One moment there’s nothing, the next moment — beautiful flowers. Magic. Which must be why the blossoms stand at the very tippy top as if suddenly sprouting out of the head of a giraffe. Straight and tall on stems that are long and ungainly, it would seem that the wind blowing across the Iowa prairie would flatten these oddities with a puff. But they are stronger than they look. Typically Iowan. 

Amaryllis Belladonna is their official name.

“They’re called Naked Ladies,” says my wife.

And everyone does call them Naked Ladies. “Naked” because of the lack of leaves, and “Lady” because Belladonna means beautiful lady in Italian. 

They are stunning summer beauties.

Speaking of summer, this is the traditional season for fair time in Iowa. A chance for small towns and big to show off their prize animals, their death defying carnival rides, and their latest deep-fried creations. It is generally hot and crowded and smelling of straw and large animals and the fried breading of corn dogs. A treat for young and old — at least before the fairs were shut down because of the pandemic. 

But I remember working for my cousin for several summers selling footlong hotdogs on a circuit that took us around fairs in Iowa and into Wisconsin. A great time. We would generally dismantle the stand in one small town and drive into the late night to the next celebration, where we would set up, sell footlongs, and tear down again.

By the way, I was a total pretender of a carny. The real carnies were tough, hard working, and no-nonsense. I was not tough. If a fight broke out, I would cheer from the distant sidelines, encouraging the real carnies, who had hands like chewed knucklebones, to show the townies what’s what. My hands looked like I had just removed my white gloves to pick up the small biscuit meant to be served with tea. Yup, a poser. 

But I was a champion eater of church pie. Being raised a Catholic, I was particularly fond of the Methodists food tents. The Methodists seemed to have no concerns about keeping someone out of heaven. How do I know? Well, they served peach pie the size of dinner plates with melting ice cream hiding the top crust. One bite and it was if I had died and gone to — you guessed it — heaven. It was a golden ticket into the rapture. 

Really, carnivals have always fascinated me. Years earlier, as I was just discovering the wonder of women, my buddies and I once snuck into a carnival tent advertising women who apparently forgot to get totally dressed in the morning. Every carnival had such a tent back in the day. Long gone now. An old man on the stage sized us up and immediately began to pitch several special items made just for us young men. Perfect.

I bought two small dice. The pitch was that if I put the small dice into a glass of water, in a day or two would appear pictures of naked women on the dice. No kidding. What a deal. My lucky day. This was spinning straw into gold. I readily gave the old man my lawn-mowing money. 

All of us boys acted very hip and cool after leaving the tent, but when alone I sprinted home and placed the dice in a glass of water, checking it about every 10 minutes. 

Nope, nothing.

A day passed, two days passed, a week passed. Nothing. No naked ladies appeared. 

I decided that I must have failed to follow the instructions. Clearly I was at fault. I was way too smart to be conned.  

And I eventually forgot about the dice and the naked ladies. 

But today, at 66 years of age, here they are. Can you believe it? In my garden. Magic. The Naked Ladies. 

I just had to wait 52 years. 

Joe

“Go for the burn!”

And my 87-year-old mother-in-law and my 63-year-old wife do. At 10:30 every morning in the basement. Their legs go one way, their arms another, not necessarily in sync, but as close as I’m ever going to get to seeing the Radio City Rockettes in action.

And the low, husky voice of Jane Fonda on the small screen in my basement gym encourages even the most out-of-shape to join in.

“And back to the left, don’t hunch those shoulders,” she urges, as if the fate of the world is soon to be decided by good posture.

Jane Fonda is reborn for my family in this time of coronavirus. She is known for many things, but her fitness tapes from the 1980’s are still iconic. And, more importantly, back in the day they offered a hurried workout for my wife while doing a grapevine around kids and a job. Absent the big hair and the leg warmers, my wife was just one more member of those classes of bare-midriff women and, yes, the one or two token men.

“Roll up one vertebra at a time,” Jane directs with a smile.

And Jane even put together tapes for the older set as she herself aged and became a spokesperson for accepting the limitations brought by time. Jane was mortal, it turns out. She replaced a hip, a knee, and eventually said to Elle Canada: “There isn’t going to be any more plastic surgery.”

“Stretch it up long and tall,” Jane tells the class.

