Pretend You Don't Read This

(or Nulla dies sine linea)

I was born a Cockney, complete with flat vowels,  dropped aitches and the bizarre transposition of "f's" and "th's." My father was quite content to let his son continue in this tradition, but my mother felt differently. She encouraged me to improve my speech and how I talked, reminding me that successful businessmen and army officers of rank spoke very well!   There were moments when I suspected it may have been more a gregarious admiration of the upper classes than any real sense of education of her son. Nevertheless by the time I had emigrated to the United States, I had acquired an acceptable (to Americans) accent.

But the leaving out of  syllables and whole blocks in the middle of words - it's still going on. "skeptism" for "skepticism,"   "barbituate" instead of "barbiturate" and so on. The one that makes me cringe the most is "partically" for "particularly."Good conversation -- and its sub-categories of sentence structure, syntax, speech labels and pronunciations, have, for some years, become a lost art. Ed Newman warned us about it for years. I remember a senior senator opposing a bill. He told us, without blush or stammer, that "we're going to finally wrestle to the ground this gigantic orgasm that is just out of control."  Huh?  The fact that he meant "organism"  does nothing to lessen the lack of grace in his statement. Okay, so Americans say "skejule" and the British say "shedyule," them "gararge" us "garridge" and so on. Those aren't mispronunciations, just a different language history.

Malcom X's wife announced her husband was "funeralized" my wife and I made a grab at the dictionary. (No, its not in there.........) That bastion of RP (Received Pronunciation) the BBC still haven't decided  wether is "CariBEEYan" or "CarRIBeyan", "Kenyah" or "Keenya"  and so on.

We can hardly protest the ignorance of today's students when those who decry the situation a aren't much better. Even Sarah Palin gets into the act with "refudiate." I remember qa foreign car maker telling us that its product was "The World's largest Van For Its Size.." 14 ounce pies contain "100% more chicken that it's 7 ounce pies." Duh!


With all this there are pro and con forces for an "official language. I am for a "President's English" that gives schools and academic institutions a base from which to work. Instead, what we have is the specious and odious PC movement, which is not an attempt to improve language and communication, but simply an attempt to control what people say.

It may not matter to most when you say "price" instead of "value" or "timid" instead of "shy" or "sensual" instead of "sensitive," and is certainly not a crime. Neither is expressing double negatives in sentences, but they point to a lack of awareness of just how important it is to express yourself accurately and precisely.  The right to express our individuality through speech is and almost distinct American trait. In education and in business, it is important to express yourself accurately and as precisely as you possible can.

Perhaps schools think with all that children have to learn today, there is no room to teach them how to speak correctly. Unlike many of the skills that have to be taught in the classroom, skills such as math and language can  be expressed very appropriately and fittingly in everyday contacts, in interrelationships, in ordinary and extraordinary ( or extraordinarily as some might say) communication.

BTW, my wife has just looked over my shoulder and said"OMG I hope you have written this perfect, because your readers will just fall all over you." LOL - did she mean "perfectly"?  And so it goes. But where?  If only people could speak proper like what I do!!

Looking Forward in the Rear View Mirror

Nostalgia. That terrible ailment  that drags us mercilessly back to the day when we were, usually, we thought, (Choose all that apply.) happier, better off, richer, more content, love school, glad to get out of school, and we had not a worry in the world, and if we did, who cared?

Meaning a sentimental longing for the past, especially for a period of happy associations, the term nostalgia describes a longing for the past, typically for a period or place with happy personal associations.  From the Greek "nóstos", meaning "homecoming", and  "álgos", meaning "pain or, ache" it has become and obsessive longing for some, and an excuse to remain immature for the rest of one's life.

 That terrible ailment  that drags us mercilessly back to the day when we were, usually, we thought, (Choose all that apply.) happier, better off, richer, more content, love school, glad to get out of school, and we had not a worry in the world, and if we did, who cared?

