I sat in the back of Macbride Hall for a reason. I wanted to be invisible. I wanted to slink in early unseen and slink out in the crowd unnoticed. As a result, even the last row of this large auditorium was too close to the stage for me. So I sat in the back of the balcony located at the back of the auditorium. Hundreds of students were a buffer between me and the teacher. Just as I liked. One anonymous face lost in the haystack of 18 and 19-year-old students. 

Hiding made sense, of course, because a madman ran the class. Thin, wiry, aggressive. A dangerous man. Equal parts circus master and brilliant teacher. He prowled and shouted and laughed and whispered trying to engage us. He wanted us to think — about right and wrong, what is a meaningful life, examine our unexamined beliefs, and, of course, how to think about death and dying. It was exhilarating and terrifying. I was mesmerized. 

“You pay your money and make your choice,” as he liked to say. So buckle up. 

“Joe, good job.” 

Jay Holstein, a religion professor at the University of Iowa, handed me my graded test after I waited in the long line of students at the end of class.

Aargh . . . busted. Anonymity gone. Nailed. The madman had my number. 

So I became a religion major. An unbeliever for sure, but a religion major. I took every course Holstein had to offer and then some he made up. It was heaven. He was heaven. Sure, law school, marriage, children, a career as a prosecutor, and now a writer for Cityview, all followed. But my religion studies with Jay Holstein . . . that was the beginning. 

Now fifty years later . . .

“I am the only tenure-track professor in the Drake religion program. I have been at Drake for 17 years.”

Brad Crowell, weary-eyed from final exams grading, and perhaps weary from fighting to save his job, gives a small smile.

So, Brad, what’s all the hullabaloo about Drake shutting down the religion program?

Brad sighs. “For a university to stay afloat, where the number of students is getting smaller and state funding is diminishing, then the variable that often gets cut is the professors.”

Sure sure sure. I get it. Not enough students to justify your job. Not enough bang for the buck. The numbers never lie. 

“No, religion didn’t have the numbers.” Brad pauses and then looks me in the eye. “But listen, are we training people to just get jobs? We also want our students’ world to get really big.”

What do you mean?

“Students are asked today, ‘What do you want to do when you finish?’ I ask students, ‘What do you want to explore while you’re here?'”

So what do you do now?

“Well, the program is gone. The minor is going to exist. I’ll be teaching classes that will qualify for the minor out of another department.”

It sounds like a death knell.

“I will run with the minor. Programs can be rebuilt. I think we can make the minor so good, Drake will stay with that. I still want important issues to be highlighted.”  

So there you have it. A man teaching our kids about the big questions.

What big questions, you ask? Let me give you a few examples . . .

In my role as a prosecutor, I stood outside the two-story house in the dark of the early morning. A young man was dead. The police mulled around doing their police thing. I prepared a search warrant after seeing the body. The young man’s father was at my side. He was in deep anguish. “Why my boy?” he said to me in tears. “Why my boy?”

My new wife looked at me and said we should practice law part-time so that we would have time for family and other priorities. Really? But what about the money? And what about our reputation as lawyers because they say part-time lawyers aren’t real lawyers? And nobody will hire us both part-time, will they? What should we do?

I lay paralyzed in the hospital. Struck by a car while I biked. I had a trach and various other attachments to a body that was no longer mine. Pain was my new friend. And I was informed it was going to be a long rehab with no promises. How do I climb out of this?

Religion courses talk about the big questions. Not biology. Not computer science. And not business. Religion. 

“You pay your money and make your choice,” said Jay Holstein, my religion professor those many years ago.

Amen to that.  

Joe

I look into the fluorescently-lit mirror in the Paris hotel . . . and an old man looks back. He’s not a cheerful-looking old man. He’s not a serene-looking old man. And he definitely has no hint of French joie de vivre in that craggy face.

Nope, that is one old dude in the mirror. 

Let’s just take a moment to check the inventory. I am stiff, tippy, and mostly unsure whether that pain on my left side is a sore muscle or a heart attack. I only wear pants with elastic waistbands, which is a surprise to no one who saw my prosecutor wardrobe back in the day. And of course in the time needed to scroll down to the year of my birth on an app, I could go make a sandwich and check the weather. And sometimes I do. Why not? With one foot in the grave, it’s always wise to have a sandwich as the clouds roll in. 

But here I am. Looking in the mirror. An old man. But I can’t be an old man. That would mean that the last stop on the train is right around the corner. Yup, folks, I am not going quietly into the night. I am in complete denial of how this all ends.

Well, trust me, traveling helps with that silliness.

