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Happy for no good reason at all

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Finally, I’m blogging on something I’m an acknowledged expert. Everyone knows me as someone who’s always happy. It’s not true, but that’s how I’m known. Actually, once every 18 months or so, I really feel down. I never push that aside. If I’m sad, there must be a reason, something worthwhile investigating—and likely mourning about. It always just lasts from half an hour to a couple of days, but those moments I cherish as precious.

This runs in my family. My mother, even after the Holocaust, was a happy camper (pun not intended). But before the Great Disaster, she was even happier. I saw a picture of nurses getting their diploma in the ’30s and so everyone should have been happy. But the one really beaming is my mom.

My brother was a very giving person, always willing to lend his ear to those in pain. But if, after a decade of listening to how much it’s hurting, life was still worth complaining about, he would start not liking it. Why always focus on the negative? Is that all that life can ever be about? He even created a word for people who always and forever complain: droeftoeters, which means: [people who always] trumpet [their] sorrow. It’s not us.

My father was the most serious of the bunch. He grew up poor, survived the Holocaust, and became a pulmonologist. In the beginning, it was fun. So many tuberculosis patents and newly discovered antibiotics........

© The Times of Israel (Blogs)

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