David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Laugh 'Till You Leak

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Laugh 'Till You Leak: Laughter is Good for the Heart and the Soul Many years ago I wrote a book titled, Stress Management: Does Anyone in Chicago Know About ...

Laugh 'Till You Leak

Laughter is Good for the Heart and the Soul

Many years ago I wrote a book titled, Stress Management: Does Anyone in Chicago Know About It? I reported there are many benefits to laughter. Some of these include; sinuses open, heart rate decreases, blood pressure decreases, "happy hormones" are released into our system, adrenaline is flushed away and sugar levels drop. Today research tells us that laughter can help with weight loss. If we don't have one good belly-laugh a day, it could mean a sign of stress.

I have always enjoyed a great laugh. My childhood idols were three fellas named Moe, Larry and Curly. I watched Moe tell Curly to "pick out three." Curly touched two of Moe's fingers and was promptly poked in the eyes. In reality he poked Curly in the forehead. But I didn't know that. To an eight year old boy, that was funny stuff. Ma didn't think it was funny when I gave my four year-old brother a blood clot in his eye trying that trick. I still smiled that night in 1957, before I went to sleep.

I was always the "class clown" in every grade I attended. Even into graduate school when I was studying to become a physical therapist. I've always felt better inside when others around me were laughing. One time my friend, Jack Kennedy was balancing on the back two legs of his chair in front of a window. I told a joke, he lost his balance because he was laughing and went through that window. Forty-seven stitches it took to seal him up. I guess we need good balance sometimes to laugh safely.

There were times when I snuck around in the dark in my neighborhood with an old broken trombone. I hid in the bushes in that lined the houses. I squawked that thing as hard as I could. People who lived there would run outside and look everywhere for the source of the ailing moose-like sound. I could hardly contain myself. I have always loved pranks.

Over the years, as a physical therapist, I went to work dressed as a rabbit at Easter, a leprechaun for St. Patrick's Day, a cow with udders at Halloween and yes, even Mrs. Claus at Christmas. My patients loved it. It's good to spread humor and laughter to others - just so they don't fall out a window.

I have driven across Florida with a blow-up doll in the front seat of my car, I once had a live chicken and a pig in my living room as a prank, I owned a skunk and startled neighbors when I'd take it for a walk on a leash every Saturday. I wore a grass skirt, wig and 'boobs' to the formal Captain's dinner on a cruise. All of these stories and many more are in my books; The Shade Tree Choir, PALS: Part One and PALS: Part Two.

I am also a performer. My show is called Cowboy Comedy Show. The web site is www.cowboycomedyshow.com I am the Cowboy Poet Laureate of Tennessee. Our Governor and General Assembly honored me with that title. I perform across America spreading laughter. One time a little old lady came to me after the show and said, "Hey, Mister that was the funniest thing I ever heard. I tear rolled down my left leg." Hence the name of this blog post.

My point is that we sometimes take ourselves too seriously. As the saying goes, "We aren't getting out of this life alive." I believe the secret to happiness is inner peace and laughter. The "Tomorrow" we looked for "Yesterday" is "Today". I also believe that God has a sense of humor. That is why He inspired someone to invent the mirror.

Despite the physical and emotional child abuse I experienced, I used laughter as a coping mechanism. And I do to this day. My books tell about the sad parts of abuse, the coping mechanisms using laughter, the benefits of friends and success in life despite child abuse. We can choose to live with our demons or laugh in the face of adversity. I, for one, choose the brighter path.

I encourage you to suck the marrow out of life. Carpe Diem - Seize The Day.

My web site for the trilogy of my books is www.davidnelsonauthor.com

The Shade Tree Choir: Life Beyond Abuse

The Shade Tree Choir: Life Beyond Abuse: "Every Cloud Has a Silver Lining" I struggled for air and could only whimper for him to stop hurting me. I could feel my ribs...

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Frogtown

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Frogtown: Frogtown “A man dies as often as he loses his friends.” Francis Bacon I could tell the two bodies lying beneath me had been friends. ...

Frogtown

Frogtown

“A man dies as often as he loses his friends.” Francis Bacon

I could tell the two bodies lying beneath me had been friends. They died holding hands and with smiles on their faces. She was dressed in white and he wore all black. They were stiff. They were frozen in position. They were dead. I wondered about the white, paste-like material on the bottoms of their shoes was a stark contrast to the dirt where they lay. I couldn’t help but wonder what events led to their demise that day in May of 1956. It was at a place called Frogtown in Dubuque, Iowa.

Two hours before the discovery of the bodies, I had called Tom and Mean-Boy to see if they wanted to build another fort at Frogtown. Tom wasn’t allowed out of the house because he was caught swimming with the carp in the pond at a city park the previous night.