Incident #1

The train runs from Belfort, France to Paris and then on to Rotterdam. Simple enough. My wife marches confidently ahead with her back pack. I less confidently carry my back pack, which I’m pretty sure is the weight of a baby African elephant. And in another bag I carry two bottles of un-opened French wine that rattle around like two raccoons in a tangle. I teeter under this load, but mostly I am upright.

Our trip is going well, all connections met, so we need a little adversity to put the world back in balance. At Gare du Nord in Paris, there are 36 platforms where the trains pull in for loading and unloading. We check the big board and it says our train is at platform 3. It’s a tight connection, so we hustle. 

But it’s not our train at platform 3. 

Hold it, the big board still says our train is at platform 3. Lord, it is parked at the back end of this train we are looking at. But so distant it can’t be seen. And we are running out of time. My wife sprints down the platform to get on our train — yup, it’s a dog-eat-dog world in my marriage. I try to sprint along, but I’m pretty sure I have become the sacrificial guy left behind for the chasing hyenas. 

And then I accidentally drop my hat and one glove. 

Have you ever tried to pick up a hat and glove when you have a baby elephant on your back and you’re holding a bag with two raccoons in a tangle? Oh yes, and let’s not forget that you are an old man. It’s not pretty.

As I slowly bend over, trying not to topple, I see a young French woman off to my left — white sweater, black slacks, heels — racing to my rescue.

I am mortified. 

Listen, I am trying to age with grace and dignity. So I have read hundreds of books about aging and death. I have written articles and done therapy and lectured the mail carrier about the need to embrace growing old. I preach against chasing youth to everyone, including my five-year-old grandchild. I celebrate all the scars and wrinkles and carving away of my body. I am a fully actualized, AARP-certified old man. 

But as I see the young woman run to my aid, all my thoughts vanish except one — I can’t be that old guy who can’t pick up his hat, can I?

I hurriedly reach the last two feet to my hat, swaying precariously, bones cracking, muscles screaming, and scoop up the fallen items. And I flee to the train. The woman pulls up several yards away. I don’t even make eye contact. No smile. No thank you. Nothing. Not only am I an old man, I’m a rude old man with no grace and no dignity. 

“Bah humbug,” says Scrooge.  

Incident #2

The next day we are in The Hague, my home away from home. We are having a glass and enjoying the sun at an outdoor cafe in the city center. A tram line passes a few yards in front of us — the 17. Suddenly I see an older fellow trying to cross the tram tracks in his electric scooter. The scooter and the man topple over in the middle of the tracks and he falls off the scooter and actually flies out of his shoes. Yikes!

I jump out of my chair and am one of the first to arrive. He does not speak English. I do not speak Dutch. I gesture that I will help him to get up.. He looks at me, and then gestures with his arms and says “strong”, while shaking his head no.

I’ll translate for you — the guy lying in the middle of the tram tracks is rejecting my help to keep from being run over by the next tram because I do not look strong enough. I kid you not. He thinks I am too old to save his sorry, shoeless, toppled-over, soon-to-be-turned-into-spam rear end. Lord help me. Eventually, a few young men come over and pick him up. 

Wow. I am an old man.The world has spoken.

So . . . . . . the lessons from these in-your-face, travel experiences?

Stay away from fluorescently-lit mirrors. Duh. 

Joe

Let’s begin with the obvious — my wife and I are lucky dogs. Duh. Here we are flying to France by way of Amsterdam, we’re watching nonstop movies for seven hours, and we’re requesting red wine when we’re tired of the white. Do we deserve our luck? Of course not. Who does? We are the product of all sorts of entitlements based on skin color, geography, and parents, to name a few. It’s not fair and someone should lodge a complaint with the front office. But … is that chicken pasta on the menu?

My wife and I are not petite. We are from good Iowa stock and our length does not quite fit into economy class airplane seats. And since we are from good Iowa stock, we still think, at nearly 70 years of age, that it is fiscally irresponsible to upgrade out of economy class. Fiscally responsible people wear stocking caps to bed in cold weather and don’t complain if their knees are hitting the airplane seat in front of them. And that crying baby with the solo mom? Of course she will be seated near us and of course my wife wishes she could help in quieting the child. It’s what Iowans do. I, on the other hand, turn up the volume on my movie.

Des Moines to Chicago. Chicago to Amsterdam.

We arrive in Holland and walk out the kissing-Dutch-boy-and-girl doors to our future life in Western Europe. A future life that will need some immediate naps to survive. 

But a nap is not on the horizon. A high speed train to Paris, a high speed train to Strasbourgh, and two local trains to Belfort, France, are on the horizon. Oh my.

