The Gift of Laughter

It's a serious world out there, and it's refreshing to find things -- books, jokes, video clips -- that can make you smile or, better yet, laugh.




I tend to remember books that make me laugh, and they aren't always "joke" books or those written by comedians. I'd wager very few people read Jerome K. Jerome today, but his lovely book, THREE MEN IN A BOAT (TO SAY NOTHING OF THE DOG)is a long-time favorite of mine.

The first time I really lost it, I was in my high school library reading James Thurber's short story, "The Day the Dam Broke" from his book MY LIFE AND HARD TIMES. I couldn't stop laughing and finally the librarian kindly asked me to leave. I don't know why it tickled my funny bone to that extent, but it led me to read everything else Thurber wrote.

I like to read mysteries, thrillers and romantic suspense and there's not a lot of humor in those dark stories. There is, however, a surprising amount of wit in romance novels (which I also love), especially those penned by Jennifer Crusie. When I read the frozen brownie scene in TELL ME LIES - the first book of hers I read - I knew I'd found another lifetime favorite.

I love plays and movies, and laughed so hard I couldn't catch my breath when I saw Nathan Lane in THE PRODUCERS on Broadway. In the movie versions, I still prefer the classic original with Zero Mostel and Gene Wilder.

I guess I have a thing for slapstick, since other movie favorites include WHAT'S UP, DOC?, THE BIRDCAGE and THE ODD COUPLE - the Jack Lemmon/Walter Matthau version, not the TV show.

I could go on and on, which is a good thing. I'm glad there are so many things that make me laugh -- Craig Ferguson on a good night, for instance, or Jon Stewart on the Daily Show nearly every night. Carol Burnett, Bill Cosby ("Russell, My Brother Who I Slept With" always kills me) -- okay, someone stop me.

One more, although some of you might have a little difficulty understanding the lyrics -- Ian Dury and the Blockheads from 1979 (when I was living in England): "Reasons to Be Cheerful, Part 3."




Those are some of the things that make me laugh. What about you?

Do You Believe in Magic?

I’m a sucker for romance, even if it doesn’t come in traditional packages. I don’t need the Hallmark card – I’d choose lilacs over red roses, ginger beer over champagne and sparkly cubic zirconia over diamonds.

In books, I’m fond of fantasy and whimsy; I’m willing to suspend disbelief as long as I get a happy ending. Call me shallow, but I don’t want angst or the Great American Novel. I just want to be smiling when I turn that final page.

In The Girl Who Chased the Moon, Sarah Addison Allen welcomes us to Mullaby, North Carolina, famous for its barbecue festival and not much else.

Strange things happen in this small town – wallpaper changes at will, ghostly lights peek from the woods and secrets abound. The air is infused with magic, or maybe it’s just the delectable fragrance of Julia Winterson’s hummingbird cake.

Julia, who bakes cakes the way others cast spells, is six months away from her two year goal when a case of in vino veritas messes up her plans. Sawyer Alexander is blindingly beautiful and the embodiment of all Julia knows she’ll never have. He might have inspired her passion for baking, but Sawyer is the cause of her problems – not the solution.

Emily Benedict is an orphaned 17-year-old newly arrived at the home of her grandfather, a giant of a man “tall enough to see into tomorrow.” Shocked to find herself outcast because of her mother’s past actions, Emily eagerly accepts the friendship Julia offers, and is drawn, in spite of herself, to Win Coffey.

Win, in his white linen suit and red bow tie, fits into Mullaby in a way Emily never will, and he seems to accept her in spite of the hurtful things Emily’s mother did. The lives of these four characters warp and weave together like threads on a loom, binding them in ways none of them could have predicted.

Sarah Addison Allen’s delectably light touch sparkles on the page as if she has waved a glittering wand over her words. Nothing is ever ordinary or mundane in her books; in “The Girl Who Chased the Moon,” fireflies practically flicker on the page, drawn to the glow of the Mullaby moon.

Although it’s not a romance in the sense readers may expect, this book is a love story on many levels – new loves, old loves, family love and the love only a small town can give.

The Girl Who Chased the Moon is Sarah Addison Allen's third book. Be sure to check out Garden Spells and The Sugar Queen, too. They are all on my "keeper" shelf!

Who Were You Meant to Be?

I watched this video tonight at my husband's urging. I'm glad I did, because it made me think about my own education and that of my children. I still remember when my son's kindergarten teacher sent me a note because he had colored an apple purple instead of red. She was perturbed about it. I was perturbed about her.

Luckily, we moved shortly after that and my son and daughter were blessed with wonderful teachers who helped them discover their strengths instead of trying to stuff them into rigid boxes.

