Group Language

Linguists tell us that groups usually develop their own language. Or sub language--sometimes called "argot" or "lingo"--words and/or phrases that mean something to them, but nothing to non-members. Or certain words/phrases mean one thing to non-members, but something different to members.

The term "liberal" is a good illustration of the second idea. To me, "liberal" is an honorable word, meaning someone who isn't stingy with his time, talents, money. As in the charitable gentleman in "A Christmas Carol," saying to the unreformed Scrooge, "We have no doubt his (Marley's) liberality is well represented by his surviving partner."

But to the Rabid Republicans (Rush Limbaugh, Bill O'Reilly, Anne CoulteR) "liberal" is about the dirtiest name you can call anyone. Not even "Satan" or "child molester" evokes as much anger as that honorable word. I haven't the least idea what a liberal looks like from their viewpoint. I also suspect their hatred has more to do with their own selfishness than any policy or party the person might support, but that might be my own misguided perception.

A really lovely example of the first concept is the word "flitter." According my dictionary, "flitter" is an obsolete word that can mean:
"flutter;"
a Southern variant of "fritter;"
a person who "flits" (darts) around a room;
or a form of tiny ornamentation.
But to someone who collects snow globes, "flitter" is the proper name for the snow, or the glitter, or the other tiny objects that fall on the central figure when they shake the globe.

Somehow, "flitter" sounds like itself, something light and soft and created simply for another person's enjoyment. We could use a few more words like it.

Playing Solitaire

I play a lot of solitaire. I have no idea why I find this particular activity soothing, but I do. I used to play with real cards--and cheated like hell--but now I play on the computer, where I can't cheat. (At least I don't think I can--I don't know enough about computers, let alone developing programs for them, to figure how).

The games we call "Solitaire" used to be called "Patience." I discovered this because I loved Georgette Heyer novels (the original Regency Romances) and wondered what the elderly aunts were doing when they "played endless games of Patience."

Linus says that she plays solitaire when her life is messy because cards are something easy to control and organize. There may be something to that--I play more when I have too many things to do and not enough time to do them, which should add to my stress level, but somehow doesn't.

I also suspect there's something genetic to my playing. Grandmother Wilson (my father's mother's mother, who was "grandmother," not "grandma," and "Wilson," not her given name, "Ethel") smoked and played solitaire and cheated like hell as well. When someone challenged her cheating, she told the accuser in her best mother-of-an-impertinent-six-year-old voice, "I play cards to relax and, if I don't win, I don't relax. Therefore, I cheat."

End of questions.

Kiddie Cars

My ex calls the cars with all the bells and whistles and the trucks that have been jacked up into the stratosphere so the chassis won't scrape on the balloon tires "kiddie cars." Meaning the men (the drivers were always men) haven't grown up. Shorthand for "boys must have their toys."

(And, by the way, were we the only parents to notice that little boys are born with "Vroom! Vroom!" hard wired into their vocal cords?)

This came to mind yesterday as I followed a jacked up Chevrolet Silverado through Seattle. Not conspicuously high, nor flashily colored, but with what looked like a pair of silver bags swinging from just below the trailer hitch. Was he about to lose a part of whatever cargo he was carrying? The bags seemed to be securely attached to a heavy wire just under the hitch, so that was unlikely.

We stopped for a red light so I had a closer look--rather hard not to, since they were swinging at eye level from my little Honda. When I recognized the shape (but not the size or the material) I thought I should hail a passing police officer to arrest the owner for indecent exposure.

Someone had cast a larger than life size pair of testicles, carefully enclosed in their scrotum, from silver metal and the truck's owner had hung this from the rear of his truck.

Kiddie car.

Adventures with Canada Customs

Before I tell this story, readers need to know that: (a) my former husband was Canadian, (b) I have lots of friends and relatives north of the 49th Parallel, and (c) I've been going back and forth across the border since 1965.

So, last weekend I was on my way north--with passport in hand, because I know our federal government in its infinite wisdom has decreed such paperwork is necessary. I avoided the Peace Arch Crossing, which is always an hour's wait in the hot sun, and went to the truck crossing, a possible ten-minute wait. I noticed the border person wasn't alone in the booth, but that often happens, and that he was a lot younger than my son.

"Where's home?" "Seattle." "Where are you going?" "Sechelt." "What's the purpose of your trip?" "To visit friends." And that's when things started to go weird.

"How do you know these 'friends?'" in a tone that implied the quotation marks I just wrote. I could hear him thinking "so called."

"I used to live in Sechelt."

"Are you a dual citizen?"

"No, I was a landed immigrant."

"Are you still a landed immigrant?"

"I have no idea." Which I don't. I've always assumed I lost my status when I divorced my husband, but I've never bothered to check. (I would have, had the McCain/Palin ticket won the last presidential election, but that's another story.)

He picked up a form and started asking me all the other questions like "am I bringing anything into Canada I plan to leave?" and "am I carrying any firearms?" and ticking things off. The he handed me the form and my passport and told me to report to Immigration.

