Each morning, I awaken and write before my mind loses its irrationality and becomes reasonable, blocking out all creativity with the fear of not being perfect. I also face each new morning dreading what I will hear about Ukraine and its people. Recently, my niece has been pushing me to organize the stacks of poetry on the kitchen table and publish a book. She nags so well that I eventually agreed. Having no interest in, nor understanding of, how to format and upload a book I began exploring but was not self-motivated enough to accomplish much until I realized I could maybe help Ukrainians by publishing a book of poetry about the ongoing war with Russia. The photo above is of the book I recently published titled SLAVA UKRAINI, Poems forPeace. It is available for purchase on Amazon at $14.99. All profits from the sale of the book will go to World Food Kitchen Ukrainian effort.
My father and his 3 brothers operated a restaurant called The Center Cafe for 38 years. Returning home to small town Ohio after WWII, they realized no one would hire Italian immigrant men. So, like all immigrants and their children before them and after, they started their own business. Like any Italian worthy of the title they started a food business. The first and last thing visitors to our home had to do was “sit and eat.” So, I chose World Food Kitchen as the donee because I understand the healing power of food served with love and compassion.
I am now determined to improve my publishing skills and make more books. My niece is happy. And I hope I am able to help Ukrainians in my own small way. I hope it means fewer Ukrainians will perish under Russian onslaught. I encourage you to help Ukraine in whichever way you choose to do so. Slava Ukraini !
A sense of humor may save us all. One cannot grip a weapon of words or worsewhile laughing. Some of us actually fall down laughing as muscles relax beyond support of our frames, or our frame of mind. It is just too difficult to attack another while laughing, especially if one can laugh at one’s self. The serious-minded sometimes misunderstand such self-effacing laughs. They mistakenly believe one is laughing at them.
I love to laugh. It stops the fingers from reaching for weapons I carry in my mind’s pocket, the sharp words I can wield like a knife. Better I laugh aloud during an argument than pull out such words and attack.
This is one reason the entertainers I most respect are comedians. Court jesters who poke the kings and courts of the world to relieve the tensions in their realms allow peace to reign instead. Keep the world laughing and perhaps war will hold its breath.
My Dad was a comedian. Not as a profession, as a personal trait. His silly grin infected anyone who was within its view. Some of his best work was at funerals. I watched him charm the smiles from mourners, restore their joy and fond memories of the deceased. Quietly he worked the room, or the procession of cars halted on busy paths at the cemetery. Walking form car to car he would stop at each one. In moments the car was shaking and passengers’ shoulders chopping up the view with laughing. As soon as he started the laughter he would move on to the next car. Dad was a master of silliness.
Mom lived life as if it were an Italian opera, full of high drama. Dad was the court jester who brought his audience of children to their feet in glee. Mom learned to make that silly grin, too. We all did. We are a family of grinning fools. We learned to never take life’s difficulties seriously, and to seriously dismiss life’s accomplishments as a humorous surprise.
We were taught to laugh at ourselves. We were taught to admit our human frailty, and view it as a reason for laughter. What a gift from our parents. The gift of not fearing our mistakes, nor fearing to admit them. The ability to sincerely apologize. The ability welcome accountability. The ability to laugh and move on with forgiveness. The ability to openly admit defeat with a smile. The ability to fight our stubborn natures with humor.
I must admit, others often think our wry humorous response to our own mistakes is sarcasm, the lowest form of humor. Sometimes, when our pain is great, the lowest form is all we can muster. I must remind myself to raise the humor up a notch, or two or three. I will never be so good at this as my Dad was. I am too much like Mom and enjoy the Italian opera’s drama, the pull of its force which can mute the humor with tears. Balance is the most I can hope for, until the laughter destroys my balance and I fall laughing at your feet; knowing if I can make you laugh, too, you cannot stomp me into the dust.
annarino writes 
A SENSE OF HUMOR CAN SAVE THE WORLD
A sense of humor may save us all. One cannot grip a weapon of words or worsewhile laughing. Some of us actually fall down laughing as muscles relax beyond support of our frames, or our frame of mind. It is just too difficult to attack another while laughing, especially if one can laugh at one’s self. The serious-minded sometimes misunderstand such self-effacing laughs. They mistakenly believe one is laughing at them.
I love to laugh. It stops the fingers from reaching for weapons I carry in my mind’s pocket, the sharp words I can wield like a knife. Better I laugh aloud during an argument than pull out such words and attack.
This is one reason the entertainers I most respect are comedians. Court jesters who poke the kings and courts of the world to relieve the tensions in their realms allow peace to reign instead. Keep the world laughing and perhaps war will hold its breath.
My Dad was a comedian. Not as a profession, as a personal trait. His silly grin infected anyone who was within its view. Some of his best work was at funerals. I watched him charm the smiles from mourners, restore their joy and fond memories of the deceased. Quietly he worked the room, or the procession of cars halted on busy paths at the cemetery. Walking form car to car he would stop at each one. In moments the car was shaking and passengers’ shoulders chopping up the view with laughing. As soon as he started the laughter he would move on to the next car. Dad was a master of silliness.
Mom lived life as if it were an Italian opera, full of high drama. Dad was the court jester who brought his audience of children to their feet in glee. Mom learned to make that silly grin, too. We all did. We are a family of grinning fools. We learned to never take life’s difficulties seriously, and to seriously dismiss life’s accomplishments as a humorous surprise.
We were taught to laugh at ourselves. We were taught to admit our human frailty, and view it as a reason for laughter. What a gift from our parents. The gift of not fearing our mistakes, nor fearing to admit them. The ability to sincerely apologize. The ability welcome accountability. The ability to laugh and move on with forgiveness. The ability to openly admit defeat with a smile. The ability to fight our stubborn natures with humor.
I must admit, others often think our wry humorous response to our own mistakes is sarcasm, the lowest form of humor. Sometimes, when our pain is great, the lowest form is all we can muster. I must remind myself to raise the humor up a notch, or two or three. I will never be so good at this as my Dad was. I am too much like Mom and enjoy the Italian opera’s drama, the pull of its force which can mute the humor with tears. Balance is the most I can hope for, until the laughter destroys my balance and I fall laughing at your feet; knowing if I can make you laugh, too, you cannot stomp me into the dust.
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Tagged as comedians, court jester, humor, jokes, laughter, peace, war