Tag Archives: laughter

Stringing Beads

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“And sometimes a cigar is not just a cigar. Just sayin'”

Sally Armstrong

I recently came across this piece…a totally true story… I had written over a decade ago. It made me chuckle when I unearthed it from the hidden depths of my trusty laptop. I hope it makes you smile, too.

Beads! Beads! And More Beads!
Photo credit: Pixabay

“Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?” 

Mae West

A couple weeks ago, I picked up a book about aging gracefully…how to have your best brain after fifty…which, at 62, I’m trying to speed-read before it’s too late. One of the suggestions for keeping your brain fit and healthy is to take up a new hobby, so when my friend Anne gave me everything I needed to begin making beaded necklaces, I was ecstatic. Not only would I be able to create my own works of art, but I would now have a new activity to explore while giving my declining brain a good workout.

What fun! Anne had provided the necessary jewelry findings, beads, and wire. She had even offered to give me a lesson on how to proceed, but I couldn’t wait. So I googled the internet for a youtube explanation of how to attach a clasp. Soon, I was off and running! Whoo! Hoo!

In no time, I needed more colors in my palette, more textures in my supply, and more shapes in my coffer. So I was soon off to the local bead store.

Beads and Tools at the Ready
Photo credit: Pixabay

I have often wondered how a store on Main Street that sells beads almost exclusively could remain in business. Are there really enough people in the area who are interested in beads? The shop is filled with beads of all colors, sizes, shapes, and places of origin. Some of the beads are relatively easy, with large holes that allow easy threading, and appear suitable for beginners. These bigger beads often seem as though they have already been used quite a bit with nicks, scrapes, and a somewhat worn patina. It is simple to take these beads off and on and off and on until you find a pleasing pattern or are ready to move on to more challenging spheres. Some of the beads have tiny holes that can only be threaded with the utmost patience and a gentle touch. While there is a wide variety of beads from which to choose, the wires appear to be pretty much all the same…allowing you to select the length and width that pleases and satisfies you most.

After selecting a strand of pink quartz, I approached the counter and asked the proprietor if she could help me. I was looking for a unique finding I had seen on a recent trip to Sedona. 

You know…that round thing”, I said, using the index finger and the thumb of my left hand to form a circle. “You know…that round thing and then the stick thing that goes into it?”  I asked, demonstrating with the index finger of my right hand going in and out. “You know? I don’t know what it’s called”. 

She gave me an odd little smirky smile and replied, “ Um…A toggle?” she asked with a stifled chuckle.

“Yes, that’s what I guess I mean.”

The whole exchange was a little odd. I mean, why the snicker? Why the chuckle? What was so funny? How was I supposed to know the proper names for all the bits and pieces? Did she think I should make up my own nomenclature? Well…I let it go, paid for my treasures, and turned toward home with ideas buzzing in my head.

The following day I gathered all the required implements and the selected beads and began my artistic venture. As I bent over the bead tray with the stiff piece of wire in my hand, I was impressed that, yes, this was a fantastic new hobby, one that would strengthen my brain, creating new pathways for thought, stretching those synapses and neurons, and really polishing up my cerebral cortex.

As I selected the tiny black bead that would go on first, I was amazed at how little they were…how difficult it was to see the opening. In fact, I couldn’t see the opening at all. I poked around with the wire a bit, and then…success. It slipped easily onto the wire. I tried a few more. What lesson was I being taught? What message was the universe trying to teach me? Was it patience? Was it that if I kept trying, I’d eventually get the wire in the hole? Perhaps the lesson was that even if I couldn’t see and was operating by touch and feel if I kept trying, I’d finally succeed? It was as I took the next bead in my fingers and realized that I was sticking something stiff into a relatively small opening…poking around and hoping for success that the electrical circuits that were created back in my twenties were suddenly shooting sparks all over the cerebrum…it suddenly…or finally… dawned on me what I had been innocently demonstrating to the bead lady.

“There’s grinding the corn. Hitting a home run. Knocking boots. Peeling the banana. Making whoopee. And my personal favorite, the matrimonial polka.” 

