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

My friend and I kneel clumsily on the side of the altar in the early morning dark before school begins. Our shoes are covered by our black cassocks, which are straight jackets for squirmy 11-year-olds. So we tug and pull at the cassocks until the priest, bending over the chalice, gives us a side-eye that promises everlasting hellfire. Being more comfortable with our long and well-deserved stint in purgatory, we stop squirming. 

“Dominus vobiscum,” says the priest.

“Et cum spiritu tuo,” we chant quickly and without any inkling as to the meaning. 

And so go the instructions in How to Serve Low Mass, by Rev. William A. O’Brien (published in 1931), and made available to us boys at St. Mary’s School in Iowa City in 1964. By the next year, Latin was out the door, the altar was turned around to face the congregation, and the nuns were leading us in Woodie Guthrie songs about equality and revolution. Vatican II was a tsunami for believers at that time, even though it turned into a small ripple in later years. 

But it was too late for me. Not only was I taking my first steps down the teenage rebellion path, but, worse, I had my first Long John.

It began innocently enough. The priest gave each of us altar boys a quarter after mass. Clutching it tight, we ran down North Linn Street to Hamburg Inn No. 2. Inside the entrance and at the head of the servers’ island was a glass case full of donuts and other pastries.

“I’ll have one Long John, please.”

Delivered with a pat of butter, I swooned. It was salvation without Latin. I became a believer. Then I became buddies with Mike Panther. Come to find out his mom and dad OWNED Hamburg Inn No. 2. Free Long Johns, here I come. 

So now, nearly 60 years later, I stop in at Alok Oberoi’s place, the Donut Hut on Douglas Avenue in Des Moines, my new place of worship. 

“Alok, what do you have for Long Johns today?”

Alok has made Long Johns since he bought the business 13 years ago.

“When people come to buy donuts they look for the value. The Long John has more for the buck. I have several customers who just buy Long Johns. And they rave about them too. They are larger and the dough is special.”

And Alok, do you have any kids stop by for donuts?

“A lot of students come here to buy donuts, early morning, after school, and during breaks. I have three schools that are near — an elementary school across the street, a middle school and a high school just up the street.”

Do they talk to you?

“I have regular kids come in. Ninety percent of my customers know me. Everybody wants to talk a little bit.”

And what do you say to them?`

“My question for a young person is always how are your grades? And if they are doing well in school I give them a free donut.”

I’m doing well in school, I say. 

Alok smiles. 

“Also if I see some kids holding the door for other people, I reward them with a donut and make sure to tell them that was really nice that they did that. I want the kids who come in here to be respectful. And my goal with them is to make sure they go to school and complete their education. I tell all the kids to not give up on their education, just keep going as long as they can. Life is not easy.”

So I drive off with a box full of Long Johns and Alok’s warm goodby . . .  and I think of my buddy Mike Panther and our love of Long Johns. For no good reason, he and I lost touch after high school and went on with our lives. Years later I find out that in December 1985, three weeks before Mike’s wedding, a drunk driver crossed the center line and killed Mike in a head-on collision.

As Alok says, life is not easy. 

According to my manual, How to Serve Low Mass, the altar boys at a Mass for the dead are to respond with Amen when the priest says Requiescant in pace. 

So, Mike, although it is 38 years late . . .   

“Requiescat in pace,” says the robed priest in my mind.

To which the young altar boy from over half a century ago answers: “Amen.”

And I take a bite of my Long John. 

Joe

The cardboard box is tucked under the eaves in the attic. Spiderwebs and insulation cling to the top. Old baby beds and suitcases and containers of long-abused toys surround it. Stale, warm air drifts down from the rafters. I breathe slowly. 

Dusting off the flaps, I open it to see old diaries, all ones I wrote over 50 years ago. And all with pretty much the same observations about myself and pretty much the same solutions to those observations. Year after year after year. I bore even myself.

DIARY ENTRY — NOVEMBER 14, 1978: My acne seems to be a physical manifestation of my inner weakness. My response to the acne is to make it worse. I’ve got to grow up and become sure within myself. There must be a way to achieve this area of manhood. First, let’s try following my moral standards. Try honesty — try courage — try love — try humor.

