Join author, Kay Thomas at the Wayland Free Library, November 16, 3-5 pm for a celebration of her new travel book, Shimmering Japanese Sunlight.
Copies will be on sale for $10.00.
Also, SALE on I'll Be Honest With You, a collection of short essays, for $5.00.
Wednesday, October 12, 2016
Wednesday, October 5, 2016
Shimmering Japanese Sunlight, my latest book about a woman’s musing on her experiences in Japan, came about quite unexpectedly.
When I returned home, I did the usual unpacking, checking the mail and re-acclimating into ordinary life.
There was something not quite right, though. I wasn’t settling in to my normal routine and there was a noticeable edge to me.
Out of nowhere I heard all these loud voices twisting in my head. I had to get out of the way and let my muse write.
And write I did. For hours my fingers worked the keyboard. For days I sat in a room only with a skylight reminding myself there was an outdoors somewhere in the universe. There was no let up whatsoever. Some days if I didn’t have to go out, I sat in my new Japanese kimono sipping green tea and writing.
Before I knew it, I had a manuscript for a book completed. Frankly, I was exhausted from the trip and now, from using my brain to re-live my journey.
Here are excerpts from a chapter about my stay in Hiroshima.
On the closing days of my vacation, I spend the remainder in the modern city of Hiroshima with its wide boulevards, bustling stores and sleek buildings.
Everything is rebuilt with functionality in mind — earthquake proof, too, for there are at least three a day — and the majority of the people walking the streets are two or three generations removed from the destruction.
It has been over 70 years since 80% of the city was destroyed. On August 6, 1945, during World War II (1939-45), an American B-29 bomber dropped the world’s first deployed atomic bomb over the Japanese city of Hiroshima.
After leaving my bag off at the hotel, I go to the actual place where the A-bomb hit. I anticipate that it will be a long afternoon, and I need plenty of time to process everything. That’s the way my writing mind works in order to capture the spirit of somewhere.
As I stand in the park shaded by large trees looking at the one remaining building left as a symbol of the city's wipe-out and to the actual target — the bridge 200 feet away — tears well.
Here I am halfway around the world to the faraway place that was the main topic so often in conversations during my childhood. Part of the panic about the Cold War period in the fifties was how horrible a nuclear war would be if the Russians used their weapon of destruction. The events at Hiroshima and Nagasaki were too close of a reminder.
Growing up, my history books are filled with how World War II ends abruptly and why bombing Japan is deemed necessary. It saves American soldiers lives and spares the Japanese people from more suffering. I don't debate the reason.
Still, it is hard to fathom that at one moment in time there are human beings screaming in agony and racing to get away from the terrific heat — many jump into the river — and all the multitude of fires from collapsing buildings.
Since it is so still around me — people are relatively into their own thoughts — a rush of energy circles me. It really is hard to describe, except I felt the identical energy at Gettysburg, Nuremberg and looking into the pit of earth at the 9/11 destruction before the museum was built. There’s nothing like living the history of the world.
There are many Japanese middle school children here with their teachers studying the facts of the event, and I wonder what they are being told. Maybe it is me — a couple other Americans say they felt the same—but there is restlessness in the air when I come face-to-face with those children. In fact, a couple young girls somehow get mixed into our group, and when they look at us I hear one whisper to the other, “Oh, Americans.” There is no negativity in her voice, except that they are studying about the country that dropped the A-bomb, and here we are in real time. From every other discussion I have in Japan, peace for the future is the most desired lesson to be taken away from a bad period.
An hour is spent with a survivor — a woman age six at the time — and she talks through a translator about what she remembers and hears from her family.
I am not positive how much she actually witnessed herself and the clarity of her memory. She has given that same speech so many times that all her feelings are squeezed out of it, or perhaps, I am misinterpreting her intentions. It could be the way Japanese survivors relate to their past.
In a soft, monotone voice she describes looking up at the bright cloud that rains ash down from the sky wondering what to make of it while she is on her school playground. She stays at the school building, partially damaged itself until evening, when the steam train is running again and she returns home.
