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.

Wedding Day Delights

Pictures from the wedding day.

DVD Released

Unfortunately, this blog will only allow me to upload a certain amount of video at a time. Our DVD wedding is eight times the limit, so the next three blogs will include two (the third is too big in and of itself) original slideshows from the movie.

This clip is the slideshow of our dating life together entitled "The Story is Ludicrous".

Matt Got Older

Fair Enough

Last weekend I had the pleasure of accompanying my brother's family to the Oregon State Fair. This was a new experience for me in that it was much larger than the other fairs I'm used to attending. The paths were paved. The people were relatively clean. The familiar childhood fair scents of diesel gas from the rides mingled with the sweat of weathered carnies gave way to delicious aromas from the food booths and late summer wind.

Growing up, I would begin to feel the excited butterflies start to flutter around late June in anticipation of the third week in July when the quiet fairgrounds in Fowlerville would burst to life with vendors, rides, food booths, games, church lady bake sales, and animal exhibitions. It was important to remember to wear close-toed shoes and socks to avoid the cow bullets and poky sun-burnt hay that was strewn throughout the grounds. Carnies who bore a striking, disconcerting resemblance to One Day at a Time's Schneider milled about in search of their next beer, cigarette dangling precariously next their last well-worn tooth. Their broken grins couldn't shake my enthusiasm for the homemade potato chips and freshly squeezed lemonade I was determined to enjoy first thing. I'll always be grateful to Bill Carr for showing me that if you press your straw just right against the bottom of the cup and tilt it just so, you'll be sure to scoop up a lump of sugar that couldn't be convinced to dissolve with the rest of its kin.

Mom would give us our allowance for the day and find her position in the bingo tent where each game was a quarter, whether you played one card, or set up sixteen in the shape of an H below your four trolls (multiples of your cards were your best luck, you know) and two dachshund figurines that were sure to help the player rake in the bucks, provided one dachshund faced east and the other was on its hind legs to "reach for the stars." Mom relied on no charms of the sort, but did well through sheer perseverance. She would sit there for hours at a time while we tested gravity on the rides and dared the giant hogs to look us in the eyes. She would sit through slow calls of B8 and O72 to get her golden numbers that formed postage stamps or an X on her cards. Eventually the house had to give it up. She knew the odds and rather than goosing her luck with trinkets and superstitions, she wrestled her winnings using old-fashioned mathematics and time.

Armed with these experiences, I took a step back to a different time with my brother last weekend where we could be little kids sharing a sweet treat, but this time we also shared it with his little ones. The way their eyes lit up when a horse reared back, or when we took a gondola ride over the fair was well worth the admission.

Next time we go, I'll have to show them the lemonade trick. It's a doozy.

The Flower Anniversary

Four years ago today, I moved across country to the place I now call my hometown. It was a transitional time in my life made even more complicated by losing Dad just two weeks prior to the move. I had already planned on coming out before we lost him. In fact, the last Father's Day gift I ever gave him in person was a set of stationary and two books of stamps he could use to write me after I'd headed out west. He was no stranger to letters to and from Oregon, as his brother had lived in Salem over half his life, and both his sons had settled in the northwest in the '90s. So, to say goodbye to his youngest and see her off to a different life didn't carry with it any alien expectations.

He died two days prior to Father's Day. A rather nasty last practical joke, really. Now, every June I endure elated pitchmen screaming about the latest golf and hunting accoutrement that is "sure to bring a smile to Dad's face this year on his special day." I wouldn't be so sure there, Mr. Popeil. That tinny crap wouldn't have made him smile when he was alive, and your chances of bringing a grin to his face now have significantly lessened, I'm afraid.

So, it was with an angry, heavy heart that I set off in the Buick to a new home and a future that would be so happy there was no way at the time to have predicted it. My brother's family kindly opened their home and lives to me to help me get on my feet. I wasn't in any stable place to appreciate their sacrifices at the time, but distance and much healing work has sharpened my hindsight and brought some poor choices into focus. Most have been rectified, others were lessons hard learned, including an affair with a rather nasty individual who had the looks of a Playgirl centerfold and the proclivities of a snaggletoothed pimp in a C-grade Jack the Ripper movie. Ahh well, who would we be if we weren't the product of our more interesting mistakes?

And so it is, four years later and a complete turnaround of fortunes. Four jobs, two boyfriends, one husband, one stepdaughter, five music concerts, gallons of coffee, and countless new friends later, it's a good place to be. Not just Oregon, but the big HERE. Here is where I want to be, with the people I want to be with, doing what I want to do. And that's sure to bring a smile to Dad's face....