Make Me Laugh?

- The Harlem Globetrotters -

Occasionally, you'll see a little kid like I was. He'll be angry, his cute little mouth in a permanent frown, his little arms crossed in front of him, rebellious and resistant to all parental efforts to alter his mood.

To this day, I deal with the remnants of that childhood anger. As an adult, I have my own culpabilities and anger is one of them. The childhood thing is different. It had a lot to do with my being dreadfully ill in those early days, among other issues.

Mom and Dad did everything imaginable to guide and coax me through it. Laughter would be good, they reasoned, so they took several extraordinary measures.

Dad began reading the comics from the Denver Post every evening. I loved hearing him. And, I learned how to read, watching and listening to him.

But laugh? Not me. I stubbornly remained sullen, serious, sober. The comics were useful, but didn't make me laugh.

The parental units decided, O.K. Let's try something else. So next was the circus. I liked the circus. Still do. I enjoy watching the costumed girls standing on the backs of beautiful horses, plumes flying, circling the arena.

But the clowns? Maybe they were funny but I wasn't laughing.

Next they tried the Ice Capades, starring that year the inimitable Sonja Heine.

I did enjoy watching Sonja and the other leggy women skaters – especially the part where they skated backwards. Their little skirts would blow up and their matching panties could be viewed. Oh hot.

But laugh at the comic acts between the figure skaters? Laugh? Me? Nothing doing. The scowl remained.

We went to see "Son of Paleface" with Bob Hope. Lots and lots of hilarious scenes. There's one in which the Bad Indians tie Bob's feet to two bent-down saplings and cut him loose, ostensibly to be torn in two.

One of Bob's cowboy boots comes off, and his life is saved. Even the Indians laugh, but not this little boy, no way. Still no laughter.

So one fine evening, we head off to Denver again, this time to watch a basketball game featuring the Harlem Globetrotters. A 'trotters sight gag did it for me – and my Mom and Dad.

There's a water bucket on the sidelines, and every once in a while, one of the towering players will come over to the bench, lift a ladle out of the bucket, and take a big wet drink.

Eventually, one of the players gets "mad" at another for some reason. He goes to the bench, picks up the ladle and drinks it all.

Then he takes the bucket and begins chasing his victim all over the court. The victim backs up in mock terror, backs up right next to the crowd in which I'm sitting.

Of course when the 'trotter throws the "water" on his victim, a huge cloud of confetti lands on the crowd, including me.

I laughed until I cried. These days, I'll laugh at almost anything. Thanks, Mom and Dad. And, thanks to the Harlem Globetrotters.

- Politics -

I was listening to the Cheyenne radio station in amazement. There is a hot political race in Wyoming between a former president's wife and that nice Irish Catholic fellow.

He was unknown to me, but since I don't watch TV or even read the paper much, my ignorance wasn't surprising.

So I asked Laura who this mysterious candidate might be and from whence had he come. His voice message sounded like he might be from Indiana or Chicago – you know, a Midwestern or even northeastern Dimmycrat, vague, promising nothing, asking everything.

Laura couldn't come up with it; she hadn't been listening to the ads. So we waited until the radio programming came full circle and helped us identify the candidate.

Now you know, that nice fellow with the Irish Catholic-sounding name:

Brock O'Bama. Maybe he's not Irish. But he might be Catholic, especially if that will help him get elected. Depends on where the election is being held.

- Hilda retires -

Our Idaho friend Hilda has worked as a picture framer, consummate art gallery hostess and all-around craftswoman for 20 years, give or take.

Next fall, she'll retire. Then she and her husband Earl can fully enjoy grandkids and their newly refurbished home on Lemon Street in Blackfoot. They might even do a little travelling, we hear.

As if to indicate he couldn't face business life without her, Hilda's employer announced this week that the gallery is for sale.

How does this concern me? We have some things in common with the Idaho folks.

Could we sell The Real Leather Company to a newcomer, and retire ourselves? It doesn't seem likely. My Dad ran a neighborhood grocery for 25 years and when he sold it, the new owner lasted only a few weeks. Our plight would be the same.

We're in our 20^th year. When we started, the experts said we'd know after three years. We still don't know. I have no inclination to retire – after all, I do so little now that doing less would be ludicrous.

Drop by and see what you think. Should we quit now, while everything is going so well?

We're open Wednesday, Thursday and Friday from noon to 5 p.m. and Saturday, 10:30 to 3.

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Word of the week: Projection. This is a huge word. It's so big I tremble at the prospect of completely defining it. This will have to suffice: in psychiatry, the unconscious act or process of ascribing to others one's own ideas or impulses, especially when such ideas or impulses are considered undesirable. Hey. I knew that.

Next week's word: Transubstantiation.

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Gripes? Complaints? Whines? or Comments? Adoration? Puppy love? Feel free to express yourself in the comments!