It weighs on my heart, and it can be sobering.
Are we losing our sense of humor? Over the past few years, something has shifted.
Many of our comedian friends have stopped touring. One has even become a preacher.
At times, I watch naturally funny people start to say something, then stop themselves with a quiet, “Never mind.”
I come from a witty family—my parents, my siblings, their children. All are quick with a story, easy with a laugh. That’s a gift in the good times. But in the hard times? It’s essential. Humor carries us through.
At Mama’s visitation, I stood at the foot of the casket, receiving condolences. Whenever a farmer said, “If there’s anything I can do, just let me know,” I’d reply, “Could you bush hog my pasture?”
Rodney, my brother-in-law—one of the funniest people you’ll ever meet—was nearby, greeting folks with his usual grin. After hearing a few of my replies, he slipped over.
“Hey dummy, stop askin’ everybody to bush hog for you.”
“They asked what I need.”
He shook his head, half amused. “They don’t mean bush hoggin’.”
“It’s what I need.”
Last year, one of Rodney’s barns burned.
They had been baling hay, parked the tractor and baler inside, and gone in for supper. A spark from the baler must have caught the dry grass. In a matter of moments, years of work and a lifetime of memories were gone—his parents’ last cars, my nephew’s first car, his daddy’s welding machine, and equipment Rodney had spent years paying off. That farm, passed down through generations, held a century of hard-earned history.
There were small victories. My nephew ran into the burning barn to save a new skid steer. Rodney managed to push out an old truck. A friend rescued the Gator just before the roof collapsed. Firefighters kept the blaze contained, sparing nearby structures filled with freshly baled hay.
Still, it was devastating. It even made the front page of the newspaper.
People cried. Even Tink fought back tears. I stood off to the side, taking it all in, when Rodney came over, nudged me, and sighed—still smiling, his blue eyes bright.
“Well, there goes my John Deere tractor.”
The way he said it—dry, almost playful—made me laugh. In that moment, the weight lifted, just a little. Everyone knew how much he loved that tractor.
The next day, Tink and I stopped by a tractor dealership to see about replacing it.
The owner shook his head. “Rodney only likes John Deere. He wouldn’t want anything I’ve got.”
“Laughter through tears is my favorite emotion,” Dolly Parton said in Steel Magnolias.
A dear friend of mine, John Jarrard, lived that truth. A successful songwriter on Music Row, he lost his sight to Type 2 diabetes while still in college. It didn’t stop him. He went on to co-write Out of the Clear Blue Sky for George Strait.
John had a rich, joyful laugh. He never pitied himself. He made the most of what he had.
By his forties, the disease had taken more. The last time I saw him, before complications from a kidney transplant took his life, he was in a wheelchair.
I squeezed his hand. “I love your new Tracy Lawrence song. It’s going to be number one.” It was Is That a Tear I Hear.
He grinned.
“I especially love the twin fiddles at the beginning,” I added.
From deep in his chest, he laughed. “Only you would know it was twin fiddles.”
Let’s laugh more.
It makes life easier.
Especially in the hard times.