joe vanderzanden

2018 Christmas Letter

2018-12-20T22:59:00.000-06:00

Time of my life

This is how I know I am an old fart:

I audibly grumble when reading the newspaper. Although easy to explain in these grim times, I also catch myself harrumphing at restaurant reviews, gardening tips, and heartwarming features about children.
I read the newspaper.
I have three birdfeeders which bring me great joy and diversion.
I have exhausted my supply of stories. Nina regularly stops me mid-yarn, rolls her eyes, and (with contempt) finishes the anecdote for me.
I have a favorite pair of slippers.
I freely offer driving directions to friends and family including tips on where to find the best deals on gas along the route.
I had a legitimate Orbach Moment when Peter called to ask how to fire-up the propane heater I lent him. He spoke of valves, burner heads, and reverse threaded fittings. It was like watching Baby nail the jump.
Among my many activities, I categorize a certain portion of my goings-on as Garage Time.
In addition to a rotary nose and ear hair trimmer, I have a yardstick onto which I duct taped a disposable razor that I use to shave my back.

How they roll in Minnesota.

I have aligned myself with a particular brand of applesauce, forsaking all others.
I have a solution for everything and am quick to tell you.
I drove around town with Ann Marie the other night judging homeowners on the effort and creativity that they put into their Christmas light displays. Note that I phoned it in at The Kingman with just a wreath and single string of LEDs.
In the last calendar year alone, I have been requested on three separate occasions to produce my tasty meatballs for various social functions.
I harbor a deep seeded resentment for the specter of self-driving, electric cars. I believe there is no way the decent, clean-living people of Iowa will give up their pick-ups in favor of a crowd-based shitshow of A.I. controlled econo-boxes designed by a bunch of weak, elitist hipsters in Mountain View, CA (I went a little Red State there, sorry).
I am unable to fully embrace, understand, or support Social Media.

And this is just the short list…

The State of The Kingman is strong: Nina is in the home-stretch, set to graduate with a Bio-Medical Engineering degree from the University of Iowa in May. Peter is 9-feet tall, deep into a second year of science and engineering courses at Iowa State. Between traveling the globe and advocating for excellence in higher education, Ann Marie still carves out time to commiserate with me. As for myself: (What’s So Funny 'Bout) Peace, Love, and Understanding (further evidence of my Old Fart status).

Merry Christmas. Be well.

(Nick Lowe's lyrics)

2017 Christmas Letter

2017-12-19T19:36:00.000-06:00

Radio Daze

Living in the shadow of Iowa State University, it’s easy to forget that Ames is largely different than the rest of the state, or even the country. Granted, there may be more feed stores than coffee shops here, but even the feed stores are a little high-brow. We have suburbs, sort of. To a degree, Ames is hipster friendly: Asian grocery stores, microbreweries, co-ops, and community radio. And scattered among the old, beautiful Protestant churches downtown are six or eight tattoo parlors. This is College Town, USA, and when viewed from the right perspective, it could pass for Madison, Athens, or even Tucson (only with more corn).

So how to explain that Iowa went red a year ago?

The difference between Ames and the rest of America was made clear recently when I was driving West on I-80 not far from The Kingman. I was in the portion of central Iowa where NPR drops out completely— the center of the void between Des Moines and Omaha. Here, low on the FM frequency I tuned into a local broadcast: After the school lunch menu was revealed (tuna sandwich and potato soup), the DJ played a recording of The Pledge of Allegiance recited by overly enthusiastic school children. As if this did not inspire enough liberty and justice for all, the announcer then doubled down with Lee Greenwood singing the pledge and featuring spoken word overdubs clipped from Ronald Reagan speeches. Patriotism was oozing from my speakers and onto the vinyl floor mats.

This daily act of devotion was followed by a full hour of polka. Remember, this is Steve King country. [For those non-Iowans: Steve King serves as a member of the United States House of Representatives from Iowa's 4th congressional district, which includes Ames. If you boiled Donald J. Trump into a concentrated mass of hate, ignorance, and greed, then added an equal mass of malignant ideology, you would have just created Steve King. This is a scientific fact.]

That was just the beginning of my road trip. I was going all the way West and traveling light. No thermos and wearing only sandals with no back-up footwear. My single comfort was a standard General Motors radio with no CD player, no Bluetooth connectivity, and no audio input jack. Like Thoreau, my intent was to live deliberately. It would be like the olden times, relying solely on truck stop coffee and local radio. Real Oregon Trail shit.

I had digested 1,232 miles of red state radio and was holding up nicely until Twin Falls, Idaho. The musical programming was top notch but the commercials became repetitive, notably a spot for “Peterson Family Farms Fall Festival.” Among other on-site attractions such as hay rides, Bible stories, and a giant corn maze, the announcer also promised a “live ammo shooting range for the young and old.”

Drinking cider, talking God, and shooting guns. Bring the kids. Steve King approved! Actually, I am sure the whole thing was very nice.

Back at home, the population of The Kingman has continued to decline, it’s just me and Ann Marie now. Peter moved across the tracks and enrolled at Iowa State in Materials Science Engineering. He took most of the furniture, all the Tupperware, and the Big TV with him. The house looked like a crime scene when he left. Nina is still hunkered down at the University of Iowa and killing it. Aside from hemorrhaging cash, the kids are alright.

We are thankful and wish you a Merry Christmas.

