Category Archives: Humor
by Sean Dietrich
It’s the day before my birthday and it’s cold in Coosa County, Alabama. Lake Martin never looked so good.
You won’t care about this, but fifteen years ago I didn’t know my purpose on this planet. Today, I’m middle-aged, and I still don’t know—only, now I have a bad back.
This morning, I ate breakfast at Cracker Barrel. Cracker Barrel, it should be noted, doesn’t have the greatest biscuits, but in a pinch they’ll keep you alive.
An old woman and her daughter sat at the table beside mine. The woman was in a wheelchair, with messy hair. And talkative.
“That man needs to shave!” she hollered.
Several people in the room giggled.
Cute, I was thinking, looking around for an abominable snowman.
“He needs to SHAVE!” she shouted again, this time in my general direction.
“Mama,” gasped her daughter. “Be nice.”
I smiled at the old woman. And that’s when it hit me. This lady was yelling about me.
I am the Bigfoot.
And I became a middle-schooler again. It was like a bad dream, only without the corduroy pants and the Barry Manilow music.
The woman’s daughter apologized. But I told her it wasn’t necessary.
The old lady went on, “Your face looks like a big, fat bear!”
Precious memories. How they linger.
Eventually, she calmed and I finished breakfast in peace. She, more or less, forgot about me—until I stood to leave. Then, she noticed me again.
Her old passions reignited.
“Go shave your dumb face!” she hollered.
The daughter whispered to me, “I’m SO sorry, my mother has no filter.”
I got into my truck and took a few breaths. I looked into the rearview mirror.
I don’t know what that woman might be going through. Maybe she’s not in control of her mind. Maybe she’s had a traumatic experience involving too much hair.
Either way, all I could see in my mirror was a chubby middle-schooler who looked like Cousin It. I saw a boy I’d almost forgotten. A mediocre athlete, a redhead, a C-student, a face like a Pilsbury ad.
My birthday is on the horizon, I’m thinking, and some woman just called me ugly. In public. Repeatedly.
It started in my belly and went to my throat. I laughed. Hard. I don’t know why. The universe has a sense of humor, I guess.
Funny, what words can do to a man. Simple, little words. They can make you feel good. Or bad. Or they can make you feel like the mascot for U.S. forest fire prevention.
So my purpose in life. I still don’t know what it is. But I can tell you my aspiration: to be nice.
I don’t have any grand plan. No big ideas. I just want to be the fella who smiles more than he doesn’t.
If you ask me—which you didn’t—the world has enough people who have figured life out. They’re smart, prudent, with four-car garages.
That’s not me. I can’t even remember how to play Bingo. But I do know the person I want to be. I want to be the man who hugs strangers, pets stray dogs, and uses nice words. A man you might pass on the street, then say to yourself:
“Look, there goes a nice guy…
“Who just happens to look like Sasquatch.”
(I get Sean Dietrich’s posts on face book. They are all right out of his life and ours, simple, touching, funny, and inspiring. Not sure how to re blog so you can follow him also. I copied this. Hope you can find his site from his name. Believe me, I know my day is going to get better when I see a post of his show up on my face book.)
Only when we have experienced humanity in its range and complexity is our humor at its deepest and truest. Redemptive humor is more than the ability to enjoy the isolated humorous situation. It is an attitude toward all of life. Not only is humor a gift of the later years; it is indispensable to hope and healing during that time. Humor recognizes that limitations and failures are not final and unredeemable tragedies. Like a ray of sunshine piercing a dark and overcast sky, humor suggests God’s abiding presence and brightens our human prospects. Humor recognizes the tragedy of the human condition, the finitude which in one way imprisons us. But by laughing at this condition, we declare that it is not final. It can be overcome. Humor is a gentle reminder of the reality of redemption……..Humor is social because the joke is finally on all of us……We are laughing not simply at our own condition but at the shared human condition…………………..A mixture of good and evil is inevitable in this life. Our successes are mixed with failures, our joys contain sadness, love can coexist with hate, health is marred by illness, and possessions are threatened by loss. Excerpt from Winter Grace by Kathleen Fischer.
The rest are my reflections:
Often midlife is the crisis time of recognizing that we have used up as much time as we are likely to have left. So often, it is a time of admitting we have not achieved all we had expected and that there not only may be too little time left, but we may also have to recognize that we do not have all the attributes or resources needed to accomplish our dreams.
There are four roads out of mid-life. 1: Become obsessed and abandon everything and everyone that doesn’t contribute to your goals. 2: Become disillusioned, cynical and angry at life. 3: Choose an addiction to dull the pain. 4: Or adjust our goals to fit a more realistic assessment of our chances to reach them.
Only when we have survived enough of life’s contradictions and made some adjustments to our assumptions can we laugh in the middle of the mix. By then we know that the only thing permanent in this life is change. Often there is a greater freedom to live by our own values and priorities, rather than for an image that pleases others. Hope becomes open ended. We gain a wider perspective for all our limited hopes. And as our lives narrow, we can begin to find true joy in the small things. Happily there are many more small things than large.