Eagle Point Park was originally started in 1908 and then in the 1930s the CCC constructed many of the pavilions, fishpond and other structures that still exist today. Eagle Point Park encompasses some 164 acres and is located in the North End of town off Shiras Avenue. It was there at Eagle Point that Tom swam with the fish. The goldfish located there had grown into two-foot long carp. They thrived well in the three feet of water among the numerous lily pads and other grasses. Apparently, Tom went in on a dare to make two dollars. He was caught by the Park Rangers and later released to his parents.

Mean-Boy was swimming at the 16^th Street Bridge that went to the landfill and stock car racetrack. Kids from the Flats were known to be a bit daring and the swift current and whirlpools didn’t scare a single one of them. But why would it? Those kids in the Flats played baseball on both sides of the four sets of railroad tracks that ran through their dirt ball field. The place was filled with large families and the small houses emptied each morning of over 100 children in a foursquare block area. The place was filled with bullies and the younger ones learned the art of survival quickly. Outsiders knew better than to venture into the Flats, and even the least savvy child from surrounding neighborhoods knew to take the long way around the Flats.

I decided to play at Frogtown by myself. The screen door at 617 Lincoln Avenue slammed shut as I trotted between Fritz Ansel’s garage and ours. I skidded to a stop on the gravel in the alley and fired an imaginary rifle at a German sniper on top of the roof. I continued firing behind a garbage can and shot another pretend German lying in Mrs. Sand’s dirt backyard. I must have killed six Germans in the alley that day. I pretended to be in WWII like many of our fathers. Some of them were in places like Iwo Jima, Midway and Omaha Beach. For me that day, Frogtown was to be my battlefield.

We children numbered the hills one through seven at Frogtown. There were caves, cliffs, and craggy rocks below for boys and girls alike to tempt death. The sheer rock walls were some twenty-feet high and filled with holes from centuries of erosion. Those holes were perfect for a tiny hand or foot of a child aged four through thirteen to grasp and climb to the top ledge at Queen Street.

Frogtown was a small area in the North End. A study, paid with funds from the U. S. Department of Interior, reported there were six neighborhoods that comprised the North End. These included Sacred Heart, East 22^nd Street, Broadway, Comiskey, Holy Ghost and 30^th Street. Frogtown was in the Sacred Heart Catholic Church neighborhood.

It was the bells of Sacred Heart that frightened me to death and made me cover my ears that day. I had turned on to Queen Street off East 22^nd and from nowhere a multitude of bells clanged and pealed so loudly they resonated into each of the six neighborhoods. I leaned against Weiss Meat Market and felt my tiny chest rumble. I didn’t think they would ever quit. The church bells rang like that with every wedding.

I turned and saw throngs of well-wishers lining the steep, expansive steps of the largest and poorest diocese in our town with a Catholic population of over ninety percent. The guests threw rice, took photos with Brownie Instamatic cameras and applauded when the bride and groom came outside.

When it was once again safe for me, I returned to my combat mission. I passed two parking lots completely filled with cars. I saw several men passing around a bottle of whiskey. In the back row of cars several fathers were drinking Dubuque Star Beer from coolers tucked in a car’s trunk. I never gave the drinking a thought because almost all of our fathers and most of our mothers drank alcohol. Today, many would be considered alcoholics.

Watching those parents drinking, reminded me of a trick an older kid in our neighborhood played many times and never was caught. “Harry R.” was his name. Yep, that’s correct. We all just called him Harry R. at all times. It seemed when his parents were gone he would call the Family Beer Store and lower his voice. He told the fella answering the phone that he was Harry R’s dad. He ordered a case of Schmidt Beer to be delivered. He always ended the conversation with, “Oh yeah, I may be gone so just leave it on the back porch and I will have the money for you in an envelope.”

A car honked its horn and brought me back from my little remembrance. The wedding celebration was a couple blocks behind me, and I was back in the war game mode once again as I sat on one of several sandstone ledges in Frogtown. I dangled my little legs over the ledge as I gazed far off into many of the North End neighborhoods below.

I understood why the North End flooded during storms. I saw the hills around Kaufman Ave that shed rainwater into our valley. In the 19^th Century the area from Central Avenue all the way up to Queen Street flooded and was marshland. The swamp was filled with frogs. Hence the name, Frogtown. There was even a bar named “Froggies” down by Comiskey Park.

I had received my orders from the major about the upcoming battle. He told the troops to rest after the long haul up Queen Street. As I sat there waiting to begin shooting more Germans, I noticed the repeated side-by-side house patterns below that gave a saw-tooth appearance and dirt yards plastered one next to another. The roofs were either red or green and all had steep pitches to shed winter snows to the ground below.