We tend to focus on the epic moments in history, and not the actual people who suffer sickness, death and hunger as a result. This lady is fortunate that she never has any lingering after affects from radiation like so many others.
Looking into this survivor’s face, I see a life well lived for a 76 year old woman, one who has come to a thoughtful conclusion about her childhood.
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Kay Thomas’s new book, Shimmering Japanese Sunlight can be found on Amazon in paperback and e-version.
Thursday, September 22, 2016
In preparing for boarding a plane, the desk attendant at the gate literally shouted over the loud speaker, “Put your passports away. You’re in America after all.”
I felt uncomfortable – perhaps embarrassed is a better choice for a word – while standing in a close by boarding line at the San Francisco International Airport.
Chills went down my spine and instinctively I glanced around at the crowd lining up near me.
All ages. Travelers. Business people. There was a perfect example of diversity with a whole lot of international visitors in the mix.
Careless remarks often said without thinking can hurt, and deeply, too. You and I have accidently let words come out of our mouth and we could kick ourselves instantly.
It was a quiet Sunday afternoon and no one appeared in a rush. Ah, that relaxed California lifestyle was seeping into our bones and working its magic from the week’s visit.
What? Did I hear that remark right?
There was a sudden heightened tension in the air as if a bolt of lightning had struck, and I began listening for comments from those around me that would help me tell the story.
You know how people are in a crowd, and seldom do they listen anyhow to those rote announcements repeated over and over.
Besides, every time you fly, there is a new rule or procedure overtaking the previous one. I am guilty of not paying attention any better than the next person.
I was assuming that this would cause quite a commotion. People are prone to being judgmental and we have gotten worse this campaign season. If you profess too much patriotic loyalty, you are placed in this camp. If you are of a social justice bent, you are put in the other.
About half the people in line voiced in agreement. The others? I heard one mumbling male voice near me remark, “Maybe not after January.” Well, he didn’t have to say anymore.
Then utter silence. You could hear the roaring planes outside on the runway taking off away from such a thoughtless comment.
I wanted to shout out, “How rude.” Why I didn’t express myself, I don’t know.
Well, I do know. It wouldn’t have helped matters for the moment. Often it is wiser to save your efforts and choose your battle.
You and I are just about at the breaking point with this political campaign. Speak your mind, and hold your head up for your beliefs. Keep quiet, and stay out of the debate. You’ve gone about daily life these past months either treading lightly, or carrying a big stick.
If the desk attendant was frustrated and let out her personal feelings without giving it any though, she was representing an airline, a city and a country after all. It doesn’t speak well for the rest of us.
I doubt that the remark was meant maliciously, although a bias did come through.
Naturally, I couldn’t wait to take my seat on the plane and start writing, and that’s how this week’s column was born.
One of the things that I have prided myself in writing AND ONE MORE THING… is that I have kept away from political issues and only if necessary, leaned into social commentary on a situation I felt strongly.
First of all, I just happened to be flying on September 11, 2016 and I had been cognizant earlier in the morning while driving south to the airport that I would #never forget.
In fact, I had reflected on where I was on that fateful day and how I had barely made sense of the terrible tragedy in my own small part of the world. Perhaps, that desk attendant had lost a colleague on one of the hijacked airplanes, or was grieving a passing of some other kind and was emotionally edgy.
My husband and I were staying in Torrey, Utah fifteen years ago doing a giant loop of the great national parks. If there ever was a place that showcased some of our nation’s best natural wonders and rugged scenery, it was surely in the Southwest.
Here I was traveling once again, and by chance, it was another September 11th.
Secondly, San Francisco is a huge international gateway airport and I had been noticing people clutching passports from other countries, speaking a different tongue and in cases, they were looking completely confused over how to find their gate or their luggage at baggage claim.
It might have been their first entry into the United States, and it is appalling that they heard such an ignorant statement.