2016 Christmas Letter

2016-12-07T21:31:00.001-06:00

Root Causes

My personal relationship with Jesus has always been tenuous at best. Although I fault no particular individual or organization, I am approaching that station in life where I am trying to more closely determine “why things are the way they are.” Aside from my shaky affiliation with Jesus, I have other ponderables: How can Pete simultaneously respect Johnny Cash and Chance the Rapper? What series of events occurred so that Nina can de-bone a whole chicken but is unable to find her way out of a parking garage? Why does Ann Marie reorganize the bean and soup shelf in the pantry every Sunday, only for me to put everything back in the correct location on Tuesday? Body wash? Trump? Currently, the big questions are in abundance. So, of course, I have been on the case seeking the Root Cause of All Things.

Just in time for Christmas, I have arrived at a somewhat nebulous conclusion on the Root Cause of my Jesus Thing. My middling childhood years was dominated by a devotion to motorcycles and Evel Knievel. My bedroom walls were adorned on one side by two giant, red white, and blue Evel Knievel posters. One, a handsome portrait of the man in full leathers and billowing cape; the other a long shot of Evel executing an awesome wheelie on his Harley down an airport runway. On the other side of my room was proudly tacked an 11 x 17 photo-realistic print of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, an artifact earned upon my First Communion. It looked like a photo from the mall: Glamour Shot Jesus, or a senior picture he might later regret. It was the 70s, man.

The iconographic commingling of Jesus and Evel, two somewhat opposing images, yet equally popular, caused a great deal of confusion in my pre-adolescent mind. Jesus’ eyes would follow me wherever I moved to in the room. Perhaps by design his gaze was inescapable. And it sort of freaked me out. At night, due to the shiny emulsion on the surface of the print, even the faintest light, a passing car or waning moon, would illuminate his eyes. Jesus was watching.

Meanwhile, Evel was simply gassing it down the airstrip, rocking his cape, looking to the future, and maybe a few more busses to jump. The cheap, matte finish on the motorcycle posters turned to black at night. Evel never judged.

I don’t fault Photo-realistic Jesus for making me a little skittish. Maybe that particular picture was just a little too heavy for my 10-year-old brain. And other than an occasional whiff of nostalgia, I currently don’t have much to say about Evel other than he was definitely an asshole.

And so it goes… perhaps the Root Cause of All Things is not what we are taught but, rather, what we imagine. And I give thanks.

Merry Christmas.

2015 Christmas Letter

2015-12-14T22:49:00.000-06:00

ECF

Please give me break. I know that I have neglected the Christmas letter the past few seasons. But here is the deal: I have been hunting elk instead. You see, for the past 60 years, my dad and his cronies trek to some remote corner of eastern Oregon during hunting season. They have been at this a while and their camp is epic. No comfort is spared: Enormous canvas tents are erected; wood stoves are leveled and lit; generators power lights, microwaves, and laptops; days are spent falling trees and making wood; and a lovely open air shit box is strategically placed in a nearby clearing (This is exactly what it sounds like and is a recent upgrade. Up until 1995 they would just randomly designate a downed tree nearby the compound and designate it the “shit log”).

So I have found myself out there the last few seasons and the general take-away is this, Elk Hunting is a misnomer. The practice should be referred to, simply, as Farting. As a well-adjusted adult person, a husband, father, and regular voter, I have no choice but to comment on the pervasive farting. When at camp, these men have no boundaries and no shame. Furthermore, Elk Camp Farting is an entire magnitude of order more obscene than what takes place in the regular world. If farting were accounted for like temperature, ECF would be measured on the Kelvin scale.

Here are some highlights:

A group of men stood talking about important recent world events. Many had differing points of view but the men were respectful to one another. As one was making a heartfelt but somewhat lengthy point about his disappointment with the current President of the United States, he let one go. It was really long. Maybe 15 seconds or more. Lots of tonal quality and a crisp finish. Throughout this gastric feat, he never broke from his monologue or showed any non-verbal cue of what was taking place south of the border. To my further astonishment, no one in the group batted an eye or made comment. It was like it did not happen.
Breakfast usually happens around 4:00 a.m. (which is delightful). When the food is blackened enough to serve, whoever is cooking goes around the table and scrapes a portion of the meat, eggs, and potatoes onto everybody’s plate. Then this happens: While serving food, the cook’s backside was positioned next to the guy he had just served. It was loud and extremely vulgar. His face was just inches away from the source. Hair was blown back. And yet he just sat quietly, chomping away in silence. Then somebody said, “Pass the fucking butter.”

These are stalwart men and have provided me with treasured memories.

We are down one at The Kingman now since Nina went off to college. Ann Marie and I never see Pete anymore; he might be invisible for all we know. But we continually find enough evidence that he is still nearby and surviving: Balled up socks in the couch, empty milk jugs in the sink, data alerts from Verizon. It is like having the place to ourselves.

Merry Christmas have a great New Year.

2011 Christmas Letter

2011-12-16T23:46:00.014-06:00

Occupy Kingman

The poorly executed protest ended ugly. Ann Marie insists that use of pepper spray was not necessary. And though I agree that the use of this agent was cruel and inhumane, it totally worked.

Inklings of the uprising started in October as Nina and Peter began to organize. Lists of grievances were compiled and shared electronically. Ideas were fermenting. By November a plan was hatched and the Occupy Kingman was in full swing as Thanksgiving rolled around. The children had set up a squatter camp in the basement. The protest was on.