And, amazingly, she continues to act with her good buddy Lily Tomlin in the series “Grace and Frankie,” while standing up for the climate change fight, where she is protesting the lack of governmental action by marching on Washington and getting arrested — five times this last fall before the coronavirus hit.

All at the age of 82.

And let’s not forget Jane Fonda’s Terry Branstad connection.

You see, back in the day Jane protested the Vietnam War just like she is now fighting the climate change fight. In 1972, she was invited to North Vietnam where a photo was taken of her on an enemy anti-aircraft gun. This was not well received by some Americans. And is not well received by some folks even today. “Hanoi Jane” they call her. And nonsensically false rumors of her personal mistreatment of American POWS can still be found on the Internet.

By the way, Jane has apologized many times for the photograph and thought it was “horrible” for what it conveyed to American solders and their families.

Which brings us back to Terry Branstad.

Apparently he was instrumental in providing the written rationale for why Jane Fonda should not be on the base at Fort Bragg during the Vietnam War years. She came anyway and was arrested. The myth was that Terry Branstad slapped on her cuffs — this was furthered by U.S. Rep. Steve King in his statements about Branstad at a 2015 Iowa Freedom Summit.

“‘I will take you back to his service in the United States Army in 1969 to ’71 where he guarded Arlington Cemetery and the Pentagon,’ King said of Branstad. ‘He was based at Fort Bragg where there were war protesters that crossed the line and one of them was Jane Fonda. This individual was tasked with putting her under arrest.'” U.S.A. Today.

Not quite true, Branstad says.

Oh well. But what a near brush with fame.

And then there’s our very own Mary Brubaker, who began her TV career as an “exercise girl” for the Mary Jane Chinn show in the early 1960’s. This was nearly 20 years before Jane Fonda’s first workout video was released. As always, Mary was ahead of her time.

Mary Brubaker went on to have her own show on KCCI TV 8, where she interviewed everybody who was anybody — including Peter and Jane Fonda. With no photo of Jane, Peter is going to have to do.

Mary Brubaker spends the second half of her life lifting people up, helping them to connect, fighting the good fight. Not a bad legacy. And don’t forget, she did interview Jane Fonda.

But now we are in lockdown. My mother-in-law, my wife . . . and Jane.

“When you think you can’t do any more repetitions, do two more!” Jane encourages, with a smile.

That was of course young Jane. I prefer old Jane.

“When you’re older, what have you got to lose? You’re not in the marketplace for some guy who’s scared of a strong woman, so you can rise to yourself and become who you are meant to be, and you can be brave.” Jane Fonda talking with PBS Newshour, Judy Woodruff.

Not bad advice for this coronavirus time. Make it burn indeed.

Joe

Would it help your pandemic doldrums if someone told you that you are special? Of course, that “someone” may be a complete lunatic. Fine. But why not pay your money and take a chance?

I’ve generally been good with the fallout from the coronavirus — picking up groceries from masked teenagers; Zoom conversations with family who keep “accidentally” muting my voice; face masks that remind me how much I enjoy breathing.

And I am deadly tired of the never-ending fear that family, or friends, or really anyone, will get sick. Unfortunately, I’m afraid there is no getting off the pandemic bus until the bus stops for a vaccine. 

What to do in the meantime?

Hey, why not get my knees replaced?  

We’re locked down. My knees have been bad for years. I’m not traveling anywhere. Let’s just do it. 

And I did. 

Both knees.

No big deal. Several people I know did it in years past and love their new knees. And I will too. But . . . things started to take a different twist after the surgery.

Let’s start with a first for me — my wife appeared on a metal paper-towel dispenser on the wall in the hospital room. Yup, you heard me correctly. There she was. Right there on the dispenser. Talking to me. Telling me I was special. A Lourdes moment but without the Virgin Mary.

Or just possibly a post-surgery hallucination. 

No matter.

But then the plagues came. Spasms. Like full-body upheavals. Every 30 seconds. Oh my. I forgot that because of a bike/van accident 16 years ago, I was spastic. All this means is that if the doctor taps my knee with the little hammer, my leg shoots for the ceiling. Perhaps something I should have remembered before they tapped my knees with more than a little hammer. 

“What a dope,” I thought, as the spasms turned me in half, and then in half again like an origami fold. 

And two weeks passed. 

