Dates. Not the wrinkly things in the produce aisle that somehow cost $14 a pound, but the numbers we memorize, celebrate and occasionally forget at our own peril.

Anniversaries. Birthdates. Death dates. You know exactly what I am talking about. We are obsessed with them, especially birthdays. Society expects us to remember not only our own birthdays, but also those of our spouses, children, parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, nieces and nephews. And that is just family. Add neighbors, college roommates and the kid whose gym socks could clear out the sixth-grade locker room, and suddenly you need the memory capacity of a supercomputer just to buy greeting cards on time.

Most of us now outsource this task to digital calendars that chirp reminders at us like needy little robots. My dad handled things differently. He wrote birthdays in ink on a coil-bound calendar from the local farm cooperative and kept it on the kitchen table next to the salt and pepper shakers. Low-tech, but effective.

Even so, missing a birthday usually earns you only mild disappointment or a passive-aggressive Facebook comment. Forget your wedding anniversary, however, and suddenly you are starring in your own disaster movie. The only real escape hatch is if your spouse forgets, too, which has happened with Jolene and me more times than responsible adults should probably admit.

Wedding anniversaries are different in another way: Nobody expects you to remember theirs. Sure, there are thoughtful souls like my mother, who sent anniversary cards. But most anniversaries stay within the couple, where they belong, tucked safely between dinner reservations and arguments about whose idea it was to buy decorative throw pillows.

Death dates are another story entirely. I remember the day Elvis Presley died because it happened on my birthday, which feels like an unfair trade. Beyond that, I generally try not to store death dates in my mental filing cabinet. I would rather remember the people themselves than the day they left. My mother kept track of the death dates of her parents with the precision of a historian, and that probably explains why my own brain treats death dates like spam calls. Still, I understand why some people memorialize them. Grief does not come with instructions, expiration dates or a customer-service hotline. Everybody handles it differently.

Meanwhile, I cannot reliably remember how old I am. Whenever someone asks, I have to stop and do math like a confused game-show contestant. Even then, I am never completely certain I got it right. But my junior high locker combination? That masterpiece is permanently etched into my brain: 34-15-3. Apparently, my memory decided that accessing gym shorts in 1982 was critical survival information.

LeMar Koethe, the local fitness guru who founded 7 Flags Fitness Center in Clive in the 1990s, once told me, “Your age is only a number. How you take care of yourself determines your real age.” He was right.

So I am going to stop obsessing over dates, at least the numerical kind. The nutty, fruity kind? Those are perfectly fine, and eating them might even help me live longer. But who is counting?

Have a terrific Tuesday, and thanks for reading.

Shane Goodman
Editor and Publisher
Times Vedette digital newsletter
shane@gctimesnews.com
641-332-2707

The older I get, the more I resent stairs. I am starting to understand why so many older folks fall in love with ranch-style homes. Never thought I would see that day. Then again, I once said the same thing about minivans, bland food and hearing aids. Aging is basically a long string of personal betrayals.

As a kid, though, stairs were entertainment. Our basement stairs were unfinished with open backs on every step. They were just wide enough for me to crawl through, so, naturally, I did it dozens of times a day. Eventually, my head grew larger than my judgment, and one day my skull got wedged between the steps.

I yelled for my brother Steve, who was upstairs. What I failed to consider was the extra pressure on my trapped head when he thundered down the staircase. He apologized — sort of — then laughed like a maniac while prying the steps apart to free me. That was the end of my stair-crawling career.

The stairwell fun, however, was just getting started. Back then, kids could turn almost anything into a toy, especially if it carried a moderate risk of concussion. One of our prized possessions was a tire inner tube wrapped in white canvas. I think it was meant to be some kind of mini trampoline, but Steve and I saw the greater potential of basement stair sledding.

The tube fit perfectly between the stairwell walls, and Steve thought it would be hilarious for me to test it first. He was right. Leaning forward produced a thrilling combination of somersaults and face plants all the way down. Steve assured me the second attempt would go better if I leaned backward. Miraculously, he was correct. The result was a smooth, bumpy ride to the bottom with only minor spinal compression. We rode those stairs over and over until, inevitably, we invented something even dumber.

The next event was essentially ski jumping without skis, snow or adult supervision. We started by leaping from the bottom stair onto the inner tube below. Then we moved up one step at a time. The challenge was simple: jump farther and survive.

Oddly enough, I got pretty good at it. I even out-jumped my older brother, whose height gave him the disadvantage of cracking his head on the ceiling. Eventually, I made it all the way to the top step. Standing there, staring down the staircase, I felt like Evel Knievel — if Evel Knievel had worn tube socks and a T-shirt with grape Popsicle stains.

Steve urged me to go for it. So I launched myself into the air, eyes wide, legs tucked and then stretched out, fully expecting glory. Instead, I landed squarely on my tailbone on the bottom step.

That bone-rattling crash ended the stairwell Olympics for good. It may also explain why ranch homes suddenly seem less like retirement housing and more like good long-term planning.

Have a terrific Tuesday, and thanks for reading.

Shane Goodman
Editor and Publisher
Times Vedette digital newsletter
shane@gctimesnews.com
641-332-2707

As kids, my neighborhood friends and I would stand beneath our town’s water tower and marvel at it like it was the Eiffel Tower. We would wonder what the view looked like from the top. This was before camera drones, of course, back when children were forced to suffer through the burden of imagination. In those days, the water tower was the tallest thing around, and in a small town, that qualified as entertainment.

On family road trips after dark, my brother and I were equally mesmerized by the blinking lights atop the local radio tower. To kids whose worldview stretched roughly to the county line, those flashing red bulbs might as well have been signals from another planet. Truth be told, they are still kind of fascinating.

In Guthrie County, we generally don’t stack buildings on top of one another. We have plenty of room to spread out — plus a healthy respect for tornadoes. As a result, most buildings here are built wide instead of tall.

One major exception is 801 Grand in downtown Des Moines. At 630 feet and 45 stories, it remains Iowa’s tallest building. Construction began in 1989 and wrapped up in 1991, around the same time I moved to Des Moines to work downtown. Each evening, I would stop in a nearby parking ramp and watch the tower rise higher into the skyline. It was the same sense of wonder I had as a kid staring up at the town water tower, only now with hard hats and steel beams.

Before 801 Grand claimed the title, the Ruan Center held the crown at nearly 460 feet. Built in 1975 by Ruan Transportation, the high-rise sits at the slightly ominous address of 666 Grand Ave. in Des Moines. In 1975, I was still more impressed by radio antennas than office buildings, but the Ruan Center must have looked futuristic in its day.

Today, Iowa’s skylines — and plenty of rural landscapes — are dotted with cellphone towers. According to Airwave Advisors, the United States had more than 417,000 mobile wireless cell sites in 2020. Companies such as American Tower Corporation, Crown Castle and SBA Communications have turned towers into big business.

The scenery has changed over the years. Water towers may still dominate the rural skylines, but radio towers now compete with cellphone arrays and blinking aviation lights. Meanwhile, some things never really change. The kid in me still looks up.

Have a terrific Tuesday, and thanks for reading.

Shane Goodman
Editor and Publisher
Times Vedette digital newsletter
shane@gctimesnews.com

641-332-2707