At first, we were proud to see the kids expressing themselves and engaging in social activism. It appeared to be a decent and thoughtful exercise of democracy in our own home. We considered the whole deal a wholesome and educational family experience. The protest signs and marches were modest and cute. After all, it was just the two of them. We thought it would end by Monday.

But it did not end and quickly became an annoyance. Security became an issue, the children were continually looting the pantry. In-fighting began, the camp became split as the kids could not agree on what the movement meant. Peter camo-painted his face and demanded to be called Enforcer. Nina stopped washing or combing her hair and would pace around the camp reciting passages from the Constitution. We found that it is impossible to sleep with a drum circle in your bedroom. The makeshift sewer they hastily constructed in the garden and the open fire in the living room also had us concerned.

The messages coming from the Occupy Kingman camp were increasingly disturbing:

“We are entitled to every handheld electronic device and gaming system we desire… I will be unable to move from the couch without at least one hour prior notice… As part of my Basic Human Liberties I refuse to ingest store brand cereal…. As parents, agree that it is your fault if I fail to study or am late to school… No, I do not need a coat. Never ask me again. Ever… You must heat the house to a comfortable level.”

I could sort of see their point on the furnace issue.

Not surprisingly the Occupy Kingman movement eventually became violent. Despite what Ann Marie says I still insist that they initiated the aggression. And because I have chosen to take the high road in this matter, I refuse to list the countless acts of heinousness that were directed towards me, the trips to the emergency room, the bruises— the tears. It is enough to say that the time had come to end this thing. I pulled on my jack boots, raised my riot shield and went at the kids with the pepper spray.

Things are great here.

2010 Christmas Letter

2010-12-16T23:18:00.021-06:00

The end is near

2010 is coming to a close with a disturbing turn of events at The Kingman. The kids can pretty much swap clothes with Ann Marie and I now. Nina regularly raids her mom’s closet and Ann Marie doesn’t hesitate to grab Nina’s hoodies when I refuse to turn on the furnace. Likewise, Peter will head off to basketball wearing my gym shorts and fleece pullover. I can never wear those clothes again because he sweats a lot and it would not be right for me ever to wear them again. Still, I take a smug pride in being the only one around here that stomps around in size 15 boots (although this, too, is just a matter of time; Nina is only in 8th grade).

Beckerhead

I took a book along, just for times like this, and found a empty couch in the TV lounge near the cafeteria. Empty and quiet, there must have been 25 similar couches scattered around the room. Some had burnt orange cushions, others powder blue. It was going to be a long day at the nearby community college during the First Lego League regional qualifying event. As a quasi-chaperone I had no real responsibility or usefulness. I took a seat reclined and dipped into my novel. Within seconds some guy comes in, I don’t look up, but I can hear him talking to himself, like he is deciding where to sit and wants me to acknowledge him. I don’t. Sure enough he sits on the other side of my couch. My Couch. I could smell him.
“Reading a book, huh?” he says. Clearly this guy has powers of observation beyond that of us mere mortals. I look up, not to smile, but rather to just to look pissed and mean. Ann Marie says I have a gift.“Great idea,” more from him now. “Yeah, I just love to read, been readin’ my whole life. Whatcha readin’ there?”

Another mean look. This time I try to muster a true evil glare and turn my pissed off vibe up to eleven. But when I look up, he is bent over the front of the couch with his face next to my knee attempting to get a peek at the cover of my book.
“Oh, Hemingways. I love that guy.” He then produces a Glen Beck book from kids backpack and smiles at the cover.

“Lemme tell ya,” he says. “This fella… this Glen Beck. Whoa!” Then he goes on to evangelize about how Glen Beck is the single true voice of the nation and how he reads all his books and even drove all the way to Washington DC just to hear the dipshit give a speech. I never looked at him once, never stopped pretending to read Hemingways. Finally he shuts up about Glen Beck, talks to himself about the weather for a while then says, “Nice talking to ya!” and leaves the room.

2009 Christmas Letter

2009-12-14T23:34:00.011-06:00

Fifth graders are a tough crowd.

Behind the smiling, rosy demeanor affected by every fifth grade teacher I have ever known lurks a neurotic individual hanging on by the skin of their teeth. Stuck in a room full of insatiable 11 year-olds for 25 hours a week, they walk a tight rope between fear and love that is both noble and frightening. Charged with bringing these creatures into adolescence gently and efficiently, they must realize one slip of the tongue will damage these youngsters for life.

So it was in my fifth grade year at St. Francis of Assisi Elementary. It was Christmas; Sister Bernice Marie was explaining the story of how Mary and Joseph were traveling to Bethlehem for the census called upon by the Roman Emperor Augustus. Although it was fairly well known among the class how the story ended, we wanted details, no matter how tangential. What’s the big deal with the census? Why didn’t Joseph have his own mule? What color was the mule?

Kindly, Sister obliged our whims. In fact, in order to avoid further questions, she eventually began to embellish her story with rich details relevant to our own lives. By the time the very pregnant, very uncomfortable Mary got to the stable it was clear to all present that Jesus was going to be born in Lyle Meeuwsen’s loafing shed (seven years later our senior class would build our homecoming float in Lyle’s barn. It became a much less sacred place when I was gluing crepe paper to a giant sombrero while standing ankle deep in manure).