I can only speak for myself when I am in another country, and how much I appreciate a welcome — often a helpful hand comes graciously — when I am so far from the familiarity of my home turf.
Our words can be used to hurt or to heal. “Careless words stab like a sword, but the words of wise people bring healing.” -Proverbs 12:18.
Briefly, a damper was put on a sunny day. Through the impulsive remark of a single person, it reminded me the importance of an open heart to all people in the world.
Thursday, September 15, 2016
Friday, September 9, 2016
There are things that are best left unfinished. That is the most appropriate advice I have to offer at the start of a new school year. Follow it and you’ll be one grade a head in your life’s assessment plan.
Seriously, unfinished business goes against the grain of what you and I have been taught our entire lives. Clean your plate. Stick with the musical instrument. Be loyal to your company. Complete the embroidery project.
In other words, complete what you’ve started, or you are a procrastinator, ineffectual and undependable person.
Here’s my point.
It doesn’t equate that not finishing slows down the progress of creativity and problem solving. It might have the opposite effect and challenge your mental capabilities.
Nothing learned is ever put to waste. One idea piles on top of another.
Impulsivity can get you into trouble and often it is wisest to walk away form things not clearly thought through. You save time, money and a whole lot of grief.
I can’t imagine that a scientist follows through on every experiment when signs are leading nowhere. Maybe the bunny trail heads off somewhere else, and that road will prove more productive.
Usually an artist makes many rough sketches before starting the actual piece. I would dare say that those unfinished sketches are “thinking in progress” and hold great value in the final result.
I am not implying that all things should go unfinished. That would be insane.
It occurred to me the other day when I was going through folders on my computer desktop, that I have a mammoth number of incomplete stories, poems and scribbles.
I doubt a single one of these bits and pieces will get finished ever. I call them “starters.” There are waiting, though, like cough medicine and allergy pills on my shelf, just in case. I never know when I might look back and read an intelligent thought in the middle of a lousy piece of fiction I was trying to pawn off as decent. I’ll surprise myself and lift the thought for another purpose.
I often write until my mind goes dry and I realize that I have said next to nothing worth its salt for human consumption. By three or four hundred words into the page, I fold up shop. Fortunately, I have that luxury.
In fact, a writer once told me under no circumstances to toss out even a snippet of my written work. He’s been writing for years, and I can’t imagine what his computer desktop and journals hold. Treasures are hidden away from the world’s eyes, although he wouldn’t admit to it.
I believe in taking chances, and risk taking is a valuable learning tool as hard as it makes life. Somehow one risk may lead me in another direction and I am merrily on my way to a different thought and outcome.
You know people who have ten different projects going on at the same time and they bounce back and forth happily between them. Some get completed. Others not. It’s the stimulation they receive I believe from being actively engaged that keeps their minds in full gear.
They are the most interesting people to have a conversation with around the table for they can talk in so many different directions and usually are great at sharing information. Wines. Travel. Hobbies. Home improvement projects. You name it.
Our minds don’t all work the same. Thank goodness.
There are folks who methodically complete every single task on their goal sheet, and that is fine by me. Unfinished business is unheard of in their books. Three cheers.
I think of all the people who tell me that they are writers, and when I ask them what they are writing, I get ten thousand excuses why they aren’t doing it right then.
They have made hundreds of “attempts” but nothing completed to show for all their work. Probably they are among some of the most brilliant people I know, too. There minds are going in a whirl at full speed and likewise, it is nearly impossible for them to physically sit down disciplined to write.
They might take a lesson from making an honest attempt at writing as much as possible – I don’t say every day – and practice, practice. At least they’ve made a start. And starts are good signs of motion in a forward direction.
So nowadays I have no qualm in not cleaning my plate. I work a little harder at gauging my portions to begin with, or take a doggie bag home from a restaurant. There are alternatives to not finishing a meal for a positive and healthy reason.
