From the Slow Lane: Who brings bananas to a disaster?

We tell each other laughter is the best medicine. We say it because our parents said it to us. Even though they weren’t right about everything They’re the ones who said: “You’re too pale. Go outside and play in the sun; it’s good for you!” and “Eat the fat, it won’t kill you.” But when it came to laughter, they were sure they were right and they pointed to Reader’s Digest to back them up. But sometimes it’s hard to tap into that “best medicine.”

It sure was 10 years ago. In the midst of trying to grasp the horrific events as they unfolded on September 11, I received a phone call from the Suffolk Times publisher explaining that, because of the circumstances, my humor column, which I wrote weekly back then, wasn’t going to appear that week. Of course I understood and agreed.

Normally, as soon as I’d finish one column, I’d start planning what I would write the following week. I come up with my column material by watching and listening, paying attention to what’s going on, waiting for an incident, a casual comment that makes me grin or chuckle, and then I write about it. Like everyone during the days following that Tuesday in 2001, I was staggered at the pain and loss suffered by so many. Disbelief, sorrow and a declaration of war left no room for jokes, no place for laughter.

Though my habit of paying attention did not desert me, I saw nothing during those days following 9/11 that made me grin or chuckle. But I did feel uplifted by our collective response and the depth of our caring. I saw it around me here and on the news. I saw it in the faces of strangers who leaned on each other and the thousands who clogged every road toward the city wanting to help in rescue efforts or who left jobs and homes to stand for hours outside blood donation centers. I saw it in trucks headed for the city filled with donated supplies for rescuers that started showing up within hours on that Tuesday — trucks filled with shovels, gas masks, boots, work gloves, medical equipment and bananas.

“Bananas? Who brings bananas to a disaster?” one TV anchor asked another.

And for the next few minutes, they debated the pros and cons of bananas until one of them ended the conversation by saying, “I like the idea of bananas.”

I heard caring in the voices of government officials, survivors and clergy and the woman at the other end of the 1-800 number I called to cancel an airline ticket. When she realized I was from New York, she said, “I hope everyone in your family is all right.” And instead of ending the call with, “Have a good day,” she said, “God bless America.”

God bless America. I’m sure I heard those words more often during the two weeks following that tragedy than in my entire life,but they took on a different meaning. A lot of words suddenly had different meanings; “heroes,” for instance, and “freedom” and “pride” and “united we stand.”

“After things get back to normal,” I heard someone say and wondered if things would ever be normal. How could they? And I remember wondering when something would happen that would make me grin and maybe chuckle and reach for my pen. It didn’t seem possible but it happened a week later when I forced myself away from the sad images on the television screen and took my seven-month-old grandson for his first visit to the toddler’s playground on School Street, right after feeding him lunch.

When I strapped him into the child’s swing he looked unsure. And after I gave him a push, causing his little head to slam against the back of the seat, he looked even more unsure. But as the swing came forward, went back and came forward again, he started to chuckle. I gave it another push, gentler this time to spare the back of his little head, and his chuckle grew into an all-out, nonstop, deep-from-the-gut belly laugh. What a blessing it was to hear such a gleeful sound.

After 10 minutes, I lifted him up and out of the swing, tilting him forward to protect his bruised head and he upchucked his lunch down my neck and inside my shirt — eight ounces of formula and a jar of bananas. I don’t know for sure but I suspect it was the bananas that made me laugh. As I carried him to the car pressed against my banana-soaked chest, I thought, I’m going to write about this.

So, maybe our parents were right.