A Multimedia Memoir

By Ryan Chin

Now Available

Autographed paperbacks and hardcovers, Epub, and Kindle

iPad App coming soon!

Website

New Zealand is home to wave-filled coastlines, meandering trout streams, and the intense Maori culture. For Ryan, an elementary teacher, it’s also a world where animals are loved and lost a brother is gone but never forgotten.

Ryan arrives in New Zealand a shattered and broken man. For years he’s aspired to teach overseas but would never break the bond with his first dog, Toughy. With Toughy’s premature death, though, Ryan finds himself mourning his best friend while booking a flight to his childhood dream destination.

In a new country with no friends and no prearranged job, he finally confronts his brother’s passing, bonds with a class of Maori children in a beautiful and sometimes dangerous land, and slowly learns to love new pets. All the while, he longs for the seemingly unattainable woman he left behind. Mr. Chin, as his students call him, learns what it means to live life “full on.”

A Multimedia Memoir

Here, you need a cat…

Those five words followed by a flying kitten made me a Cat Man. The kitten, a tabby with ginger accents, was born in a box. That box sat in the corner of a room I rented in New Zealand.

Before the flying tabby, allergies made me shy away from cats. I’d spent too many restless nights with itchy eyes, and a runny nose while visiting friends. So when I moved into my room in New Zealand, I requested to have the kittens relocated to a shed out back. Nowhere in my plans did it call for bonding with a kitten. At the time, I was mourning from the loss of my dog and searching for a teaching job. As a transient in a new country I couldn’t possibly care for a cat.  But alas, I had no choice in the matter.

“Here, you need a cat,” said my New Zealand friend as I pulled away in my van.

With her feet spread wide, my first cat glided through the open window and landed on the worn passenger seat. She straightened her hind legs and cleaned herself as though she were home. There was nothing to do but cure my allergies by rubbing her on my face. We spent our first week together road tripping through the countryside; I sneezed, wheezed and smiled at my little fur ball on the dashboard.

I named her Baetis, after a family of insects important to us fly-fisher folks. I remember thinking if I had taken in a new dog, I’d have felt like a traitor. I thought, “It’s fine because Baetis is just a cat.”

Eight years later, I know she’s not just a cat. She’s the cat from Down Under, the cool cat that follows her yellow Lab brother and I for walks. As she weaves in and out of parked cars, and manicured gardens here in Portland, Oregon, I wonder if she remembers our garden and the tunnels I dug for her in New Zealand. I wonder if she remembers the special kitten she birthed–the kitten that taught me an important lesson. Does she know that she’s on her sixth life after being hit by a truck? And what about the cozy fires and head rubs in our white house in the Middle of Nowhere, New Zealand? Does she remember?

It doesn’t matter.

She is a cat.

I am a Cat Man.

And I will be

—forever.

Video 4 from Memoir   

Click Here for more pictures of Baetis and the long version of how I became a Cat Man.

A Gift

If someone told me at age twenty-five that I would teach in New Zealand and that I’d chase wild goats and roast lamb tails with barefooted Maori children, I’d say, “No way.”

If someone told me at age thirty that I would write a book about the experience and edit dozens of videos to go along with it, I’d say, “Really? No way…”

Now, at age thirty-eight, and four and a half years since I started the project, I open my computer to put final touches on the videos and exclaim, “No way!”

Even though I spent thousands of hours at my computer writing the manuscript and editing video, it still doesn’t feel real that I am almost finished. I am on pace to launch the print book and the e-book in June. A multimedia e-book made for iPad will follow later in the summer.

After being fine tuned by three different editors and revised for two years, the manuscript is in the hands of Vinnie, a book designer. We added some nice touches such as using Maori borders in the chapter headings and utilizing a picture of a Maori bone carving for section breaks. The hook-shaped carving was the only material gift that I had received for my thirtieth birthday. Rangi, the man who gave it to me was one of my neighbors in New Zealand. He is a loving father and husband, a member of the local school board of trustees, and a staunch gang member. A unique combination for sure. You’ll learn more about Rangi if you read the book.

A custom website is in the works along with shorter video trailers. The multimedia e-book’s release is being delayed a little because I want it to be something that utilizes the technology to its maximum storytelling potential without overdoing it. Finding a balance and flow for that delivery will take a bit more time. For now, I’ve posted a few pictures and one of my favorite videos.

