Every Tuesday my Two Writing Teachers colleagues and I host the Slice of Life Story Challenge. Teachers from all around the world participate in sharing a story each week.
I’ve been listening to the podcast Working it Out hosted by comedian Mike Birbiglia. It’s a great podcast for writing teachers because he invites other comedians and creative people to work on “bits” together. He and his guests take turns sharing jokes or stories they’ve been working on and they give each other feedback.
One of the things Mike does (I feel like I know him on a first-name basis now) in each episode is something called “The Slow Round.” I think he mentioned that it came from a book on writing, but I can’t seem to remember now. Anyway, in the slow round, he asks his guests different questions to prompt ideas. As the guest shares their response, I can’t help think about my own responses while I listen. Here’s one of his prompts.
What’s a smell you remember from your childhood?
You can’t help think about your own response once the question is asked. A smell I remember is the smell of my grandma and grandpa’s house. It was a mix of cigarette smoke and lasagna baking in the oven. I can remember that smell so vividly and it brings back the sound of my grandpa’s loud, booming voice, always joking, always telling a story (and always a LOT of profanity—always very exciting for a young kid to hear). And my grandma chiming in and everyone cackling. The two of them had a little routine - like Lucy and Ricky Ricardo. They bickered constantly - but it was hilarious.
For years my grandpa had this running joke he’d play on my grandma - hiding rubber chickens in unexpected places. For some reason this pissed her off - or at least she would convincingly feign being angry. We’d all be eating lunch and you’d hear her scream from the bathroom, “Godammit Donald! Cut it out with the f’in chickens!” He’d shout back, “Jesus Christ, Peggy, calm your britches it’s just a chicken. Heh heh heh.” Then he’d turn to us , a mischievous glimmer in his eyes, “You see that, kids. Your grandma hates those goddam chickens. Heh heh heh.” Then my grandma would come out of the bathroom holding a rubber chicken between two fingers, as if they were roadkill.
Thinking back, they really understood how not to take yourself too seriously. They could find the punchline in anything. I wonder what they would say now, if they were still alive.