing in front of you?

“This fish I am cleaning right now is called sliptong in Dutch. You would call it baby sole. It is only found in the North Sea. It is very local, it is very fresh, it is very Dutch. You have to eat flat fish in the summer because the meat of the fish is thick. In the winter they use all their energy producing eggs. You eat flat fish when you can open your windows.”

Oh, she knows her stuff. I’d better be careful.

What about this Dutch herring that everyone talks about?

“Herring is caught these days further north because the North Sea is getting warmer because of climate change. It is fished and put in buckets, where it is salted and processed in a progression of freezers. It comes to us and we do a defrosting process. I’m then going to clean it so that there are no bones.”

Yikes, and how does one eat this salted thing?

The traditional way of eating the herring in Scheveningen is leaving on the tail without any onions. But in Amsterdam it is very traditional to remove the tail, cut it up in pieces, with onion and pickle.

And what’s this?

“Kibbling,” Marie-Claire says.

Aha.

“Kibbling in the past was made from the cheeks of the cod. And they cut out the forehead meat also. And this was deep fried. These days it has been changed because cod became very expensive. So we use this fish that is plenty of in the sea and it is very firm fish called pollack. We mix it with butter, water, and flour, and put it into a deep fryer. Very slowly so that each one is beautiful in itself and nice and crispy. We then herb it. And serve with sauce on the side.”

Kibbling schmibling. These are just fancy fish sticks.

At last, something familiar. And delicious!  But I had to ask one more question. 

So, I’m curious, how is it being a fish monger as a woman?

“It is an unusual profession. One year ago when I was going on a speed date, I was thinking, ‘Am I going to be honest about working in a fish shop during the three-minute conversation with men?’ Or am I going to lie a little bit and say, ‘Hey, I’m in real estate’?”

My lord. 

“So I told those men I’m in real estate. I did not tell them I’m a fish girl.”

Ouch. 

“After that experience I thought this is wrong. Am I ashamed of what I do?”

And? 

“I embraced this part of my life. I’m cool. Now I tell everyone that I work with fish. ‘Do you have a problem with that?’ I say.”

Marie-Claire, with sparkling eyes, shoulders back, and chin firmly set, goes back to work.

There you have it . . . fish, speed dating, and Dutch character. Never a straight line.

And I don’t have a problem with that.

Joe

She’s definitely looking at me. Of course, it’s just a trick of the eye. A common phenomenon. We’ve all experienced it. But still. After all the adulation, the paparazzi, the gazillion of hours devoted to her in articles and on TV shows and even in a movie, you might . . .  just a minute . . . is she following me around the room now? There she goes, charming me with those glistening eyes. Lord help me.

Yup, I’m from Iowa. It is one of those small states you will never visit. We Iowans have zero pretensions about our importance, although we are a little pretentious about how unpretentious we are. To be fair to Iowans, however, one of our senior politicians was elected to the Senate based on her ability to castrate hogs. That’s pretty unpretentious.

So I’d love to write about Vermeer’s use of light and shading and interesting brush strokes. But I don’t have a clue about those things and it would be very un-Iowan for me to pretend. No matter. My Girl (and doesn’t she belong even to me?) is an emotional firebrand getting ready to burn down the house. You can talk all you want about the white dab used to make the pearl hanging from her left ear, but you might be missing the sparks flying out of her eyes. I imagine that just off canvas, right where you can’t see, she has raised her hand and dropped the microphone to the stage in an electronic roar. The crowd goes wild. She turns in triumph.

And that’s the moment when Vermeer made his painting.

The Girl with the Pearl Earring hangs in the Mauritshuis in The Hague, Netherlands. I visit her every couple of days during this trip. She doesn’t mind. Sure, I check out the Goldfinch (made even more famous by a recent movie), and Jan Steen’s jokes (I want to live in a Jan Steen home of smoking and drinking and oysters), and Frans Hals’ Laughing Boy (this painting may be the single cure for depression), and Rembrandt’s aging face (he always makes me walk a little taller). All truly amazing. But it is the Girl I go to first. Just climb up to the top floor, turn left, go through the open door, turn left again, and there she is. All yours. Unbelievable.

And when it’s time, I make my way to the museum cafe. I have vowed that whenever I go to a museum, I will stop at the museum’s cafe to savor the experience — which is secret code for having a glass of wine. The large one, please.

And the same server from years past is working the floor today, taking care of a long table of well-dressed women and two dads with kids in strollers.

She stops her work, gives me a smile and a hug, and welcomes me back. I suspect she remembers most of her customers — and their orders.

