Nervy Girl!

by Kristin Schuchman
Editor/Publisher

As the daughter of a woman with 11 siblings, I grew up experiencing family gatherings with too many relatives to count. Every few years we had a full blown reunion with family from all over the country. These get-togethers were large enough to warrant significant mention in the newspaper of O'Neill, Ne., the town in which my grandmother lived. My mother's entire family placed great emphasis on wit and humor, so these events always proved full of unending hilarity.

I remember the last official reunion before my grandmother's death. We rented nearly every room in O'Neill's Hotel Golden and ate breakfast most mornings at the nearby M & M Cafe, which served maple long johns that would put Krispy Kreme to shame. We'd eat dinner at my grandma's house or at Buzzy's Jalopy, a dimly lit dive with, of course, an old car on the roof and an autographed picture of the Beverly Hillbillies' Donna Douglas. Then, we'd head over to the hotel to stay up into the wee hours playing cards, pitching pennies, playing charades, or generally cutting up.

Sometimes their loudness embarassed me, but I loved how spontaneous and outgoing they were. Uncle Marvin could be counted on for witty rejoinders as could Uncle Bob for good-spirited rough housing. Uncle Frederick always had the latest technological gizmos, like a camcorder he'd set up in the lawn to tape the day's events. Then, we'd later watch the tape of something like my brother sneaking periodic appearances in front of the camera lamenting the woe that was his life as a John Travolta look alike. (He doesn't look anything like John Travolta.)

My mother's three sisters were funny and beautiful, and I adored them. I looked upon Aunt Lois as if she were a movie star; she lived in L.A., dyed her hair red, and always wore liptick. Lois and Aunt Janice told great stories, which Aunt Marilyn enhanced with her warm cackle. I can picture Janice telling humorous stories as she cooked, using hand gestures and infecting you with her laughter. My mother was more clownish, quick with quips and puns.

My mother and her sisters could be devilish, too. Uncle Frederick's fastidious wife Ruth would reorganize my grandmother's kitchen in obnoxious little ways like wrapping the extensions cords up inside discarded toilet paper rolls or labeling coffee cans with letters she'd cut out individually to say "MAC" or "RICE." Once, my mother emptied out the macaroni in the "MAC" can and changed the "A" into a "U" so the can spelled "MUC," which she then filled with trail mix.

At age 88, my grandmother was diagnosed with cancer and died fourteen months later. Faced with the enormous grief of losing their mother, the Holsclaws comforted each other with their wealth of humor. Much of the time just before her death was spent telling stories about past family gatherings. These tales made up a comic oral history of sorts. Though only 12, I knew I was receiving a privileged glimpse of a rare and special family.

My grandmother's funeral was the last really large get-together of the Holsclaw clan. As my grandmother passed away, a ringleader brought her tents down for the last time.

Society thinks of strength as something that involves a steely countenance, but I'd argue that a sense of humor helps us brave disasters much better than stoicism. For one thing, it puts things in perspective. There's a reason we can "look back and laugh" at painful experiences.

Humor also diffuses tension. Couples who use humor to diffuse tension are said to have more enduring relationships. In this issue, two stories take a look at how humor helps us cope with tough situations and heals our pain -- She Who Laughs, Lasts and Comedienne, Heal Thyself.

Though I rarely see my relatives anymore, I've been blessed with their appreciation of life's everyday pleasures. They're the reason I see humor in difficult situations and form friendships with people who make me laugh. I can't imagine a more valuable family inheritance.