Cheers to everyone who have left heart felt comments and given me feedback. Tu Meke mates! That’s Maori for ‘Too Much mates!’

The first page and a page with the fish hook section break

(Click on a page to view larger image)

Trivia Fact: Fifty percent of the world’s sheep product exports come from New Zealand.

Way!

Shack Attack

The stories behind the video

A pile of mulch has sat in front of my house for four months now.  A long sinuous line of the stuff stretches down the street starting with the largest pieces and tapering down to the finest particles. If my son was older, I’d use it as an example of erosion and how fluvial deposits form, but he’s not. He’s only a couple pounds and still inside Lori’s womb.  I feel a little bad neglecting that pile of mulch but I’ve other work to do.

As I load my twenty dollar bike into the van and hang my grandpa’s old suit off a bungee cord, the ‘I shoulds’ shoot at me from all directions. I should shovel that pile of mulch. I should work on the baby’s room. I should work on that kitchen remodel bid.  I should work on a business newsletter. My remodeling business after all is “real work” that pays.  I chuckle and check my gear: Video camera-check, tripod-check, notes and storyboard-check, guitar-check, beer, food and firewood-check.

“Where are you going again?” asks Lori.
“Brett and I are going to the shack.  I saw this old shack when I was out fly fishing and thought it’d be a cool place to shoot video, “ I reply.
“Oh…a shack,” she says with her eyes rolling towards the mulch pile.
I kiss her goodbye and rub her belly, “The shack!”

She gives me the look. The look can go both ways: I married this guy? Or I love this guy!  Today, it’s a little of both. I take pride in soliciting the look; it’s a sign of a healthy marriage. Actually if it weren’t for Brett, an old buddy whom she loves, I’m positive this mission would be vetoed. Brett is visiting from Chicago and she knows how little we get to hang out.  We zoom off before more mulch piles can erode our resolve.  Two hours later we pull the van off the road.  Forty mile an hour wind gusts rock the van and speeding trucks and cars add to the maelstrom.  We start gathering our gear for the steep walk in.

“You see it!” I scream.
Brett zips up his coat and pulls on his hat, “The shack man!”
“Definitely private range land!“ I shout, “All good though. It’s too shitty out. No one will know we’re down there!”

Having been exposed to Chin-antics for almost twenty years now, Brett simply shrugs and grabs the camera and tripod; everyone needs a friend like Brett. He’s been putting the ‘I shoulds’ aside for much longer than I, transforming silly-little ideas into reality for decades. He’s a black belt creative warrior who taught me to think decrepit shacks in the middle of nowhere are the best things in the world. I change into my grandpa’s old suit and we’re ready.

We stumble into a high desert valley in Eastern Oregon with dust biting our faces.  Sage bushes bend and sway almost as if they are yawning: High winds, dust and cold. What’s new?  We stop occasionally to marvel at the power and landscape. I stare at the leaning structure in the distance and joke about the rifle shots we’d feel but never hear.

Brett thrusts the tripod towards the gray sky and marches on.

Read on for Extras…

I know son…books are pretty cool.

Extras!

Deleted Scenes

Cameraman and creative blackbelt, Brett Neiman,  jamming in the shack and paying tribute to Mr. Moon

* * *

The suit and hat were my Yeh Yeh’s (Chinese for grandpa on Dad’s side) who immigrated to the U.S in 1949 and passed in 2008.  He was a great man with a great smile, the coolest Chin of them all.  His hard work along with all my ancestors’ sweat forged the way for me to follow my dreams. I can pursue what I want to do because those who came before me did what they had to do. When I was sitting in the shack with his suit on, I couldn’t help but think Yeh Yeh was up there laughing his ass off.

Yeh Yeh and The China Mission

Before Yeh Yeh passed away he told me about a makeup table that belonged to my grandma so I went back to China to get it.  The China Mission included finding and retrieving the table and a treasure hunt for lost family jewels.  The China Mission was well documented with video and will be my next multimedia memoir.

* * *

Grant is a neighborhood man whom I chat with often.  He enjoys keeping tabs on the new sticks and stones I place in my yard. I left a note at his place telling him I needed an ‘urban sage’ to say a few lines.  He called and asked, “You need what?” Later that day, he rode over and we shot his scene.  I don’t think it would have been possible to cast someone better for the part.

