Keeping Up

Between the two of us, Terry was the funny one. That was the standing agreement in our small household, ratified by years of spontaneous one liners, winding stories with questionable beginnings, and punchlines that snuck up on you like a cat on a sunny windowsill.

He could make me laugh and cry in the same breath. A rare skill. The kind that leaves your cheeks sore and your heart a little lighter.

I was the audience. The appreciative nodder. The one who laughed too loud when it caught me off guard. Terry noticed these things. He took quiet pride in the fact that I got his jokes. Not just the words, but the timing, the pauses, the sideways glances that did half the work. It mattered to him. I got him. That was the real joke, I think.

Of all the comedians in the world, he chose Don Knotts and Don Rickles as his idols. A gentle goof on one shoulder. A fearless roast on the other. It explained a lot. He could be tender and mischievous in the same sentence, which is a tricky balance. He wore it well.

One afternoon, the phone rang. I picked it up in the living room, careful not to disturb Terry, who was watching his favorite golf tournament with the seriousness of a monk in meditation. Without thinking, I answered in a perfectly reasonable, completely unnecessary accent.

“The Scott residence, the lady of the house speaking.”

The words barely landed before the laughter arrived. Loud. Long. Unfiltered joy echoing from the bedroom. I froze, phone still in hand, surprised by the sudden weather change in our home. I had not tried to be funny. It just happened. The British comedy Keeping Up Appearances had been on PBS earlier, and I felt as though Hyacinth Bouquet had loaned me her voice for the afternoon.

Terry laughed until he was out of breath. I had never seen him laugh like that before.

It was a small moment. No grand setup. No clever script. Just a borrowed line and the right pair of ears to hear it. We shared a look later, the kind that says, "Shall we keep this lightness close?" The kind that needs no answer.

Those days felt like open windows in spring. Ordinary, yes. Also quietly generous.

We laughed a lot.
We noticed it.
We were grateful.