Okay. So I pulled around the building and looked for a sign to tell me where to go, finally assuming the double doors to my right would take me somewhere I could ask directions. Inside was a long counter with at least eight computers, only one with a femlae clerk using it, and eighteen people standing in line (I counted them), including one young couple with a very cranky baby.

"I'm with you, kid!" I thought. I checked to see if there were any "no cell phone" signs, saw none, and pulled out my phone to check my messages: one from a client and one from Mother saying "I can't wake Lynn up." (Lynn being the sister who's undergoing treatment for cancer). That one gets answered immediately, and I'm told that Mother did wake Lynn. Finally. But what should she have done if Lynn hadn't roused? We had discussed this before I left, so I started to go over emergency procedures and the clerk yelled, "You can't use cell phones in here."

Okay. I told Mother I'd call her back later and turned off my phone.

Then the clerk did something that put her computer into perpetual recycle. After trying to re-boot, she went to find a supervisor, was gone about five minutes and came back alone. The couple with the cranky baby jumped the queue to ask if there's someplace to take the child so they can feed/change/rock it to sleep, and are told to return to the line. Eventually, a youngish man and one in early middle age came from some offices behind the counter, the youngish man started filling out forms at one of the other computers, the older one called out something unintelligible and the young couple go forward. After some consultation, they take a seat on the other side of the ropes keeping the rest of us in line and the baby stops crying.

Another youngish man appeared, and started working with the woman clerk's computer. The older man spoke to the one who's still filling out forms, and motioned the next person in the queue to come forward. The other youngish man and the woman clerk held a conference and the youngish man moved over to another computer station and started some procedure while the woman stood at her station. More consultation and they left.

The middle aged officer finished with the person who had been at the head of the queue and left, only to reappear on the "waiting" side of the counter. He spoke to the young couple and they left out the door I had come in by. Meanwhile, the woman clerk retruns and motions the next person to her station. The form-filler picked up his paperwork and left, the middle-aged man took his place and motioned the next people (the next four were all together) forward.

Things seemed to go fairly quickly and I wondered if I'll get the woman who yelled at me or the middle aged man, or if one or both of them will disappear and, if they do, who will take their places.

I get the middle-aged man. I handed him my passport and the form. He asked me why I'm there and I said "I have no idea." He blinks at me, and I repeat what I told the young man in the booth, this time adding that I moved back to the States when I divorced my husband, but I come back to visit friends three or four times a year. He turned my passport over and over in his hands, and finally asked me to have a seat in the roped off area.

Which I did. I practiced my deep breathing exercises and then decided to have a nap, which is all I could do under the circumstances. I was nearly asleep when the millde aged man arrived with my passport to tell me I could go. I asked him what the problem was and he said "we just needed to verify your identification."

Whatever.

I was almost out the door when I thought to ask, "Where are the signs saying 'no cell phones?'" He started to say "right over..." and stopped. "Well, there used to be signs." So I told him about my contretemps with the woman clerk and added that "you really need to replace those signs" as I walked out the door.

The next time I cross the border, I think I should say "I divorced my Canadian husband. I didn't divorce my Canadian friends." On second thought, that will probably land me back in the Immigration Office.

Strider the Kid and Strider the Dog

My grandson's given name is Strider. And, yes, like his mother's name, it's also from "The Lord of the Rings," though she didn't choose it. Strider's father chose it, from the first "grown up" book he ever read.

It's a pity my former son-in-law didn't learn a few other things from that book, like how to honor his promises and fulfill his obligations, but the sad fact is that, when Strider was two, his father walked out on him and his mother, leaving them to fend for themselves.

(With a lot of help from his family, who have always treated Arwen as though she were their sister/daughter, and for which we are all infinitely grateful)

So, fast forward three years to an old friend joining a newly formed amateur baseball team and taking his wife and kids to their first game. The kids make friends with another player's border collie and, naturally, asking the dog's name. When Paul, the owner, tells them "Strider" (yes, also from "The Lord of the Rings") the two girls say something like "We have a friend named 'Strider' and he's coming to stay with us. And he'll want to meet your dog."

Fast forward another three years, when my daughter's family includes Paul, Strider the Kid and Strider the Dog. Neither Strider answers to a summons for the other and I haven't the faintest idea how they do it.

What is a "culture warrior?"

I gather Bill O'Reilly has a new book out called, if memory serves, "Memoirs of a Culture Warrior," and I wonder, "What is he claiming to be?" So far as I know, people are warriors--meaning they're soldiers--or they have culture--meaning they value the arts and appreciate the sciences.

So far as I know, neither of these terms apply to Mr. O.

I figured I should start by trying to define the term. "Culture warrior" isn't in the dictionary, but "the culture wars" is. In the U. S. (but not in Europe or Australia), and according to no less an expert than Mr. O. himself, "the culture wars" refers to a battle between the "Secular Progressives" and the "Traditionalists."