Sue Mercury, Alien Warrior’s Second Chance

So, I guess…bead stringing… isn’t exactly a…new hobby…for me. But, while I look for the next new challenge to give the grey stuff a workout, I think it is good for the old brain to remember the time when bead stringing was new and exciting, and it was a success just to get the bead on the string.

Epilogue…2023

I wanted to add an epilogue to this piece, but I had difficulty getting beyond all the innuendos that were trying to make it past the little censor in my brain. But perhaps, the following will suffice.

As I age, I understand my mother more and more. She never became a demure old woman dressed in lavender and lace. Instead, she became, among other wonderful things, the teller of rather bawdy jokes. Seeing the bemused looks of shock, surprise, and joy that her racy punchlines elicited gave her immense pleasure. No one expects a little old lady to know anything at all about bead stringing. However, If my ninety-year-old mother was any indication, stringing beads can be a pleasurable way to spend an afternoon or evening at any age.

The Stratford Gang

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I have wanted to write about this part of my life for a very long time.  
Here is a condensed version of the story.  I hope you enjoy it.

“It takes a long time to grow an old friend.”

John Leonard
The Festival Theatre
Fall 2019

“Someday, I’d like to go to the Shakespeare Festival,” I said.

“Well, set a date,” she replied.

Those words changed my life when they were spoken nearly forty-five years ago, and they continue to guide my choices and agenda. “If you really want to do it, just set a date,” she continued. “Once it’s on the calendar, you’ll move in that direction and make it happen. Set a date.”

So we set a date. The birth of The Stratford Gang began just as simple as that. What started as a one-time weekend adventure became our decades-long autumnal commitment to The Stratford Festival in Stratford, Ontario. Every ensuing year, on a weekend in September or early October, we would cram our suitcases into a van, and as soon as school was out on Friday afternoon, we’d head for the Canadian border.

After a Play…Near the Festival Theatre
A Long Time Ago… The Early 1980s

Our earlier trips across the Blue Water Bridge and through customs and immigration included questions regarding tobacco and alcohol. One year, when the officer asked if we were bringing any alcohol into the country, I responded, “I don’t think so.”

“What do you mean you don’t think so? Aren’t you the driver? Don’t you know what’s in your vehicle?”

“Well,” I continued. “Not anymore. They finished it on the bridge.” Green Frosties…limeade and vodka…drunk through a red licorice straw, was just the beginning of the fun that year. Together, we laughed often, long and loud. The same jokes and stories of past years were recounted over and over. The punch line or a quick “remember when” would have us laughing until our sides hurt.

Fun Dressing Up at the Costume Warehouse

As wrinkles appeared and our hair became laced with threads of silver, the questions at the border morphed into whether we had mace or pepper spray and whether we were coming to Canada to get our flu shots and drugs cheaper.

The group configuration was in flux in the earliest years, but within a few seasons, we had solidified into a steadfast band of six…sometimes seven…women…teachers, nurses, and one retiree: Lois, our designated drinker, and chocolate advisor. Lois introduced us to Dark Chocolate-Covered Ginger, the eating of which became a required yearly sacrament. We were all in complete agreement that a visit to Rheo Thompson’s candy store was a requirement. We might miss a play, we said, but we’d never miss the chocolate shop. We said we’d miss a play, but we never did.

Leaving the Original Rheo Thompson Candy Shop…1986
We thought it was so hilarious that The Candy Store was right next to a dentist’s office.

Oh, the plays! Sitting together in the dark, we saw hours and hours of fantastic theatre. Dramas, comedies, a few of the Shakespearean histories, and later we added every musical we could…Gilbert and Sullivan, Broadway revivals, and some productions that went on to Broadway.

In 1980, we saw Maggie Smith in Much Ado About Nothing. She had joined the festival to earn her chops as a stage actress. My friend and I met her by happenstance outside the theater after the performance. What a thrill. I have her autograph…and amazingly…I know where it is.

We witnessed the Canadian actress Seana McKenna in one of her first roles in a production of “All’s Well That Ends Well” set in the 1920s, where she sang most memorably…With a Hey Nonny, Nonny and a Ha Cha Cha.”