Okay, “acne is a physical manifestation of inner weakness”? This kid is a mess. The craziness of shame and guilt is on full display in these lines. But then it gets worse. The “cure” for this “physical manifestation” is apparently honesty, courage, love, and humor. Who knew that the tremendous market for acne treatments is missing these four key ingredients.

I wrote these lines in late fall many years ago. My 49-year-old father had recently died, after a three-year illness. I took to the road to figure it all out. I was at that moment in Ibiza, Spain, long before Ibiza became the “Party Capital of the World.” (https://www.businessinsider.com/ibiza-spain-party-capital-of-the-world-2018-9). Ibiza was isolated and undeveloped, and very few people lived on the island. I had gotten there from Iowa by hitchhiking to New York, flying to Luxembourg, bicycling into France, taking Eurail to Barcelona, and ferrying to Ibiza. I had little money. I was dead lonely. And I was debating whether to go work in a kibbutz in Israel. 

This was not a high point.

DIARY ENTRY — NOVEMBER 12, 1978: I feel in myself an insecurity. It is present at all times but mostly when I’m with people in dialogue. When I’m alone, traveling in a foreign land, the insecurity is gone. Rationally, I cannot justify such a fear: how can one fear inadequacies within oneself in relation to another when we are all going to die. 

I can’t believe I didn’t have friends! Who talks like this? I especially appreciate that all the overblown blather ends with (surprise, surprise) a nod toward death. Please, put this kid out of his misery. 

In Ibiza, I’m staying up the stairs in an adobe building in a small room with windows on two sides. No window screens. Very un-Iowan. I buy fresh yogurt from a women with her cart in the square, which I mix with uncooked oatmeal for most meals to save money, of course. And during the day, I wander the long, undeveloped beaches. For what? An answer to an unasked question I suspect. 

So I pass my days in an island paradise until don’t. And finally I come home. 

So, dude, 33 years later you do return to Europe. This time to The Hague, Netherlands, where your wife goes off for long days to prosecute war criminals and you are left alone again in a foreign country. Hah. Can you believe this? And you will be in The Hague off and on for nine years. Yup, get your head around that.

And again, you start your time in The Hague with your days lonely, searching for meaning, trying to figure out how to live the moral life. Same old, same old. Except this time the existential crisis is over a latte in a coffee shop, not over a bowl of uncooked oatmeal. And there is that small difference of now having a wife who loves you, a career full of good things, three kids you generally like, innumerable cats and dogs you can’t stand, and one fish — all safely under your metaphysical belt. But you are still a mess.

Until you write.  

And you write and write. And you begin to share your writing with others. And you write and write some more. And suddenly, at the prodding of your wife, you have a column in Cityview (https://www.dmcityview.com/). Now it’s off to the races. 

You interview people and write about their lives. You go to museums and write about art. You sit on the edge of canals and write about the people living in boats on the canal. You write about Pilgrims in Leiden, Anne Frank’s house in Amsterdam, a witch living in The Hague. And this writing doesn’t stop in Europe. My goodness. 

DIARY ENTRY — THANKSGIVING, NOVEMBER 23, 1978: Today is Thanksgiving back home. I miss it. I know I’m probably making it mean more in my memories than it meant in actuality, but what else do I have but the past. 

There I was, stuck in memories of mashed potatoes and bread stuffing and young man angst, not knowing the answer was no further than the end of my pen.

So the diaries go back in the cardboard box, which I seal tight with fresh tape. I carry the box up to the attic and put it again under the eaves next to the old baby beds. Straightening my back, I brush off my hands. Stale, warm air drifts down from the rafters. I breathe slowly.   

Joe

Listen, this is truly going somewhere. I promise. But the journey requires that we play Candy Land, which means we have to get past Peppermint Forest and Gumdrop Mountains and survive Molasses Swamp, all to hopefully arrive at King Kandy. You don’t want to do that? Sorry, those are just the rules of the game. 