So with my wife’s green backpack and my red backpack, we stumble through the train stations into the eastern heart of France.

I love the trains. Silent. Smooth. Quick. Their presence all over Europe seems to echo back to an older time of elegance and romance and brown fedoras with sharply creased crowns — all of this with a futuristic, George Jetson-flying-car feel. The train no longer speaks with a clickety-clack like the old days, but gives an emphatic whoosh that propels you from Amsterdam to Paris to Strasbourg in the blink of an eye. 

With packs stored overhead, I sit back in the roomy seat and study the train car. Men, women, children — all of us bundled together at nearly 200 mph. The iron works of the train yards quickly give way to fields of bright yellow zooming past the window. These rapeseed or mustard fields (I can only identify corn or soybean fields, like any good Iowan) are just cheerful and splashy under the overcast skies. Add these colorful fields to the tiny roads and low sloping red rooflines and it looks like we have landed on the set of a musical. My wife urges me not to sing.

And then the people on the train start opening their “picnics.” Oh, now I get it. A sign in the train station at Gare de l’Est in Paris invited us to bring along our picnic for the train ride because there is no bar car in this French budget train, Ouigo. Really. And at the train stations they sell all sorts of baguettes with sandwich fillings — with ham and butter as the hands-down choice for this crusty bread. For a little over 3 euros you can eat like royalty, or is it eat like a peasant per Marie-Antoinette? No matter, like many a French person, I am in love.

So as the train whisks along, I spread out my napkin, pull out my French coffee, set a pastry to the side for dessert, and reach for my delicious butter and ham sandwich. But . . . it is gone. My train picnic is ruined.

Although it would be nice to blame my wife, I must confess this problem has happened to me before. It is why whenever I pick up a pizza, I always return home with one slice missing. Get a dozen donuts as a treat for the family, and there is always only 11 in the box when I plop them on the counter. Clearly, the sandwich was eaten BEFORE boarding the train. Someone is stealing my food. 

But let’s not point fingers. Isn’t that the trouble with our judging world today? The lesson from this trip is clear — always bring an extra sandwich on your train picnic. 

You can write that down.

Joe

The graves sprawl over the bright green and faded brown grass like grazing cattle over the stubble of an Iowa corn field. Narrow blacktop roads meander here and there across the 65 acres. Pools of sunshine dance on the white granite tombstones and the half-buried markers of grey river rock. While the many trees with small leafing buds stand quietly in respect. 

Woodland Cemetery on the cusp of spring.

Mike Rowley tells a story. 

Over a hundred years ago, there was an undertaker preparing a body, and this dog appeared and always seemed to be underfoot. So the days go by and they have the funeral at the cemetery. Again they see the dog off to the side. The burial takes place. The caretaker at Woodland Cemetery notices this dog still hanging around this guy’s grave. So they try to give the dog food and water. 

Mike Rowley is a big man. Broad shoulders. Wide smile. Well spoken. Unsurprisingly, a retired pharmaceutical salesman; surprisingly, a collector of stories, a curious historian, and the savior of many a grave in Woodland Cemetery.

Days go by and the dog will not leave. It’s really getting famished. Finally, the caretakers wife gets the dog to come home with them. The dog’s name is Queen. 

Mary Christopher, a realtor in the Des Moines area with VIA (a group of “mature realtors who help each other rather than compete,” according to Mary), just wrote a book with Mike — “Woodland Cemetery in Des Moines: A History.”

“I decided to do this book on Woodland Cemetery because there really wasn’t a book of all the stories. I approached Mike by accident — he was leaning over a grave — and we were introduced.”

How appropriate. 

Mary smiles easily and speaks of cemeteries with the bright eyes of a young kid showing you their favorite toy. 

“I love cemeteries. I can’t travel without stopping at every cemetery. I don’t know why I love it. It’s a little creepy, but I love it.”

But Mary’s no dreaming kid, she is a “get it done” person. Without a doubt, she’s who you want organizing your life. Mary roped in Mike as her coauthor and then put together a team of eight or nine people to flesh out their research. And several years later, voila  — a book of stories about Woodland Cemetery. 

“Has this book made me think of my own death?” Mary pauses, “My sister told me that even though I’m to be cremated I should really have a stone at Woodland . . . I thought about it and that’s what I did.”

Mary smiles, looking off into space.

“This book has made me appreciate people more. Here’s all these people gone, some not forgotten who were famous, but many of them forgotten for over 150 years. To think that someone will remember me for 150 years, that’s cool. At least people might remember a couple of books I’ve written.” Mary laughs at herself. 

A legacy then?

“I feel like life is really short. But, as someone said, as long as someone keeps saying your name, you’re still alive.” 