Over the years, we watched the career of the amazing Colm Feore, who my granddaughter now knows from The Umbrella Academy, a television show based on the comic book series of the same name. I was sitting in the front row of the Festival Theatre in 1988 as they filmed the production of Taming of the Shrew, in which Colm played Petruchio, and I almost became part of the show. During the dressmaker scene, a yardstick was slammed down on the table. It splintered and flew into the audience, impaling itself into my foot. They used footage…pun intended…from the second night of filming. Other than backstage tours, that’s as close as any of us came to being on stage.

Stratford has four theatres, but our favorite, The Festival Theatre, built to resemble the original tent used in 1953, became the holy shrine towards which we made our annual pilgrimage. Our call to worship was the fanfare played on heraldry trumpets and drums. The sound of the canon was the prelude reminding us to get settled, for the magic was about to begin.

Listening to the Fanfare
Summer 2019
Photo Credit: Kelly Daab Green

Theatre is such a uniquely symbiotic experience. The cast and crew have the power to bring a room of 1,800 strangers to tears or cause them to laugh out loud in unison. The audience then offers the gift of their response in the form of applause. Sharing this exchange with friends heightens the experience making it almost spiritual in nature. Our original bond was the plays, but gradually, almost imperceptibly, our relationship and our connection became stronger and deeper and went far beyond the activity on the stage.

Over decades, we watched each other age, mature, and mellow. We listened and prayed with those who went through illness and divorce. We cried with our friends who suffered the death of a spouse. We bragged about the accomplishments of our children, shared the delight of grandchildren, and rejoiced at the discovery of new love and second marriages. We didn’t always agree on matters of religion and were never able to sway each other from one political party to another, but that did not stop us from having rousing discussions. We always knew that we could safely discuss our beliefs and feelings openly without risk or judgment. Well…maybe a little judgment…but we also allowed, encouraged, and recognized growth and change.

“Everyone has a friend during each stage of life. But only lucky ones have the same friend in all stages of life.”

unknown

Lois was with us the fall she was eighty-nine, but that Christmas Eve, she entered the hospital. She died on Epiphany…the 12th Day of Christmas…January 6th, 2002. We were heartbroken. Although she was much older than the rest of us, she was never a mother figure. She was our contemporary, and we adored her. She was who we all wanted to be when we grew up. We gathered after her funeral to discuss what we would do going forward. We each thought she had been the glue that held us together. What would happen to The Gang without her? What we discovered in that short meeting was that though we loved Lois immensely, we loved each other just as much. None of us wanted to let go of this wonderful thing that we had created. None of us wanted to spend an autumn without our time in Canada.

We All Adored Lois
This Was Her Final Season with Us
Fall 2001

That was twenty years ago.

We continued to make the yearly trip…until we couldn’t. Cancer, Parkinsons, bad knees and hips, and life changes eventually meant that we were no longer able to continue as The Stratford Gang. Our love for each other and the place that brought us together remained, but after more than thirty-five seasons, our trips together eventually came to an end. A couple of us continued to make solo trips. My husband joined me once, and my friend Bettie joined me on another occasion too. Then one fall…I went alone. It’s funny, I expected to feel a great sense of loneliness, loss, and grief, but it was quite the opposite. My friends were everywhere. I could see them hurrying through the park, shuffling leaves with their feet, hoping to arrive in time for the trumpets; I could hear them laughing in the washroom during the short intermission, and I felt them beside me as I got comfortable in my seat. Life goes on, and so does love.

“A strong friendship doesn’t need daily conversation or being together. As long as the relationship lives in the heart, true friends never part.”

Unknown

In the summer of 2019, a new Stratford group was created when my two dear sisters and my darling granddaughter agreed to join me for a weekend of theatre. Just as the leaves change every autumn, my Stratford group changed as well. I will always miss that time with The Gang and those young green lives that once were, but the beautiful autumn foliage reminds me that change can be wonderfully glorious.

Summer at the Festival is Also Wonderful with People You Love

I’ll buy our ticket for next year in November, just as soon as we set a date.

Given a Choice…Choose Laughter

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A smile starts on the lips, a grin spreads to the eyes, a chuckle comes from the belly; but a good laugh bursts forth from the soul, overflows, and bubbles all around.