And to even start the game you need to understand the problem: I’ve always loved a list. For example, today I have a list carefully itemizing the five chores I want to complete before tomorrow. This list is separate from the two calendars with travel plans and doctor appointments and writing commitments. And I have a list on my phone with groceries and where to find them. And then there are the daily diaries setting out personal goals and aspirations and dreams. Yup, list upon list upon list, until I’m  hopelessly stuck in Licorice Castle with Lord Licorice. Now that’s a sticky mess. 

Then, of course, there are the self-help programs that fill my bookcase. Before the advent of spellcheck, my bedside reading was 20 Days to Better Spelling, by Norman Lewis — even my wife shook her head at that futile effort. No matter, I particularly like any self-help program that can be completed in 30 days so I can start my next 30-day self-help program to coincide with the beginning of my next 30-day workout program. And let’s not forget my calming meditation programs . . .   

This is not only crazy but exhausting. And really, I am a retired old man who needs to get it together before all my list-making and personal striving find me on my deathbed, miles away from Candy Castle with all the good cards already dealt. 

I recently re-read Daniel Klein’s book, Travels with Epicurus. Klein wrestles with the question of what to do as an old man when life is in the last quarter and you’ve used up your time-outs. He gives several wonderfully humorous and thought-provoking suggestions. But one that caught my fancy is steeped in the notion that we are terrified of boredom even though we are inescapably bored.

Nothing appears quite so potentially boring as being an old man without any new goals or upcoming exciting experiences, an old man without the buzz of a hungry libido, an old man whose energy level is gradually sinking to the point where the prospect of camping out in the woods seems more like an ordeal than recreation.

The boredom that Klein is talking about is existential boredom, where you can’t find meaning in anything: “With nothing meaningful in life, nothing is interesting. Enter boredom.”

So what are we left with if everything is boring? Klein claims we are left with distractions from boredom — goals, lists, calendars. In other words, I am the poster child of distractions from boredom.

Okay, fine, my life is a meaningless sideshow. So, Daniel, what’s the plan here? 

“For many philosophers, idleness . . . is actually one of old age’s greatest gifts. It gives us time for that wondrous human activity, play.”

What the heck? That’s the plan? I’m supposed to go play? Like what? Kickball with the neighbor kids? Build a house out of cardboard boxes? Cannonballs in the public pool?

Klein says that “play” needs to be pointless, not in any way associated with how many steps I have just walked (as I jiggle my Fitbit while writing so as to get steps without walking) or my won/loss record at competitive pickleball. Play requires losing oneself without any purpose. 

Me oh my.

So, today I am trying to act without my lists. No calendars. No commitments. No goals. Just play. I sit in my chair. Whistle a little. Look around. I wonder what my wife is doing? Mmmm, does the dog need to go out? Whistle some more. Lord, I’m hungry. What is that noise? It sure is hot today. My shoulder is itchy. Look, my granddaughter is putting all her dolls down for a nap. Maybe I should take a nap?

Then my granddaughter sets a game in my lap: Candy Land with Disney Princesses.

Really? Are you kidding? I hate games. Not just Candy Land, but all games. What’s the point? Seriously. While all of you are playing games, I’m getting things DONE! I’m getting ahead! I’m achieving! Games are a waste of my time. No thank you. No games for me. 

“You be Sleeping Beauty,” my granddaughter says as she hands me a blue figurine with puffed sleeves, opera gloves, and a tiara balanced on her blonde hair.  

“Sleeping Beauty? But I really wanted to be Snow White.”

“I’m Snow White,” she says smugly. 

And we play. I immediately stall out on single blue cards, whereas my granddaughter starts jumping ahead with double cards and a light spirit. I’m not sure I like Snow White. What’s she hiding behind that red bow? And her questionable relationships with strangers in the forest? Give me a break. 

Unsurprisingly, I get trounced at Candy Land. My granddaughter wanders off to play with my much more interesting wife. Who wouldn’t?

But . . . doesn’t this Candy Land thingy qualify as play? I think so. I think I just played. In fact, I’m marking it down on my calendar that I successfully played. Whew. Now how many more times do I need to play before I can get back to my lists?

Joe

“We are all going to hell in a hand basket.”

Really?

Well, yes. Look around. Canadian fires to the north. Floods to the east. Dangerous heat extremes to the south. And no water to the west.