Two or three years later, the caretaker’s wife is sitting at home and the dog is agitated trying to get her attention. Finally, the dog is making such a fuss that she follows the dog out of her bedroom. Minutes later, the ceiling crashes down. The house has been on fire. Both of them made it out alive. 

“I thought I’d never live to be 66,” says Mike. “I don’t think death is good or bad. However, as one of the stones has inscribed on it, ‘Words suggest, actions show.’ And the action doesn’t have to be grandiose. We started putting in stones for veterans whose graves hadn’t been marked and we set a goal for five. Now we’ve done over 300. I tell people not to be intimidated by the numbers — just do one.”

So if you go to Woodland Cemetery, and if you’re walking along the street, there is a little step and it says McBride on it. The step is the gravesite of the caretaker of long ago who took Queen home. We thought, as the step was so small, it was too small for you or me to step on, but perfect for Queen to rest upon. We like that thought. 

So there you have it. Two characters and a dog leaving their mark on Woodland Cemetery. 

Joe

My dermatologist slowly goes over my bald head with gentle fingers and a calm voice. He dictates to his assistant as he goes — much like an explorer taking notes on the unusual flora and fauna found in this remote and inhospitable landscape: 

Blah blah blah, and here’s a blah.

Oh my, more blah blah. Ouch, look at that blah.

And this would be a blah also. Please note that. Some people call this a barnacle. Now let’s go to the other side of the head.  

Although I am merely part of the undergrowth, I startle to hear the word “barnacle” somewhere in there.  

Without a doubt, as you age strange things happen. What was once physically up there is now down here; or, hold on to your pants, completely vanished from the face of the earth. But, really? A barnacle? I guess my head now looks like the bottom of a boat too long in the water.

Of course, I don’t tell my dermatologist that I am not surprised to have a barnacle or two up there. As I edge my seventh decade, I have immersed myself in books about aging, death and dying, health and longevity, moral and spiritual rebirth, and whether it is better to eat buttery popcorn or a cream donut. Trust me, these books range from Seneca’s How to Die (a fun, catchy title) to Counterclockwise by Ellen Langer. I particularly love the Langer book because its unstated conclusion is so bold — it is YOUR OWN FAULT if you die. Yup, you just didn’t have the right mindset to turn back the clock. Oh well, better luck next time, you loser. 

But a barnacle? 

Well, sure, I’m either a guy with a crustacean cemented to the side of my head or it’s a sign that I’m a pirate. I’m going with the pirate. And not the crazy Barnacle Bill the Sailor type of pirate, but the more waggish Captain Jack Sparrow type of pirate.

In other words, isn’t it time to morally pillage and plunder regardless of popular opinion? Since I have a barnacle on the side of my head already, I might as well wear shorts in the winter, and five-toed shoes year round, and listen to John Prine songs in public, and let anyone use my bathroom without proof of gender. How about that, you crustacean-free landlubbers.  

But my dermatologist doesn’t stop with barnacles. He gently feels around the parameters of another bump, dictating all the while: 

Blah blah blah blah. What do you think? Blah blah blah fatty tumor. Blah blah. Harmless. 

The indignity of it all. If I’m going to have a harmless tumor, do we have to call it names? In the downhill ski world, they call a raised protuberance a mogul, not a fatty tumor. Skiers love to cut back and forth carving these bumps deeper and deeper. They are as challenging and fun as this person demonstrates at Winter Park, Colorado. I know this because I am safely on the ground looking up while eating a cheeseburger. 

But, honestly, how many bumps have we all had in our lives? Too many for sure. Have I skied around them all with laughter and joy? Hah, I don’t think so. I’ve plowed into a few with a direct hit and barely made it out the other side.

But I sort of admire that dude, the Preacher, of Ecclesiastes fame. Besides inspiring the song “Turn, Turn, Turn” by Pete Seeger, the Preacher does have a great message — eat, drink, and enjoy the moment, because there ain’t much else but moguls ahead. Oddly enough, I find that inspiring and can get my head around it. Especially my fatty tumor head. 

Back in the dermatologist’s office: 

“As for this,” my dermatologist pauses touching my head, “this is a spot caused by sun exposure.”

 

“Oh, a liver spot?”

For starters, I don’t think the liver gets quite the star turn it should in our society. In my family, I suspect this bad rap was due to my dad, who ate pickled pigs’ feet and dined on liver and onions. Gross and traumatic. And, yes, I’m a hypocrite. When I found myself in France in front of a plate of fois gras — goose liver made into a paste that is not in any way approved by PETA  — I swooned with delight.