Carolyn Birmingham

It amazes me how short the distance is between laughter and tears. If you’re lucky, you’ve experienced those times when you are laughing so hard that your cheeks hurt, your belly muscles burn, tears begin to stream down your face, and you hope that you don’t pee yourself from laughter. I’ve discovered the opposite can also be just as true. You’re deep into the ugly cry…nose red and running, face wet and tear-stained, and shoulders shaking with sobs…when suddenly the absurdity of the situation or a long-forgotten memory morphs the crying to smiles, chuckles, and laughter.

If you have no tragedy, you have no comedy. Crying and laughing are the same emotion. If you laugh too hard, you cry. And vice versa.

— Sid Caesar

Yes, tears and laughter are simply mirrored expressions of the same emotion. They come unbidden and usually without warning or restraint. And yet, a good laugh or a good cry offers a whole range of benefits, from increased immunity to a flood of “feel-good” hormones…both cleanse the soul. And while I appreciate the benefits of a “good cry” and recognizing the interconnectedness of laughter and tears, when given a choice, I’ll still pick laughter every time.

Among those whom I like or admire, I can find no common denominator, but among those whom I love, I can: all of them make me laugh.

W.h. Auden
Photo Credit: Pixabay

One morning during my first year of teaching, I walked into the high school’s main office, intent on completing one of the never-ending bits of bureaucratic business required of teachers. Crossing the room toward the attendance officer’s desk, one of the holes in the floor mat proclaiming Eagle Pride caught the heel of my shoe. As I began to hop, skip, and fly through the air, I beheld horror and amazement on the faces of the three secretaries and assorted high school student-aides who watched dumbfounded. My flight ended as I landed on my bum in the middle of the floor, dress hiked up above my knees, glasses askew, and my dignity splattered all over the walls. Onlookers stared with wide eyes and open mouths. Without skipping a beat, I looked up and said, “And, for my next trick…” Instantly, the entire room’s atmosphere changed as everyone slowly exhaled the breath they didn’t even realize they had been holding and joined me in laughing at the absurdity of my position.

I could have reacted to the situation differently; however, growing up in a family of great storytellers and jokesters, I learned to search for humor in every circumstance. So when I metaphorically slipped on the banana peel, I was ready to see it not as the humiliating situation that it could have been but as some great piece of spontaneous slapstick humor.

Photo Credit: Caroline-Hernandez
Unsplash

When I chose to view the incongruity of the office setting with a teacher sprawled across the floor with laughter, I took control of the situation. I controlled the reaction of the others. My laughter caused them to relax, gave them permission to join the fun, and provided a break from the ordinary. By choosing laughter, I gave the others the gift of laughter as well. I lost my balance with my heel in the floor mat, but I regained it quickly with a quip and a chuckle.

Laughing doesn’t always put you in control. Sometimes, it’s just the opposite. Nearly everyone has had the experience of nervous laughter that comes without restraints at the most inopportune time…with a police officer at the side of the road, during a conference with your boss, or the most dreaded…in church during meditation or prayer. Yet, even during those times, I still think laughter wins out.

In the late 1950s, each child in my Sunday School class had a piece to recite in the annual Easter program. Paul and Steve were selected to say theirs as a duo. The two of them climbed the stairs to the front of the sanctuary and turned to face the congregation. Neither could say a word. They were like deer in the headlights. One of them began to giggle, then the other joined in. They’d stop for a second or two then the giggles and laughter would grab hold of them again. Before long, the entire assembly of children and adults waiting in anticipation for uplifting words regarding resurrection and renewal completely forgot about the story of Jesus and were instead joining in the laughter. It was infectious and highly contagious. As one of the children present that day, I can only tell you that it was terrific! I have no idea what their message was supposed to be, but I continue to carry the sound of the joyful, unbridled laughter that rang out on that glorious Spring morning until this day. In one sense, Paul and Steve lost control of themselves and the situation with their irrepressible laughter, and yet…I don’t think they ever did have to deliver their lines.

Photo Credit: Pixabay

Sometimes, choosing laughter is a conscious choice we make in response to that which would cause us to weep if we allowed it. Late-night comedians make a living helping us find the humor where none is apparent. In a sense, it is self-care…a bit of self-protection.

