Backstory: The Joy Laugh Club

They might be considered an odd bunch, these 16 club members bundled in coats, standing in the center of Duluth's town square, and some laughing so hard that tears are streaming down their cheeks, which can be dangerous in the winter in Minnesota.

Here's Warren Howe, a retired community college professor, short, still carrying a backpack over his pea-green coat, with a simple laugh that complements a broad smile: a steady ha-ha-ha, with a bit of shoulder movement. Then there's Ron Miller, a former truck-stop attendant, tall, who has a more drawn out guffaw. He throws his head back, lets out a howl, and then leans forward with a series of short, staccato chuckles. His eyes water.

But of the 16 laughing in a circle, Wendy Ruhnke, a social activist at the local YWCA, erupts in the wildest cachinnation. She just rasps and giggles at first, squinting her eyes and shaking, when suddenly: a high-pitched cackling scream, followed by a doubling over, a moment of breathless silence, mouth agape, and then a series of side-clutching bursts. Her laugh is legendary, and irresistibly contagious, though sometimes you're not sure if she's laughing or has been kicked in the stomach.

What's so funny? Nothing, really. This is simply laughter for the sake of laughter. Members meet here every Monday near noon, gather in a circle, take in a few deep breaths, and then just laugh. No joke.

Most believe the hilarity is for the sake of health - mental, spiritual, or physical. But there's actually something rebellious in this laughter, something harking back to the left-leaning, countercultural yearning that seeks to order social life efficiently, pool collective resources, and maximize the most happiness for the most people. A cacophony of laughing idiosyncrasies, organized.

This is Duluth, Minn., after all, where unions still claim a third of local workers (compared with about 1 in 8 in the rest of the country), and where a particular Midwest progressivism makes the state well to the left of most other states. But this has also always made Duluth a very earnest city, not known for its lightheartedness. Bob Dylan, who was born here, and grew up in the region, would never have laughed like this. (At least not without irony.)

The group has laughed for about four minutes, before dying down. As they recover, taking deep breaths and wiping their eyes, they begin to chat. "Do you know how Swedes and Finns and Norwegians emote?" says a woman named Claudia, her own Scandinavian cheeks flushed from the chill and the constant laughter. "Mostly, they just look at their shoes!" Next to her, Geri Valentine and Sara Pokorney throw back their heads and scream in delight.

Yes, they all say, there is a stoicism and reserve common to most residents here. Over a century and a half ago, immigrants - mostly from Northern Europe and especially from Scandinavia - carved Duluth into an icy bluff overlooking Lake Superior, and it became one of the largest iron ore-producing regions in the world. Though Duluth isn't the mining and port town it used to be, it still pumps taconite pellets and soybeans into the giant ocean vessels moored to its shipping docks.

So this isn't group therapy at a sunny Los Angeles mountain retreat or a posh Manhattan yoga studio. The punishing climate - the average annual snowfall would bury an NBA player and winter temperatures frequently dip below zero - doesn't make for lightheartedness, either.

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