Dining aside, Mayo Clinic weighs into the liver fray: “The liver has the greatest regenerative capacity of any organ in the body.” In other words, if they cut out part of your liver for a transplant to help someone else, it grows back for you and for the guy with no liver. Amazing. 

So, a liver spot on my noodle? I’m going to go with it is a mark of regeneration, growth, and scrappiness. Why not? Pickled pigs’ feet in my future? Undoubtably. 

My dermatologist pats me on the back with a smile, chitchats for a moment, but needs to get to the next patient. The expedition to the top of my head comes to an end. I am left sitting on the examining table in my underwear. Alone.

There are few things more special than sitting in a doctor’s office alone in your underwear, which is why I always carry a snack pack. My granddaughter taught me this, and you should do it too. And don’t forget, nuts and dried fruit aren’t all you include in your doctor-visit snack pack — “Grandpa, we can also have two marshmallows in our snack pack. The big ones.”  

So I nod with my recently explored head and have a marshmallow. Or two. 

Joe

Cityview Best Beaverdale Area Store

Once again taking home Best Beaverdale Area Store … Beaverdale Books. 

Runners-up: Back Country

We do love to compete, don’t we? Probably due to some Darwinian gamble about Bob and Jack outracing the T-Rex to the safety of a cave. The loser’s gene pool ended up as sushi, and the winner’s gene pool? Well, that’s us. Bob lost, we won, and now as a result we have professional hot-dog eating contests. Competition is in our blood. 

So, you may THINK you are a great worker, mother, father, son, daughter, friend, or Best Beaverdale Area Store,  but . . . how do you stack up against the competition? Now there’s the real test of your value as a person, or your value as a business, or really, whether you have any value at all. 

And don’t look behind the curtain at the negative arguments against competition. How can we tell the score if we don’t compare and judge and give prizes? As Dan Greenburg said in his 1966 book, How to Make Yourself Miserable, comparison is our go-to source for those special feelings of inadequacy. For example, Greenburg suggests comparing yourself with eight-year-old Mozart (he’d already written a symphony and three sonatas), or comparing yourself with 26-year-old Einstein (he had by then developed the theory of relativity), or superimposing your own face with the face on a Greek statute and measuring the difference (is that Adonis or Captain Crunch in the mirror?). Now that is the perfect mindset for judging and competition. There is a winner and there is a loser. The message for you, my friend, is that you are either cutting the mustard or not. 

Now, in case you were wondering, I don’t cut the mustard. I am not a “winner winner, chicken dinner.” I lean more toward “loser loser, jello with canned peas at lunch.” Yup, the staple of my Catholic grade school cafeteria defines my personality. You are what you eat. And I eat jello with unusual vegetables embedded. See? Loser. I know that.

But what about Jay Cox-Kozel, the owner of Back Country in Beaverdale? Is he a loser?

Well, Jay Cox-Kozel is certainly winningly dapper — skinny jeans artfully torn, well-trimmed beard with matching glasses, leather ankle boots scuffed just so, and very fun-loving, mischievous eyes. Yup, this guy is up to no good, folks, which is probably why he is a do-gooder and nonstop giving of his time and energy to all things Beaverdale. He speaks up and speaks out and is wickedly sharp-tongued.

“Can you tell folks what you sell at Back Country?” I ask.

“Not much successfully.” Jay deadpans. Bada bing. 

“No, really,” I try again.

“We are an outdoor lifestyle and travel boutique with an emphasis on sustainability and ethical production. And if you can’t get your head around that I don’t know how I can help you. It’s pretty straightforward to me.” Bada boom.

“So, Jay, you lost for the second time to Beaverdale Books as the Best Beaverdale Area Store in 2024. What do you think of that?”

“You have to consider who’s giving the award out — Cityview. Cityview is an entity that prints a print product, much like Beaverdale Books. Birds of a feather flock together. The good folks at Cityview were looking out for their print brethren, part of the Big Print Media Cabal. So they stacked the deck in favor of the book store.”

Jay somberly stares at me.

“Really?” 

“There’s more. When you’re a bookstore you can cater to every esoteric passion and subgroups. The bookstore has something for everyone. It is not an even playing field. And they have so many events — they host absolutely anyone. They’d host an author on the guide to left-handed herpatologists. And they engender so much passion and enthusiasm from every little subculture in the city.”

“So?” I say.

“Frankly, I think that’s cheating.” Jay shakes his head. “Really, we are the only legitimate candidate.” 

Jay smiles.

Jay wrote a sendup of Beaverdale Books last year when they beat Back Country. He is in good form again this year.

And what does he really think of Beaverdale Books?

