Sticking a Jell-O Mold on Life's Pitchforks

Hey, I’ve been 80 for almost two weeks now. Where’s the Jell-O? Where’s the yeast? Where’s the pitchfork?

And I know by now you’re asking: What the hell is he talking about?

Bear with me. I’m talking about being funny. This is not what I expected to be writing about today, and nothing feels the least bit funny to me about the world I’m living in—or about the stumbling leg pain and imbalance the aging process has bequeathed me, not to mention... huh? What did you say? Oh yeah, I can barely hear.

All of which, you would think, adds up to the need to be deeply serious. And that was the spirit in which I started working on this column. And nothing came of it. I felt far too lost to be serious, that is, to speak with certainty about global politics and the state of the world. What I felt instead was desperation mixed with ego and self-pity. Mostly the latter.

Now during every discussion I’m in, part of me wanders into no man’s land, looking for inappropriate, chuckle-wrenching contributions—cans of spam, political sound bites, anything to stick on the pitchfork of seriousness.

And then I went down to eat, here at my retirement community. At one point, one of the wonderful young servers asked me, “What else can I get you?”

I answered, without a moment’s thought, “How about some peace on Earth?”

And my heart lightened. So did hers. The world relaxed around us. And I thought about a column I wrote 25 years ago. It’s called (for some reason) “Yeast and Jell-O.” I think it’s time to serve it up again:

Yeast and Jell-O

Nothing particularly funny about a pitchfork, unless it’s skewering… oh, a pair of bikini underwear, maybe. A bratwurst?

Indulge me here. This is a joke in progress. What do you think? What object would be most likely to pry a guffaw out of that scowling, granite-faced farmer in Grant Wood’s famous (and famously parodied) painting, “American Gothic”? A roll of toilet paper? How about a pineapple upside down cake?

Well, keep working on it. Something has to make him laugh or he’s done for, this poster boy of dour.

His was the face that came to mind as I began pondering the nature of humor recently, thanks to my niece, who asked me, “How’d you get to be such a funny guy, Uncle Bob?” This is not an answer to her question, but here’s a fun fact: Children laugh 300 times a day, while adults cut loose a spare, grim 15. It’s true; I read it somewhere. Can’t remember where, but it’s gospel to me now. I use it to justify my life. I’m one of those people who can’t stop turning everything into a joke.

Whatever the minimum daily requirement of titters turns out to be—and I’m sure 15 isn’t nearly enough—I help supply it. If laughter is the spiritual equivalent of Fleischmann’s yeast, I’m one of the agents who makes the bread rise.

But all I was trying to do was find my way into the conversation. I was so out of it when I was an adolescent—so clueless about the straight-ahead certainties of that age, so unable to contribute to discussions about cool hair, stick shifts, or the facts of life, much less to swagger about such matters—I spent a lot of time watching other people talk. As I prowled the periphery, free of the conversation’s centrifugal logic, I’d notice stuff the participants missed.

Odd pieces would sometimes fly out of the chatter like foul balls—a word, a phrase, an implication. When I ran to retrieve it, I’d find other subject matter nearby: someone’s crabby grandmother, last week’s homework, a dirty joke. It would have nothing to do with the conversation, but I’d bring it along and divert the others’ attention. They’d look at me with surprise, their own thoughts momentarily shattered. The shattering noise was laughter.

So that was my answer to Carmen’s question: Laughter stopped the action and got a lonely kid some eye contact. Now during every discussion I’m in, part of me wanders into no man’s land, looking for inappropriate, chuckle-wrenching contributions—cans of spam, political sound bites, anything to stick on the pitchfork of seriousness.

To test my thesis, I decided to follow myself around for a few days and keep track of the levity. This is live: My sister is telling me about losing her credit card, then remembering she used it at Kinko’s. She calls the place; amazingly, it’s there. “When you pick it up,” I hear myself say, “Be wary if, when you say ‘Thanks,’ the clerk says, ‘No, thank YOU!’” She laughs. Life goes on.

I’m proofreading a column of news briefs. I read that the No. 1 city in per capita Jell-O consumption is Des Moines, followed by Salt Lake City. This pitches me into a fit of giggles; I have no idea why. Maybe because Jell-O is such an earnest food, laced with shredded carrots, topped with sliced bananas. It’s a staple of church socials and moms everywhere, but it also wiggles. It has no food value. I work in a hushed setting, among copy editors. It’s all I can do not to disrupt their concentration with the news.

I can’t help myself. Life is too full of frowning guys gripping pitchforks.