“Chardonnay?” Patty Scott says.

Of course.

Patty is Dutch. She has done this kind of job for over 30 years. And she’s a pro. Every customer is taken care of with graciousness as I sit and watch her work. She takes orders, cleans tables, rescues a baby in the swinging doors, helps an older man down the stairs . . . and brings my wine.

“I want everybody to be comfortable. Even the person who is upset, I want to make their day all right.” She smiles with a refreshing directness.

No kidding.

And what do you think of the Girl with the Pearl Earring?

Patty laughs her deep laugh.

“I have worked here so long, this is my house. I live here with the Girl.”

And with her own twinkling eyes, Patty goes back to work.

Several years ago I was outside the Mauritshuis as the Girl was being returned after being on tour. I showed up at the front gates expecting a few curious people like myself. I foolishly thought I was one of a few admirers.

Thousands of people were there. A marching band played. The Dutch King appeared. Speeches were given. Actors dressed up as the Girl zigzagged through the crowd pausing for photographs. And on the side streets, artists painted her likeness while vendors sold Dutch sausages and breaded meats.

At last, the painting was delivered by crane in a large wooden box. We all clapped and cheered and cried. We were thrilled. Our Girl was home.

So, you may be wondering what’s all this have to do with the price of corn?

Well, I think . . . just a minute . . .  is she looking at me?

Joe

Rain in the Netherlands has a certain texture that doesn’t exist back home in Iowa. Here in the Netherlands the rain rarely rages with such thunder and lightning that you decide maybe it would be a good idea to crawl under the table with the dog. Sure, it rains nearly every day . . . but quietly.

I think the rain reflects the Dutch sensibility of ganug — freely translated by me, a person who doesn’t know a lick of Dutch, as, “that’s enough of that nonsense.” Moderation counts. It’s akin to the Dutch idea that healthy eating is important, but please pass me the fries.

Henriette Priester, the Dutch mother to all her visitors at the gym she operates with her husband in The Hague, says that her mom had a typical Dutch saying when she complained as a child about the rain.

“But, mom, it’s raining,” Henriette would say.

“Don’t worry,” said her mom, “most of it falls next to you.”

That made such sense to Henriette that she told the same to her children. With a straight face no less.

So, I take this to mean that everyone is just expected to get on their bike and get on with it because . . . what? It could be worse?

Easy peasy to ride in the rain, according to the Dutch. Or, more accurately translated: “Riding in the rain is like two fingers in your nose.” Yup, that is a true Dutch saying that doesn’t work for me either. But then again, I’m not Dutch.

Margreet, a stylish Dutch woman, seems the perfect person to ask about the ruinous affects of biking in the rain on her makeup and clothes.

“I don’t care,” she says with disdain at the idea. “I will dry up. And if I have droopy eyes because of my mascara, I just wipe it away.”

Really?

“It rains all the time. We Dutch are so used to it. It doesn’t bother us at all.” And off pedals Margreet as the rain drains off her hat as slick as on a sloped roof of an Iowa barn.

And in the Netherlands, the rain seems to disappear into the sand under the bricks or be funneled into the canals that criss-cross the land. Wet one moment, dry the next. Not so this year in Iowa, where the rain ran off the fields of corn and soybeans, flooded creeks and rivers, shut down interstate highways, and washed away whole Iowa towns.

Rain water is not a surprise to the Dutch. I guess if your real challenge is the North Sea, from which one third of the country is daily rescued with dikes and canals and modern-day windmills, a few drops from the heavens is hardly a national crisis.

But still . . .

What about those windmills? What happens in the rain to those big sails?

“The rain doesn’t matter. The sails can get wet. It is not the rain that concerns the miller, it is the wind that follows a rain.”

Hennie van der Lilie, the miller for the Molenseum De Valk, is a tall, lean man with an easy smile who has worked windmills for 40 years.

“A big part of our job is to determine how the weather develops.”

Great. But what if you get caught having to climb those sails in a rainstorm?

Hennie laughs.

“A younger colleague of mine once said, ‘A good miller never gets wet.'”

Okay, I get it. According to the Dutch, either I can trust that most of the rain will fall next to me, or I will be just fine getting soaked because I will eventually dry, or I will miraculously avoid the rain today as a good miller would.

Yup, I think that covers all the bases.

Although, as I get on my wet bike to ride away in the wet rain in my already wet clothes, another Dutch saying finally makes sense — riding in the rain does in fact feel like two fingers in the nose.

Joe