Sir Ken Robinson talks about epiphanies in this video, a subject close to my heart. He asked a number of people to describe the epiphanies in their own lives, the moment in time where they realized what they were meant to do. Or, as I would put it, who they were meant to be. My husband recalls the first time he played a guitar -- that was an epiphany for him.

I don't remember when I decided to write; in fact, I don't think there was a decision involved. I've written ever since I learned how to put pen to paper. I started typing before I was 12 and haven't stopped since then. Stories, poems, letters, articles, essays, novels, non-fiction books, blogs -- I write the way others breathe. I talk a lot, but I write even more than I talk. I don't know how to not write. (Note: this doesn't mean I've mastered the art, but I try.)

Sir Ken Robinson tells the story of a girl who couldn't sit still in school, and her teachers were sure something was wrong with her. Her parents sent her to dance school and she became a top ballerina. She related her thrill at walking into a place where everyone was just like her.

That's what it was like for me when I joined RWA and my local chapter -- finding others who love to write was indescribable. I also read constantly, and I had a similar sense of coming home when I discovered the book club boards at Barnes & Noble (BN.com). To spend your life thinking you're odd and alone in this obsessive love of books, and then to discover there are thousands who feel the same way -- it's an incomparable gift.

I hate to think of others who still think they are alone, or who have not found a way to express their talents. I am not much for giving advice but I'll say this: do what you love. Don't let anything stop you. Even if you don't succeed, you'll be happier for trying.

Bee-witched, Bothered and Bee-wildered

My brother, who lives in Albuquerque, sent me a series of emails with some fascinating photos. With his permission and the permission of the people discussed, I'd like to share this with you.

This was the initial email from my brother Russ:

One of the guys at work (Joe) is also Joe The Bee Guy. He got a call the other day at work. A truck driver turned on his a/c and it didn't work. He opened the back of his trailer and a huge cloud of bees flew out! Turns out they were living in the ac duct work and when he turned it on they got sucked into the fan - breaking the fan . . .

When he opened the trailer doors the hive moved to a trailer parked at the neighboring Kenworth dealership. Joe ended up moving around 40 pounds of bees and set up 13 new hives in Bosque Farms!


 Note:he's wearing short sleeves - he had about 20 stings on his arms when he came back to work! Vince Valdez is the photographer at the Kenworth dealership.

This was taken the next day. Read more about it and see more pictures here. This and the other photos were taken by beekeeper Mike Kruchoski.

Happy 40th to Me and My Sweetie!

Forty years ago today I went out with my future husband for the first time. He was in a band called Quiet -- he played bass guitar -- and he invited me to one of their practice sessions. We'd known each other since he moved to my area the year before. He lived in Park Ridge briefly when his family first moved to the U.S. from England, but he didn't really feel at home until he started attending my high school -- known as "the hippie school" back in the day.  

I'd always been an Anglophile, thanks to early indoctrination by Agatha Christie and the Beatles, so I knew the instant a new English guy arrived at our school. We both worked on the school newspaper and we were both solid Beatle fans. It wasn't long before we became friends.

For a long time, that's all it was. Of course I "noticed" him, but I was still in a long-distance relationship with a boyfriend who had moved to another state and he (future husband) seemed to be dating a good friend of mine. I knew they were friends, but didn't feel comfortable asking either of them if it was serious. Because I was just a friend. Right.

We were interested in a lot of the same books and music, and we talked a lot. He started calling me to tell me about concerts he'd been to. We carefully avoided talk of significant others. This was friends talking, nothing more.

But he told me -- years later -- that he would drive by my house a lot, and he often appeared in my dreams. I felt that my boyfriend and I were growing apart, but I wasn't sure he felt the same way. Because of that, I never thought anything would come of my interest in my English friend.

On April 18, 1970 everything changed. I went to see a lot of bands perform - I wrote about them for our school paper - so on the surface it was no big deal when he invited me to watch his band practice. But of course, it was different and we both knew it.

I remember watching something on TV about Paul McCartney's new solo album. I've checked back and it appears the official release date was Friday, April 17, 1970. We both remember listening to "Maybe I'm Amazed" and being completely knocked out by it. The words of the song also clarified a few things.

So anyway . . . April 18 has always been our "real" anniversary. I broke up with my boyfriend the next day and a few weeks later we attended our senior prom. I went to England with him a few months after that and in October 1971 we got married.

We still have the Beatles and a love of England in common, but we are opposites in soooo many ways. Somehow, it still works. When he's out of town, I'm excited for him to come home. I'm always happy to hear his voice on the phone. He is the best card giver ever. He was, and continues to be, a wonderful father to our two kids and the best husband in the world. Well, in MY world, anyway.

Forty years. 14,610 days (give or take two days). 21,037,950 minutes. And maybe I'm still amazed.

Easter Fun

Happy Easter!