An outtake from the Grant scene

* * *

Thanks for watching and reading.

Cheers!

Miss Abbie

1993-2010

The question of when always weighs on the minds of us pet lovers. My motto has always been when they can longer have fun then it’s time. Toughy, my first dog, was diagnosed with liver disease in 2003 and I watched his condition deteriorate over the course of two months. He gave me good-morning licks and killed sticks up to his last day. There was no question about timing when he began to stagger and his eyes glassed over. A kitten of mine in New Zealand born with a birth defect lived only two months before I decided it was time. She chased her tail, chased her brother’s tail, and swatted at her mom’s tail until it was time. I called her life, Short but Fun (Click to read adapted short story and view a video) and dedicated a chapter in my upcoming memoir to her. Those decisions were definitive, but what if a cat never really has a lot of fun to begin with? What if a cat is seventy percent grumpiness, twenty-nine percent sleep, and one percent purr? Our dear old Miss Abbie was this cat.

From the time Lori brought her back from a shelter fourteen years ago, Miss Abbie was a classic crotchety old lady. Lori, always the compassionate fixer, first saw Miss Abbie with her head buried under a Garfield bed at a shelter. A rare female ginger cat, with a mama bear face, Miss Abbie began purring when Lori lifted the bed to take a peek so off they went. In retrospect, Miss Abbie was probably best suited to be an only cat in a grandma’s house, enjoying long naps on creaky rocking chairs, and running to hide for days when the boisterous grandchildren visited.

Miss Abbie’s life with Lori, though not perfectly suited, was far from neglectful. Lori is aptly nicknamed, the Granny, so Miss Abbie had plenty of love over the years. Miss Abbie shared her time with another cat, Miss Sophie, who is as wide as she is long. If Miss Abbie had to share the house with another cat, a fat lap cat who moves only for food or a head rub was a perfect fit for her.

Lori with Miss Abbie, Miss Sophie, and Baetis

The union of Lori and I brought a dog and another cat into the mix. Miss Abbie showed her dislike immediately by going on a peeing spree. No coat, towel, or throw-rug was safe from her wrath. No matter how much effort I made to bond with her, she was determined to be a daytime scowler, a nocturnal moper, and found refuge behind stoves and under dressers. One time while cooking, I heard a noise behind the stove and peaked over. There was Miss Abbie next to the dusty gas line looking like a homeless person behind a dumpster. From then on we tried to prepare pleasant cave-like nooks for her. Closets with long coattails and next to toilets were some of her favorites. Our constant relocating didn’t help her nerves but when we finally bought a house, Miss Abbie settled in. Reluctantly, and with great effort she began opening up a little bit. She’d head butt our shins and hop on the couch for a few minutes at a time before trodding off to her world of grump.

Just as Miss Abbie seemed to find her stride she became too weak to be grumpy. Tests showed that her kidneys were failing. The vet taught us how to give her fluids in order to make her comfortable and we thought she’d be leaving us at that time: it’s been over three years.

At times I questioned if I was doing the right thing by giving her fluids but she got so used to it that she purred when I prepared the needle, and relaxed her muscles to make it easier.  Lori and I found it comical that we were going to such great lengths to care for a cat who ignored us the majority of the time, pissed on our belongings, and drained our bank account with her medical needs and special diet. With an eight-month old child taking up most of our time now, it was even harder to provide the care and give the necessary attention to Miss Abbie. I admit to swearing and impatience as I cleaned up after Miss Abbie, but also knew this is what we signed up for.

As pet owners it is our responsibility to choose the right time. We must ask: Are we keeping the pet alive for ourselves, or are we keeping the pet alive so they can enjoy life? Are we putting them down for our convenience, or is it really time?  These are hard questions with subjective answers.  Our pets depend on us for just about everything and sometimes this includes when they will die. In return, they give us their hearts and countless teachings. In Miss Abbie’s case, she reminded me that we must enjoy life in whatever capacity we are able.

This past summer I watched Miss. Abbie drag herself across our yard. Her head hung low and her rear would sway one way to the tipping point before rocking back the other way. Occasionally her feet would stick to the matted grass because she had lost the ability to retract her claws. She was unaware of my presence so I propped myself up on a garden shovel admiring her tenacity. Upon reaching a sunny spot, she sat down and adjusted herself, tucking and kneading her front paws until she was just right. Slowly, like she was pushing her head through molasses, her head pivoted towards the sun to maximize the warmth. For me, enjoying the sun on my face was something I did in passing, but for her, it was obviously the highlight of her day. It was her goal, the top of top of her list, and possibly–the reason why she continued to live.