I survived. The nerves finally got comfortable with my new knees and they started to be on speaking terms and exchange addresses. 

“Amsterdam has always been an open and international city, and we would love to welcome visitors as soon as possible . . . But the right visitors.” Geerte Udo, chief executive of amsterdam&partners, speaking to DutchNews.nl during the relative peace in the city created by the coronavirus restrictions.

Dear Ms. Udo:

You don’t know me, but I read of your recent concerns about the type of tourists who visit Amsterdam. I totally understand. However, I think we could come to an arrangement that would be good for both of us. Before you say no, let me explain.

My wife and I have a small, get-away house just outside of Mingo, Iowa — in the middle of a cornfield, if you can believe that. We don’t get condoms or needles thrown from tourists in our front yard, but we do get blowing corn stalks. More tractors and grain trucks travel the gravel road in front of our house than high-powered sports cars. In fact I’ve never once seen a high-powered sports car.  And the loud party noises we hear late at night don’t come from a drunken pack of young English and German men, but from a gang of coyotes on the other side of the ridge. And for entertainment in the winter, rather than going to the Red Light District, I wrap myself in a homemade quilt and usually read a romance involving a pirate.

“Wild and Crazy” is not tattooed anywhere on my body. 

And even without windmills or canals or Dutch flowers, I love this tiny spot in Iowa. 

And the people who live out here, our neighbors? They bring their tractors and shovel our driveway. They gift us with parsnips from their gardens, morels from their woods, and cherry pies, when we’re lucky. We need help with mowing? They are ready with their big mowers. Someone to cut down a tree? They push while we saw. Trouble with plumbing on a below-zero night? They hold the flashlight down the dark well.

You can see the problem right away. Mingo is out of sync with the hard-bit, unfriendly America of today. Mingo has way too much neighborliness, kindness, and we’re-all-in-this together nonsense.    

Clearly, Mingo, Iowa, is just not mean enough for today’s divisive America. This has to change, which is why I write.

But first, you have a problem. You are wrestling with how to return to the Amsterdam of canals and history and quiet, cobblestone lanes. You don’t want the hordes of partiers that urinate in your streets. You don’t want the congestion and drunken and drugged behavior. You prize tolerance but don’t want your culture destroyed in the name of freedom. I get it.

Amsterdam wants the right people. Mingo needs the wrong people. There you go. A match made in heaven. You ship the “wrong people” to Iowa and we’ll take them off your hands. Free of charge. Once they arrive at your city, bleary eyed and half drunk, bundle them up, put a stamp on their forehead, and we’ll pick them up at the Mingo post office. Everyone’s happy. 

Although I confess there is a minor wrinkle with this plan.  

Mingo might turn the wrong people into the right people. Maybe when the wrong people can’t disappear into a horde of reckless young men, their boldness might become a little bit meek under the concerned gaze of the Mingo librarian. Or maybe when the bitter Iowa winters turns public urination into a flash-freeze experience, it is less likely to happen twice. Or maybe those young men won’t be so keen about leering at anonymous women in windows when they find they can talk to a woman with a name who’s actually looking for a little conversation and a laugh at the Mingo Greencastle Tavern.

But the way I see it, Mingo becomes more mean and mainstream or the wrong people become civil. 

Win-win.

I even have a branding, your forte, already picked out. You have the wonderful “I AMSTERDAM.” What about this: I’MINGO.

Using your ideas, I think this could be the promotional lead-in for the I’MINGO ad campaign in just five slides and some slow guitar music  . .  .

I’M IN SADNESS. Picture of drunken tourist stumbling into a canal in Amsterdam.

I’M IN SEARCH. Picture of a tourist kneeling in front of the Old Church at the foot of the Red Light District praying for guidance

I’M IN HOPE. Picture of young man walking away from his vomiting friends on Dam Square and towards a departing train.

I’M IN LOVE. Picture of young man and young woman holding hands while walking down a country road.

I’MINGO! Fireworks over this small Iowa town.

Let me know if it’s a go. 

Sincerely yours, 

Joe

“Dad, isn’t FaceTime a great way for us to talk during this weird virus time?”

The smiling face of my daughter locked down in England greets me. Lively, personable, and true to real life. 

And then I make the mistake of looking at the small screen in the right corner.

Ahhhhh! 

Who is that person? When did I leave the room? Someone has hijacked my computer. 