I would certainly define myself as a "traditionalist." I think marriage is a good thing between commited adults, but not between an adult and a child, since I child can't understand the significance of what (s)he is promising to do; or between more than two people, since it is supposed to be an equal partnership, and, with more than two partners, one of them will be shortchanged. I value the teachings religious traditions, the more so as I learned how much they had in common. I appreciate our Constitution, which the authors made flexible enough to apply to many situations and even wrote in rules for alteration if and when the citizens deemed changes were necessary. While I agree with Robert E. Lee that "war is failure," I also understand that, sometimes, it's necessary.

But, according to Mr. O., I can't possibly be a "traditionalist" because I think men and women deserve equal pay for work of equal value; I appreciate the poetry of the biblical version of the creation of this world, but I know it's not the truth; I don't believe any person has the right to inflict bodily harm on another, especially if the inflictor is an adult and the victim is a child; and I believe that, since God told EVERYONE we should "feed the hungry, clothe the naked, heal the sick, and look after those who can't look after themselves," that is what we should be doing. Period.

And that eliminates me from the "Secular Progressive" side of Mr. O.'s war. I guess I just have to sit this one out.

Aflak Continued

I thought I'd written all there was to say about Aflak, but, as I was looking him over, the better to describe him, I was reminded of two other stories.

Aflak's head used to come off as a separate piece, but his neck is now riveted in place due to an unfortunate run in with a car which left them both in pretty rough shape.

Dad had a bad habit of laying his cane on the roof of the car when he climbed into the driver's seat. On one occasion, he left Aflak there and drove off. As he pulled out onto the street, he heard a clatter and, in the rearview mirror, saw Aflak bouncing into the middle of the street. He pulled over and was climbing out to retrieve his companion when another car came speeding up behind him. Dad was certain the driver saw Aflak and deliberately aimed the car at him, but, whatever the man's intent, run over the cane he did.

When Dad picked him up, Aflak's head had a few small holes ground into one side and was somewhat wobbly, and the lower end of the ferrule had been snapped off about four inches from the end. He looked around for the car and spotted it against the curb about half a block away. The left front tire was completely flat: Aflak's beak had torn a hole in it.

Dad's friend, Mike, replaced the broken end and soldered a brass collar around Aflak's neck. Dad didn't stay to talk to the driver, but, according to the guard at the condo gate, he'd had to call AAA to bring him a new tire.

The other story comes from Aflak's time with me.

For reasons that are too long and complicated to go into, my children's father was forced into bankruptcy not long after we divorced and I ended up paying off all his debts but the one I hadn't cosigned. That left me with a 40 % share of a small company, the other 60 % being divided between the wife and son of my ex's former business partner, hereinafter known as C. W.

C. W. went on to have an affair with his wife's best friend, his wife found out about it and started divorce proceedings. C. W. then tried to get hold of his wife's share of the business, claiming she had only been a "silent partner" and the shares were his. Asked by the lawyers for an affidavit, I said my current partners had, in fact, been the backbone of the business and their husband/father had had nothing to do with it for several years before I became involved.

C. W. called me and ordered me to "keep my nose out of his business" and, when I said, "This IS my business," told me, "You'll be sorry." He then went to my ex's disgruntled creditor and told her that our divorce was a scheme to defraud her; that my ex, in fact, had lots of money squirreled away; and that he, C. W., would be glad to testify to that effect if she--the creditor--would sue me for my share of the business and split the shares with him.

D. C. (Disgruntled Creditor) then went to her lawyer without C. W. and told him to contact me and my two partners to make the following offer: D. C. would graciously accept 25 % of my shares (10% of the business) and not sue me for the money my ex owed her. No mention of a fraudulent divorce, but lots of allegations that my ex was hiding money from me as well as her.

All this should explain why my two partners, D. C. and I were sitting in her lawyer's office with me gripping Aflak's head so tightly my fingertips had gone numb. As I listened politely to D. C. and her lawyer, I consciously relaxed my fingers, feeling Aflak's weighted head in my hand. I thought flipping him around and holding him by the ferrune and swinging him like a baseball bat. I pictured all the damage that weight could do to D. C. and her lawyer and his office, a sort of modern replay of Samson and the ass's jawbone against the Philistine army.

Then I remembered the Hollywood classic, Samson and Delilah, with a very buff, bare chested Victor Mature beating off all those heavily costumed extras, and I almost giggled. I was still angry, but I wasn't going to let them know that. I wasn't going to let them know a damned thing.

D. C. and her lawyer finally ran out of things to say, and my two partners, intelligent people that they were, knew it wasn't their place to say anything. The lawyer finally said something like, "I suggest you take some time to think about our offer," I said I would, and we left. My partners assured me that they'd stand behind anything I decided, and I told them how much I appreciated their support. And then I left.

When I got home, I called C. W., got his answering machine, and asked him why he hadn't been at the meeting. I took Aflak for a long visit with my friend, Anne, and a walk along the ocean.

A week later, when D. C. called to ask me what I had decided, I simply said, "I'm not giving you anything." She blustered and threatened to sue me, but I said "You do what you think you have to do," and hung up on her.

And that was the end of that. I still think Aflak would make an excellent substitute for that ass's jawbone.