Yikes.

And that isn’t even mentioning that Iowa’s acclaimed virtue of tolerance is getting stuck in the mud of book bans, bathroom bans, medical bans, and other Thou-Shalt-Nots. It makes you wonder if funnel cakes might be the next divisive issue after some national extremist organization decides that Iowa should have a law stating: “Carnival workers shall not knowingly engage in or cause a minor to eat a funnel cake.” My goodness. And trust me, folks, a funnel-cake ban is just a slippery slope away from banning corn dogs.  

“We are all going to hell in a hand basket,” my elderly mom exclaims.

All of this makes an old man despair. 

“Do you know Paul Morrison from Drake?” Kim Jones says. 

What?

“Oh, he’s a good story.” She smiles. 

Kim Jones sits on the edge of her chair, leaning even further forward with her enthusiastic enthusiasm. 

“Paul Morrison really inspired me. He had a little briefcase he carried to work and he worked for Drake for over 50 years. He was 100 years old when he passed. He lived in the Drake neighborhood and with this little briefcase he picked up trash on his way to work and he picked up trash on his way home. I knew him.”

Come to find out that Paul Morrison was a big deal. He was called Mr. Drake by his gazillion Drake fans. Before his death in 2017, Jim Duncan from Cityview did a cover story and an interview with Morrison who was at that time nearly 99:

“He was hired by Drake as the school’s first communications bureau director. That was 1945. He’s been going to work on the campus ever since. By the mid 1950s, he simultaneously worked as a one-person ticket office, a one-person sports information office and as Athletics Business Manager.”

And although Morrison does not mention his trash picking up duties in the story, he does say:

“The walking I think was the key to my good luck with health. It was the only exercise I had time for. Drake was both my job and my hobby.”

Hah! According to Kim Jones, picking up trash is what Morrison did on those walks.

“All the years he did this without any fanfare. No one even knew. He was just the best. He just quietly picked up trash. Think of the difference he made over those years.”

Kim Jones was a graphic designer/art director in the first part of her life, a softball coach at the high school and college level in the second part, and now works in the alumni office at Drake as the Senior Assistant Director for Student Engagement. But her title in her family is “Trash Slinger.”

“So I’ve always been a little bit obsessive about trash and picking up trash and having my kids pick up trash. I’ve even had my Drake students pick up trash.”

And this started because . . ?

“I always feel as if I have so much privilege and people did so much for me so I did a lot of volunteering for Urbandale. As work became more demanding I volunteered less and less and became obsessive about picking up trash.”

My goodness, why?

“It’s very cathartic for me, being out and seeing things that you want to keep looking good and feeling like you have a respect for what is there. I’ve always felt this way. And now I have just a small sliver of hope as I think about our environment.”

And the inspiration of Paul Morrison?

“I’ve really encouraged my students at Drake to pick up trash. So twice a year we have the Paul Morrison Spruce-Up Day. It’s a neighborhood pickup day. His daughter is a really active alum and I told her we should honor him. So we partnered with the local neighborhood association already doing a clean-up day and blew it up. We now have a 100 students and do two clean-ups a year.” 

And your two kids, their spouses, and your husband?

“Well, my family comes to visit and we do a major trash pickup on Mother’s Day and on my birthday. My daughter always asks what trash-slinging job we are doing this year.”

Wow, nothing says Happy Mother’s Day like picking up trash.

“Listen, I can only do part of what Paul Morrison has done. But I’m just going to do a little bit at a time. It’s helps me spiritually.” 

Besides your family, any other followers of the Trash Slinger?

“Well, the neighbor kids, Fitz and Cora, also want to be known as Trash Slingers.”

So there you go. Paul Morrison to Kim Jones to Fitz and Cora. A legacy. 

And does picking up a bag of neighborhood trash affect climate change, intolerance, or the price of corn? Arguably not. But, hang with me here:

1. Does picking up trash today make things nicer for you and me tomorrow? Certainly.
2. And is tomorrow our future? You bet.  
3. Is picking up trash an unselfish act? Absolutely (and if you’ve ever picked up someone’s discarded baby diaper, you are at the Mother Teresa level of trash pickup).
4. Is an unselfish act for the future a game changer? Of course.