I also noticed a special rock formation to my left. It was the hill we called the “Chief.” It was so named because from the side it looked just like an American Indian standing with his arms folded across his chest. Both his chin and large nose pointed towards heaven. He was a stately figure. I knew he’d protect me when the battle started because I always liked Indians.

I left my perch and headed down to the cave below. That was to be the battle site. I stopped to pick some berries off a couple bushes along one of the numerous paths made by hundreds of kids during the last century. Those same paths were used for sleigh riding in the winter.

Several of the seven hills had caves under them where boys made campfires and told stories of pirates, Indians, cowboys and soldiers. In our minds those caves went hundreds of feet under the street above. In reality, the openings were no more than ten feet. When we were kids everything we imagined seemed real.

It was hill number four where I was stationed. I called in my troops. There were privates using bazookas. One was standing and the other kneeling on his right knee. Each had the bazooka across his shoulders. There were six guys off to my left and three to my right. Each held a rifle with a bayonette. One soldier leaned forward with all his weight on his left foot and his left knee was bent. Only his toes touched the ground on the right foot. I called it the lunge position. My radioman had his machine gun dangling at his side clutched with his right hand. His left hand held the walkie-talkie to his ear. He was essential to a successful battle because he received orders from the Major and passed information to us. There were many company members lying prone in the dirt with weapons at the ready. The howitzer cannon was set in place and ready to begin the barrage. Even though we only had one jeep, I knew it would be enough for such a small battle area. I stood with pride, as everything appeared perfect. All the green men and vehicles had been set with precision.

When everything was in place I wiped the sweat from my face with my dirty white t-shirt. I turned and that’s when I came to a complete halt. I froze in my tracks.

There before me, inside the cave were the two dead bodies. Their arms were wrapped together. She was in white and he was in black. My cottonmouth prevented me from swallowing. My chest was heaving so hard it stretched my shirt tight. My legs were wobbly, my knees were bent and there was sweat running off my blonde hair dripping into the dirt below. I had never seen a dead person before.

I snagged all my toy soldiers as quick as my nimble fingers would allow. I threw them into my Roy Rogers lunch pail. I secured only one clasp and ran as fast as I could away from the carnage.

I always was a fast sprinter and that day was no different. I could have outrun a lightening bolt. When I made it as far as the backside of Sacred Heart Church, I slowed to a cantor and then a walk. I was gasping for air. I leaned down and rested my hands on my thighs pulling at the bottom of my shorts with my fingertips.

I’m not certain if it was the cussing, the crying, or the car doors slamming that distracted me. There was a lady with some kind of lace material on her head hooked to her hair with a decorative clasp. She wore a full white gown and I recognized her from before when she stood at the church doors after the wedding. Three ladies in green dresses stood next to the one in the big white dress. They were all holding one another and crying. That’s true. I heard them all the way across the street.

Car after car peeled out of the dirt parking lot. They sure were in a hurry for some reason. I stopped behind a large elm tree to listen to a bunch of old guys cussing and talking so fast that none of them paid a bit of attention to what the others said.

I did overhear one thing that rang as true and clear to my ears as the church bells did an hour before. A tall man was dressed in a white shirt with the short sleeves rolled up, and he spoke the loudest. He returned his comb to his back right pocket after running it through his hair from both sides of his head. He pulled a package of Lucky Strike cigarettes out from under his left shirtsleeve. A smoke ring left his lungs before the match was halfway to the ground. “Who in the hell would come into an empty reception hall during a wedding and steal the top of a cake with the figurines on it?”

 Wham! Slam! Ka-Bam! I felt like a switch engine crossing East 22nd and Kniest Streets hit me broadside. Those were the dead bodies I saw. Holy cow, I thought.

I knew the dead man and woman were out of place and figured older kids were hiding in another cave waiting to beat me up. That’s why I took off so fast. I thought the two bodies belonged to them. Reason took over my fright and I calmed down.

Somewhere there were some kids who had stolen the top of the wedding cake during the ceremony. Then they threw the figurines into my cave. That also explained the white stuff on the bottoms of their feet. Yep, frosting. I was a real Dick Tracy. That also explained why all those cars were peeling out of the parking lot. They were looking for the culprits. That also explained all the ladies crying.

I wiped my face with my shirt, clutched my Roy Rogers lunch pail filled 

with my army men and skipped towards home. I allowed the enemy to 

live another day.

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Confessions of a Non-Catholic Heathen

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Confessions of a Non-Catholic Heathen: Confessions of a Non-Catholic Heathen © In the 1950s and 60s the Recreation Department in Dubuque, Iowa offe...

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Confessions of a Non-Catholic Heathen

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Confessions of a Non-Catholic Heathen: Confessions of a Non-Catholic Heathen © In the 1950s and 60s the Recreation Department in Dubuq...