The Rituals that Anchor

There are those things we do, some large, some small, that we barely give thought to. That shape our days, our lives. Rituals help to establish our sense of reality. If you maintain them. you keep your wits about you.

In the beginning, there were many rituals that held me in place. Each of us sitting in our assigned seat at the dinner table. The older siblings getting the grown-up glasses, the younger kids getting the plastic cups. My father in the kitchen in the early morning hours when the rest of the house was still asleep, mixing his cereal. The scrape, scrape, scrape of his spoon along the bottom of  the bowl was comforting. Dad was up. He was in charge. Everything was A-okay. Saturday mornings, watching cartoons all morning long, eating our favorite sugar-laden cereal. (To which we added even more sugar.) My mom putting dinner on the table at exactly 6:00 every night. Saturday night baths. Sunday morning mass. Sunday noon dinners of pot roast or pork chops or city chicken. Sunday evenings watching Ed Sullivan.

The other day a memory returned to me of my parents playing "thumbsies" at the kitchen table. My father would hide his thumb in his fist, then flick it out and back. My mother would try to grab it. This would result in giggles from the two of them. Such a silly thing, really. But endearing, too. It made them human. It made them real. A ritual game.

My husband has a ritual of singing dirty songs in the shower. He also does the crossword puzzle every day. And he calls me at work at about the same time to check in. My morning ritual includes reading the funnies while I'm eating my breakfast. I will have to change this ritual when the paper is no longer published every day. It won't be the same reading them on the computer. I don't know what I will do. Other rituals that are part of my daily routine include checking the locks on the car/house door

before walking away. Kissing my loved ones aloha. (I don't like to say "goodbye," it sounds so final.)  I count a lot. The number of times I swallow when I take my pill in the morning. The number of times I shake the cream before I pour it into my coffee. The number of stairs ascending or descending. (This is a safety measure, too, so I don't lose count and fall up or down.) And, when I arrive safely at my destination, I say, "Good car" and murmur one Hail Mary. I also like to imagine a white light around the people and things I hold dearest, for protection. (It's good to cover all the bases.) As I sit here and imagine my days, I realize there are hundreds of rituals I perform without being conscious of them.

Rituals can be soothing. They create a sense, however flawed, that everything is right with the world. Maybe some of them are obsessive/compulsive. So what? Everyone has rituals. Even you. Think about it!

Yucking it Up

I like to laugh. More importantly, I like to make other people laugh. If I can break up a crowd at work or get an "LOL" back via email or text, my day is complete. I'm not sure why I need this recognition of my ability to garner smiles, I'll leave that to my counselor. But I do like to leave 'em laughing.

 

In the category of "humor appreciation," I know I'm not alone. One of the top requirements for single humans looking for a mate is almost always, "needs to have a good sense of humor." The only tricky part is "good." It essentially means "laughs at the same stuff I do." Because, of course, there are so many different flavors of humor, and they are all subjective. Which is how both Jerry Lewis and Lewis Black can thrive in the world of comedy.

For example, we have schadenfreude, German for "wow, did you see that idiot break his neck trying to skateboard down a flight of stairs? Wasn't that hilarious?" YouTube is rife with examples of schadenfreude. When caught in the act of unintentionally doing a triple axel/body slam in an icy parking lot, the best way to save face is to rise (assuming you can) and take an Olympic bow. If you have one handy, hold up a scorecard with "9.5" written on it. Then, when people laugh, you can believe they are enjoying your rapier wit, not that spectacular exhibition of your clumsiness. 


Along the same lines, but maybe not exactly the same thing, is slapstick, another form of humor that is very close to schadenfreude. But slapstick is more contrived. It's supposed to be funny. Slapstick has been around as long as there has been theater. Old Keystone Kops movies were the best examples. Today, I think the closest examples are what I classify as "young guy" comedies. The ones about hangovers and saving buddies from getting married, etc. I suppose walking into stationary objects, farting at the wrong time, inappropriate scratching, etc. could be construed as slapstick. Maybe.

Dry humor is my personal favorite. A knowing look, a raised eyebrow, a rolling of the eyes. That knowing look the person shares with you that says, "I can see YOU get it." It's like a private club for smart people. It leaves the Wal-Mart crowd in the dust. Yes, I know this is elitist of me, but I just don't give a damn. I like subtle plays on words. The way Jon Stewart or Steven Colbert (or maybe their writers) twist a phrase to make it hilarious. Let someone throw a barb at me. I'll throw it back. (Of course, it may take me just a moment to think of something, but when I do, it will be a zinger.)

Some black humor is great. But this walks a razor's edge. I thought Pulp Fiction was a riot. I loved Life of Brian. But I can't warm up to the post-tragedy jokes.Or the concentration camp jokes. It seems like whenever something bad happens, someone is there to parody it. I just don't think that's funny. 

Reading back through this, I realize that, while comedy is entertaining, trying to analyze it is not. I apologize. As for myself, I'm going to go seek a bit a laughter right here at home. At the top of my own list of requirements for a mate was a good sense of humor. I have been amply blessed that way. My husband of 25 years is a very funny human being. I keep saying I'm going to start writing down his best lines. The only trouble is, most of his humor isn't ready for prime time. It's way too personal. I mean, who knew that "Schrimpf" (my maiden name) rhymed with "nymph"? And that's just about as close as I'm going to get to revealing the nature of his humor!