Maybe one day my only solace will be wheeling myself onto a porch to enjoy the sun. I will not be bitter, I will not wish for more, I will know that the sun on my face is more than some people have, and I will know that it is reason enough to go on living.

We had to have Miss Abbie’s hair shaved because it was so knotted. She looked pretty bad but our rule was that as long as she could enjoy our touch then it wasn’t time yet.

Lori’s Journal Entry

Last Night with Miss Abbie

Sitting with Miss Abbie next to her stinky bowl of food, feeling each spiny protrusion of her vertebrae through her thin skin. She is still purring.

This is the last night of her life. I wonder if she knows. There is a heat lamp keeping her warm just like the kind you might see in a chic’s cage. While chics are just beginning, she is coming to the end, or maybe, just maybe this will be the start of something new and amazing. Perhaps in her next life she will be something fierce like a lion. Now her body temperature is 96 degrees. An average temperature for a cat is 99 degrees. She has lost 3 lbs in a month and now weighs only 5 lbs.

Right now she is just bones and fuzz and a purr that comes from a deep determined spirit that is getting very tired of this fight. She can’t even lie down at times because comfort is a place she can no longer go to. She is being very brave. But I don’t think she is having fun any longer. Her legs slide from under her as she tries to walk across the kitchen floor, looking like a child on ice skates for the first time. Cats are meant to walk proudly: prance, prowl, scowl, run, jump, creep, and sleep sprawled in the warm sun. Not slide and slip and sit up when they should be cuddling in comfort.

It is time to say goodbye my confidant.

Sweet dreams.

Until we meet again.

Rest in Peace my sweet old Miss Abbie.

You were brave and good until the end and took pleasure in the simple things like a ray of sunshine.

Although we have been made to believe that if we let go we will end up with nothing, life itself reveals again and again the opposite: that letting go is the path to real freedom. Sogyal Rinpoche

Miss Abbie chilling in the sun last summer.

A nice version of Here Comes the Sun by Nina Simone

The Sad Man–Episode One

Some Comments on Episode One:

 You carved that story out of a pic? ….Amazing! It is well formed and the composition of place and oddities of time, is in a sense brilliant. Loved the story. More of such please…..Roberto

Wow. Knocks my socks off. You are quite the writer. And then you wrap it up into the package and bring the whole thing home. Yes!…..Tim

* * *

Brown haired Becky likes staying in bed until noon.  Short but cute Carey likes cooking and long walks. Holly? Could this be the same Holly who told me she found someone? I exhale. The air grabs at my throat and my heart settles into an expanding void. It is her; she was being nice.

I flip to the next page finding solace in the newsprint’s aroma. I roll the corner of the paper between my thumb and index finger while scanning the next few personals ads. My kneading of the paper quickens and it softens between my fingers.  I turn another page, and then another. These pages turn like blind corners. Maybe one day I will crash into someone: She will replace my blessed Karen, she will walk and laugh with me, she will hold me.  How long has Karen been gone now?  If any more air leaves me, no one will know I’m here.

I tip my mug and power through a slug of cold coffee. Normally, I’m done ‘looking’ before I need a refill, but not today.  My reflection catches me as I stand and dig in my pockets for some change.  I lean towards the glass rubbing and twisting my two-week old beard.  The salt and pepper strands remind me of newsprint, smells like it too. After thirty years as a newspaper editor, ink runs in my veins.  Karen used to tell me to shower as soon as I came home; ink was an odor to her not an aroma.  My reflection ages with each twist of my beard–my reflection will not smile. Karen would tell me to shave; she hated facial hair.

I cut in line and flip a quarter and three dimes onto the counter. The barista nods and slides the change into the tip jar.  As I make my way back to my seat, a man picks up my paper, frowns, and sets it back down.  I check the date on the paper. Over two weeks old! That explains why Holly’s ad is so familiar.  I step back and tip my mug; the coffee burns my throat and I wince at the pain.  There’s a newspaper stand and a bar down the street. The pain will be gone soon.