Sometimes, as we age we find fulfillment in passing on our hopes and dreams to the next generation, who may be able to take the next step in working toward them. But often, we find more than enough meaning in simple kindness or creating pockets of beauty to be shared with others. Either way, the focus becomes others, instead of our “self.”
What a week! My husband’s supposedly simple medical procedure with a one night stay ended up in a panic, two operations, and six days in the hospital so far.
I had an interesting, but guilty, thought today after spending 24 hours around the clock for five days in one room with my husband of almost 59 years.
……It may be easier to die for someone, than to live for them…………..
Nurse Norman, I am not. Quiet, I am not. Inclined to wait for introverts to answer Doctors and nurses’ questions, I am not. Able to wiggle and struggle up from a low couch and a deep sleep quickly and cheerfully, I am not. Used to impatient orders, no longer disguised as polite requests, I am not. Patient and acquiescent when very tired and told to do things I consider silly, I am not. Anyway, you get the picture. Thanking God that our children have come to the rescue of a reasonably happy marriage under serious stress!
I really do understand the why of my husband’s side of this, since I have been on the other side of this equation. But understanding and dealing graciously with someone you love’s responses to stress at the same time as trying to deal with your own, is a new challenge for us. Somehow in the past, it seemed to work out so that we got to take turns. Now simultaneous health issues of old age are becoming more frequent and that’s a whole new ball game. We’ve done so well in the past at keeping our sense of humor, that during one ER visit, the nurse said, “You do realize this is an emergency?” We laughed and said, “Yes, but we do this so often now, we’ve learned to use humor to get us through our crises.”
Five days of coming through a totally new life threatening experience and still not understanding why it happened, plus realizing the doctors didn’t know either, is not only frustrating, it’s scary. And one doctor wanting to send us home having to cope with unfamiliar and unappealing procedures that don’t seem important to him, because they are no longer life threatening, doesn’t really make the stress less.
Happily, Julian is on the mend. Our children living in the area were with us when this experience became traumatic and now the out of state ones have come in town for the weekend. So, I am home unpacking, running wash, thawing a roast, freezing some of the vegetable soup I made the day before we left for the surgery, organizing, and venting on face book, while our children take turns being there at the hospital with their exhausted and frustrated dad. Hopefully he will be coming home tomorrow and I will be able to welcome him with a peaceful spirit, a cheerful heart, and a rested body.
Years ago, there were times when I seriously questioned the wisdom of an impractical klutz like me having five children. But boy, am I celebrating it now.
About forty years ago, our quite elderly parish priest had been a Scripture Scholar and a consultant for Vatican ll, so he was very up to date on the changes that were being made. I guess I was as close to being a feminist as anyone in our small rural church, so he asked me to carry the large Bible at the front of the procession into the church at the beginning of Mass. (A first for laity and a first for women in our parish) I was to carry it open, held out prominently, bow, go up the two stairs to the altar and then carry it over to the lectern on the left. I would then step down on that side to sit until time for the scriptures to be read. I would then be the first woman in our parish to read the Scripture aloud as part of the Mass. It was a great honor, but very scary, since I am a terribly clumsy person and the potential for disaster was mind boggling. I was terrified. I made it all the way down the aisle without dropping the rather heavy bible, but unknown to me, carpenters had raised each of the two steps up to the altar an inch or so that week. So, I tripped on the first step, staggered drunkenly up the second, and did a juggling act trying to keep the Bible from flying out of my hands. Some how I got it onto the lectern and started shakily down the two stairs to the pew on the side, looking down to make sure I didn’t trip again. I forgot there was a pillar there and ran head on into it, almost knocking myself out. I sort of fell into the pew and by the time my eyes could focus, it was time for me to do the first reading. It suddenly hit me as funny. It seemed like God’s somewhat warped humorous way to remind me to let go and let Him do it. And I was able with His grace to read the scripture with clarity and feeling and understanding. And ever since, when I get nervous about preaching, reading or leading prayer at worship, I remember that beginning and think……well, I’ve already done my total humiliation thing…and with grace survived it and learned from it. Then I am able to chuckle to myself as I visualize that first time and let go and let God do Her thing.
Since my experience of the total love of God through Jesus when I was thirty after several years of rather hedonistic agnosticism and then several more years spent searching for spiritual meaning and purpose, my heart’s desire has been to somehow communicate that love to others.
God’s love didn’t make me perfect, but it brought meaning and purpose, an acceptance of the reality of my human weakness, and hope for growth and change through grace. Change for the better has been slow and spotty, but is still part of my journey at “almost’ eighty. ( I have a couple of hours left till the eighty.)
My most natural gift is speaking. And a Spiritual gift of seeing the connection between Scriptures and daily life came with my conversion. For a long time I just did whatever needed doing, like teaching, making soup for the sick and poor, smiling at people, organizing my husband and children into a work crew for church and school events, recruiting and getting training for religion teachers, and and at that time a new ministry for laity and particularly women, reading the Scriptures aloud for worship services.