I started playing the piano and took lessons until my mother gave up on me. My heart wasn’t into it, and I caused more stress than need be at home. However, when I picked up the flute a couple years later, I already knew a lot about reading music, and I was beyond the basics.
In teaching I was not afforded the opportunity to move from one location to another. However, I didn’t end up teaching the same grade level that I started, and that kept me fresh. When I left teaching I took those observational skills and questioning techniques off in a different career path.
As for the embroidery project, it’s still on the top closet shelf. I doubt it will ever get finished.
Wednesday, August 24, 2016
In an extreme fit of writer sleep deprivation one morning, I began listing all the words that came to mind that began with the letter A.
Apple, atlas, apartment, AC, accountant, accompanist, accordion, acupuncture, acorn, appendix, apricot, aspirin, afternoon, auto, August, activist, allowance, advocate, advanced.
The list was substantial, but I won’t bore you to tears with my failed experiment supposedly meant to stimulate my brain.
Nothing. A preschooler could have done better making the connections and writing something…anything.
I put the list away and moved on to other projects. Certain assignments are time-sensitive, and a deadline is a deadline all fooling around aside.
Still, I kept returning to the first letter in the alphabet, and I must admit that it became a minor obsession. One of those words should trigger a thought, wouldn’t you think?
I became “curiouser and curiouser” like Alice from “Alice in Wonderland” fame where Lewis Carroll has her speaking with astonishment at her plight.
Alleluia. There is my word: Alice.
Alice and I were fast storybook companions when I was growing up, and unfortunately she isn’t quite as popular today. Alas, Dora, the Explorer and The Little Mermaid have made Alice swim upstream to catch children’s attention.
It’s a shame the story is off the radar screen as it is a classic tale of a child going into an imaginary world meeting all sorts of mad – extremely “foolish” as the Brits would say - nonsensical characters.
There were books for children before 1865 when Alice was published, but they were almost all written to make a moral point. Good children behave like this; bad children behave like that. They are punished for it, and it serves them right. In Alice, for the first time, you find a realistic child taking part in a story whose intention was entirely fun.
There were a lot of children at the performance. I overheard one grandma in the ladies room tell her granddaughter a couple rules of theatre etiquette, and the little girl assured her grandma that her mother had told her all that stuff that morning. I got a kick out of what the grandma replied. “ I’m glad she remembered herself.”
I asked the teenage boy sitting next to me about his love of Alice, and he said that he didn’t know anything about it, or the back-story of how the book got written. He was enthusiastic, though, and went right to his program notes only to discover that Charles Dodgson told stories on afternoon boat rides to Alice Liddell and her two sisters, which Alice insisted he write down.
I have a couple favorite parts including The Mad Hatter’s Tea party, which has one quip after the other, and the Queen of Hearts is as wicked as wicked can be at the croquet tournament.
"I've had nothing yet," Alice replied in an offended tone, "so I can't take more."
"You mean you can't take less," said the Hatter: "it's very easy to take more than nothing."
"Nobody asked your opinion," said Alice.”
In fact, out of all the quotes during the play, the one that made me giggle the most was this one: “Oh, you can’t help that,” said the Cheshire cat. “We’re all mad here.”
“But I don’t want to go among mad people,” Alice remarked.
“Oh, you can’t help that,” said the Cat: “we’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.”
“How do you know I’m mad?” said Alice.
“You must be,” said the Cat, “or you wouldn’t have come here.”
“The best people are mad.”
We Americans think of someone crazy as a synonym for mad and take the darker road with the meaning of the word. I’ll stick with the Brits on that one.
Well, it got one reaction right away when I went to check out and a young man in his twenties working the counter said, “Oh, my mother says each of us needs one of these in our household. We’re all mad.” He smiled and checked me out. “You’ve bought the perfect shirt.”
If you think about it, you know families that are a hoot to be around. They make a laughing matter out of family gatherings, birthday shenanigans and just about every social event in-between. There’s never a dull moment, nor a gap in the entertainment like a vaudeville troupe gone mad with glee.