My grandmother had a wonderful sense of humor that was often a little left of center, and oh, what a laugh. When my father died, Grandma was deep into Alzheimer’s. She had been a minister’s wife and always knew just the right thing to say. Even after she had forgotten almost everything else, particularly remembering or understanding that she had just come from the memorial service of her only son, she still retained her manners. Understanding her condition nudged me towards laughter instead of tears as she said goodbye to me after the funeral. She looked up at me and said, “I’m glad we could all be together for such a joyous occasion.” The words and their implication tore at my heart, but I smiled back at her and said, “Yes, I’m so glad we could all be together.” Sometimes, you just have to make a conscious choice to laugh. The alternative is just too painful.

In the weeks leading up to the holidays, I was often reminded that this was the fourth Christmas without my husband or my mom. In the evenings especially, I’d get somewhat melancholy, sad, and weepy. Usually, a brief cry would wash away some of the pain and help me regain my equilibrium to move into a sunnier space. Memories of past holidays allowed me to move from tears to moments of laugh -out-loud joy.

The first Christmas after we were married, Dave went Christmas shopping with his friend Dan. He was so proud of the gifts he had selected, and I was looking forward to Christmas morning. I’m sure there were other surprises that morning, but I clearly remember the bathrobe he chose. It was quilted with a zipper up the front that required stepping into it. It was a cheerful little number with schoolhouses, school bells, rulers, and pencils printed on the fabric. Just perfect for a new teacher, he thought. I pulled it from the packaging, and at Dave’s insistence, I began to climb into and draw up the robe. It was tight over my hips, but it was impossible to zip past my ample breast.

“That’s as big as they come! That’s as big as they come!” said Dave incredulously. Just what a woman wants to hear on Christmas morning. He always was a sweet-talker.

“Well, Dave,” I replied. “I don’t feel too bad since you bought this in the girls’ department.” That first Christmas was merely a preview of all the exciting gifts and laughter ahead.

Photo Credit: Nathan-Dumlao
Unsplash

“Laughter is more than just a pleasurable activity…When people laugh together, they tend to talk and touch more and make eye contact more frequently.” 

Gretchen Rubin, 

Anne Lamott says Laughter is carbonated holiness. I consider the sharing of a hardy laugh an intimate, sacred act.

Laughter can diffuse an argument. It can lower your stress level and blood pressure. In addition, laughter can shorten the distance between strangers, give ease to visitors, and comfort the worried, the frightened, and the lonely.

Of course, tears come when they will, but when given a choice…Take off your belt, put your false teeth in a cup, throw your head back and let go with a laugh! No, really…let go and laugh. Try ten Ha Ha Ha’s in a row…just for starters. It always beats the alternative!

Learning to Dance with a Wooden Leg

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“The death of a beloved is an amputation…At present I am learning to get about on crutches. Perhaps I shall presently be given a wooden leg. But I shall never be a biped again.” 

C. S. Lewis, A Grief Observed

The anniversary of my first solo trip around the sun is fast approaching. Facebook reminds me of the everyday things that were happening last year as we moved, unknowingly, toward the head of the line where together our tickets would be punched, but where we’d board separate flights. How could I have known that that morning I would come home to discover that Dave had left his body…bad knees, painful legs, and bad heart…behind in his favorite chair, coffee still warm in his cup, to journey to an unknown realm without me?

I was still posting photos from our latest adventure. Dave loved life. He lived without an agenda taking each day as it came and finding joy, wonder, and delight all around him. Traveling expanded our world, giving us even more opportunities for pleasure, adventure and amazement. While we were able we went as far as we could, as often as we could, for as long as we could. When his mobility declined to the point that he could no longer join in on walks in the city or short hikes in the National Parks, Dave would happily find a bench and wait patiently for my return. Knowing that he would be waiting gave me confidence and courage to take my limited hiking skills and head out alone on unknown trails.

Suddenly there was no one waiting for my return, no one waiting to see my photos, no one waiting to hear of my escapades, no one waiting with a warm car…no one waiting. I had to decide whether to store my trekking poles or learn to move forward on my own.

Scenes from our last trip…Colorado and Utah, September 2018

One of the greatest challenges of grief and loss is learning not only to live without the one you’ve lost, but learning to live without the person you were when you were with them and learning to live as the person you have now become. I, only half jokingly, wonder if that is why senior citizens are asked whether they’ve fallen recently. With each loss we have to regain our equilibrium without the stability of what once was. With a part of ourselves missing we have to teach ourselves a new way to find our balance.

