Better to Laugh

I am half-way through reading Eat, Pray, Love, and the author brings up the fact that humans are the only species aware that death is in the future.  All other living things do not think about, or even know about, their inevitable deaths.  That got me to thinking…about squirrels, for one.  Is that how they can climb way up in trees, because they haven’t a clue that one false move, one slip on the bark, and they could plummet to their death?  They happily scurry up and down the tree trunk, just content in the moment.  I wonder what it would be like to have no concept of death.

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Funny, we used to think of summer’s end as the time when school started.  Officially, summer does not end until about 3/4 of the way through September, but the beginning of September was close enough.  We would decorate our classrooms with colored leaves, apples, acorns, and other items that had to do with the quickly approaching autumn.  Traditionally, back-to-school clothes were sweaters and long pants.  Cooler weather meant football games, bonfires, and open windows taking over for air-conditioners.

Since school started August 10 in our district, that doesn’t really hold true anymore.  We have been in school for four weeks, and I still haven’t seen the first local, fresh apples of the season on sale at the grocery.  We may need to start decorating with bright suns, swimming pools, etc. in classrooms.  Back to school clothes might start looking like shorts and sundresses; otherwise, you might hear Mom saying, “Sorry honey, you can’t wear your new back-to-school clothes until it cools down outside.  Try again in about a month.” 

It is sad to see some traditions go.  There was a certain amount of comfort when going back to school signaled the end of summer.

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Well, I tried to go to bed earlier the night before last.  I was actually tired, so I thought falling asleep would be a piece of cake – not!  I hit the pillow and my eyes were wide open.  I started singing, praying, anything to focus the search engine in my brain; I finally did fall asleep.  The next morning, I was exhausted.  I tried to put the coffee filter in the coffee pot, instead of the brew basket, and I was all thumbs most of the day.  I have functioned better on less sleep.  Last night I slept less, but I had more energy today.  Maybe some people just don’t need a full 8 hours?  

When I was younger and still took naps, Mom was ready to nap more than I was.  I would lie there and talk away.  Eventually she would tell me she was going to charge me a dime for every word I said.  I guess some things never change; my husband was feeling lonely always going to bed before me, so I went to bed when he did one night.  When my head hit the pillow, I started talking.  He doesn’t really bring up the subject of going to bed at the same time anymore.

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Why is it that I am always exhausted, but I don’t sleep?  Could it be that my brain is usually focused on so many things that when I get some time to myself I don’t want to spend that downtime unconscious?  Or maybe it is because I keep getting a second, third, fourth wind?  My mother always says that I wouldn’t go to bed when I was younger because I was afraid that I would miss something.  Well, I don’t know what I am about to miss, but I have to get some shut-eye.

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I am reading Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert.  Her first journey is to Italy, the “eat” part of the title.  How appropriate, since food is a mistress to Italians.  This is not a metaphor; Italians literally have a love affair with food.

My dad, Gino, is so into his food that I have asked him if they (my dad and his pasta, warm bread, hot soup, dessert, whatever) would like to be alone, get a room, etc.  There is deep breathing and moaning as the aromas enter the nostrils, the textures are felt through the mouth, and flavors roll over the tongue.  It’s pretty hot stuff.  Food is not just nutrition; it touches our very souls.  To go on a diet to an Italian is like a divorce from our soul mate.  

And the helpings!  My dad served my non-Italian husband (then boyfriend) a bowl of ice cream.  When my dad brought him the bowl, he couldn’t believe his eyes.  There was a quart or more of ice cream in the dish.  My mom saw his expression of shock (eyes wide, mouth gaping) and said, “That is what you call an Italian helping.”  My husband monitors my dad now when he dishes him up.

What can I say?  Italians are a passionate, generous people…especially when it comes to food.

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