It IS a Wonderful Life, After All

A few nights ago, we sat in front of the TV set, watching the radar map, wondering if we would be blown away by a tornado.

Outside, the atmosphere was eerie. Lightning criss-crossed the sky, but there was barely any thunder. The air was oppressive and still. Very still.

As we sat listening to the weather guy, I began to wonder at how quickly life can change. How one event that happens in seconds can alter your life forever, and wipe out the blessings you've taken for granted.

I thought about some of the recent events, like the tornado that leveled the town of Moore near Oklahoma City. The natural disasters and man-made tragedies that have occurred in seconds but with devastating, life-altering consequences.

I guess we have to be wired this way, otherwise we'd lose our minds, but most of us go along, day after day, putting one foot in front of the other, heedless of where we are going or where we have been, oblivious to those around us. Living in a haze of petty slights and irritations, cursing the driver who cuts us off or the co-worker who cuts us down. Until something big, something bad happens to stop us in our tracks. That's when we shift gears. Donate blood. Send money. Pray. For awhile. Until we slip back into the haze. And, except for those who are directly affected by the tragedy, we forget.

I began to imagine what would happen if a tornado did hit our house. What would I miss the most? (Assuming, of course, that only possessions, not human life, were lost). The treasures, large and small, that tell who we are and what we love. And whom we love. I imagined the photographs, a chronicle of our life and the lives of those who came before. Items that bring us comfort and peace. All of the things I take for granted.

The clock read midnight. The tornado warning was called off. It began to rain. The weather guy went back to wherever weather guys go when the apocalypse has failed to materialize. As for me, although it wasn't November and we weren't eating turkey or ham, I took that time and thanked the Ones who have given us so much to be thankful for.

Then I went to bed. And got up the next morning. And forgot again.

What We Keep

In marriage, it's best if only one of you -- or better yet -- neither of you is a pack rat. Unfortunately, I chose a mate who is as sentimental about stuff as I. Maybe more so, if that is possible. 

The infamous Spanish Dancer.

When we cleaned out my parents' house, my siblings and I took turns choosing an item to keep. When we were done, my sisters gathered the unchosen items to dispose of at the garage sale they had planned. 

Perusing what was left, I just couldn't stand to see certain things being sold. Like the risqué picture of the Spanish dancer that hung in our dining room all those years. (We got it from my grandmother, who gave it to my dad after he admired it hanging in her home.) This was a piece of family history soon to be sold to someone who would be buying the picture for its campy appeal, with no awareness of all it had witnessed...including the countless "discussions" my parents had over its fate. 

Then there were things like my folks' high school yearbooks. My mom's paint-by-number birds. Old comic books and Life magazines. All headed for the trunk of my Corolla, destined for a place in my home. Or my closet. 

It's hard for me to part with these things because they had meaning to my parents. They are a connection. Each one holds a memory, or many memories. I know someday my son will sift through these things and wonder why on earth I'd kept them. They'll have no value to him, and they'll be relegated to a landfill somewhere someday. But for now, while I am alive and in possession of my faculties, I will look at these things and remember. And feel blessed. 

Favorite Things 

I had that song going through my head. When she gets blue, she thinks about her favorite things, and, voilá, she doesn't feel so bad.

I spend a fair amount of time in the blue zone myself. I wake up at 4 a.m. to worry about something stupid I did. Or fret over finances. Or my son. Or my husband. It sometimes feels like the gas pedal on my cerebrum is stuck. No braking permitted.

So I wonder if thinking about my favorite things would help. And, by the way, just what are my favorite things?

The "white things"

I got up this morning and decided to take a walk around my yard. The grass was still wet from last night's soakers. Wet slippers and all, I surveyed the flora. Some of it, like my peonies and lily of the valley, are a little worse for wear. But they are still lovely. These are the flowers that remind me of my growing up. They were always in attendance in my mom's spring garden. As were roses. Mine are a little slower to emerge than my neighbor's. I'm thinking of planting another rose bush this year. Then there are irises that sprung from the bulbs John Chudada gave me. They are named after Beverly Sills. Always nice to have a little celebrity presence in one's yard. Finally, there are some random white flowers on the fence at the back of the yard. My husband would call them "the white things." Except for the roses, which he loves, all vegetation is relegated to color.

Okay, so flowers on my list of favorite things. Along with spring, which makes their presence possible.

Animals are grand, although I could do without the skunks that roam the neighborhood, spewing their overpowering odor. We have a wild bunny who pays us a visit from time to time. Birds are always welcome, even the rowdy blue jays. Inside, our cat, Mabel, purrs and prowls, although at her advanced age, sleeping is her primary activity.
I enjoy food. I have a sweet tooth that I try in vain to control. (My inability to lose weight, put that on the list of things I fuss over.) I adore dark chocolate. Coffee, for its aroma, taste and kick-me-in-the-ass properties. Fresh fruit, crunchy vegetables. And, of course, comfort food. I associate bacon, eggs and hash browns with the many happy breakfasts my son and I have shared at our favorite diner.

Meet Beverly Sills

On that subject, spending time with my husband and son is at the top of the list of my favorite things. Which brings me to another: laughter. We do like to laugh a lot. Someday my son will have tales to tell.

Well, having conjured all of this goodness has dispelled the blues. But I don't think I'm going to make it back to bed. Guess I'll grab the comics page and have my coffee and admire the blooms in my yard.

Life at this moment is very good, indeed. It's good to remember that. Someday these will be the good old days.