I elongate my neck and look over my reading glasses at the imposter. One, two, three chins. That’s got to be some kind of record. 

“So how’s Grandma doing in lockdown?”

Perhaps it is the angle of the camera. I have such a large head. Maybe if I bring the computer closer. 

Yikes! Too close. 

“And Mom? You know how she had all those water containers and duct tape ready for Y2K.”

Do my ears look even larger than I thought they were?

I turn sharply to the left and then to the right as I squint out of the corner of my eye at my profile. Wow, have I become part of the unusual vegetables exhibit at the Iowa State Fair? 

“Dad, when do you think you’ll be able to travel again?”

But then there’s my nose (oh my) and teeth (are they yellow and going crooked in old age?) and the spot on my cheek (cancer or freckle?).

There’s a pending disaster at every angle of the camera. Aargh. 

I blow a kiss goodbye to my daughter and tell her I’ll call back tomorrow.

Time for a social media updo.

“4 Beauty Tips You Need to Look Your Best on Social Media,” by Rachel Krause. 

This looks good. Okay, let’s see.

“Even if you’re going for the #iwokeuplikethis vibe on social media—regardless of whether you actually did wake up like that—we consider well-groomed brows to be the bare minimum.”

Brows? My lord, I hadn’t even thought about brows.

“Tweeze stray hairs that the camera will pick up, then use a small, angled brush and your product of choice to fill in your eyebrows.”

My product of choice? That would be a glass of wine. Maybe a beer during this barbecue weather. Clearly, Rachel is from another world than me. I need something a bit more basic.

“How to Look Bomb on FaceTime,” by Emily Gaynor for TeenVogue.

“Even though FaceTime means up-close-and-personal, don’t go too crazy when it comes to covering up, or contouring. FaceTime is about quick and easy contact — you don’t need to get red carpet-ready for a quick convo.”

After reading this sentence several times, I resort to Google Translate. 

Let’s see, “c-o-n-t-o-u-r-i-n-g.”

“Contouring, baking, and extreme highlighting didn’t come from your BFF who’s, like, super into makeup. It actually originated from the drag community decades ago as a way to shape the face with makeup.” Brook Shunatona for Cosmopolitan.

“Shape my face with makeup”? Like with a putty knife and joint compound? I don’t think I’m ready for advice from Cosmo.

And that’s where I am today, folks. Cosmo and TeenVogue have failed me. Am I just one more unusual vegetable among the kohlrabi?

Mirriam-Webster defines beauty as “the quality or aggregate of qualities in a person or thing that gives pleasure to the senses or pleasurably exalts the mind or spirit.”

Great. So in this time of lockdown, I go to every member of my household to see if I “give pleasure to their senses” or “pleasurably exalt their minds.”

Okay, two dogs, a cat, and my wife. Without a doubt, both dogs and the nasty cat all vote with their tails and purr that I “look bomb” and bring them pleasure. As for my wife, a much more skeptical voter, I make her a cappuccino, tell her I will stop following her around the house, and for sure will never again follow her into her closet. She also purrs. 

The obvious conclusion from this flawless test? I am a media darling. Beauty personified. One hot dude. 

Or not. 

Which is why you probably need my latest app, ladies and gentlemen. Today only. Half price. Free delivery. Friendly to whatever platform or device you love. It is cleverly named “the carefully placed face-mask draped over your screen.” No digital skills required to install.

And voila! Social media updo.

You’re welcome. 

Joe

“Drake University has postponed the 2020 Drake Relays.” 

The sporting world goes quiet. The blue oval is an empty, wind-swept desert. A hotdog in a steamed bun is a distant dream.

Except at our house . . . 

“He’s rounding the corner, ladies and gentlemen. Come on, let’s give him a big Drake Relays push down the turn.” 

The student section erupts. Everyone stands. I have my shirt off. My wife has rolled her sleeves up over her shoulders. Our winter-white skin is turning a blotchy bright red — the telltale mark of a Drake Relays fan.

The applause is deafening. The competitor reaches out, elongating his body in a twist that seems to defy Newton’s apple, and grabs with a ferocious lunge the . . . orange frisbee.

“That could be a new Drake Relays Record, folks, in the 40-yard frisbee throw. What a day today!”