But when Sister got down to the nitty gritty, she was oddly vague: Mary and Joseph were in the stable; Joseph went out to collect wood for fire (Mary had complained that the barn was drafty); when he returned to the stable, presto! Jesus was swaddled in the manger. Apparently, the lesson in biology was sort of an added bonus. In the time it takes to gather an arm load of sticks, a woman can go into labor, fully dilate, and deliver. Granted, the Holy Land is a fairly arid region, wood is scarce, and Bethlehem was no doubt a zoo with the census and everything. We had just one question: How did Mary barricade the manger to prevent the livestock from getting to Baby Jesus?

We all bought it. The labor/fire wood timeline was never brought into question. It wasn’t until the birth of my own children that I really began to question the whole “go get some kindling while l have a baby” scenario. Even 2,000 years ago I doubt that men got off that easily.

Still, it is now impossible for me to look at a Nativity scene without imagining a plywood cut-out of Joseph, stumbling around in the dark behind Lyle Meeuwsen’s barn, cursing the inn-keeper and picking up brush. Minutes later, he clumsily enters the stable: “Hey Mary, I found some dry gopher wood over by the silo… Jesus Christ!”

------ 2009 Bonus -----

As a father he was prone to favor pushing forward rather than clinging to the past. It was his nature to disparage stopping to document, record, and authenticate an experience when another, brighter moment lingered in the near future. His guilt was eased by the habit of his thoughtful wife to save and pack away the artifacts of his children’s recent history. He appreciated that she took the time and care to file away the earliest scribbles and most current social studies projects. Handling these tangible items is like collapsing time itself.

So it was a bit surprising to find Joe on a warm autumn night making his way down the dark hallway, after his wife and kids had since gone to bed, holding in his cupped palm the recently self-extracted lateral incisor formerly belonging to his 10-year-old son. It was the last of the baby teeth from any of his kids; Peter had given it up in hopeful exchange for a handful of quarters. At the end of hall Joe opened a glass front display cabinet and found the tooth jar, a repurposed container that once held candy sprinkles used on a birthday cake. The little tooth, tiny relative to the current size of his kids, gently floated through the stale water and settled with a click onto the pile of teeth at the vessel’s bottom.

The father held the bottle up to the dim light in the hall and shook it, the teeth slipped around, stirring up not-so-distant memories along with bits of gum tissue in equal measure.

For now, the tooth jar is back in the cabinet at the end of the hall. As he makes his way to his bedroom each night, past the doors to his children’s rooms, Joe sometimes glances at the cabinet and is content in knowing that when his kids are long gone, traipsing across the country, busy with their own grown-up lives that he still has his little bottle of little teeth. He will always have their teeth.

2008 Christmas Letter

2008-12-25T08:08:00.002-06:00

Everyone is familiar with the feeling of leaning back in your chair to the tipping point and momentarily reacting to the weightlessness of the impending freefall before you catch yourself and get steady again. It is similar to hitting an icy patch on the highway. Everything converts to slow time, the guard rail just keeps getting bigger and bigger, and the fact you have no control is only transcended by your disgust for getting into this situation in the first place. You know that something really bad is about to happen; something that is out of your immediate sphere of influence. Yet you started the process, you put into motion the string of events that is pointing toward potential doom. And so it goes that Ann Marie and I pulled the lever on our own demonic Rube Goldberg device this summer.

Lacking better judgment and for having nothing better to do, we kicked off a major remodel of The Kingman. Oh, The Kingman, our Kingman: How we despise you yet are captivated by your magical spell. Like a moth to an open flame, we cannot resist your allure. It was an afternoon in July, the brightest day of the brightest month of the brightest Iowa summer. We were smiling and giddy as we handed over a fat check to our new contractor, who quickly sped away in his pick-up, 2x4s dangling off the tailgate, promising to see us Monday with The Guys. There was demolition in our future. Walls had to come down, we have to get the roof off this thing, get the concrete poured.

Flash forward to a cold snowy Iowa morning in November. The weatherman has upgraded the forecast to include ice and sleet. I can’t move my hands after a previous night’s work ripping soffits out of the kitchen. The digits not covered in coagulated blood are swollen up like kielbasa. I have ingested at least one roll of dusty ceiling insulation and am having trouble breathing. If I could muster a breath, I could certainly see it; our furnace is still getting hooked-up so it’s cold. The HVAC guy is waiting for me to summon the courage to go back into the crawlspace and attach this thing to this other thing. I am not fond of what is under the house. Last time I saw some kind of marmot.

A thin sheet of clear plastic stapled around the perimeter of the addition serves as walls, windows and a front door. Six mil sheeting doesn’t carry a lot of R-value, walls would be better. The kids share a room now. Each night we wedge them between two space heaters, wrap them in quilts and shut their door. Safety standards around here have ebbed a bit. For them to get to the only functioning bathroom in The Kingman they have to navigate a patchwork of holes in the old floor, assorted power tools, cords, and various unidentifiable substances which constantly appear on the floor and walls.

There really is no kitchen now, just a general area where we stand and spoon peanut butter straight from the jar. My family and I pace around the general kitchen area each morning in our heavy coats looking at what the previous day’s construction has wrought. It is a solemn time. We nod a lot. Grunt and gesticulate with our peanut butter spoons, admiring the devastation, imaging doors, cabinets, windows.

Two weeks. Our contractor tells us, “Two weeks.” Ann Marie is tolerant. Ann Marie is tolerant.