If you think about it, you know families that are a hoot to be around. They make a laughing matter out of family gatherings, birthday shenanigans and just about every social event in-between. There’s never a dull moment, nor a gap in the entertainment like a vaudeville troupe gone mad with glee.
One family’s style of humor is never the same as the neighbor’s across the lawn. It grows as the combination of family members increases through marriage and birth with their idiosyncrasies and flaws. Every generation raises the bar a tiny bit, but still, grandpa usually wins hands down every time as the master of the art of wit.
Those families recognize that no one is perfect and life is nonsensical to a degree anyway. What’s the point of taking it all too seriously?
How about the rest of us? About face and rethink silliness like Alice and friends.
Friday, August 12, 2016
At 5:30 am when I get up, the birds are going about their daily business. They are one chirp ahead of me. I fly into productivity at a considerably slower cruising speed.
The sunrise is peeking through the uneven tree line scheduling another scorcher for Mother Earth. Daily heat and humidity have become as predictable as baseball games and hot dogs.
My sleepy eyes need a few moments to acclimate. Never having been a quick “rise and shine” type of person, I literally stumble about at my own pace. My body parts are similar to a car’s engine, which functions best fully lubricated. No snap, crackle and pop today, so I must be good to venture forth.
The crack of dawn is the magical hour — quite possibly earlier — for writers of all sorts. My optimum writing happens then. There is no competition for pulling out my most inspired stuff as long as I stay away from my social media accounts.
Allowing my thoughts to wander introduces me to more thoughts. You might say then that my writing is a wandering as if an adventure on an uncharted path.
In fact, my book, “I’ll be Honest With You” came about from those few extra moments in-between other assignments. By the end of several months, I had collected enough short pieces for a book without so much as realizing what was happening, and all before 6 in the morning.
First though, I have a little routine after I do my daily meditation.
I sit for a few minutes in semi-darkness and just listen. Possibly I have a few of the more common birds identified after all these years, especially the plentiful woodpeckers that circle our woods for the most desirable trees.
The conversations can get pretty animated and I wonder if a neighboring cat is slithering nearby on dawn patrol and mama birds are protecting their young ones.
My cat has been staying a little closer to the back porch these last two weeks with a fox taking up a transient location in the woods. The fox will move on, and until then my boy will keep vigilant when stepping outside on the back porch.
Our yard has several birdfeeders, and often it is a full house. Swallows can invade our specialty bluebird homes, and then rooms are up for grabs. Filled. No vacancy.
Staying still in a chair is not an easy thing to do without a lot of practice of letting your mind and body go. I find it is beneficial to breathe in and out deeply and watch how my facial muscles relax, a smile comes on and I sense an overall positive attitude.
In the early morning it is amazing how everything feels possible and I am determined that I will be able to conquer whatever falls in my lap today. There is such strength to be had all for the taking.
5:40 am a neighbor down the road bikes before the roads get crowded and the temperature rises. He has a giant loop he follows and part of it is on the main highway. The clicking of his wheels says he is passing by. I don’t have to look out the window and I continue with my meditation.
Like the rest of us, he is not regular in his routines, and often days will go by before he rides by again. He’s had health issues, and on a “good day” he says he takes advantage of his endurance.
He has had a string of healthy days lately and I pause to give thanks for his family and him.
The neighborhood dogs bark in chorus when he passes, or could it be for a few deer crossing the road? They are permanent residents, too, and early morning is prime time for movement.
The sound of birds is soothing to me, and especially in the message – enjoy summer. The days are longer, and more and more outdoor activities take on interest. Possibilities. I like that.
I don’t allow myself to think about the weekend’s plans, or the vacation in Canada coming up soon, otherwise my anxiety level will rise and defeat the purpose of quiet and calmness in the morning. This is the world’s way of getting me off step and into its hustle and bustle.
At 5:45 the steady stream of cars commuting to Rochester and Corning parade by on four wheels. I stand at the window and watch the red backlights brake before disappearing one after the other down the hill.