So, trash slingers — doing unselfish acts for our future — are game changers. And that, my friends, is how we keep from going to hell in a hand basket. 

Now, I’ll take two funnel cakes, please, before they’re banned. 

Joe

My mom, born in rural Iowa during the depression, has certain rules that allow you to magically control the uncontrollable. I love it. For example, because the weather is fickle, always garden based on the moon. See, you can control nature just by paying attention to heavenly bodies. How wonderful. Or, if you’re sick, tying an old rag around your ointment-slathered neck will pretty much cure anything. Voila, I can control illness. Or, my favorite, deaths come in threes, which of course means there’s a beginning and an end to folks dying. So, if you are number four on the death list, too bad, you didn’t make the cut. Yup, even death can be controlled. 

ONE 

“May she rest in the house of the Lord,” the priest intones, following a liturgy that was written in cold stone by Church fathers long before my time. The mourners slowly flow from the church, sad, hugging, and laughing in reminiscence.

I look towards the attached hall wondering if the church ladies are ready for the mob. 

And a mob it is. In this small-town Nebraska, there are few who the 94-year-old clown and puppeteer and storyteller and performer and matriarch did not touch in a significant way. Including her niece, my wife. For example, this woman, who saw most of the 20th century, claimed that her mother told her on her wedding day:

“Never plant a cherry tree and never learn to milk a cow.” 

Sage words indeed for those hated chores of cherry pitting and milking. And my wife’s aunt never did plant a cherry tree or learn to milk a cow. Staunch feminism or just aversion to cherry pie with ice cream? Your call. 

But this small-town farm wife was tirelessly curious. Curious about the world and curious about you. 

“What do you believe if you don’t believe in God?” she would ask. And then she patiently listened, gave her thoughts, and . . . invited everyone to a game of Scrabble. She was all about inclusion. And her gazillion grandchildren knew this as they’d tromp in and out of her house to talk to her about school and sports and whatever was on their mind. They’d leave with a snack and the unspoken assurance that they always had a place. And if any of her many guests had a story or wanted to play a game? Even better. 

Ursula, the large puppet, turned and looked at me and then back to the puppeteer.

“Joe has no hair,” Ursula says in her high-pitched voice.

“No, he doesn’t, but I think he is very handsome,” says the puppeteer, frowning at Ursula’s rudeness.

“Well, it’s a matter of opinion,” says Ursula with a twist of her puppet lips. 

The puppeteer and her puppets — she will be missed. 

TWO 

One month after that funeral, it’s raining in California. Roads washed out. Trees hanging on the thread of their shallow roots. And not a blue sky in sight. 

A good time for another aunt’s funeral.

Nearly 45 years ago, this aunt provided a home for my wife during part of her college years in Santa Cruz. I knew they were close, but did not expect the aunt to call me before the marriage. Although looking back, I should have known there would be a few raised eyebrows when we agreed to get married after just two weeks of dating. 

The aunt called.

“Do you know what you’re getting into?” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“My niece is hard to live with.”

“What?”

“Your future wife is great and I love her but you should know that she is opinionated and strong-willed and moody . . . she is not an easy person.”

“What?”

I was oblivious. My wife’s aunt just wanted to make sure I was up for the challenge. I wasn’t, of course. But this aunt was all about staring truth in the face and waiting to see who blinked. She never did. She spent a life telling the truth to family, friends, and her community ranging from how to properly treat vertigo to the craziness of real estate development on earthquake fault lines. Yup, nothing was off limits. 

Of course this gadfly suffered the fate of all truth-tellers — she was not very popular with those who didn’t want to hear the truth. Too bad. She was a gift to her family and to her community. She was a bright flower under a cloudy California sky. 

THREE 

“If they would rather die, they’d better do it, and decrease the surplus population.” Scrooge from A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens.

Wandering around Ireland while visiting my daughter, I stumble across people who seem to be folks you’d like to get to know and maybe even join for a pint of Guinness or a cup of coffee. Characters. And don’t get me wrong, characters exist back home, but when you travel your antennas are out a little further and everything is fresh and new and dewy.