And I sit back in my seat, buzzed with adrenalin and awe. Wow. World class athletes performing at the top of their game. And during an Olympic year that isn’t. Amazing. 

Where is that mid-morning beer stand anyway?

The men’s relay teams are warming up. Texas, Baylor, Louisiana. And there are the Iowa men doing front lunges down the inside of the track as they warm up for the final. Their black and gold uniforms flash in the sunshine. 

The Iowa men’s team has been riddled with controversy this year. Their strict vegetarian regimen and insistence on feeding their young regurgitated seeds have sparked concerns.

Is their unusual diet a healthful lifestyle or an illegal enhancement?

So far, the judges have ruled in Iowa’s favor. And, fortunately for the fans, the Hawkeyes’ performance IS enhanced as they are competing at the highest levels before their crazy and wild June breeding season.

“At this special invitation-only event, in lane one, the two-time winner of the NCAA indoor track and field, holding the best time this year in the world, is . . . .”

And the announcer builds the field. Competitor after competitor. I’m straining my neck trying to see the start. The officials, all decked out in blue and white, line them up.

“On your marks.” 

My view is unobstructed except for that guy with the cowboy hat who always seems to be my best friend at the Relays. Or is that a bluejay on a branch?

“Get set.”

I stretch up out of my seat, not quite standing, but nearly.

The gun goes off. The crowd roars. My heart lodges in my throat.  

“Oh my oh my, it’s an all-out battle. Look at Iowa go. Let’s give them a big hand, folks, as they come down the home stretch.”

Iowa wins! Iowa wins! Iowa wins!

Yahoo! Our very own Hawkeyes win the Seed-Eating Invitational.”

Whew!

“Check to the north end of the track everyone. Yes, that’s the time. With hundreds of events over several days, here we are, running two minutes ahead of schedule before our last competition. Let’s give a big hand to those volunteer Drake Officials, the best in the world.”

My wife and I applaud as the bunnies in the yard perform the march of the officials around the blue oval. Yay.

Back to the competition.  

“With the bird bath obstacle and the fierce competition from the woodpeckers, the last event is a doozy, folks, the two-meter bird-feeder hang. The nuthatches are particularly adept, but being pushed hard by the squirrel team.” 

“Shoo, shoo, shoo,” jeers my wife as she tries to distract the hated squirrel team while she raps on the window. 

But the good guys don’t always come in first. The squirrels have been masters of the two-meter, bird-feeder hang ever since they hired that Russian coach back in 2010, who taught them how to climb a greased pole. And today was no different. They walk away with the blue ribbon. And all the bird seeds. 

So the 2020 Drake Relays come to a close. We stream away from the track with thousands of  other fans. But, like most, we stop by the kitchen to grab a glass of wine before moving on to the den to see what happens with Father Brown on PBS. 

There you have it. The 2020 Drake Relays. A slight variation. 

Joe

Lockdown. It used to be a term that I’d hear back when I was a criminal prosecutor and trying to talk to a witness.

“Sorry, sir, you can’t see the prisoner because he’s in lockdown.”

Of course, he’s in lockdown. He’s a bad guy. All my witnesses are bad guys. Why couldn’t I ever have a priest as a witness? Or at least Mother Teresa?

And now I am in pandemic lockdown . . . a coronavirus prisoner in Iowa.

I, loving all things Dutch, have not a canal or a bicycle or a windmill in sight.

Nope. Nothing. Zilch.

But then I started getting emails. Dutch emails. And I started following the links. So I took my laptop to a yet-to-be-plowed Iowa cornfield and travelled across the Atlantic.

Ah, here’s my old friend the Mauritshuis. Home of the Girl with the Pearl Earring and the Goldfinch. They are offering something called “Mauritshuis at Home.” Well, I’m at home. Let’s see what they’ve got. Mmmm . . .  I choose “Old art, new stories.”

And they are new stories. The narrator is examining a painting by Van Haecht of Apelles the artist and Alexander the Great. The narrator tells us that the painting depicts the story of Alexander the Great saying to the painter that the portrait he painted of Alexander’s mistress is even more beautiful than his mistress. So Alexander suggests a swap of the painting for Alexander’s mistress.

I tell this wonderful story to my wife. She wonders why I find it so wonderful and suggests that I should try sleeping in the other room.