“I’ve known the owners of the bookstore forever. We’ve all served the Beaverdale Business Community. We all support each other. I am so immensely proud of the bookstore. The way they persevered through the hard times, and the way they act as a community center is remarkable. They are a true community institution. Every person who works there is so passionate about literature and helping you find what you want. It’s got to be one of the best small businesses in the city. We are so lucky to have them here. And, listen, Cityview gives us the opportunity to recognize them.”

There you go, straight from the horse’s mouth. Who better deserves the CITYVIEW BEST LOSER award than Back Country and Jay Cox-Kozel, who are clearly the WINNERS at losing.

Speaking of WIENERS, where is that professional hot-dog eating contest?

Joe

My oldest son texted the other day congratulating my wife and me on our wedding anniversary.

Happy 43rd!! You two are such an inspiration across the ages.

Lovely sentiment. And I love that “across the ages” feels like a charcoal tombstone rubbing. It’s never too soon to start thinking about epitaphs for us old folks. Unfortunately, I’m fairly certain we’ve inspired, let’s see . . . absolutely no one.

But my son’s words gave me pause. So I went out to shovel snow, a well-known activity for deep thinking. And I began to think deeply about my marriage, or as deeply as one who wears elastic-waist pants can think.

And these are my thoughts. 

As for our inspiring marriage, it is inspiring. It is so inspiring that I did a little research on what makes a good marriage. Here’s what the University of Rochester Medical Center said:

Marriage therapist and researcher John Gottman, Ph.D., has found that criticism, contempt, defensiveness, and stonewalling are serious threats to a marriage. The more a couple engages in these destructive activities, the more likely they are to divorce. His decades of research and of working with couples have shown that spouses who stay together know how to fight without being hostile and to take responsibility for their actions. content.aspx

Hah! Get real. We’re talking two married lawyers here. Folks, our bread and butter is criticism and contempt. And we try to only fight with hostility — otherwise, what’s the point?

Here’s an example barely two-hours old. I express to my wife my worry about the living situation of my ancient mother. My wife’s response is to point out that I am in this pickle because I’ve enabled my mother for a lifetime. Of course, my wife’s hostile response is factually spot on. So what? Do I take responsibility? Please, in what fantasy world do you live? Instead, I blame my wife for being unhelpful. Yup, criticism by her and contempt by me. Check and check. 

Lord, should we be talking about who gets the dog?

Okay, fine, what about compatible zodiac signs? My wife is a Taurus and I’m a Leo. Perhaps this is our secret to a long marriage. Brides.com says:

Tauruses and Leos might have a hard time. Leos need a lot of attention, compliments, and ego bolstering. Tauruses will not give them the attention they seek, choosing to get attention in their own way. Leos also like to get their way, while Tauruses want to be the one in control of the relationship. least-compatible-zodiac-signs

Ouch! Not only is this surprisingly accurate about our personalities, but it is another vote for modifying traditional marriage vows — “until death, or sometime much sooner, do us part.”  

Okay, one last gasp. How about that we both worked as lawyers? You know, two peas in a pod. A shared interest. Shop talk in the kitchen. That’s got to count for something. The Telegraph reports that it does count for something: 

Workers should never marry someone in same profession because couples with very different careers have a better work-life balance, psychologists claim. Partners-in-same-professions-have-worse-work-life-balance.html

Wow! We are a wreck of a marriage. Forty-three years of pure garbage. Our marriage is a superfund site. Oh no! 

But what about that horrible three-letter word . . . FUN? (I know what your gutter mind thought, and that works too.) 

WE JUST HAVE FUN! And fun isn’t found just at the footlong hot dog at the Iowa State Fair. It’s found at the back of a prairie cemetery somewhere off I-80 in Nebraska while driving back to Iowa. We are tossing a frisbee for Charlie the Dog to stretch his legs. We are laughing with pure delight as the frisbee flies, and Charlie runs, and we run after him. Just nonsense. But fun nonsense.

Or fun is found this last year somewhere in France, where we have gotten off a train with our heavy packs and are leaning with our backs against a fountain, exhausted. We look at each other wondering if we can continue these European adventures as we age. And then we laugh, realizing in our deepest hearts that what is enjoyable is doing this together. Who cares how old we are? We can have fun sitting in rockers on a porch. Especially if French fries are served. See, fun. 

Or fun is this Christmas and we are up in the early morning having coffee together, while our youngest and her partner are asleep in the spare bedroom, our middle son is asleep in the den, and our oldest son and his partner are asleep in the basement, all together for the first time since 2017. Charlie the Dog is barking furiously outside. Lily the Cat is vomiting on some rug somewhere. And we both realize it doesn’t get any better than this. We smile. That is fun.