I rush out to the street leaving the café and the newspaper behind.  Reflections seem to have more life than the flesh surrounding me, and every sound swells with its own existence. The squeal of a cab’s overheated brakes, the impatient pounding of crosswalk buttons, the ensuing beep signaling it’s safe to cross, and the sounds of feet anesthetize what little feelings I have. I can separate the clicking high heels from the scraping shuffle of men’s leather soled shoes, and can even hear the hushed squish of sneakers. A couple of barefooted hippies pass by, and I shoot them a glare as if they had interrupted my ballad.  Silence is the loudest note.

I stare down a subway tunnel and think about how cities are called seas of humanity. Seas have life, seas have cycles that never waste.  Every organism in a sea has a purpose.  So how can this be a sea?  Is this life? Our greed and our disconnect will lead us to decay, and only then will we give back what we have taken.

 As the skys darken, I can feel Karen next to me looking for the exact place where the sun would shine. She had a way of finding beginnings where most would only see the end.  Places where things were burnt, raw and desolate were the places where she felt most alive.  

 Why isn’t she alive? She would chisel through these clouds, remind me how darkness is temporary.  A tug on my pant leg startles me and I look down at eyes.  Eyes that scream I can and I will. I know those eyes; I used to have them. A Latin American boy is looking up at me, his bright-orange garb and his soft smile brings warmth back to my body. The boy’s hands are a different shade than his face, not just dirty, but caked with the layers of survival and determination.

He sets down a bucket of flowers half as tall as him and asks, “Excuse sir, what you look at?”

I reply, “I’m looking for the sun kid, looking for light.”

“You look too hard sir,” he shoots back still holding onto my pant leg.

“Yeah, you may have something there…”

“Flowers?” he asks.

My voice cracks, “Sure kid.”

He clutches my ten-dollar bill and grips my pant leg even harder. 

I smile and nod, “Keep it kid.”

The bucket leaves thin white trails of plastic on the sidewalk as he trudge off. Parts of the bucket are worn through and some of the flower’s stems stick out of the holes.  Without turning around he points at the sky and shouts, “See sir! You look too hard!”

Extras!

The Latin American boy: The boy who sells the Sad Man flowers is a picture of a Peruvian lad that Lori and I met briefly during a trek in 2008. Our guide was annoying us so we lagged behind the group on purpose. As we stumbled along in the last light, a boy came bounding up the trail humming a tune. He was blissfully at home: charging along the only path he knew.  I’ll never forget the freeness bursting from his eyes.  We were trying to conceive at the time so we took it as a sign and now, two years later, we have a baby boy!  I used the same picture in our birth announcement video, What Would Hope Be Without Disappointment? 

Lori taking in the Andes right before we met the boy. 

The Subway Tunnel Shots: I shot and edited this sequence for a short film back in 2004. The piece, Herded, was accepted to three short film festivals including the Oakland International Film  Festival. Here’s another sequence from Herded.

Burnt and desolate places: Karen, the Sad Man’s deceased wife, loves places that are “burnt raw and desolate.”  Although I love the lush green forests of the Northwest, there’s something about clear-cuts and burn areas that I love as well. Old stumps in general get me all gooey. Maybe it’s the potential, the history, or the how it reminds me of cycles. When I shot my promo video, Keep Going, with my mate, Brett Neiman, we chose a clear-cut as a location and got some fantastic shots. Check out the shot of me sitting on a giant stump with my laptop at the 2:20 mark. I think the stump was happy to provide me with a seat (Giving Tree…).

A few more pictures on the subject….

Old stumps in a drawn down reservoir and my mate, Brett Neiman, taking a Harmonica Break during the shooting of Keep Going. 

Fog filled morning in a burn area: Central Oregon

Sad Man production challenges:  I started writing Episode Two while Lori was in Labor (after the epidural when she was nice and cozy). Having a newborn in the house has made me reevaluate my expectations even more. The idea of glacial progress on a project has had to be adjusted again and again so I can keep going. Cliche’, I know…but it works!  This piece was created second by second in between diaper changes, rocking, bouncing, and tending to Lori, three cats, a dog and a 100 year old house. And then there’s the ongoing work on my multimedia memoir (2011 Release Baby!). Somewhere in there I also managed to make a little money doing remodel jobs. Damn. No wonder why I’m so gray.