Or that small painting I’ve walked past many a time by Joachim Wtewael, which shows Venus having sex with Mars and the brouhaha that causes in paradise. My goodness. This painting, meant to be viewed alone, was not shown publicly until 1987 because it was “so racy,” according to the narrator.

I love that. The idea of a bunch of teenagers gawking at this painting out in the barn during the early 1600’s seems like something Norman Rockwell should have painted.

And here’s an email from the Nederlands Dans Theater. A video entitled ‘The Statement’ by Crystal Pite. Lord help me, the stage consists of a long conference table just like every conference table I ever sat around as a lawyer. The only prop in sight. I’m already hooked.

The dancers dance around and on and under the table. A morality play of right and wrong and responsibility. A dance not performed to music but to the spoken word. And the dancers even more rawly evoke the emotion of those words.

I’m in love with this piece. Serious and powerful.

But next time I’m in lockdown for a pandemic, I wonder if they could dance on a lighter note. Maybe something about the morality and responsibility of eating oliebollen (a delicious fried oil ball, aka a Dutch donut). Why not?

Thank goodness for Dutch flowers. Off to the Keukenhof I go, where thousands and thousands of tulips and other flowers are planted every year. Tons of videos at their site from which to choose. Okay, how about “Gardener Daan shows his favorite spots.” 

One of Daan’s favorite spots is the Mill Forest, which, believe it or not, contains a mill in a forest. But did you know that among the beautiful flowers and the windmill in the Mill Forest are old rusty cars? Yup, old rusty cars. The contrast between the abandoned vehicles and the colorful daffodils and perennials and ferns make me smile. Wonderful!

And I can’t wait to tell my Iowa farmer friends. Many still park their junk cars in some ravine on their back field. Little did they know that if they just planted a daffodil here and there, they could be one step closer to the magnificence of the Keukenhof.

Time to stretch my computer legs. I look up my old gym, Absolutely Fit, located next to the harbor in Scheveningen. Sure enough, they have a weekend workout all set for my pleasure. Henriette Priester, the co-owner with her husband Rik, is demonstrating on video a squat as part of a complete weekend routine in your home.

My goodness. I thought a lockdown meant . . . locked down . . . on your couch . . . with fries. But no. Here’s Henriette, the mother who mothers everyone in the gym, telling me I need to do squats. Really?

“But mom . . .” as my kids used to say.

I dutifully set the computer down and do squats. Not really. But a great idea!

Well, it’s getting dark. Time to leave the corn field. But I think about the scariness of the coronavirus pandemic. The fear of people getting sick and dying. Of loved ones in a hospital with no one able to visit. Of the heroic actions of doctors and nurses and grocery store clerks. And how this virus circled the globe with a strangling fear in seemingly seconds.

But then I think about all these wonderful folks in all these museums and theaters and gyms putting together videos and stories and emails encouraging hope. That is the take away from my virtual vacation. Good people doing good things during hard times.

However, I still think there should be an oliebollen video.

Joe

Yes, Juliette, there is a Santa Claus. Sure, it’s scary times — pestilence, politics, and the end of the world as we know it. Not to mention your Dad and Mom suddenly being at home all the time. Which started out as if the carnival had come to town, but now it’s two adults worried about you, their health, their parents’ health, and, yes, they are looking at the checkbook an awful lot and mumbling about toilet paper. Go figure . . . toilet paper?

Not exactly a recipe for making fun cherry scones and singing songs about whales. But here we are.

And grandpas know things. Although we are many miles apart and your vocabulary does not yet allow you to speak about the crisis that faces us all, I know that you get it. Heck, it was just a couple weeks ago that Grandma held you on her lap and chanted, “Who’s to blame?” And then you both wagged your fingers at me and chanted, “Grandpa.” See, you understand good and bad and right and wrong and the truth about Grandpa.

Of course, no matter the age, you can tell that something is just wrong.

But, rest assured Juliette, there is a Santa Claus. I saw him. Well, not exactly him. I mean, it is spring in Iowa. Give me a break. But I saw what Santa Claus represents — the magic in the world. How did I see magic? Hah! I looked out the window. This is what I saw:

Yup, it’s Michelle Tasler and her dinosaur buddy, Jack Hearne, walking down the sidewalk. Yup, an actual dinosaur. Can you believe it? Do you know why she is out walking her dinosaur? I sure didn’t. So I got closer to them, but very carefully and slowly so as not to become dinosaur applesauce, and I asked her why she is out walking her dinosaur.