This applies even to mundane sights. Yesterday I cleverly observed to my wife: “Wow, look how big and yellow the dandelions are in Ireland.” And, although my wife was not impressed — “You sound like a doddering old man who comments on how tall the corn is” — I was at least doddering along with my eyes partially open. Before I tripped on the cobblestones.

But you have to be quick. Characters you meet while traveling, or even in life, usually appear in brief glimpses. They may even be on the edge of your vision or out of focus, and then they are gone forever. Like the proverbial leprechaun.

HOWTH, IRELAND

For example, yesterday I am on the train from Howth to Dublin. The train is jammed because it is a bank holiday. A man with leather pants sits down in the seat across the aisle. As I glance out of the sides of my eyes, I see he is also wearing a leather top, has long black sideburns, and long black, styled hair with a bit of a pompadour. OMG, he’s Elvis. By the time I get my camera out of my bag he’s gone. There you go … I saw Elvis. That’s what happens when your eyes are open. Elvis lives. 

And there is more.

DUBLIN, IRELAND

Here’s a chef in Dublin coming outside for a moment to get some air. Who is he gesturing at? Is he angry? Upset? Has the soufflé dropped? Isn’t all that white impossible to keep clean? How DOES that skyscraper of a hat stay on?

GALWAY, IRELAND

And here’s a woman in Galway just walking along the bay with her dog. Where does she find the time to dress both herself and her dog? Did she pick those yellow pants to match the yellow houses of Galway? And is pink her natural hair color?

DUBLIN, IRELAND

And here are some “Vikings” on a tour in Dublin. Do they normally wear horns at home? That young man shaking his fist in joyful exuberance, has he had just a wee too many pints? And how does one return to life at Wells Fargo or Nationwide or Cityview after wearing a hat with horns?

All these characters remind me of an English economic philosophy in the 1800’s that advocated allowing the poor to either figure out how to survive on their own or to die and thereby “decrease the surplus population.” 

This philosophy was given religious overtones and was adopted by the British in response to the Irish Potato Famine of the 1840’s:

“The greatest evil we have to face is not the physical evil of the famine, but the moral evil of the selfish, perverse and turbulent character of the [Irish] people.” Charles Trevelyan, British government official in charge of the “relief effort” during the Irish potato famine.

Yikes! Clearly the problem is to figure out who is a member of the surplus population and who isn’t. It can’t be Elvis, or the white-hat chef, or the colorful woman and her dog, or the Vikings with their hats — none of them seemed especially turbulent of character. And it can’t be the Irish because my wife is an Irish citizen. Duh. 

But here’s a clue:

“As in most famines, the elderly . . .  were most likely to succumb [in the Potato Famine].” Ireland’s Great Famine, Cormac Ó Gráda, University College Dublin (irelands-great-famine).

Can it be that old people are the surplus population? Certainly the present pandemic indicates they are falling behind in the survival-of-the-fittest philosophy of the British Empire of the 1840’s.

“Today, nearly 9 in 10 covid deaths are in people 65 or older — the highest rate ever, according to a Washington Post analysis of CDC data.” The Washington Post, Nov. 28, 2022 (covid-who-is-dying).

DES MOINES, IOWA

The white-haired, 88-year-old woman, wearing a jogging suit and tennis shoes, sips her coffee in our kitchen while sitting on an iron-framed bench that is less than comfortable. 

It is before 7 a.m. and she is done with her morning run.

“Grandma, how did you get those scratches on your ankles?” I ask. 

Grandma, no relation of ours, says, “Hah, yesterday back in Oregon I was pruning  blackberries in a housedress and scratched up my legs.” She laughs at herself and promptly pulls up her jogging pants and shows us the lines of scratches criss-crossing her legs.

See, a crazy older person. We can certainly do without her. 

Well, of course, it turns out this old woman is Grandma Holt, born in Des Moines, Iowa, in 1904, and a graduate of Des Moines East High School and of the University of Iowa. She founded with her husband Holt ICS. They helped place thousands of kids in adopted homes, and today, Holt ICS primarily provides kids who are living in poverty the ability to stay in their homes. And Grandma Holt stayed for a brief overnight at our home in 1993. And I fell for her. 