So when it came time to get the last shot (four months after starting), it felt more than celebratory.  At midnight last Friday, after giving Lori and Rayden a smooch, I hopped on my old crusier with a backpack full of cameras and my computer. Dahlias from the garden picked by Lori’s gentle hands brushed my wrists as they flopped back forth in the basket; music from my I-Phone serenaded me.  The river glistened in the almost full moon as wind waves fought the slow currents. City lights twinkled and homeless people mumbled and peed in the bushes. As I set up my tripod, a man asked me what I was doing. I smiled and replied, “Just playin’ man. Just playin’.”

 Playin’ 

This contest found me just at the right time. It provided a nice sidetrack to the agent hunt. Writing fiction instead of memoir/personal essay was a huge relief and loads of fun. The contest required you to write a piece that was inspired by the picture above. As soon as I saw the picture, I felt this old and lonely man looking through the personal ads. After writing this piece, I felt like I left this man hanging in a state of eternal sadness. One day I’ll have to unite him with a lovely lady.

You can read the piece or sit back and let me read it to you. I added music and a couple extra images to go along with the picture.

Brown haired Becky likes staying in bed until noon.  Short but cute Carey likes cooking and long walks. Holly? Could this be the same Holly who told me she found someone? I exhale. The air grabs at my throat and my heart settles into an expanding void. It is her; she was being nice.

I flip to the next page finding solace in the newsprint’s aroma. I roll the corner of the paper between my thumb and index finger while scanning the next few personals ads. My kneading of the paper quickens and it softens between my fingers.  I turn another page, and then another. These pages turn like blind corners. Maybe one day I will crash into someone: She will replace my blessed Karen, she will walk and laugh with me, she will hold me.  How long has Karen been gone now?  If any more air leaves me, no one will know I’m here.

I tip my mug and power through a slug of cold coffee. Normally, I’m done ‘looking’ before I need a refill, but not today.  My reflection catches me as I stand and dig in my pockets for some change.  I lean towards the glass rubbing and twisting my two-week old beard.  The salt and pepper strands remind me of newsprint, smells like it too. After thirty years as a newspaper editor, ink runs in my veins.  Karen used to tell me to shower as soon as I came home; ink was an odor to her not an aroma.  My reflection ages with each twist of my beard–my reflection will not smile. Karen would tell me to shave; she hated facial hair.

I cut in line and flip a quarter and three dimes onto the counter. The barista nods and slides the change into the tip jar.  As I make my way back to my seat, a man picks up my paper, frowns, and sets it back down.  I check the date on the paper. Over two weeks old! That explains why Holly’s ad is so familiar.  I step back and tip my mug; the coffee burns my throat and I wince at the pain.  There’s a newspaper stand and a bar down the street. The pain will be gone soon.

Despite what you may have heard, man’s best friend is not a dog. Man’s best friend is laughter. Laughter doesn’t need to go for walks, it doesn’t need expensive vaccinations and it won’t get you in trouble for choking a neighbor’s sheep (I speak from experience here). Think about it: how many times has a laugh-free first date gotten you a goodnight kiss?  Giggling, chuckling, bellowing, cackling–they all come from the same place. And they’re all really useful, too. I’ve used laughter all my life, in different situations all around the world.

I was an extremely scatterbrained kid, always doing things like leaving my homework on top of the car.  On “Career Day” in middle school, after tagging along with my dad for the day, I remember hearing a heavy “clunk” just as he accelerated onto the highway.  My dad jumped at the noise, “What was that?” he asked. I leaned towards the side mirror and smirked: my notes for the day were scattered to the winds, dispersed across four lanes of rush-hour traffic. I can still hear my mom’s voice, ringing in my ears, after I pulled some boneheaded act or another: “Oh, Ryan!” What are we going to do with you?”  So famous were my exploits that now, when one of my parents or my sister, say, programs the wrong address into a GPS and drives fifty miles in the wrong direction, they’ll say that they pulled a “Ryan.”

You might think this would give me a complex, but I don’t take offense because I’ve discovered that mistakes go down easier with laughter.  That’s not to say I ignore my errors; I hang my head, call myself an idiot, and I dig deep to avoid making the same mistake, but I do all the aforementioned after I laugh at myself.  So laugh at yourself, lighten things up, and pat yourself on the back before you kick yourself in the ass.

