Salty Laughter

One of my favorite listening experiences of the last month has been to This I Believe II: More Personal Philosophies of Remarkable Men and Women, an audio collection from the NPR program of the same name. Some authors are famous, most are not, and all have riveting stories to tell about their fundamental guiding life principles. They range from strikingly serious to hilarious, with little schlock in between. It's important to note that I'm not a fan of manufactured emotional outpourings of preachy nonsense. They waltz with my gag reflex and drop it on the dip. The Chicken Soup for the [fill in the pandering noun here] Soul series is not only not my bag; it's my anti-bag. I find them particularly offensive because they cheapen stories that are compelling if simply told by the person who experienced them, which is why I'm drawn to the This I Believe series. If I've learned anything from my father or husband, it is that the fewer the words are spoken, the more attentive the audience, and the deeper the message resonates. While I admire that idea, I have to admit it was/is their guiding principle. It is not mine.

Soooo, what is mine? I've given this a lot of thought in the last week since I listened to these personal stories. If I have kids, who then have their own children, who then raise little ones of their own, what valuable message do I want passed down when they hand over great grandma's wedding ring? Is it that your word and integrity is irreparable? Is it that kindness doesn't always feel good to the giver, but is always necessary? Is it that we're no better or worse than anyone else? Somewhat. On all levels, these truths guide my day-to-day interactions because I heard Mom and Dad when they said or demonstrated them to us kids. But again, these are theirs. I needed to identify one that is uniquely mine. And as I was talking to a friend who is having marital problems and helped her giggle through her sobs, I named it: Not everything is funny, but there is something funny about everything.

When I think back to the most painful moments in my life, I not only remember the jolting phone calls or mind-hobbling revelations, but I remember the laughter that arose from the morbid humor someone dared to reveal at what seemed like a most inopportune time, but what in hindsight was the most opportune time of all. These vivid moments are usually provided by my brother Matt. Standing at the graveside of our dad, my sister asked where our grandma was buried in that same cemetery. Matt promptly replied, "Why don't you ask Russ? He's the Whitman's Chocolates map of death for this place." Three weeks later when our brother-in-law lost his own father, Matt wrote his version of condolences on the back of butcher paper he had lying around his restaurant's kitchen because he was disgusted by the sentiments Hallmark and American Greetings offer in situations such as what we'd just been through.

The best sympathy card I've ever received was a Christmas card someone used to carry their heartfelt message of consolation, even though Dad died in June. The personal message from our friend meant a great deal, especially when it was hilariously set against the background of a polar bear and small sheep communing together in holiday peace. It was probably the only card the person had on hand to get in the mail as quickly as they wanted their message to get to us, and God bless them for that, because it brought not only comfort, but a much-needed chuckle.

For me, a clear equation to live by is that the more a person insists "It's not funny!" the more ridiculously out-of-hand hilarious the situation tends to be. For those of us who've been to church, it's akin to what we know as the holy giggles. There was no clearer example of God's dark sense of humor than when I was a little kid sitting in the pew minding my own business with the priest droning on about unspeakable biblical horrors, and then it happened. The funniest thing I'd ever thought of in my young life would creep up from some profane place and overtake my little self with violent giggles. It didn't matter that my mother would flash me the most withering "pull yourself together RIGHT NOW, Lady Jane" look, or that my brother would elbow me in the ribs. If anything, they made it worse. Insist as they may, it WAS funny. Funny as the flashing fires of hell for which I was bound if I didn't stop it.

My healing and growth would be utterly stunted if I were robbed of the ability to laugh at my challenges and trials. This, I believe.

Back With A Sputtering Vengeance

While on a bit of a hiatus from the blog world, I've rediscovered the joys of audio books and the freedoms they offer me to learn and enjoy the written word while doing the activities that previously impeded my reading time. Driving to work? No problem. Pop in the CDs and enjoy the ride. Doing the dishes and dusting? Not to worry, Mamie. Give the swiffer a good workout while listening to Alan Alda's latest tome. Working out the bills and grocery lists? Ahhhh go on with your education, Darling. The pen flies across the page to the rhythm of David Sedaris' hilarious accounts of his travels and self-loathing.

So here we are again, you and me. I've missed you. What have you (re)discovered in our time apart? I'd love to hear.