“We had to get out of the house and wanted to bring some happiness to other people.”

Yes, Juliette, people are good. People understand what it means to stand together. People are unbelievably brave. And people can bring you happiness. And, Juliette, you are all those things and you too bring happiness. This is magic.

And just look outside. It is spring. And there is magic in spring. I was walking down near the creek, and beautiful flowers, nearly the color of your eyes, are just starting to poke through the wet ground. No matter your problems and worries, nature is like a cool cloth against your warm forehead. Go outside and let nature smooth away your troubles. I do.

And sometimes, if you look closely and breathe very slowly and don’t step on worms, you will see things in nature that are a bit surprising. Like when I looked inside this woodpecker’s hole:

Yikes!!!!! Is that a tree sprite? Or a pixie? Or a fairy? Or Grandma?

Yes, Juliette, there is a Santa Claus. Why? Because there is love. Sorry, I usually try not to use that word, but there it is . . . love. You are loved by so many people. And you will grow up to love so many people. It is the glue for good times and bad. And right now, it is everywhere, from the baggers at the grocery store to the doctors and nurses on the front line. Just reach up from your daddy’s shoulders and you will see it.

Yes, Juliette, there is a Santa Claus.

Joe

Fears are a dime a dozen these days. If we don’t get deathly ill from the coronavirus (by the way, I don’t remember sending in my application to join the vulnerable, old-guy group), and if we have any savings left after the stock markets nosedive (who dares calls the stock market gambling), then we are scared to death of our political future as either a Forever Trumper without Trump or Trump Hater with Trump Forever.

And let’s not forget that small, ticking, climate-change bomb. That alone should get your teeth rattling and cause frequent trips to the bathroom.

Frankly, a thorough washing of my hands for 20 seconds only goes so far to calm my fears.

So I looked to a fear expert for expert advice on dealing with fears expertly.

“People panic in the door before they jump. But once you’re out, as I tell everyone, you might as well have a good time because we won’t be getting back in the plane.”

John Wayne Huddleson smiles at me as if this is obvious.

Is he kidding?

The door John is referring to is the exit out of a plane. Into the empty air. Far from the ground. Falling.

No thank you.

When someone says, “jump out of a plane,” my first word association is “splat.”

But John’s a pro. He’s done over 4000 jumps and teaches skydiving and does tandem jumps all the time.

And he gets it.

“It’s just not normal jumping out of a plane,” he says.

Ya think?

“My first tandem, I was terrified. I was going through the training and it was like, ‘Why am I doing this, why am I doing this . . . this jump will be my last one.'”

But it wasn’t?

“You do the jump and it’s beautiful, peaceful, calming.”

And then were you all right after that?

“Nope, on my next jump I’m up in the plane again and my thoughts are just the same, ‘Why am I doing this? Why am I doing this?'”

John laughs, “Come on! Am I dope or what?”

I thoughtfully don’t answer.

But John persevered and now he’s the one calming you down. He’s the one you trust. He’s the one saying you will have one of the most beautiful experiences of your life. And you will.

I think.

“Skydiving never becomes normal because you have to respect what you’re doing. If you don’t respect what you’re doing, it’s going to get you. I do safety checks on every jump three to four times. I am as safe as possible. But it’s always a thrill.”

So there you have it. John, the skydiving pro, the man in the sky, the parachutist who will escort you out the open door. Fearless.

But, of course, there is more to his story . . .

“I work on bridges for my other job,” says John.

And how’s that?

“Well, the funny thing is that I’m afraid of heights.”

Whaaaat???

“If you get me 30 feet off the ground, which I frequently am with bridge work, I’m terrified. But I’ve learned to get past it.”

This so doesn’t make sense.

“It’s different — the bridge and skydiving. Up that high with a parachute, I don’t think about it. I don’t know why, I just don’t think about it.”

And how is your fear of heights now?

“It’s getting worse the older I get. Very much so. But I just do it. And a lot of the guys on bridges are the same way. We’ve worked together long enough that we cover each other for things we don’t want to do.”

My goodness.

“So do you have advice for me and my fears?”

“I don’t have advice for others.” John smiles. “For me, I just work through it.”