So we put this horror into action. We asked for it. Eyes wide open. It’s a process: One day at a time. We started this thing and we will finish it. We hope to be done in time for Nina’s high school graduation.

Now 2009 is bearing down on us fast: We have walls with paint; carpet and cabinets; windows and an indoor toilet; and a furnace that that does a more than adequate job of blowing drywall dust and construction debris into every corner of the house. We still have a Dumpster parked in the front yard, our driveway is littered with lumber and covered in a blanket of snow and ice and the front door is somewhere in Altoona. But it is beautiful (sorta) and we are truly thankful. Peace to you.

2007 Christmas Letter

2007-12-25T08:14:00.002-06:00

I am not surprised that my children listen to the music I play around the house and in the car. In fact, I am pleased because I consider it my obligation as a parent and an American to school the youngsters in the foundations of roots music and its modern legacy. The trouble is some songs on these records contain less than wholesome lyrics. Peter has detected this and points this out to me. Constantly. He’s like the FCC. I tell him that it wouldn’t be rock n’ roll if it didn’t offend somebody’s parents (or kids).

“By its very definition rock n’ roll should rebellious, loud and offensive,” I tell him. Sometimes I get a little preachy in my defense of Rock. “So that makes it all right. Sit back, buckle up and prepare to have your mind blown.”

Now that the filth has been exposed, Peter is simultaneously repulsed and fascinated. Part of him wants to deny his interest, but yet he cannot turn away. He has the same response to cheerleaders. He listens closely and tallies taboo words and subject mater. “That’s three of the S and one of the F,” he points out. I assure him that the quality of a song is not determined by the presence or lack of S or F but it does little to deter his enthusiasm. Maybe I should have refrained, but Peter was even more engrossed (appalled?) when I pointed out some lyrics in certain songs that he had misidentified.

“I thought he sang, ‘Here comes the children.’”

“No, Peter,” I replied. “That would be ‘Here comes that shit again.’”

Initially horrified, it was a satisfied, outlaw smile that crept across his face.
Peter made a list that catalogs the S and F in most of my disc collection categorized by artist name, album, song, and the exact time in the song at which the offense occurs. We’ll be driving when he blurts out “Dad, skip ahead to one minute fifty five. He’s about to sing the first S.”

So now the burden shifts to my daughter, she must carry the torch of purity and innocence that my son has so violently shattered. Nina was in the garden by herself the other afternoon chasing a butterfly from flower to flower in the late autumn sun. She was singing softly to herself. It was a picture of beauty and peacefulness that can only be captured by an 11-year-old girl. As the wind shifted, her lilting, sing-song voice carried up to the porch where I was sitting: “I shot a man in Reno… just to watch him die. . .”

Everything is smooth here in Iowa: A little of this and a little of that. Ann Marie and I would like to confer upon you a Merry Christmas and Best Wishes for 2008.

2006 Christmas Letter

2006-12-25T08:18:00.004-06:00

People of The World:

The world is becoming too easy to navigate: Press a button and a motorized mechanism will close the hatch on the SUV; heated blanket/robes with footies and zippers allow us to take our bed with us when we roll out of the rack; body wash saves us from the laborious task of pushing a bar of soap across our cans; and, of course, slip-on shoes have made bending over a distant memory. The Man is convincing us to be treated like veal—and we’re buying it. The time has come to take the hard path and face this great malaise. So after months of tremulous deliberation and a few days of training, I have embarked on the dream of a lifetime.

It may be hard to believe but after responding to an ad in Street Fighter Magazine I am just weeks away from a fulfilling career as a World Class Ass-Kicker. Early next year I leave for Malaysia where I begin my final training. My manager assures me that within days of arriving at the fighter’s compound I will be prepared to combat opponents that have far more experience, knowledge and physical ability. After a bit of deprivation and a series of regional bouts in SE Asia, I will be fully prepared to unleash my fury upon the Ultimate Fighting world back in the states. Look out Cleveland, here I come!

I am not worried that my lack of street fighting experience will inhibit my rise to greatness in the Ultimate Fighting world. According to my new manager, competing against seasoned martial arts champions who have been training to maim and disfigure since they were 5-years-old is the best way “to hit the ground running” and “learn on the fly.” I am looking forward o putting myself to the challenge. My manager says that I will adjust to the extreme punishment and unbearable pain during these early bouts. I wish sometimes that I would have listened to the voices in my head much earlier; we must never forget to act on our dreams.

Things are happening so fast that it is blowing my mind. We finalized the sale of the house, cashed-out the mutual funds and liquidated the IRA just last week. Hobnobbing among the Ultimate Fighting elite does not come cheap! My manager assures me with the proper financial investment anything is possible. It was hard to cough-up our entire net worth but my manager says it will be a tremendous motivator. Anyway, soon enough I will be kicking ass and making wads of ass kicking cash.

It works out good because Ann Marie will finally be able to shed the chains of oppression that have so plagued her. She has enough of The System. She will pursue her lifelong dream of studying at The Supreme Academy of Non-biometric Thought. As you probably know, The Academy is doing ground-breaking research in sustainable lifestyles based on the timeless artistry of Shields and Yarnell. We feel fortunate to have the opportunity to get in on the ground floor of the future Salvation of the World. Ann Marie will be living in the main concourse at Berlin International Airport until further notice.

