Today’s word in my Forgotten English desk calendar is gelastic, “of or pertaining to laughter,” which seems appropriate since I spent the afternoon and evening in the good company of family out in Port Jefferson, at a surprise 60th birthday party for my mother.
We — and by “we,” I mostly mean my mother’s sister, who hosted us all today and invited everybody from New York and Connecticut — had been planning this since around Christmas. My mother was completely surprised. We’d told her that we were going out to dinner in Port Jeff, with my aunt and uncle, but in reality all of her brothers and sisters — my mother is the youngest of five — and assorted nieces and nephews were there to surprise her.
It was a good day. But I did all the driving, and now I’m kind of tired. So I think I’ll just leave you with this anecdote, also from today’s calendar page, from the life of “English actor, director, and theater impresario” David Garrick, born this day in 1717:
Once, while he was performing the title role in King Lear, Garrick suddenly and unexpectedly exited the stage during the emotional conclusion of the play’s fifth act, followed one-by-one shortly afterward by the other actors. Garrick was neither ill nor insane, but had merely been unfortunate enough to notice that in the center of the pit’s front row a large attentive mastiff was seated in an erect position beside its owner, with its paws propped on a railing and head upright. Due to the excessive temperature of the candlelit theater, the canine’s master had removed his wig and, having nowhere else to put it, placed it temporarily on the acquiescent pooch’s head. Garrick had unsuccessfully attempted to conceal his uncontrollable reaction to the dog, which he had hoped in vain that the others would not see in order to allow the play to end with dignity.
