Today is my dad’s birthday. Once again I had to get out my calculator and do my arithmetic. 2007 take away 1897 equals 110, more than one year younger than my mother – to her everlasting chagrin. My dad was mostly a serious fellow, but if he ever started to laugh, he had a hard time stopping. My story is a church story. My dad was seated on the aisle. He needed to use his handkerchief, so he reached into his back pocket and pulled out his crisp, white, starched handkerchief. He gave it a good snap to open it up, and then to his surprise and wonderment, he watched it unfurl up the length of the aisle. My mother had mistakenly put my sister’s three-yard dress sash in a neatly folded package resembling a man’s handkerchief into the drawer along with the other freshly ironed handkerchiefs. He started to laugh uncontrollably. My mother first rolled her eyes at him to behave and then she started laughing too. We watched in amazement, not having the slightest notion of what was going on, and before you knew it, we were all laughing too. Not out loud, of course, but silently, with tears streaming and shoulders shaking. Who has not had a terrible fit of laughter in church?
Their laughing together is what I remember most about my parents. What could be better than that?
Your notion of his seriousnous is such a different image than the one I have of him. I always think of him as funny and quick-witted. Grandma, too.
I don't remember too many things about Grandpa, but I do remember that he had a small piece of wood stuck under his skin near his elbow. He'd let me touch it and move it around. I guess I thought that was a neat trick or something.
I know someone else who has trouble stopping laughing once she gets started. Must be a Tompkins trait.
Very sweet memories!