Nina and Peter are experiencing good fortunate as well. They have decided to stay in Ames and continue their education. Although just 10-years-old, Nina has proven very responsible and seems able enough to manage on her own. We have been advised by both my manager and The Academy to give this time to our kids and let them Blossom. So it seems perfectly clear to us that this is the right thing to do. Needless to say, Nina’s Girl Scout skills will be put to the test this winter when she will be forced to find shelter and forage food for herself and her brother. We decided to leave the mini-van with the kids, Nina is tall enough to be an adequate driver and Peter always laughs whenever the airbags deploy. If that doesn’t pan out we also left them a few bus passes and a map.

Merry Christmas, we hope to be back in a while (don’t be surprised if it takes a few years). Keep an eye out for our kids, we left them an address book and some stolen credit cards. Be kind to each other and keep it tuned to Spike TV where I will be ass kicking very soon.

2005 Christmas Letter

2005-12-25T08:25:00.001-06:00

Travel back in TV time with me. Past Seinfeld. Beyond all the large hair. Before the New Coke debacle. It's Susan Powter, there goes a Rubik's Cube. Look, its Bruce Jenner. We are slowing down now… just three channels. Mike Douglas, bad reception… the Handshake in Space . Large hair, again.

We have arrived in front of the Zenith Console. 1970-something. My vinyl floored family room, Saturday morning, its raining. The "You Can Roll a Rollo to a Friend" commercial with the oversized caramel filled homosexual candies rubbing against each other has just concluded. Another commercial comes on: The hipster 70s guy with the Afro is roller-dancing down the sidewalk; he is so into his funky groove that he doesn't see a fellow 70s hipster guy approaching with the boom-box perched on his shoulder. Did I mention the roller-dancer was spooning store brand peanut butter straight from the jar? Oh, and boom-box guy is gratuitously eyeballing this enormous chocolate bar. Inevitably a wacky collision ensues and the two Einsteins discover the joy of peanut butter and chocolate- together. If only there was a more convenient, less painful, way to enjoy this new taste sensation. Aha! But there is-- The Reese's Peanut Butter Cup is born and marketed to the pre-adolescent masses.

I loved this commercial and what it represented and waited for years to see this scene recreated in real life. Maybe I would even be a part of it-- boom-box guy perhaps? It epitomized being a teenager to me: Freedom, discovery, disco, large hair, and tasty new candy. As a boy I would sit on the front step, waiting for deliverance, watching chip trucks rumble past from the mill, always vigilant for the peanut-butter-eater/chocolate-eater-collision. Where are you Afro man?

But, alas, the closest I ever came was Brian Vanderzanden, a distant cousin, riding his 10-speed Rampar past; no hands, no shirt, drinking a 2-liter bottle of Coke and eating a brick of semi-sweet baking chocolate. If only some punk would have come the other way spooning from a jar of Western Family…
Childhood dreams aside, this summer I had the opportunity to dredge through my past (for real) on the occasion of my high school reunion. Twenty years condensed into the blink of an eye. I became a momentary interloper into the collective unconscious of Banks, Oregon.

The picked over salmon at the side of the buffet table looked liked something you might see flopping around in the rocky shallows of the Wilson River after the spawn. Just some bones held together by a few sordid hunks of flesh. The salad tray next to it was expertly gleaned of all carrots, broccoli and other safe vegetables, just a perfect wedge of expertly interlocked cauliflower and a few sad cherry tomatoes remained. It was comforting to know that as a group the Class of 1985 never fully supported celery sticks as a legitimate snack item. The buffet table will be my friend.

I see someone headed toward me that I don’t recognize, but know I should. She looks familiar, but in a Female Prison Movie kind of way, not a pleasant high school chum kind of way. She is swaggering straight at me, is she upset? Could she be packing a shank? I freeze-up, unable to relocate or even look away. The warden should have warned me about this.

Unidentifiable Woman: “Well I’ll be damned! Joe Vahandershanden!”

Joe: “I don’t think I… Who are… I can’t….” (stammering)

UW: “Bulllshhhhit! You know me… Bullschit..”

JV: (frightened now) “No… Really…. Twenty years…” (nervous chuckle)

UW: (glaring pause) “Julie Schhmmith”

JV: (blank stare, I am still searching my memory banks)

JS: (another pause, concentrates) “Jewl.. Eeee… Smith.”

JV: “Good to see you… Julie…” (eyes dart to floor, drink table, buffet, bathroom; still no idea who she is)

JS: “Can I ashk you a pershsonal queshhhtion?”

JV: (nervous laugh; she appears like she could really hurt me)

JS: “Joe Vahanhandershanden….”

JV: (blank stare; frightened; I think she’s onto me)

JS: “Joe Vahander.. vanssshanden….”

JV: “Oh look, salmon!” (departs quickly)

Every 15 minutes or so this awkward and potentially dangerous conversation is repeated, only a bit more slurred. Each time I suddenly develop a tremendous appetite for spoiled salmon and celery.

That was the essence of my high school reunion. Among other profundities, I learned that there is really no good response to the question “Iowa?” Other than, “Yes, Iowa.”

Yes, Iowa. I am pleased to report that all is well here this Christmas— fantastic, in fact. Nina and Peter are full of wonder and brilliance and Ann Marie continues to amaze us all. Merry Christmas to you all, wishing you a happy and healthy 2006.