Meaning a sentimental longing for the past, especially for a period of happy associations, The term nostalgia describes a sentimental longing for the past, typically for a period or place with happy personal associations.  From the Greek "nóstos", meaning "homecoming", and  "álgos", meaning "pain or, ache" it has become and obsessive longing for some, and an excuse to remain immature for the rest of one's life.



Like most who revel in the nostalgic days of their youth, I h ave a "nostalgic" file. Old photographs, letters, knick-knacks of an event or occasion remember with fond thoughts of those earlier days. Looking through it one day,  I came across a photograph of a tea stall that was situated opposite a well frequented pub, (but at the age of 14,  not by me). In my cycling days, when a 50 or even a 100 mile round trip was easily attained. The roads were relatively free of traffic, and this tea stall was at the end of a 12  mile ride, and where a tired but happy cyclist could slake his thirst with a strong "cuppa."

 Taken in 1945, it was complete as I remember it. A large tent within which cups of tea, sodas and other refreshments were served.   I spent many a Saturday or Sunday visiting Epping where The Rising Sun  public house was just inside the countryside, latterly  known as The Green Belt, a broad swath of undeveloped countryside surrounding what was then t he largest city in the world.. 
Beyond lay Epping Forest proper, full of oaks and ash and brambles. There was always a jar of wild blackberries for Mum on my return.

I had forgotten all about those trips, pedaling  past Victorian and Edwardian housing, rundown in a poor economy or bombed out -  both results from World War II, dodging in and out of traffic, avoiding the trolley lines, and having my bones shaken out by the ubiquitous cobble-stoned streets.The cobblestones have gone, except for tourist expectations of a Dickensian London, as have the trolleybuses, the traffic is king and  the houses still look the same but smarter and upgraded,s  full of gadgets and decor the Victorians and Edwardians dared not dream of..

For me, nostalgia almost always brings on a feeling of happiness. I am not sure this is because the world today seems to be a lot more unhappy than it was in my younger days, or that I only remember the happy times.

It was said that the singing of Kuhreihen, a traditional song played on a horn, was forbidden to Swiss mercenaries because it produced not only an emotion of nostalgia, but encouraged them to desert. This led to nostalgia to the point of desertion, illness or death.  I haven't quite reached that stage yet. The internet feeds my need to visit my past, and to remember the various portions of my progress.

 Were they really the good old days? I think it depends upon your outlooks, political social, financial and mental make up. (One of my daughters incurs my envy as she can't remember a thing before her teen years.) Bankers would not recall the Depression, railroad lovers moon for the days of luxury rail travel, and Midwest farmers long for the days when they had rain!


I am now living in my children's good old days!

Thar she blows...............

T

he fog's just lifting. Throw off your bow line, throw off your stern. You head out the South Channel, past Rocky Neck, Ten Pound Island. Past Niles Pond,  where I skated as a kid. Blow your airhorn and throw a wave to the lighthouse keeper's kid on Thatcher Island. The birds show up -- black backs, herring gulls, big dumb ducks. The sun hits ya, head North, open up to 12, steamin' now” 

            Anyone who has read or seen  ‘The Perfect Storm” may recall these words from Captain Billy Tyne, romantically describing the departure of his ship, the Andrea Gail on a fishing trip.

            When Sara and I found out that my daughter had gone on a whale watch recently,, we recalled our own whale watch in August.  The weather was perfect, the sea like (rippled) glass, and we were promised a 95% chance of seeing whales.

            More than the prospect of seeing whales, I found myself as Captain Billy, eyes squinting against the sun’s glare and gleam on the sea. Yes there was Rocky Neck reaching out from the land as though to grab us and the ship as we slipped by. Niles Pond a freshwater oasis upon the Eastern Point between the harbor and and the sea. Actually on the island of Cape Ann, separated from the mainland by the Annisquam River, Gloucester has a perfectly natural harbor for ships. Shipbuilding started here well before the War of Independence, and as the city grew, it developed manufacturing, food processing (the home of Gorton and Birds Eye). 

