King Solomon, in the biblical Book of Proverbs, wrote “A merry heart does good, like a medicine.” And you can make it yourself. More than funny YouTube videos, TV shows or movies, merry hearts are threaded with the genuine stories of real life. Like this one…
I don’t like mice in the house, especially lying dead on my old velvet prayer chair. Grace Cat has captured a trophy, I thought, and picked it up by its tail.
It squeaked. So did I, and tossed it. When it landed, I tiptoed over to inspect. A “Do not remove this tag until delivered to consumer” tag stuck out its hind end.
I removed.
The Preacher, I learned later, had bought the mouse for His Grace. The cat thoroughly killed it, then ignored it.
“Watch out for the mouse,” I yelled from the top of the stairs when Benjamin Bean headed down later. One of his sisters had tossed it there to tease Grace.
Benjamin pointed. “That one?”
“Right. Can you bring it here?” I asked.
“Nana! I’m not touching a dead mouse!”
“Ya sure it’s dead?” I walked down, stooped and reached for the tail.
“NANA! Don’t!” But I already had.
The mouse squeaked. Benjamin jumped backwards. “NANA! Put it down! That’s not safe!”
I made a series of imperceptible hand movements. The mouse jerked in my palm, squealing. Benjamin retreated more and protested louder. But when the mouse “leapt” from my hand; when it actually landed on him, he reached his limit. Stopped by the couch from backing further, he leapt onto it, shrieking.
My grandson has the constitution of most ten-year-old boys: intrepid snake-inspectors, gross-me-outers and (when he can get away with it) the-louder-and-longer-the-better-body noisemaker.
But that day he had spent the entire morning in the sun playing with friends, and most of the afternoon mowing lawn. He had come into the house exhausted, dehydrated and sweating like a teenager (to his delight).
Hearing the commotion, his mother raced downstairs, assessing the situation correctly on sight. “Benjamin,” she yelled, grabbing the mouse. “Look! Nana’s pranking you. The mouse is fake!”
“I DON’T CARE,” he screamed. “GET IT AWAY FROM ME!”
He recovered in a bit. Even said he would forgive me – if I would let him get even. Feeling less than a model grandmother, I agreed.
Later, while talking to his mother, I sensed movement behind me. I turned. There stood Benjamin, clawing at the air, making choking noises, and drooling large quantities of mint-scented foam.
I leapt behind my daughter. Using her as a shield, I cowered and whimpered (like he had) until he started laughing (like I had, God forgive) and explained his sudden onset rabies as nothing more than theatrics and toothpaste foam.
Our score even, Benjamin gave permission to share the mouse story. Every detail, especially the last bit.
In spite of the prevailing climate of stress, collect your own funny life stories. Because as always, the Good Book teaches true - our hearts need that medicine.
