Uncool in the Windy City. Feeling good in an unexpected place

On a recent day when the sun was westering toward noon a small flock of seven wild turkeys gathered and loitered in the field in front of my house, two of which were male, gobblers, strutting, yes, strutting with their tail feathers fanned out. Evidently this is a way males show females how desirable they are. Female turkeys are quite cute while the males, whose heads are featherless are, well, not as fine looking, looking a bit like turkey vultures. Males of my own species make these efforts, strutting, puffing out their chests in all sorts of figurative ways and, I’ll say it, like wild turkeys, their efforts are often ridiculous. Look at me, I’m cool, the person of your dreams. Uh, huh. Sure. Don’t fall for it, girls.

Speaking of cool, a visit to a big city reminded me how truly uncool I am. I was walking along State Street in Chicago and I caught my reflection in a shop window. OMG! Who is that elderly man shuffling, slouching toward a meal at a nearby restaurant? Bit of a gut resting on his belt, pants baggy at his rear. When he dressed for the day he thought he looked pretty good, more than respectable, maybe even attractive. Alas, on some level or other, vanity is a reality of our existence. Don’t trust it: we seldom look as good as we think we do.

In addition to the old man on the sidewalk, there were many couples, mostly young, smiling, sometimes laughing, leaning into their own summer, maybe feeling it for the first time, and the scene made me happy, gave me hope. Out here I’m not sure where I’d have to go to see friends and lovers holding hands. Many times over the years people unknown to us would compliment my wife and me on the fact that we held hands. It was pleasant to hear, but it seemed odd that anyone thought it unique. We began holding hands in 1967 and the soft practice never stopped.

Speaking of my wife: a couple of weeks ago my beautiful sister gave me a pot of flowers, asking me to do two things: place the flowers by my wife’s grave, and keep them watered. My sister has never asked me for anything, but this seemed important to her. My wife and my sister adored each other, so I honored her request, reluctantly. I’m not one to visit cemeteries, for all of the usual Hallmark card sentiments, you know, “she isn’t there but she is alive in your heart.” That kind of stuff.

Thanks to an extraordinarily dry and hot spring I have been visiting the cemetery every other day, watering, saying hello to my wife and to her parents next to her. As I will soon enough be beside my wife, seeing my own name on a headstone is disconcerting, rather sad, but there it is, another reality of our existence. I never fathered children, so within a few months of my passing folks will say, “Whatever happened to that one old guy? Long hair. Used to write for newspapers, I think.” Anyway, on one of my watering days I paused, the only sound a slight breeze rustling ancient pine trees, rather like soft voices of those around me, voices of those who once walked this earth. A golden morning sun rested quietly over an eastern hillside in the cemetery where Catholics are buried and, surprisingly, it felt good to be there.

Kurt Ullrich lives in rural Jackson County. His book “The Iowa State Fair” is available from the University of Iowa Press.