Stability often eludes me, but I am learning to live my life with that wooden leg that C.S. Lewis talks about. There are times that are really difficult, the nights are especially sucky, and tears still come unbidden, but now and then I hear Dave’s voice encouraging me to find joy, seek adventure, and laugh as often as I can.

Bloody Marys on the Deck
Basalt, Colorado, September 2018

If I have died; and you refuse to live because I am gone, I died two times. But if you take the joy I always had in life, and live it for me in your own, and past on to others then I’ll know that the world will stay a better place for I was here awhile.

Nadine McLaughlin ‘Death Wish’

Years ago…almost two decades now, Dave, my friend, Suzanne, and I went out to dinner. It was Suzanne’s suggestion to try a new Ethiopian restaurant that had just opened in her neighborhood. Dave and I agreed to give this new cuisine a shot. We all knew we were in trouble when we were met at the door by a waitress who asked, “Would you like a booth or a basket?” Basket? Basket? What the heck did that mean? We opted for the booth. It was pretty much downhill from there. We ordered the Ethiopian Feast for Three. When the meal was brought to our table the chicken portion was represented by a single drumstick. The rest of the meal was also rather scant, but easier to share. On the other hand, none of us liked it at all. Thus, to paraphrase Woody Allen at the beginning of Annie Hall…the food was terrible and there wasn’t enough of it. Life too can be painful and hard, but most of us still want more. Even with the pain, darkness, and the aloneness of grief, life is still worth the living.

One Afternoon In Maine, October 2019

In the Beatitudes, Jesus said, “Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.” Ecclesiastes…and of course The Byrds…remind us that there is a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.

About that dancing…Anne Lamott says that the loss of a loved one “is like having a broken leg that never heals perfectly…that still hurts when the weather gets cold, but,” she says,” you learn to dance with the limp.”

A few years ago, as part of our church’s Coming of Age program…think Bar Mitzvah or Confirmation…the youth and their adult guides were exploring the idea of death. One of the facilitators asked the group, “How many of you are grieving the loss of someone or something?” Nearly everyone raised a hand…adults and teens alike. I’m approaching an anniversary, a date on the calendar, but I am surrounded by people…friends, family, and strangers…who are also just putting one foot in front of the other and moving slowly down the same path. We link arms at times to steady those for whom those wooden legs are new and as yet untried, but we all move toward the time when even momentarily we can leave our weeping and mourning to laugh and dance.

I know this anniversary will be difficult. I’m sure there will be weeping, the ugly cry, runny nose and the whole shebang, but I also know that I’m learning to dance. The dance may not be pretty considering the whole balance thing, the limp and wooden leg, but…there is still dancing and laughter. Dave is waiting patiently for me somewhere…but for now I’ll journey on by myself…dancing and laughing whenever I can and recognizing there is still a time to mourn and weep when I can’t.

Following My Own Path
October 2019

Pay Attention. Hurry Up. Slow Down.

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No use thinking of the past for its gone, don’t think of the future because it has to come, think of the present because thats where you are. 

Kazi Shams
Photo courtesy of Pixabay
Edited

The recipe called for one half cup of butter, softened. My butter was rock hard, but it was a warm day and the sun would speed this process along, so I put a stick of butter on the railing of the deck. I returned to the recipe and began to chop the nuts and maraschino cherries. I measured out the coconut, chocolate chips and mandarin oranges setting them all aside ready to be added in turn to the mixture. Finally, in another bowl I added the flour, salt, and, oh dear, I was out of baking powder. It would only take me a minute to run to the neighborhood store to buy a new container, so I slipped out of my wear-these-only-around-the-house clothes, washed my hair because it was sticking up all over the place, and headed off to Quality Market. But wait, if I was going out, I might as well take the mail down to the mailbox. I had several items in envelopes ready to go, but one needed to be printed. I got my laptop and opened it to the letter. The printer hasn’t been working properly for awhile, so it was necessary to hand-feed each sheet of paper into the machine. I’m getting rather skilled at this task and it was quickly accomplished. One of the letters needed special attention, so instead of the mailbox I’d stop at the post office on my way to the grocery store. Arriving at the post office I waited as two cars cleared the parking lot, leaving the space closest to the door available. I smiled as I went inside and discovered that there was no one inline ahead of me. How lucky. I ordered my stamps and requested that the last letter be sent via certified mail. I needed to fill out the label which would be affixed to the envelope. As I completed the questions on the attachment another woman approached the counter. She was hard-of-hearing which slowed the exchange somewhat, but the clerk was patient with her and realizing that she was obviously hungry for conversation listened to her tales and added one of her own. I was happy to wait and was moved by the kindness and caring of the clerk. I’m a fan of the postal service. I reached the store without complication and was in and out in no time. I returned home to find the ingredients still on the counter waiting for me. I’d get back to making the bread in a minute, but first I’d hang the sheets on the line. Carrying the wet fabric to the porch I was just about to rest the sheets on the deck rail only to remember…THE BUTTER. It was definitely softened.