That’s all l’ve got. No words of wisdom for a long marriage. No secret recipe. No 10-step program. I do love a bromide more than the average person, but even I don’t have a magic pill. Sorry.

So . . . superfund site or super-fun site? As the carnival barker says: “You pay your money and you take your chance.” 

Joe

Bad luck is bad luck. True enough. But there are certainly different types of bad luck. There’s the really bad luck of being in the wrong place at the wrong time and it’s a matter of life or death. Like getting trapped by a falling boulder and having to cut off your arm to survive. Ouch, that’s what happened to motivational speaker Aron Ralston. Or the bad luck of being caught out in a winter storm with no visibility and freezing winds and having to hold onto an ice-covered rope to get from the barn to the house, aka Little House on the Prairie. Who wants that. And it is certainly bad luck to stumble upon a bull shark that travels 700 miles up the Mississippi River only to snack on you during Shark Week. That’s such bad luck that it weirdly seems like just desserts — for the shark.  

But then there is the other kind of bad luck that’s just . . . mildly unlucky.  

The cry comes from upstairs.

“Joe, can you come fast,” my wife said in a high voice, tinged with controlled panic.

I do . . . and I find my wife with a knitting needle sticking in her butt.

By the way, my very precise granddaughter informs me that I cannot say the word “butt.”

Really, Juliette, so what can I say? Derriere? Fanny?

No, grandpa, ‘tushy.’

Okay, folks, there’s a knitting needle sticking in my wife’s tushy (a very skinny, US size 1 — for you crazy knitters out there).

You are probably not very sympathetic to this scenario. But knitting needles are long and sharp and are essentially a stiletto knife, which is automatically considered a “dangerous weapon” under Iowa Code section 702.7. And there’s a reason for that. 

Stilettos were developed in late Medieval and Renaissance Italy as anti-armour knives. The slenderness of a stiletto blade focuses the force of the attack into a tiny area, which multiplies its pressure enormously. This means it could pierce plate armour or cut through chain mail rings.

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Yup, a knitting needle is an anti-armour weapon just waiting for an unsuspecting knitter to blindly impale herself or himself.

In fact, a search online revealed how dangerous this dangerous weapon can be. The British Medical Journal reported a fatal brain injury caused by a baby rolling off a changing table onto a knitting needle (807). ABC News reported a knitting needle piercing a woman’s heart after she tripped on the stairs (story). And the Journal of Cardiothoracic Surgery reported a knitting needle ascended the body of a woman for 33 years after a self-induced abortion (PMC4966788). My goodness, who knew? Story after story after story. And I don’t even count all the articles about knitters poking themselves in the thigh. That seems like a prerequisite to even being called a knitter. 

Okay, a knitting needle is no joke.

But a knitting needle in your tushy?

In a few days, it will be forty-three years since I married my wife. It was a forced marriage, of course. Forced by me. Here’s a surprise for my reader, I am not quite the catch my wife is. Therefore, I had to propose quickly (two weeks after we met) so as to lock down the sale before my wife could reflect on my personality and good looks and her future in-laws. So I tread lightly in the arena of wife humor. But . . .

. . . a knitting needle in the tushy? I wanted to take a photo — but my guardian angel cautioned against that clever idea. And I wanted to suggest we call the neighbors and charge admission — I might have done so in the early years of our marriage, but forty-three years later? Perhaps too soon. So I bit the inside of my lip and treated the puncture wound, as any good husband would do, and bided my time. Well, I’ve bided long enough.

But now I’m having second thoughts about becoming Mr. Jokester. I remember back in law school an old professor would always ask us students to consider “whose ox is being gored?” In other words, who is really paying the price for what happened. Isn’t the person with the knitting needle in their tushy really the one being gored? How dare I make fun of someone else’s pain? Particularly if that someone is my sweetie?

But . . . .

Knock, knock. 

Who’s there?

Needle.

Needle who?

Needle a little more target practice before your next sweater.

Yup, I crack myself up. 

Joe — formerly married to Theresa

The tightly sealed cardboard box from the attic is an accumulation of orphaned items too dear to trash. There’s a first communion missal, a holy water font to hang on my wall, a kindergarten report card from St. Thomas Aquinas (with nine graded categories, one being the “Ability to talk to God,” for which my heretical soul got an “A,” you doubters), old passports, and . . . . what’s this? Concert tickets?