2004 Christmas Letter

2004-12-25T08:28:00.001-06:00

The fluorescent lights illuminating the pump island at the Kum & Go on Lincoln Way made the scar tissue on Rick’s knuckles appear a deep bluish green. It was a roadmap of blemishes that flickered in and out of perception as the lamps overhead sputtered and hummed. Rick topped off the tank on his corroded Nova, stuffed the rag into the orifice that years ago was covered by an actual gas cap, and limped sorely toward the building. As he approached, he noted his reflection in the glass doors of the convenience store. Wedged between the Camel girl poster and a hand-lettered Lotto sign reading “LUCK HAPPEN$” he could see the image of a tired and desperate man. Although distorted, he could still make out the bulge in his coat where he was concealing the Mossberg 12 gauge shotgun he had bought last weekend at the county fairgrounds. Nearly fourteen inches of the shotgun’s barrel had clanked to basement floor earlier in the day and now, and as he stepped into the store and wiped his nose on the greasy sleeve of his sweatshirt, Rick could still detect the strong smell of metal on his hands. He made his way to the counter, slowly but with grim determination.

Behind the counter at the Kum & Go was Stevie, although the name on her soiled, ill-fitting smock read “June.” Stevie had been on the job since nine that morning and feared she might be there for the rest of her life. Her weariness showed in her face, she was angry and not in any mood. When she saw Rick emerge from behind the cardboard Happy Holidays M&M display, Stevie tossed the remainder of a frosted donut back into its box, took a swig of warm Clamato from the bottle and leveled her gaze upon him.

Rick became momentarily startled, as if he was surprised to see anyone behind the counter, let alone such a frightening vision as Stevie. Her coarse voice filled the void between them.

“Just when did you think you’d get around to writing the Christmas Letter, huh?” she snarled. “The goddammned thing ain’t gonna write itself y’know.”

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Vermin

The feral pigs are massing in Nebraska. National Guard helicopters have spotted bands of shaggy, long-tusked swine roaming the prairie south of Lincoln. Apparently, years ago a few happy hogs jumped the fence at a confinement facility and went native. Now, with no natural predators, it is just a matter of time before Ames is teeming with them. I can be certain of this because the same thing happened with Republicans.

This is the kind of news that makes me crazy. Already we have cute little bunnies, adorable brown and white mice and colonies of chipmunks that skitter about the yard. Of course, all of my newfound furry friends threaten my home and garden and therefore must be executed. This is not to mention that our home is invaded by tens of thousands of ladybugs each fall and spring. I don’t even want to think about the groundhog that is scheming to build a moat around my backyard.

These creatures are the stuff of storybooks: Ladybugs and church mice; bunnies and chipmunks; Punxsutawney Phil. Real live zippity do dah kind of stuff. Now I have to add Babe to my woodland terrorist watch list?

Children

You can stick a fork in my ass. I’m done. I have done all I can do. I can unfurl my banner on the aircraft carrier of parenting proclaiming “Mission Accomplished.” I have fed my children to the system. Peter is six. A bus comes every morning and swallows him up. They might as well be taking him to Switzerland or Peru. Nina is eight. Eight! This is the official start of being a kid, which means free will. This can only lead to trouble.

Ann Marie

Ann Marie is doing fantastic at Iowa State and we are all very happy about that. In fact, last spring she was able to take a class to Europe. While she was touring the grand country estates of 18^th century French aristocracy, the kids and I camped by a swamp near Boone. Maybe this spring when Ann Marie visits Scotland I can take Nina and Peter to Walgreen’s for some gum. Yee ha!

It has been a great year for everyone. Iowa is an amazing place and we feel lucky and thankful to have made our home here. Our life is a Midwestern one. We have two crock pots now (the regular crock and a sporty mini-sized model). Peace, joy and an extra side of gravy to you all.

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Stevie stood on the broken and crumbling curb as she watched the Nova roll into the night. Her smock no defense against the cold North wind, she wrapped her arms tightly against her chest. She stepped into the street, away from the Kum & Go, and away from Rick, forever.

2003 Christmas Letter

2003-12-25T08:37:00.000-06:00

And so it came to pass that I own both a Dave Mathews Band CD and a rotary nose and ear hair trimmer. I have slip-on shoes for nearly any activity and a fanatical reverence for performance fabrics. The sad truth is that I am no different than the jackass I used to ridicule. You remember the guy: he had a ponytail, listened to Sting far too much. Now I find myself balding with cargo pants and in possession of a Dave Mathews Band record that I actually derive pleasure from. I disgust myself.

Needless to say, something had to give. Changes were in order.

A first notable change is my near conversion to Diet Mountain Dew as beverage of choice. At this point I am about 80-20 between DMD and Diet Pepsi. I haven’t had a shift of this magnitude in years. My relationship with Diet Pepsi is nearing its end. This a bittersweet experience since my association withstood the onslaught of seltzer water, Snapple and the recent TAB revival.

Another notable change our move to Iowa this summer. That’s right Iowa. I figured that if I can allow a new artificially sweetened soft-drink into my life I can easily see my family uproot itself and move across the country. Why move to Iowa? The time was right, Iowa State University beckoned and the law was once again catching up.

As for Iowa, everything is great. Baseball, the weather and gravy are all important and valued parts of the culture here. Although Ames is like anyplace else in the nation, Iowa does occasionally rear its quirky head. For instance: We go to church the other Sunday and are surprised to learn that it is the annually anticipated Polka Mass. What is involved in a Polka Mass? Accordions, funny hats, and crazy people in the choir literary whooping it up—it is a full blown polka scene. I half expected to partake in some sacramental beer. The congregation actually bobbed. Imagine a priest behind the altar holding the holy Eucharist above his head singing (to the tune of Roll out the Barrel): This… is… the body… The bah-ahh ahh-ahh-deee of Christ. It is like seeing your parents naked when you were a kid; I am unable to look at these people the same way ever again.