Funny How the Package Kept It’s Shape Even Thought the Butter Didn’t
July 2019

I always thought I was fairly good at multitasking. As a mother and elementary school teacher it was a necessary skill, but it’s not one that I have maintained. Maybe no one is ever really good at it. Multitasking is such a misnomer, an illusion. It is impossible to focus on even two projects at once. In actuality we split our attention between them not giving our full consideration or effort to either.

How often have I walked into a room only to discover that I have no clue what prompted me to go there in the first place? I can lose my focus from one room to the next! Who knew that walking and remembering would be taking multi-tasking to the outer limits of my ability? The older I get the less often I’m able to hold two ideas in my head at the same time. My brain is slowing down like an old computer that needs to be taken to the Apple Store and swept for duplicate, unnecessary, and obsolete files. After all, do I really need to have the procedure for threading a reel to reel projector or the lyrics to The Monster Mash still taking up memory.

I’ve also begun to realize that there are two competing and mutually exclusive philosophies at work in my life these days.

Speed up! The clock is ticking!

“Unfortunately, the clock is ticking, the hours are going by. The past increases, the future recedes. Possibilities decreasing, regrets mounting.” 

Haruki Murakami, Dance, Dance, Dance

Slow down. Smell the flowers.

“Slow down and enjoy life. It’s not only the scenery you miss by going to fast – you also miss the sense of where you are going and why.”   

Eddie Cantor

At this end of life, and especially since Dave died, people are constantly telling me to do what I want to do. “This is your time,” they say. But what do I want to do? Yes, the road is wide open and while I hope the end is far off in the distance I know it’s out there and I’m not sure how long the tread is going to last on my tires. Do I hurry and fit in as much as I can or do I relax and simply be? Do I move along the coast collecting lighthouses or do I sit quietly in the sand and contemplate the way the waves lap the shore? I’m still searching for the answer.

Lighthouses on Prince Edward Island, August 2018
Lido Beach, Sarasota, Florida 2016

Back to the melted butter. Do you suppose it was the result of the overstuffed files with their loose bits of minutiae scattered across my hippocampus or was it the result of simultaneously trying to bake, do the laundry, and sing along with the cast of Hamilton? It was probably a combination of the two if the truth be told.

I can still hear my mother’s voice admonishing me to “Pay attention. Watch what you’re doing.” It used to be about spilling my milk, but now I think she’s telling me that whatever speed I choose going forward and whether I’m off bagging lighthouses or getting sun on my face and sand in my undies I should be present wherever I am. “Keep adventuring,” I hear her say, “but remember to stop the car at the scenic overlooks, get out, and stand in awe at the wonder of life.”

Hurry up, slow down, and… by all means pay attention to the butter.

Someone Move the Cookies!

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“You don’t stop laughing because you grow older. You grow older because you stop laughing.”

Maurice Chevlier

Dave and I both enjoyed playing cards although he played more often than I did. Throughout our married life he played in a weekly poker group. In retirement he added weekly cribbage matches and the occasional pop-up Texas Hold ‘Em extravaganza to the list. Together, we played Spades, Hearts, Do Dirt to Your Neighbor, Ninety Nine, and lots of Euchre. Euchre is very popular in the Midwest where we grew up. If you played cards and you lived in Michigan chances are you played Euchre.

