For Mother’s Day — Teaching the art of laughter

My mother would have been considered eccentric had she been financially wealthy.

She would do almost anything — and wear almost any silly costume — to bring joy into the lives of others, much to the embarrassment of her six children.

But she is wealthy in the ways that really matter, and her greatest wealth is teaching the ar t of laughter.

She knew the benefits of laughter long before scientific studies confirmed them. When she wasn’t laughing herself, she was teaching us how to.

Most nights after dinner we sat around the table relating stories about what one of us had done and laughing aloud.

While many parents in the neigh - borhood went to social e vents Saturday nights, my mother preferred to stay home.

We’d make banana splits and watch the Carol Burnett show, and as Tim Conway’s old-man routine caused me to laugh so hard I’ d fall off the couch, she’d sit there watching me, delighted to see me learn her craft so well.

She collected friends who were even livelier than she. One lady, Marty, had five children of her own. Both had been housewives their entire adult lives — both wanted to tr y their hand at writing.

In the 1970s, my mother began getting published in newspapers and magazines — Erma Bombeck humor, mocking the life of the house wife.

She and Marty wrote a play, “Betty’s Attic,” and it was per formed by a local theater company.

They sold jokes to comedian Phyllis Diller. They were thrilled to see Diller perform their jokes at a live show — delighted to see the laughter their jokes provoked.

The writing gigs never produced much money, though, so my mother concocted a plan to generate extra cash. Did she get a part- time job at a bank or a department store, as normal moms in our neighborhood did?

No, she had another idea tha t embarrassed her children considerably: dress up like Miss Piggy, Big Bird, Raggedy Ann and Clown Clara and stage children’s parties for parents eager to pay her.

It was easy for her to bring ins tant order to a room of 40 kids or more. She still has an amazing way with children.

She was soon staging three parties every Saturday and, to avoid costume changes, staged all of them as Clown Clara.

As fate would have it, though — I’m not making this up — a thie f in the area had been robbing banks dressed as a clown.

Well, while pulling into the drive - way at the home of one of her gigs, a police car came roaring in behind her. A cop jumped out and began barking orders at her. He thought she was the bank robber!

It took some time to clear up the confusion — at one point the cop thought my mother was in cahoots with the guy who hired her to s tage his kid’s party — but when e veryone finally figured out what was going on, she had but one response: a gi - ant burst of laughter.

All of those incidents happened 40 years ago or more. My mom kept doing parties throughout her 60s.

In her 70s, she penned a half doz - en lively children’s books, which are still available on Amazon. com.

Now in her 80s, she is sharing incredible treasures with her grandchildren and great grandchildren to ensure that they, too, master the art of laughter.

Happy Mother’s Day, mom!

Tom Purcell is an author and columnist for the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review. Email him at Tom@TomPurcell. com.

It may be that Stubby is gone for good. In the summer of 2022, I started writing about my mother’s new pet, a red squirrel who she reluctantly began to care for.

My parents live on 20 acres in the woods up north in a house my father designed when he retired 35 years ago. The house looks over the lake and, for most of the winter, my parents have few neighbors, except for the birds at their feeder and the deer making their way through the deep snow and, of course, red squirrels.

Red squirrels are not friendly, like chipmunks. They are more rascally than gray squirrels. They are timid around people and aggressive around other squirrels and they will eat all the bird food they can get their paws on. My mother was not a fan of red squirrels.

But when one particular red squirrel began hanging around my parents’ house, my mother began to reconsider. Their relationship got off to a rocky start when the red squirrel tossed pine-cone seeds on my father’s head and dug up my mother’s flowerpots and made a terrible mess of the deck.

But, after the mysterious loss of his tail, my mother began to feel sorry for this little scoundrel. She began to leave him a few seeds on the railing. Eventually, the red squirrel, who we decided to call “Stubby,” became quite attached to my mother, and would stand with its little paws knit together, looking into the window after my mother left seeds out for him on the railing.

Stubby now appears to be missing. There is another red squirrel and, as hard as my mother would like to believe otherwise, it is not Stubby.

“Could it be that his tail has grown back?” my mother asked.

I’d heard of salamanders growing new tails, but this seemed unlikely in a red squirrel. We both stood silently at the window for a long time, trying to convince ourselves that this was Stubby—thinner after the long winter, with a new scar on his side and a much longer tail. But we knew it was not Stubby.

“I saw two squirrels chasing each other around,” my mother said. “I thought one of them was Stubby. Do you think this squirrel chased him away?”

Of course, I didn’t know. I didn’t even know how long red squirrels lived. Three years, I later learned, is average, although some have lived up to 10 years in captivity. But even with a steady supply of seeds, I don’t think Stubby was living under optimum conditions. Somebody had already gotten the end of his tail, after all.

And we have no idea how old he was when that happened.

“Where could he have gone?” my mother wondered aloud.

We do not know, and I don’t suppose we ever will. I had hoped Stubby would be around this summer, tossing more pine-cone seeds onto our heads and peering earnestly at my mother through the window. I would like to believe that, after an extended convalescence, Stubby was well enough to seek out new territory, perhaps find a mate, start a new life with his refashioned tail.

But I know that none of this is likely. And it makes me sad.

Stubby was a good friend to my mother. He made a big impression with his short life and his short tail and his surprisingly courteous manners. He was a fine example of how we can rebound from tragedy, make new and unexpected friends and behave better than people expect.

Till next time,

Carrie

Carrie Classon’s memoir is called “Blue Yarn.” Learn more at CarrieClasson.com. Photos of Mexico and other things can be found at CarrieClassonAuthor on Facebook.