Laughter helps you cope during uncertain times, too—like when you’re traveling through faraway countries during a revolution, for instance.  When my wife Lori and I were on a two-week trek through Nepal in 2005, a nationwide strike brought the country to a standstill.  The king had dissolved Nepal’s parliament earlier that year and the “people,” as they say, were angry; they wanted democracy restored. Arriving at the small village that marked the end of our trek, we were greeted by burning tires and protests, a marked difference from the peaceful, self-sufficient villages where we had spent the past weeks. The busses—our rides back to Kathmandu–sat idle. Nobody would risk driving back amid this turmoil.
Later, our guide informed us in his broken English, “Ok—No bus. Maybe truck will come morning or maybe we walk. Ok?”
Ok? A truck? What kind of truck? Walk? Isn’t Kathmandu seventy miles away?
Hah-hah.

We left the next day, and I cackled madly as we rumbled past burning cars, angry demonstrators and marching troops. Not because anything was funny, really, but because it was the only thing I could do. A nationwide all-hours curfew was in effect but tourists were allowed to move around the country.  Our ride, a broken-down stock truck, donned a hand-lettered cardboard sign reading “Tourist Bus.”  The truck stalled often but it was easy to restart.  German, Israeli, American and Nepali hands lined up to push.  Initial grunts started the truck moving, multilingual expletives kept it moving, and a roaring group-laugh facilitated the final heave. As black smoke spewed from the exhaust, we laughed and climbed back onto the truck for another few miles before repeating the process.

Laughter has its place even in the loss of friends and family.  My brother died when I was seventeen years old, and although I didn’t laugh at his bedside or at his funeral, I still laugh every time I think of the Bubble Episode. I can picture it perfectly: my family cruising through the white-capped mountains of Colorado for the first time, my sister, brother and I stuffed in the backseat. As we crested a steep mountain pass, my brother’s kid-face began to disappear behind a growing bubble-gum bubble. Somehow, that bubble kept growing, eclipsing his entire face, and our hysterics grew with it, filling the car with peals of laughter. The death of loved ones hurts so much because of the laughter you shared with them.  Laughter never dies.

Although laughter technically doesn’t have mass, it holds and comforts you, keeps you company when you’re lonely. How many times have you found yourself alone at home, in a hotel room, in the car, or feeling transparent in a crowded elevator?  Your heart is heavy, down in your stomach instead of in your chest, but then a soft chortle or a hearty chuckle saves you. At home your cat rounds the corner chasing ghosts, in the hotel room you bust out dancing in your underwear, in the car you belt out cheesy love songs at the top of your lungs, and in the elevator you notice a man in a very expensive suit with more nose hairs on the outside of his nose than inside. Suddenly, because of your laughter, you feel whole again, and happy to be alive. This resonance not only feels good—it is good. A Google search of “laughter is good for you” turned up almost five million hits.  Studies by real doctors, ones with the debt and the white overcoats to prove it, have found that laughter has many benefits. It boosts the immune system, reduces stress by releasing endorphins, prevents heart disease, and burns calories.  One study showed that people with heart disease responded with less humor to everyday life situations and displayed more anger and hostility than their healthier peers did.  (Instead of prescribing the latest and greatest pills, maybe doctors should direct their high-risk patients to make a funny face in the mirror three times a day.)  Another study showed up to forty calories burned for every fifteen minutes of laughing.  Not much, but it’s something to consider: a jolly night with good friends offsets that extra side of bacon the next morning. Or if you prefer longer horizons, that equals four pounds a year or, cumulatively, a dozen buckets of ice cream in a lifetime. Who wouldn’t want to keep off forty-pounds per decade just by laughing?

So with all that said, here’s an alternative definition of laughter, one you won’t find in a dictionary: a highly combustible accelerant for all social bonds. It has many uses, it never dies, it’s good for you, and best of all—it’s free.

Note: I had no idea where the rings were and was running back to ask if anyone had seen an old tea tin.  On the way back I saw the tin next to some bushes.  Watch carefully and you can see me pick up the rings. Good stuff.

I’ve enriched my life in many ways by remembering things, but forgetting has its benefits, too. It’s a known fact that forgetting is a necessary part of human function. As a National Geographic article on memory put it, “If everything we looked at, smelled, heard, or thought was immediately filed away in our long term memory, we’d be drowning in irrelevant information.”  While it’s good to know that forgetfulness keeps our heads from exploding, there’s more to it than that: forgetting can lead to more surprises–and thus a more joy-filled life; two “forgets equals a remember” (I’ll explain later); and forgetful mistakes can actually create some wonderful memories.