Many folks have left for work before I even got out of bed, and this is the second round of vehicles. I wish them safe travels and successful days.
At 5:50 I grab a large glass of water with lemon, my daily vitamins and unsweetened iced tea to fortify me until I take a break about 8 am for breakfast.
Breakfast has never been a big deal for me; although, I do get nourishment as I recognize its important for the body.
Within an hour the highway department will be parking trucks at the top of the hill and working their way down clearing out brush.
The crew can sneak up on you in their efficient way, and often I only hear a slamming truck door, or the high steady beeping of their back-up signals.
It’s 6 o’clock and I am at my desk ready to begin another round of writing for the day. As much as I have a plan set out for what I hope to accomplish, frequently I go off in a different direction like I am doing now putting this column under my belt.
Thursday, July 28, 2016
After turning in my column, Monday afternoon I went out for a boat ride on Canandaigua Lake and declared, “I am going to do nothing.”
Could that be humanly possible? My Type A personality fought the idea like an octopus grabbing hold of its prey and not letting go.
I wasn’t steering the boat, nor was I planning on doing anything active like waterskiing or tubing.
My mind dove into slow mode in between bits of conversation with my friend, the boat’s captain; I permitted my thoughts chart their own course.
By the way, don’t invite this writer out on a boat if you want a chatty afternoon. My friend, a writer also, understood and we saved our major talk until later on her patio.
Summers are meant for relaxing and appreciating our surroundings.
Bucketfuls of earth had been rearranged for a number of these structures nestling into the tight space between water and road. As a longtime resident of the area, my friend gave me a running commentary on why certain of the homes were built to accommodate zoning laws vs. nature.
Gazing out to the southern part of the lake, I am reminded of how the Native Americans must have worshipped the serenity and natural beauty of the landforms and waterways. I “see” pictures in my head of paddling canoes and fishing expeditions while women are along the shoreline starting fires for cooking.
Never one to take anything for granted, I appreciate the lake so much for what it gives us. I am big into the conservation of our natural resources, and water being one of them for future generations.
Little dips up and down from the wakes of boats racing past – I am a person who easily gets seasick unless I am breathing in fresh air – and I retreat into myself.
That particular winter was brutal. I had a steep driveway, and it is where this woman – I grew up learning to drive on flat land ‒ taught herself how to safely creep down and steer tightly onto the road. Otherwise, I would slide into the lake clutching the wheel in all earnestness.
After three days of closed highways due to a major storm, the afternoon the roads opened, two neighbors invited me to pile into their pickup truck destined for Canandaigua to replenish essentials. We were like chickens escaping the coop to free range.
The thing I remember the most about that impromptu adventure was that I got to know neighbors that had just been waving ones before.
Today, there are still smaller rustic cottages dotted around the lake, and no doubt those have been in families for generations. Owners either deal with higher taxes and all the maintenance, or sell in older age.
At the harbor in the City of Canandaigua luxury condos are being built to attract more tourists, although the framework for a hotel is stalled looming over the port like a giant winged seabird unable to launch and casting an eerie spell over the lively port.
My mind was somewhere else. I would get popped back into reality when I heard my full name, “Kathryn,” called out.
I exasperated my parents and teachers, and even more so because I finished my schoolwork on time despite preoccupation with my thoughts. Those large windows in the classroom with the pull down tan shades were no barriers to where I was in my mind at any given moment.
If daydreaming wasn’t an acceptable pastime, then I believed punishment was in store for me being a lazy person. It took a while to understand that idleness does not breed laziness.
I had my share of bruised knees from not paying attention to the shifts in sidewalk pavement and “talking” to such characters as Huck Finn and Bilbo Baggins out of the pages of favorite novels.
Readers are great daydreamers, too. I didn’t discover that until much later.
On the lake I spy a lone teenager hanging out on a raft positioned perfectly on his back for a retreat from the adults. No electronic devices are noticeable.
