I have been known to laugh at inappropriate times, like the day my children and I were in church and I noticed an autumn leaf, caught on a thread, dancing on the derriere of a splendidly dressed woman.

It’s either a character flaw or genetic. I like to point to the latter because my children were stifling chuckles and muffled snorts. One of us was asked to leave and not by the usher—both children suggested I contain myself in the vestibule.

Then there was the time my daughter at age 7 shouted, “Look, Mom, I’m riding my bike with no hands!”— straight into a bush. I noted that she was not bleeding, and then dissolved into helpless laughter. She recounts the incident to this day.

My husband called me from work to ask me to please get the laughing over before he got home because he had split the seat of his pants and spent the whole day minding his coat tails…I tried, Lord knows, I tried.

I watched my grease covered son at age 17 have a frenzied moment in our driveway when a doohicky on his jalopy broke. He looked like he was coming toward the house, so I removed myself to a place behind closed doors.

My son-in-law was giving some little kids a thrilling ride on a park merry-go-round when, in the process of slowing the momentum, he was flung into the dirt in his jacket and tie. I didn’t see that one. but he painted me a picture and I had a whale of a good time memorializing it in verse, which brings me to the day I stepped off a boat into the drink:

I was toting a bag of garbage when I took my dockside dip.
I surfaced among the tuna cans bobbing around the ship.My flailing arms were quickly grabbed, as was my fervent wish.(There’s a certain lack of dignity being hauled out like a fish.)How I wish that friends and family had appeared out of thin airAnd had a belly laugh on me and then we might be square.

–Pat D’Amico is a regular contributor to Northwest Prime Time