And even though Grandma Holt is long dead, the facts of her life, like all the old people I know, make it hard to place her as morally evil. 

So, dear reader, we are left with this conundrum: who is the surplus population? Who should we marginalize? Who should we legislate against to make their lives harder? As my dear friend used to say to his college students on nearly every issue for which he already had the answer, “pay your money and take your choice.” 

In the meantime, keep your eyes peeled for characters. They will make your day. I promise you.   

Joe

So … what about the potato in Ireland?

“You call them fries, we call them chips. What you call potato chips, we call crisps.”

Emmett Maher, the restaurant manager at Beshoffs Seagrill in Howth, Ireland, is gregarious, engaging, and simply charming. He’s the guy you want to be seated next to at the pub. And he is very Irish.

I know, I know. A stereotype of someone as “Irish” is absolutely wrong and lazy, the forerunner to tribalism and the soon-to-follow labeling of a minority group as less than human — opening the door to genocide, crimes against humanity, and other unnamed war crimes — as I’m constantly told by my war-crimes prosecutor wife, who also happens to be Irish-American and an Irish citizen.

Trust me, I’ve learned my lesson.

But Emmett is “Irish” — he is openly friendly, he leans in a little closer than my Dutch-American soul is used to, he has an entertaining story to tell on nearly any topic, and, like any good story told by an Irish person, especially including my wife, the story has multiple branches that might start out with potatoes and seamlessly go to President Biden’s visit to Ireland and end with American football. All of it making sense.

And let’s not forget the brogue.

“You can’t have the meal without crushed new potatoes with tarragon butter, you know?”

Emmett says this simple phrase with a mesmerizing lilt that dances up and down the musical scale and ends, as most Irish sentences end, with a question, which is really not a question but an opportunity for the speaker to take a breath before moving on.

But back to the potato:

“… you know? With your pan-seared hake with lemon garlic butter served with samphire on the side, food has really really improved in the past thirty-forty years because all the young Irish people have traveled globally and worked in the best destinations,the Irish know their food. I mean there are 34 million Irish Americans, that’s why Joe Biden was over, Joe is a very proud Irish American. Getting back to your potato, you know the famine, we were only allowed 20 acres of land to feed your own family and when the type of the potato we grew failed the English took everything else …”

Like Emmett, I do love a potato. My 96-year-old mom, raised on a farm near Stratford, Iowa, does not believe a meal really counts unless there is served some form of potato — mashed, baked, fried — no matter. And I agree. But maybe that is because so many Iowans are rooted in the land of Ireland.

“In Iowa, the Irish were the second largest immigrant group, topped only by the Germans. They settled in large numbers in the Mississippi River towns like Dubuque and Davenport.” Iowa Dep’t of Cultural Affairs (https://iowaculture.gov/history/education/educator-resources/primary-source-sets/irish-immigration-beyond-potato-famine).

And the potato, or the lack thereof, brought many of the Irish to the United States and then ultimately to Iowa. The Potato Famine of the 1840’s was a nightmare. James Mahoney was there in 1847 and wrote of his observations:

“I started from Cork, by the mail (says our informant), for Skibbereen and saw little until we came to Clonakilty, where the coach stopped for breakfast; and here, for the first time, the horrors of the poverty became visible, in the vast number of tamished poor, who flocked around the coach to beg alms: amongst them was a woman carrying in her arms the corpse of a fine child, and making the most distressing appeal to the passengers for aid to enable her to purchase a coffin and bury her dear little baby. This horrible spectacle induced me to make some inquiry about her, when I learned from the people of the hotel that each day brings dozens of such applicants into the town.” The Illustrated London News, February 13, 1847.

And Iowa benefited from the millions of Irish who fled their homeland. They came to Iowa to work the land, to dig in the mines, to build the railroads.

And to foster a love of the potato.