Well, of course, as a teacher I recognized the great importance of daydreaming as it relates to creativity and learning. The greatest thoughts need time to jell in the mind.
A considerable number of ideas drift around in your mind like they did for me on a Canandaigua Lake boat trip. A few are acted upon. Others are thrown out in the water to drift away. Keeping the possibilities afloat are essential when coming in to dock.
Wednesday, July 13, 2016
Santa Claus nails it. Chris Rock has no trouble with it. So does Woody Woodpecker. They laugh whenever they feel like it. What’s wrong with the rest of us?
We get so tied-up into knots that we forget—yes, we forget to take time for a little laughter each day.
It’s free for the asking and has tremendous mental and physical health benefits.
Like the old saying, an apple a day keeps the doctor away, a little laughter is just the stress reliever for a lightness of being.
There is a time to be serious, and there is a time for a little chuckling, giggling and pure hysterics.
It is all fine and dandy to be politically correct, but let’s not carry it overboard and become so sensitive that we can’t laugh with one another of opposing views.
Watching Jimmy Fallon’s masterful imitations of first Donald Trump, and now Bernie Sanders, takes the edge off the solemn campaign rhetoric. And to be fair, Kate McKinnon of SNL has Hillary Clinton down pat. Both comedians are top-notch, and they are just two of so many others out there in cyberspace that work at making folks laugh.
A veteran teacher told me at the beginning of my career that there should be room for at least one spontaneous laughing episode in the classroom per day student or adult initiated.
When children see their teacher in a more natural way as a fellow human full of uncertainties and questions about life, it keeps things together in a desirable way.
As a result of laughter, I noticed fabulous plays and stories created by budding authors in a room free of anxiety. Those former students are out there now in the world with pen—or computer, hard at work at obtaining an MFA in Writing, owning a consulting company and in public relations for a major non-profit.
There are several former students that keep blogs relating to their professions – a music listeners’ club blog comes to mind - and each is outstanding writing and highly informative, too. I read them and respond when I am able to let these young adults know that their teacher is keeping in virtual contact.
The failed science experiments in the classroom are the ones our future researchers and doctors –I taught many now in the medical field - learned from the most, as is usually the case.
There was a twist of laughter ringing out in the classroom when something went pop, crunch or simply nothing happened at all after careful manipulation.
Boy, did we have fun, and we learned a heap about taking risks and repeated failures breeding success eventually. It was always about the hypothesis and science all around us.
I love the person who can laugh at his mistakes graciously and take a little ribbing from his colleagues.
Everyone nearby rolls into a fit of giggling over a stupid error that no one will even remember two hours later. There is that potential to fret over your image, and this person is secure enough to not care when it comes right down to it.
I love someone who can make me laugh when I don’t even feel like I want to smile.
When I have a terrible head cold and can hardly breathe, laughter is the best medicine next to plenty of fluids and chicken noodle soup. Clever and articulate friends are great at making me howl with their one-liners.
Better still, I do appreciate my husband who listens to my sadness attentively, and then prods some smiling out of me although I may be hurting dreadfully inside.
I love the sole person who laughs himself silly at the movies over a ridiculously poorly made comedy.
No. It isn’t rude in my book. I marvel at someone releasing whatever he has to let go of, and fading into the screen’s action. He might be an off-duty EMT, firefighter or policeman chilling.
I love the store clerk who enjoys his job so much that he lets the little irritants from customers roll right off his back.
His witty comments make it worth it that you are waiting in line to get to the cash register. You can hear him bantering with the other customers, too. You turn will be soon, and what will he say?
I love a person who laughs at his mortality.
You’re positive that is one person that has it all together like my friend on her 92nd birthday told me that she felt no different than on her 18th except for lack of ability to get around on the dance floor. She’s passed on now, and still, when I think of some of her quips, I get my laugh in for the day, and a couple more, too.
Go ahead. Be silly. The reward is huge, I mean, HUGE. A big belly laugh once a day is a super dose of a mega-vitamin for what ails you.