The line stretches long and meandering from the entrance to Hilton Coliseum in Ames, Iowa, through the east parking lot, across the South Skunk River, to eventually come to rest in my memory more than 50 years later. I do remember the smell — the pungency of marijuana as it drifts from the crowd while my buddy and I try unsuccessfully to look cool standing in line with our eyes down and our hands deep in our pockets. Once we are seated, everyone around us is laughing and talking and passing drinks back and forth. College kids for sure. We sit in our brand-new bellbottom pants, eyes wide, and pass pop back and forth. Yup, high school kids for sure.

From stage left comes our man. Alone. Shadowed. Quiet. He sits at the piano and pauses. Then he bends over the keys and plays. Gradually the music loops around and his voice joins in: 

Blue-jean baby
L.A. lady
Seamstress for the band
Pretty-eyed
Pirate smile
You’ll marry a music man 

Elton John’s Tiny Dancer. And we forget all our anxieties, worries, cares, and desires. We are no longer separate from the crowd. We are floating in the air, driven by this strange man on the big stage wearing cartoonish glasses. We are transported.

And the cost of this ecstasy? Well, back in 1972 it was $4. 

Yes, four big ones. Tax included. That’s not happening today I’m afraid — even accounting for the increase of the minimum wage from $1.60 an hour in 1972 to $7.25 an hour in 2023. Three hours of work actually paid for my ticket back in 1972. Three hours of work today would barely pay for a reusable water bottle sold at a Taylor Swift concert. 

Taylor Swift brings her “Eras” tour to Kansas City in less than a month, and resale tickets have only shot up in price since they sold out on Ticketmaster in November 2022. According to StubHub, prices range from $1,047 to $7,166 for the remaining 473 tickets for July 7 and $1,100 to $10,890 for one of 509 tickets available for July 8.

 (emphasis added) (How much do Taylor Swift Kansas City resale tickets cost?The Kansas City Starhttps://www.kansascity.com › tips › article276378311).

Craziness has happened. Two high school boys from Iowa City are not buying two tickets for $10,890 each. Please.

Of course, the Taylor Swift ticket sales were outsized. We all know that. But even to see Elton John in Denver last year would have been a hard swallow:

Elton John’s Farewell Yellow Brick Road Tour, which he says will be his last, is coming to Denver’s Ball Arena at 8 p.m. this Friday. Last-minute ticket grabbers will pay about $300 at the cheapest end, or upward of $4,800 at the most expensive. (emphasis added) (Want to see Taylor Swift or Elton John in Colorado? It’ll cost …The Gazettehttps://gazette.com › arts-entertainment › music › want-t…).

What has happened here? Who can possibly afford this?

So I asked a pro.  

“I’ve been doing radio since God was just a little girl.” Ron Sorenson laughingly explains in his deep, melodious voice with the calming notes of a meditation guru at a day-long retreat.

Ron Sorenson is General Manager of KFMG radio and president of the board of directors.

“Essentially, I run the store.”

Which means?

“That means I’m general manager, staff announcer, principal underwriting sales person, fundraiser, copywriter, production director, I do promotions, and I take out the trash.”

Okay, Ron, based on your long years in the music world what’s going on with these music concert ticket prices?

“I did some digging, mainly because I was curious. Today average concert ticket price is $252. But in 1970, a big name show, a Beatles show or a Led Zeppelin show, was charging $10 to $12. But remember that gasoline in 1970 was 36 cents a gallon. So, one cause for what’s happening today is clearly inflation.”

And?

“Well, another factor is that 32% of ticket costs are currently fees and services. And don’t forget the resellers. They want to sell for more than they paid. It’s Stubhub, but also individuals just trying to make a buck.” 

Yikes, that’s a chunk.

“Another factor I believe, especially for Baby Boomers, are that they are doing pretty well and are willing to pay $1000 to $1500 to see Paul McCartney for the last time. So they get the VIP treatment and don’t have to mingle with the hoi polloi.”

But what about all the young people attending a concert like Taylor Swift? 

“Hah, those concert goers have grandparents who are baby boomers. I wouldn’t be surprised if there isn’t substantial parental and grandparental support. And don’t forget that Taylor Swift is a phenomenon — it’s a show, a circus, not just a band up there playing.”

I thank Ron for his thoughts and he returns to his microphone, while I return home to my box of memories and old concert tickets. 

Wow. Look at this. Don McLean of American Pie fame at C.Y. Stephens Auditorium in 1973! Who knew? And the cost? Three bucks. 

Shaking my head, and deciding once again not to trash all these treasures, I seal up the box and take it back to the attic. Then I sit on the attic stairs, an old man perch, and consider the wonderfully sweet smell of melancholy.

A long, long time ago

I can still remember

how that music

used to make me smile . . .

Don McLean, American Pie

Joe