Sense of Humor
Sometimes it's my own sense of humor that tickles my fancy and sometimes it's someone else's.
All week, it's been the Powers-That-Be for my city's sense of humor: One morning I left the house to find a clear road and went my merry way. When I returned, those dreaded orange and white hurdles were in the roadway. "Road closed," the sign said. I slowed and stopped, confused. The rule-follower in me wanted to turn around, but my house was beyond those hurdles. While I pondered on the side of the road, another car went around them. Ah! I followed, and made it home. The closure was at the intersection, fifty feet from my house.
Now the road is closed every day, but only in the daytime. Each occasion to venture out of the house is now rather like being a rat in a maze, where they keep moving the cheese. Is it this way? Nope, dead end. How about this way? Nope, another dead end.
Thursday night, it was God's sense of humor: The days have been running in the low 80s here and Thursday decided to cloud over. Gray skies and grumbling clouds covered our area, and I watched eagerly for signs of rain. The construction on the house has been done for awhile, and most of the last few pieces were finally complete, including the cushion in the window seat. I wanted a thunderstorm, so I could sit up there and watch. (Summer days are not good ones for sitting in that spot.)
By late afternoon, the sky was incredibly dark and it looked like I could touch the clouds if I just stood on tiptoe. Surely it would rain!
I did household chores and some computer gaming while I waited. And waited. And waited. (Here's where God's sense of humor comes in.)
At last, the first raindrops splattered on the dusty pavement outside. I ran to the Fox Room to sit in my new window seat... And realized the sun had set. It was dark outside!
I sat in my window anyway, and did see some lightning, but though I heard the drops hit the window, I never did see it rain.
And Friday night, it was my sense of humor: I needed to call Harry because the guy with him needed to call his wife for a personal crisis. So I got out the hotel list and looked up the number. (They're in Germany.) Holiday Inn. Cool. I dialed the very-long number and heard the odd buzz of the European phone ringing.
"Gluten Morgan," she said, along with a lot of other stuff I couldn't come close to pronouncing. (I'm sure these two aren't right, either, but that's what my American ears heard.)
"Hi," I wisely offered. "I need to speak with my husband. Do you speak English?"
"Yes?" she said, clearly, with an accent, and with the question mark. Still, I was overjoyed to understand the word.
"Oh, good. My husband's name is Harry Hakala H A K A L A. Can I speak with him?"
There followed a very long silence which probably cost me more than a gallon of gas. Then, hesitantly, "Is he not in your room?"
Copyright 2014 Michelle Hakala