Primed for a good cry

John Boehner, the Republican speaker of the House of Representatives, is -- aside from politics -- known for a suspiciously deep tan (he's from Ohio and works in Washington) and a habit of crying so often that he seems always to have just watched the last reel of "Bambi."

His own success, and the success of his party, evidently strike Boehner as particularly touching -- he cried after the GOP walloped Democrats in midterm elections and when he was sworn in as speaker -- though, for Boehner, high emotions can attend random moments, as well.

Recently, for instance, the congressman broke down telling CBS he no longer visits classrooms because today's kids might not have "a shot at the American dream."

It has pretty much been established that Boehner's teariness is authentic, and not a cheesy stunt to provide cover when he votes against extending unemployment benefits or for repeal of health care reform. "He is known to cry," former Democratic Speaker Nancy Pelosi told The New York Times. "He cries sometimes when we're having a debate on bills."

And, you know, I'm thinking, that's OK. While I have no idea if Boehner, 61, cries more than he did as a young man, I have found that in my own upper years -- I have Boehner by a few -- weeping is about as unavoidable as funny-looking toes and afternoon naps.

In my case, I have an excuse: Mom. Winnie Bruning. Everybody in my family cried easily, though the champ was my mother, a bright, cheery, delightful, positive - but supremely sentimental -- soul.

"Good night, Mom," we'd say. "See you in the morning."

Eyes moist, Mom, who lived to 90, would answer without much optimism, "I hope so."

Even the sight of her grandchildren -- one at a time, or the four in aggregate - was enough to prompt Mom to reach for the hankie she kept in the front pocket of her flowered housedress. The kids would be racing toward her open arms, and Mom would manage to both smile widely and weep at the same time. Let's see Speaker Boehner try that.

Somewhere in the middle of adulthood, I began following Mom down that trail of tears -- filling up, I noticed, when multicultural Coca-Cola choristers sang "I'd Like to Teach the World to Sing" back in the '70s, and once when I bumped, but did not dispatch, a raccoon on a back road upstate - but it was not until later that the sap really began to flow.

Researchers say there is a link between mood and the hormone prolactin released by tears -- women have a better supply than men and maybe that's why they cry more, experts think -- so there's some science behind this. As far as I'm concerned, biology is beside the point. I cry easily for the same reason Mom no doubt grew weepy. Time flies. At some point, all of life seems in high relief. It's not the prolactin. It's the impermanence.

Almost anything turns on the tears these days - news of bravery, good deeds, generosity, high achievement, rescue dogs, child prodigies, brotherhood, Broadway shows, black and white photos of Bobby Kennedy, the First Amendment.

On the Belt Parkway in Brooklyn, I saw a billboard showing US Airways Flight 1549 in the Hudson with passengers awaiting rescue on the wings. "Preparation," said the sign. I thought of super-pilot Chesley Sullenberger and had to defrost my bifocals.

My wife found me sniffling in front of the TV during a Brooklyn Dodgers retrospective (oh Oisk, oh Jackie, oh Campy, oh Duke, and Preach!) and another time when PBS was broadcasting one of its frequent, fundraising rhythm 'n' blues shows. (Little Anthony and the Imperials after all these years!) Just the name "J.D. Salinger" -- R.I.P. - gets to me because "The Catcher in the Rye" is the first real book I read and the possibility that I otherwise might not have advanced beyond Archie and Veronica strikes me as deeply profound, though I wouldn't expect others to be similarly moved.

I teach journalism at Stony Brook University and often show students the last scenes of the movie "Hair," in preparation for a discussion of flower power, Richard Nixon, Watergate, and Woodward and Bernstein.

No matter how much I tell myself to buck up and get real, when Berger boards the Vietnam-bound troop transport instead of Claude and all the hippies start singing "Let the Sunshine In," I have to about-face and stare at the blackboard.

Same thing happened recently during closing credits of the newspaper mystery movie "State of Play." As John Fogerty croaks "Long As I Can See the Light," presses roll, papers get stacked, delivery trucks shove off -- yes, truth is on its way! Having spent more than 40 years in a business now struggling to avoid the fate of apothecaries and blacksmith shops, I watched wet-eyed as the names of screenwriters and casting directors scrolled by.

So, John Boehner, I get it. You're not an emotional basket case unfit for public office. You're a guy in his 60s. Owing to his party's majority, Boehner sat at the front of the House of Representatives during the State of the Union speech. President Barack Obama congratulated the new speaker and noted Boehner's hardscrabble, working-class origins. When Obama turned to offer a nonpartisan handshake, I knew what was going to happen. Boehner's eyes grew misty.

Mine, too.

Jeepers weepers
What makes you weepy? The ending of a favorite movie? Crazy-delicious food? Your grown kids wanting to spend time with you? Breathtaking exhibits at a museum? A walk on the beach at sunset? Tell us what makes you misty-eyed. Write to Act 2 Editor, 235 Pinelawn Rd., Melville, NY 11747, or e-mail act2@newsday.com.