Let’s start off with the idea that forgetful people have more surprises.  Unlike the Clarks nutcracker, a bird that buries thousands of pine nuts every fall and can find almost every one of them later, I often can’t remember where I placed my car keys five minutes earlier. This key-hunt invariably leads to the frantic shuffling of over stuffed drawers, the shaking of every coat within reach, and the disturbance of couch-napping cats. 

One morning, ten minutes after I should’ve been somewhere else, I was on the hunt. My tabby cat saw the “I’m late” look on my face and leapt from the couch before I reached her fur-covered blanket.  I ripped the blanket off the couch, sending a blizzard of fur into the air.  For a moment I admired the light reflecting off the floating gray and silver hairs, my own version of stopping to smell the roses. 

As I excavated, a tape measure hit the ground and rolled to my feet: Perfect, I need that for work.  I continued peeling back the layers of the couch with all the finesse of a two-year-old in a sandbox, and other items revealed themselves. A few dollars in loose change, a packet of spinach seeds. I stuffed them into my pockets and rushed to the kitchen.

Midway through a kitchen drawer, it dawned on me that I had left my keys on the front seat of my van that morning while I was looking for something else. The idea, you see, was so I wouldn’t have to look for them later–I had managed to forget that I had thought ahead. The key hunt, though, had led to money for coffee and my tape measure, so oh well … 

On the way out I stopped at the garden.  Using two fingers I trenched a couple of rows and sprinkled the spinach seeds into the soil. Better do it now, I thought, or else you’ll forget to plant the seeds. I covered them up and drove off to wherever it was I was late getting to. A few weeks later while constructing a sandwich, I yearned for some greens to top it off.  It was a sunny day, perfect for eating outside. Imagine my joy when I discovered spinach growing in my garden.  Surprise, surprise.

When all that forgetting and remembering gets to be too much, I try to sneak away for a little fly fishing.  But there’s no escaping.  One afternoon I found myself hip-deep in a river, longing for the flies I had tied specifically for that trip. I could see them in my mind’s eye, sitting in a neat row on a desk at home. I trudged back to shore for a snack.  A family of ducks bobbed past me and I wondered if animals forget stuff.  Animals live mostly in the present, a constant state of “it is what it is.” Maybe I’m like those ducks.

As I pulled an apple from my pack, an opaque canister fell out: Flies I had tied for a previous trip and forgotten about filled the canister to its rim. I had what I needed after all; I had forgotten my flies but also forgotten that I had already tied some a month earlier proving my point that two “forgets equals a remember.”  

I’m not condoning being irresponsible, of course. Forgetting can lead to unsafe situations and disaster. My wife, Lori, and I are always reminding each other to blow out candles and to make sure the stove is off.  We set alarms on our fancy phones and write notes to ourselves on the smallest pieces of paper we can find. Our wedding vows even included a line about helping each other look for our keys.

And speaking of our wedding, I pulled one of the grandest “forgets” of my life on our big day. With an 11,000-foot snowcapped peak on one side and the people we hold dear on the other, Lori and I faced each other for the ring exchange–two ceremonial wooden rings I had carved myself.  The moment came: her eyes glistened, people in the audience sniffled. Without breaking eye contact, I reached for the rings. Oops.

With a giant grin, I whispered, “I forgot the rings.”

Forcing a slight smile, she replied, “You’re kidding,”

“No,” I whispered back, trying to suppress a gut-busting laugh. “I’m not kidding.”

Only one person could find the rings and that person was me. So I turned to the audience, held up a finger, and yelled, “Hold on a second!” I ran barefoot up the stone driveway with one thought in my head: This will be funny for about two minutes. After sprinting from my van to our room and back to my van again, I was ready to give up. On my way back I saw the old tea-tin that held the rings, exactly where I had left it when I gave them a shine that morning.  I scooped it up without breaking stride. A few minutes later, I slipped the ring on Lori’s finger. We were husband and wife, united in forgetfulness.

Hardly a visit goes by with friends and family where we don’t relive the infamous ring incident.  It’s like I said: forgetting is often a good thing, because in this case everyone remembers that I forgot the rings.

The Ring Incident

Note: This essay is a nice twin to my essay about laughter. If you enjoyed reading this piece then hop on over to Man’s Best Friend.