Lord, is that the message? I always want my fears to go away with a pill, or the right foods, or three easy steps. I completely agree with Jack trading his milk cow for magic beans.

But just work through it? Stare out the door and jump? Hang 30 feet in the air over a bridge and do the job?

“Courage is being scared to death, but saddling up anyway,” said the other John Wayne.

Okay, okay, I guess we are seeing such courage every day now. It’s the Italians singing opera from their apartment windows as they are in lockdown for the coronavirus. It’s the Chinese cheering on cement mixers building new hospitals as the crisis rages. It’s the small shop owner in England who is today giving free sanitizer and wipes to those over 65.

And it’s the sacker at Hy Vee getting your groceries ready for pick-up, and the barista at the coffee shop delivering your coffee out the window, and the server at the restaurant packing up your carry-out, and the teacher trying to figure out on-line teaching, and the garbage folks who just keep on coming, and the reporters filing stories that I consume like popcorn, and the ministers broadcasting Sunday services, and Bill the Postman who arrives each day, rain, shine, or pestilence, to deliver my mail.

So for me? I guess it’s time to saddle up and just work through it.

Joe

Dancing with the bright sun down the narrow gravel road, the horse moves into a high step and then pulls his head sharply to the ground. The rider, instead of flying over the head of the horse, nonchalantly pulls the reigns back up. She then smiles at me.

I’m guessing they’ve been through this routine a time or two.

This is the first warm day of early spring in Iowa and more than a few folks — who I suspect shoveled snow just once too often this winter — are feeling their oats.

I stop clearing out the mulberry trees from the fence line and admire the muscles rippling on the horse’s flank. Lord, they are big animals. More imposing than any vehicle on the road. And they have all the right features — keyless start, four wheel drive, renewable fuel, and an added fertilization option for no extra cost.

Julie Warner, a retired airline attendant, is out with her horse, Amigo, on this spring day in Iowa. And Amigo is feeling the warm weather with a certain joie-de-vivre.

Eventually Julie pats his neck and dismounts with a laugh.

“I’d rather be walking a horse than riding when they start acting like that.”

And Julie begins to work him in a circle in the middle of an intersection of two dirt roads, running him one direction then the next, faster and faster.

Then they slow to a conversational walk.

“Got Amigo as a two year old and he’s nine now. He’s a quarterhorse. And he was quite good, but got hurt before his last race. So I bought him. He’s one I have to work every day.”

“He sure seems spirited,” I cleverly remark.

Julie pauses and scratches under her hat.

“I ride with a bunch of ladies from the Davenport and Cedar Rapids area. And, bless their hearts, they ride what I call ‘recliners.’ It’s a pretty horse they can pull out of the pasture, get on, and they let the horse go down the trail like a train, nose to tail. That’s what these pretty horses do. I don’t want that.”

Julie looks at me, smiles, and shakes her head.

“And you can’t ride pretty,” she says.

What???

Our world loves pretty. Pretty shiny objects and pretty shiny people and our made-for-Instagram pretty shiny experiences.  My lord, just check out where everyone spent Spring Break. Bright sun, beautiful beaches, and more bronzed people than fried foods at the Iowa State Fair. No one posted about their spring break in Boone, Iowa.

Right?

Although, when I think of experiences, I think of the time my family moved from Michigan to a house next to a small hog barn in the country outside of Iowa City. My dad and brother and I drove ahead in a van with a load of furniture. I was 10 years old. My dad was a busy man, a mathematician deep into the brand new world of computers, and time alone with him without all eight kids was unusual.

So we unloaded the van and sat on the low-slung front porch in the summer heat. Shirts off. Sweating.

My dad brought a watermelon out of the house.

He broke the watermelon on the edge of the porch because we had no knife, and my brother and I each took a ragged chunk. Soon we were spitting black seeds high in the air while the juice ran down our chests and the hogs snorted from the barn.

A small moment in time.

But then my dad died young. And my best memory? The picture of my dad and my brother and myself spitting watermelon seeds from a low porch on a hot day in the Iowa country.

Not much of an instagram post. Nothing to do with the sun. No one had bronzed skin. Not a beach in sight unless you count the mud in the hog pen. But the value of the experience?

You can’t ride pretty.

Then Julie climbs back up on Amigo and gives me a smile. And, like all good philosophers, she rides off into the sunset.

Joe