Rank of cards in a game of Euchre

When I decided it was time for me to reach out to friends and add some fun back into my life, playing cards, Euchre in particular, seemed like the perfect way to begin. We’d start a women’s card group. There are lots of expats from Michigan living in central Vermont, so it wasn’t difficult lining up friends who knew the game, were excited by the idea, and willing to play. We’d just need to find a night that worked and get started. That should be easy.

Remember when Friday and Saturday nights were reserved for nighttime fun? In retirement every night is Saturday night. One problem…there’s a twenty year age spread between the four of us so although technically, by the local senior center standards, we’re all senior citizens, half the group is still employed. We’d have to plan around their work schedules. Then of course our calendars are also filled with volunteer commitments, family obligations, and previously planned fun of various kinds, but we eventually found a date that suited us all.

As the hostess, I had certain responsibilities. I had to be sure to clear a path through my house to the kitchen table where we’d play, but these were good friends who wouldn’t mind a little dust and since I’d had workmen in my house the previous week …stripping wallpaper and painting…there was a fair amount of dust to be found. Have you ever noticed that when you dust it just all comes back? I think that’s God’s way of letting us know she wants it there. Who am I to question divine wisdom?

OK, dust or no, I’d concentrate on the snacks. The days of popcorn and soda or pizza and beer appear to be over. I’d have to put some thought into this. I settled on wine…red and white, lemon-ginger ice tea and I had the handy Keurig as backup if someone wanted coffee, but we’d need finger food too. Something easy to hold along with a handful of cards. Between us we had…vegetarian, no dairy, no gluten, no eggs, no soy, and one who was game for anything. Bless her heart. The spread was an interesting combination to be sure including olives, peanuts, carrots, cookies, chocolate of course, hummus, and corn chips. Seemed about right…and besides there was wine.

MFinally, we were ready to bring on the cards and get the game underway. Euchre has many variations, so our first order of business was clarifying which rules we would follow and how we’d keep score. The game is played using only the cards from nine and above. That leaves the fives as the perfect counters for score keeping…a talent in itself. The bottom five pips…suit symbols…would count for the first five points. Then the top card would be turned over exposing the final five. We’d just need to remember to actually take our points.

“We use the twos to keep track of trump.” I’d never heard of that, but it sounded like a good idea. When trump was called the two from that suit would be on top of a stack of four. What a clever idea.

“Do you play that the dealer can steal the deal?” Having the deal is a great advantage and you have to be sneaky, quick, and clever to be able to pull it off.

“Of course, ” we agreed. With all that decided, it was time to let the games begin.

Finding the rhythm and refreshing the rules took a bit of time but soon we were all playing like Las Vegas card sharps. As the game progressed it became evident that I was sneaky, clever, and an accomplished deal-stealer, much to the annoyance of the more trusting players. “OK. I have an idea. Let’s put the cookies on the left side of whoever is supposed to be the dealer.” Of course, that plan depends on someone actually moving the cookies.

“Wait. Who called trump? We need a little figurine to put in front of the person who made trump.”

“Nothing compares to the stomach aches you get from laughing too hard with your best friends.”

Unknown

Picture it. We now had glasses of wine, small plates for our snacks, fives for counters, twos for keeping track of trump, and a rotating bowl of cookies as well as the actual cards for each hand all vying for space at the table.

Playing Euchre as senior citizens is more complicated than those games we played in our youth. In addition to remembering whose turn it is, which card was led and how many tricks were needed we also have to flip the trump-tracking-twos, remember who called it, and of course… move the cookies. More of a challenge to be sure, but with an even greater reward…joy. Oh, we all wanted to win, but that wasn’t necessarily our final objective. Levity, laughter, and hilarity were the order of the day…not competition. We just wanted to have fun! Our laughter was unrestrained, genuine and bountiful. My tummy hurt and my cheeks ached by the end of the evening, but my spirits were lifted and I felt lighter than I had in quite awhile.

Anne Lamott says that “laughter is carbonated holiness”. That seems like the perfect definition to me. I am so blessed to walk my path in the sacred effervescence of laughter. We’re playing again next month. I have the perfect figurine to help us keep track of who called trump. Her name is Remembrance.

Her name is Remembrance
A gift from Kathy, 2019