Our whale watching boat - the Privateer IV

Looking back, the town hall sits up from the harbor like a monarch on his throne. Other harbors have a lighthouse to guide them home.  Gloucester has its City Hall.                                                     

Unfortunately, when we were there, the building, up for renovation was encased in green plastic.

                                        

Goodbyes

            I was saying good bye, and in a life that spanned over 60 years, it still wasn’t easy. I was saying good-bye to my son, Robert. It was the beginning of Summer and he was about to embark on another seven weeks of sailing, hiking, mountaineering, eating and study.

    Most people I know remember the “hello’s” the first meetings, the initial contact with friend and foe. But for me, my remembrance revolve around my good-byes, and to this day, and including this one for my 10 year old son, the ache was no different.

            My first ache was to watch my mother in tears as she put me on a train at a sooty London station called Paddington, after which the bear was named.  My mother held me, agonizing over sending her three year old son to a distant environment, yet knowing that I would be safe and secure away from Hitler’s bombs. I was dry-eyed.  This was part of life. You were born, wars started, you were sent to safety, what was the problem?

      But as the train pulled out, the warden in charge of me, held me to the open window and I watched my mother recede down the platform as the train gathered speed on it's way to Wales.

       Only when the warden pulled me into the carriage, did I start to cry. When I could no longer see my mother, I realized I was leaving her and would miss her so.

         In 1954, I enlisted in the British Army, and my mother saw me off at another grimy London station, and much to my embarrassment, she was only one of three of the hundreds of young men leaving for boot camp. There were no tears this time, just a hug, a whisper in my ear that she loved me, and she was gone. But my tears were there, held back until I could retire to the trains bathroom.

            In 1960, I left for America. My mother, now wise to the distress of parting. She decided to say goodbye in the familiar and comfortable surroundings of her kitchen. But where was my father? He was working, unable to get time off to say goodbye to his son.  I had to go, a ship was waiting to take me to the New World.

            I asked my Mom if Dad would be very upset at not being here to wish me well. I didn’t realize then that wives are married to husbands, not to fathers.

            At Southampton, I made a hurried call to my father’s company. His familiar gruff voice said “Hello.” and I knew I my heart was already in trouble. I began to tell him, in what I thought would be a normal part of conversations, how sorry I was that I missed him.    

         The words covered all those goodbyes when my father was not there. The whole parade of unfullfilled farewells came rushing down and I found myself telling my father, for the first time, how much I loved him. He assured of his care and affectionately gently pushing me out on my own at the very moment we seemed to have found each other. It began a bond that lasted well after he departed this earth.

            When my first marriage ended, the tears were there, unlabored and unforced. But my parents were not there, and I wept alone.

            Now my son was only going to be gone for seven weeks. But after three wonderful daughters, he was special in my heart and I missed him, even when he simply disappeared around the corner to play with a neighbor’s son.

            We held each other, his little form enfolded in my large arms, my head above his, hoping my wet eyes would not fall on his small head. His small hand started to pat my back.

            “It’s OK Dad, I love you and I will see you on visiting day.” he said so matter of fact. I wanted to tell him I couldn’t wait that long, that he should come home with me now and we can do all the things together that he would do at camp. But of course, we would not, we could not, and I said “Yes, I know.”

        We held a little longer then he was gone, into his cabin to claim the top bunk before anyone else could. 

           Two counselors approached me. They told me I had a remarkable boy there.

            “You know,” said one, “if there is any trouble, or conflict or discord in the cabin, Robert is the first boy I go to.”

          I looked at him, querying the next sentence.

            “I know that Robert will tell me the truth. I know that he will be honest, fair and just in his interpretation of what went on. You and Linda have done a good job.”

            Good job? Yes, I suppose so. I have always tried to teach all my children that character goals are more important than personality targets and that ideals are above ideas.I thanked the counselors, and we parted -- with no tears!

           I walked away from the cabin, and I heard my son call out.  “Dad.” he said, “wait.”

         I walked back and he hugged me again.

            “Hello’s are better than goodbyes.” he said.

I was going  to have to switch my priorities.