Now that I have safely secured a spot in hell for myself, I guess it would be a good time to wish everyone a Merry Christmas. Ann Marie, Nina, Peter and I wish for you the best of everything in the coming year. Have a great Christmas with your families.

In case you’ve been keeping track, this is our tenth address in ten years of marriage.

2002 Christmas Letter

2002-12-25T08:39:00.001-06:00

It has been an amazing and beautiful year. Each day Ann Marie and I see our children grow and change. Although I do wonder sometimes just what it is exactly they are changing into…

My children appear to be those type of kids that enjoy picking up snakes and playing with them. They assign names to the snakes in the neighborhood and give them personality types. I can tolerate the actual touching of the snakes, but what freaks me out is the association I have with the type of kid that handles the snakes so readily. In my youth the kids that played with snakes were largely the same shirtless punks that excelled at climbing the legendary Grease Pole at the Banks Bar-B-Q. They were the anti-Huck Finns—belligerent and toothless but definitely uncute. The Snake Boys had names like "Guy," "Tater," or "Icky." I would pass them on my trudge to school and see one latched onto some old lady's dogwood tree with a garter snake clutched in his teeth. One of the Snake Boys would wear his older brother's underpants to school. He showed them off with pride. They were regular tight whites stamped with the words "Property of TILLAMOOK WORK CAMP." Could this be the path my children are destined to travel? Drifting from town to town, one grease pole to the next, sporting borrowed prison underwear and entertaining bemused onlookers with their troupe of wild reptiles.

I am also having trouble finding appropriate television shows to watch with Nina and Peter. It's not so much that the programming is inappropriate for them; it is finding something suitable for me. You see, back in my midwestern truck driving days there was this other driver at the warehouse named Dan. Dan was from Alabama. I'm killing time between loads in the coffee room, working the Tribune crossword when Dan wanders by and glances down at the paper. He stabs a greased stained finger at The Family Circus cartoon appearing next to the puzzle and grunts "Look at the jugs on her." He was referring to the immaculate wife of The Family Circus—P.J.'s mom! He stood for a moment, looking at the cartoon as a salacious smile crept across his face. He was still admiring her jugs. I shuddered as he walked away.

I shook the whole thing off and barricaded the episode in the recesses of my mind—until now. I'll be watching cartoons with the kids; PBS cartoons no less, something as pure and decent as Clifford the Big Red Dog, when it happens. A character will appear on screen such as Mrs. Harrington, Emily Elizabeth's teacher, when this voice inside my head whispers, "Look at the jugs on her." My intention is not to admire Mrs. Harrington's jugs; although if she doesn't want me to, why does she always wear the same red cartoon sweater? I didn't put the voice in my head nor can I stop it. I just want to be transported to carefree Birdwell Island and enjoy some lighthearted dog adventures. It's not supposed to be about jugs. Thank you Dan, now pre-school cartoons on public television make me feel unclean.

All things considered, the family is doing great. Nina is still awaiting extradition and Pete is due to stand trial in January. Ann Marie has fled the country and I am working nights on the kill floor of the poultry plant under an assumed name.

2001 Christmas Letter

2001-12-25T08:47:00.000-06:00

To: George W., et al

The White House

From: Joe

I know you’re kind of busy, so I’ll make this quick.

Please let the nations of the world know that my lovely wife, the fruit of my loin and my dog have ceded from the union. I have decreed the birth of a new sovereign nation: Joevanistan. Please don’t take this personally; you’ve got a nice place and I’m a big fan. But the way I figure it, we rarely leave the house anyway and my young appear to be from Pluto, so why not just cut us loose?

From whence there was none, a culture has sprouted. Who am I (or you W) to deny this new society its rightful seat among the table of nations? Let the children of Joevanistan spin around in circles until nauseated, chanting “Underpants, underpants. Eight, nine, ten.”

Joevanistan is a nation where its youngest citizen walks about the country holding his hoo-ha while eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. This is the pinnacle of his pursuit of happiness. It is a personal freedom enjoyed in no other nation of the world. But if he tries to pull such a stunt outside this nation’s borders, he would surely be persecuted. As a Joevanistanian, Peter will enjoy diplomatic immunity and be able to continue this practice for years to come without fear of reprisal.

Be informed that Crown Princess Nina of Joevanistan is not interested in the creation of this state. This is not say that she is opposed; she just doesn’t care. Her interests are limited to bright shiny things, self-styled interpretive dance and horses. This should not surprise you, as she also believes she is a cat pretending to be a dog. In the future I will encourage, nay mandate, her to travel to your land and seek full citizenship. Take my advice: begin preparations now for this eventuality.

My wife seeks permission to cross the border each day unfettered so she can still work and I would like to work out some kind of ‘international easement’ so I can get to the Dari-Mart without a passport. Without this outside flow of revenue, milk and Diet Pepsi Joevanistan faces imminent ruin.

I will look upon my association with your country and your people with fondness and delight. Your land will forever hold a special spot in Joevanistanian lore. Thank you for your understanding and as we say in Joevanistan: “Merry Christma—Pete! Get that out of your mouth!”