Some of the more obvious experiences of God curtailing my tendency to hubris seem worth sharing, if only to give others a chuckle.
One came to mind this morning as I was checking my old lady chin for whiskers. Forty years ago when teaching a fifth and sixth grade confirmation preparation class in a Catholic School, I was (I thought) waxing eloquent on the opportunity at confirmation to make their own choice of Jesus as their personal Savior and Lord and how wonderful that is. At the end, I asked if anyone had a question. One rather quiet boy raised his hand. My heart filled with joyous expectation as I said, “Yes, Jesse?” To which he replied quite seriously, “Mrs. Norman, Do you have a mustache?”
More Perils of Eileen, A Dreamer in the Land of Reality
I scalloped my bangs this morning. Maybe, more like ravaged them.
When I peered through the white forest to look in the mirror, I could only see the bottom half of my face. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find my hair cutting scissors. (Where is Edward, when we need him?) So I used my kitchen scissors. They don’t really cut, but they do chew. And they added a slight aroma of garlic and onions.( I may have packs of hungry dogs following me today.)
I started to get distressed over the results, but then I realized that the “ragged” look is in. For several decades now, the most affluent nation on earth has been paying exorbitant prices for the layered look and torn jeans of the homeless and now many hair styles look like we had to run out of the salon before they finished cutting or combing our hair. I am finally “in.” How in the world did that happen?
I am probably insane. (Do NOT comment, Norman adult children.)
I bought eggs and all sorts of dyes with glitter to decorate them this Saturday when our granddaughters are coming. I’ve always threatened to glitter the dust bunnies, so how appropriate is this for Easter! If we spill glitter I’ll just blow it around and decorate the dust bunnies. I bought some cool plastic eggs with wrapped candies to fit inside them and hide out side if it’s pretty or in the apartment, if not. Works either way. Because then when I get hungry for sweets, I might actually sweep under the furniture looking for those the girls missed. A win-win.
I also, bought quite a few Easter Breads like cinnamon rolls and hot cross buns for our gathering at church after the Easter service. The girls can have some, then we can take the rest to church.
We took sandwiches from our Church’s Holy Week luncheon this past Monday to the financially desperate families that live in one room without kitchens at a cheap motel near us. The children scarfed them down, but looked longingly for some sweets. So, we plan to gather the extra Easter Breads to take to them after church. Hopefully, we won’t send anyone into a diabetic coma.
I have a good heart. And I’m very good with theories, particularly ones that can’t be proven or disproven. But as I have been sharing, I am pretty oblivious to the physical world around me and not terribly practical. I used to visit people in the nursing home regularly, taking sweets to people that turned out to be diabetic. Once, after standing next to a woman’s bed chatting for a while, I realized that I was standing on her oxygen line.
As you might guess, I’m not a very good cook, but my vegetable soup was very popular with the homeless at Room in the Inn at our church. I do realize that they may not have gourmet palates, but usually people who are sick also seem to enjoy it.
Well most of the time anyway. Once, I had a couple of sick friends and a family who had lost their grandmother, so I made a huge pot. As I was about to divide it up, I heard of a couple of other families in crisis, whom it might help. So, I stretched it with some tomato juice, beef broth, and water and took it to all of them. Well, when we had the cup or two left over for our dinner, I discovered that “stretched” wasn’t the appropriate word. It was more like “depleted.” It had almost no taste at all. I choose to think of it as a backwards miracle of soup being turned into water.
Wishing you all a Happy Easter with or without glitter.
Luckily for me of the fairy princess delusions, my first child was incredibly resilient in spite of my complete lack of mothering instincts. I woke up in the middle of the night, late in my pregnancy, in a cold sweat from the sudden realization that a baby was not like a puppy that could be taken back if it didn’t work out well.
My husband was in the army and we were stationed far from family, but my mother-in-law paid for me to have a baby nurse for the first two weeks at home. (Perhaps the scorched white shirts were a clue that I might need some help.)
After sixteen hours of labor, Chris had been delivered by caesarean section, so fortunately both Chris and I were safely surrounded by experts at the hospital for the first week. Then, when we came home, the baby nurse was a large motherly woman with more than a dozen children of her own. Since I was recuperating from surgery, she pretty much did all the nitty-gritty and just brought me a clean sweet smelling baby to cuddle and nurse. I should have been watching and practicing for when we were going to be on our own. Fairy princess delusions die hard.
After the baby nurse left, the first time I bathed Chris, I propped the baby book with the instructions next to the little tub. Reading while holding a wiggling baby and trying to wash tiny body parts quickly had me in tears from a sense of total inadequacy. Never having changed a poopy diaper, I had no warning that I had a strong gag reflex to unpleasant odors or that when cleaning up vomit, I would add to it. I began to wonder if maybe I should have been a History teacher after all.
Eventually this will tie into the theme of Law and Pleasure.