My mother was a redhead. My father was dark Irish. Because of this, my childhood mind illogically believed that Lucy and Ricky Ricardo were actually my parents. Small details like never hearing my father speak in a foreign language or that he was a lineman, not an entertainer, weren’t important. While my mother may have dressed like Lucy, she wasn’t always scheming to climb into the limelight. Nevertheless, watching reruns of “I Love Lucy” is among the most comforting memories of my childhood.

This connection to Lucy is why, when my sister, my older daughter and I decided to take Mom on a pre-90th birthday road trip, our destination was Jamestown, New York, the hometown of Lucille Ball. Lucy is celebrated here in murals, statues and even a museum.

Once in Jamestown, at the Lucille Ball/Desi Arnaz Museum, we encountered exhibits memorializing her accomplishments, local history and her celebrated show. But the most fun was the Vitameatavegamin Commercial Exhibit. Officially known as “Lucy Does a TV Commercial,” this iconic performance in the “I Love Lucy” series has been recognized as one of the top television episodes of all time. With the help of a cue card and a paper prop of the tonic bottle, visitors can re-enact Lucy’s act.

While Mom and I both tried out our thespian skills hawking the patent medicine, she was smart enough to stop when an audience gathered. I was not. I incorporated wide eyes, a reactive grimace and exaggerated facial expressions, but I wasn’t Lucy. Not even close. A stranger uttered, “Don’t quit your day job,” as I wound down. I concur. My sister has a video of our performances, which will lead to some light-hearted blackmail at a later date. We were terrible, but we all had a good laugh. Not just one, lots of them.

Reflecting on our day, I thought about how the average 4-year-old laughs 300 times a day, while the average adult laughs just 17 times. We all laughed like children that day, partly because we also stumbled upon the National Comedy Center.

Dedicated to comedic arts, the National Comedy Center includes more than 50 immersive experiences that trace American comic history. First, visitors create a “humor profile, stored on a ‘Laugh Band.'” Through this bracelet, interactive content is presented according to taste, ranging from slapstick to satire. The result is that everyone in our group, from age 27 to almost 90, was entertained. While mom was drawn to Johnny Carson, Sis and I appreciated George Carlin, and Chloe explored more modern comedians. Three hours later, we were still laughing and hadn’t experienced everything the museum had to offer.

All of us exceeded the adult laughter average on this road trip, and we are suffering from residual happiness. Giddy, intoxicating laughter spontaneously erupts from memories of our few days together.

I must have still been under the influence or channeling my inner Lucy when I returned to work at the gift shop. I gallantly attempted to move a display to widen a path for a customer. Mid-move, it swayed; it teetered; it tottered. A waterfall of cascading woodland stuffies engulfed me. As I sputtered through the carnival of varmints, the other side toppled, showering the customer with a skulk of foxes, a sleuth of bears and a scurry of flying squirrels. When the fur frenzy was over, there were stuffed animals everywhere.

Observing the cuddly carnage, I needed to apologize and either laugh or cry. Fortunately, no animals or customers were harmed in the toy display apocalypse — only my ego. Laughter was the only option as I was the proverbial bull in a china shop. After all, as Joan Rivers once said, “Never be afraid to laugh at yourself; after all, you could be missing out on the joke of the century.”