But Ireland has moved on, according to Emmett:

“That day and age of potatoes three times a day is gone in Ireland, it is more of an evening staple and is dependent on the season, white potatoes, kerrs, pinks, maris pipers, then you have the organic ones as well, it depends on the time of the year and how dry the land is, you know what I mean, because the vast majority of the potato is made up of water and starch, so that is why we season them and add a lot of herbs and spices as well, there’s lots of ways of prepping that particular vegetable.”

Dead silence. But for just a wee moment. Then Emmett adds:

“What do you think about that Kansas City quarterback? You see, I love American football.”

And there you have everything there is to know about the Irish Potato.

Joe

I know it’s not a competition, but still . . .

The dark blue Irish Sea, streaked with light on the cresting waves, moves far below my winding cliff path. Listen, I get that people love the ocean. Of course it’s not the Des Moines River or even the Raccoon, but the ocean does aggressively measure the smallness of your life. And not favorably. Some people like that. Not me.

And then there’s the seagulls. They nest on the cliff walls incessantly crying that they are just slightly annoyed. At what? The coffee is too bitter? The coffee is not bitter enough? Why are they so angry? They would do well in the United States today. 

The splat of their poop paints the faces of the cliffs with bright whites against the cold stone. Apparently they are the graffiti artists of the bird world. Although these seagulls seem to be related to Iowa turkey buzzards. I’m fairly certain they are waiting for me to drop from exhaustion so they can treat me as they do a plastic bag of garbage on the side of the road — torn to shreds. Just saying, keep your eyes open.

And in front of me, with a spring and a hop, is my living-in-Ireland daughter, her Scotsman partner, and my wife. They laugh and talk and jump from stone to dirt to bright green grass, as they hike on the edge of the cliffs outside of the small fishing village of Howth, just north of Dublin. I trail behind, breathing hard, praying to not be dashed to my death, slipping on a wet stone while I stumble forward in a graceful lurching manner. They constantly check on the old man at the back, but I’m a poor conversationalist in the face of imminent death. 

I know it’s not a competition, but still . . .

To walk seems the most basic of endeavors. Right? It is supposedly THE THING TO DO based on all the old-people publications I get. Rarely do you see fitness experts advocating motocross or cliff diving for the seniors in your life. Fine. But I’ve never liked walking even during my marathoning and biking days. Walking is that slow-dripping faucet you can hear from your bed, monotonous and never-ending and mildly irritating. I’m not sure that anyone walking has actually ever arrived. Which may be the source of those t-shirt proclamations like — “it’s not the destination, it’s the journey” — something you might say to your kid when they’ve lost for the tenth time in a row. Yup, walking is not for winners. 

I know it’s not a competition, but still . . .

But as far as I can tell the Irish are great walkers. It’s not an image I treasure. I like the stereotype of the drunken Irishman. They arrive at the pub early and leave late. Well, now I know why they sit with a pint of Guinness and stay until thrown out at dawn — they have just spent the day walking. 

And like my wife and daughter and the Scotsman, the Irish are not just walkers, they are fast walkers. Every morning I wake in my lovely fishing village, drink three tons of coffee, and go on a walk. So does everyone. If you saw me walking, you might hesitate for a moment to figure out if I’m actually moving forward. “Glacial” would not inappropriately describe my walking style. Or perhaps you’ve been to a zoo and seen the Slow Loris. That’s me.

So on my hike next to the ocean, high on the cliffs, everyone passes me. I constantly veer off the path so the elderly, the infirm, and the very young can pass without plummeting to their deaths. Everyone is so very friendly. “G’day.” “How are ya?” “Thanks so much.” Or if it’s raining, as it usually is, “Welcome to Ireland,” they say with a laugh and a shrug and a twinkle. Indeed.

What would happen if I gave them just a little nudge?

I know it’s not a competition, but still . . .

I can’t put it off any longer. It is time for me to go out and walk. Wool and rain gear are the fashion. Although I must admit the clothes feel cosy today. The steep hill up to the cliffs is slightly easier. Mmmm. My step seems to be getting a little lighter. Wow. I even smile at the too-brief taunting sun. Perhaps my Irish luck is changing? Yahoo.

Then the first elderly man with his grandchild pass me. “G’morning,” they shout cheerily.

ARGGH!

I know it’s not a competition, but still . . .

Joe