FoxCraft

Just Give Me a Sign

The family of blondes had planned their vacation for months and were very excited about going to Disney World. After two long days of driving, they were almost at their destination. Then, just ahead, they saw a big sign: "Disney World Left."

Disappointed to the point of tears, they turned around and drove home.

The wonderful complexity of the English language can make using the right word challenging enough when you have whole sentences and paragraphs to work with. When you only have enough room for a handful of words, on a sign or in a headline, it can be even harder to say precisely what you intend.

When I was in high school, there was a sign near our mailbox that read "Slow School Bus Stop." We were never sure exactly what it meant. Was it a bus stop for a slow school, a stop for a slow school bus, or a slow stop for a school bus? At least that sign wasn't as bad as the ones that announce so unkindly: "Slow Children Playing."

A couple of recent headlines in our local paper point up the difficulty of communicating clearly in small spaces. One read, "Chicken Rules Needed." As someone who used to have to gather eggs from cranky hens who didn't want to give them up, I wholeheartedly agree.

One with a little more drama was "Lions plant trees with fourth-graders." It would seem to me that shovels might be more efficient, but hey, they're lions. If I start challenging their tree-planting strategies, the next headline might read, "Lions plant nitpicking editor."

When you try translating from other languages, of course, the chances for error are greatly increased. When my partner was in Mongolia a few years ago, he ate at a restaurant that offered him a menu in English. One of the featured items was "Roasted Chicken Spit." Considering the difficulty of collecting enough for a meal, the price wasn't as high as one might expect.

Last week, though, in a residential neighborhood in Spearfish, we saw an example of abbreviated communication that was refreshingly direct. At the top of the post was a sign reading "Dead End." Below it was a second sign with an arrow pointing to the left and one word: "Cemetery."

It may not have been tactful, but at least it was clear.

Marooned, Cast Away, Stranded, and Forsaken

Here's a potentially serious drawback to Kindles and Nooks and other e-book readers that some of us didn't think about before we bought ours:

Suppose you were on a vacation cruise, well supplied with books that didn't take up much space in your luggage because they were all on your e-reader. Then the ship sank and left you stranded on a deserted island. Before long, you'd have no more battery—and no more books. About the only use for the device would be to reflect the sun's rays onto some dry tinder in hopes of starting a fire.

Which brings us to today's important question. If you were ever marooned in the middle of the ocean, and you could have only one book, what would you like it to be?

When this question came up in a group recently, one person creatively opted for her own journal. Another voted for the Bible. A third practical soul suggested the Boy Scout Handbook.

The Bible wouldn't be a bad choice, actually, regardless of your religious beliefs or lack thereof, simply because of its length. It would have enough complex drama, history, and thought-provoking content to keep an inquiring mind occupied for a long time. Just finding all the contradictions would take weeks. The Book of Revelation alone ought to be good for at least a couple of months.

Though the Boy Scout Handbook might be more useful. So might 1001 Quick and Easy Campfire Recipes for Fish. Or better yet, Boat Building for Dummies.

My choice, though, would probably be a big, fat, unabridged dictionary. Instead of just one story, it would potentially hold an endless supply of them. I could browse for fascinating new words, make up word games, and even learn a few handy phrases in other languages to be prepared for possible rescue by a ship whose crew didn't speak English. I could even find rhyming words to write sad songs about being lost and lonely.

When it wasn't being used linguistically, the book could also serve as a chair, a table, or a shelf. And if I did manage to build an escape raft, it would be heavy enough to serve as an anchor.

Of course, after a few years as a castaway, even if I were rescued I'd probably have long since lost my sanity. But at least I'd be talking to myself with one heck of an impressive vocabulary.

Ole and Lena and Paddy Went Into a Bar . . .

Okay, it's nitpicking and grammar nerdish of me, but I can't help it. It isn't "St. Patty's Day," people. If you must be informal, it's "St. Paddy's Day."

Since March 17 falls on a Saturday this year, I suspect the consumption of green beer may hit record levels. Which around here isn't necessarily a bad thing. We've had such a dry winter that we can use all the moisture we can get.

Despite all the celebrations in honor of his day, about the only things most of us know about St. Patrick are that his birthday was on March 17 and that he is crediting with driving all the snakes out of Ireland.

Both of these are wrong. Most of us have probably suspected the truth about the snakes, which is that, Ireland being an island and all, there were never any snakes there in the first place.

But since March 17 is St. Patrick's Day, it's logical to assume, as I did until I looked it up just now, that this was his birthday. Nope. It's actually the anniversary of his death. The day seems to be accepted by scholars, though there's some confusion about the year, which was somewhere in the late fifth or early sixth century.

He was a real person, though, a missionary and an archbishop. As a Christian, he was committed to eradicating Druidism and other beliefs that he would have considered the worship of false gods. No doubt he wouldn't appreciate his name being plastered all over the place accompanied by pictures of leprechauns. What he would think of all the green beer, of course, is another question.

I think it's great to celebrate the Irish on St. Patrick's Day, even for people who are as Norwegian and as Lutheran as Ole and Lena. There's nothing wrong with wearing green and sporting buttons that say things like, "Kiss me, I'm Irish." Maybe it even does a little to make up for the days when the more common sentiment would have been "No Irish need apply."

But the man was an archbishop, for goodness sake. (At least one can hope it was for the sake of goodness.) In his lifetime, he would have been called "Father Patrick," or maybe "Your Grace." I doubt that his parishioners ever slapped him on the back and called him "Paddy."

And even if they had, they—or at least the few of them who were literate—surely wouldn't have spelled it "Patty."

Happy St. Patrick's Day.

Mispronouncing History

El Dorado. The city of gold. Like so many other explorers, we came close but just missed it.

The name actually translates as "the golden one." According to early Spanish writings, it came from a ritual among a South American Indian tribe where a chief covered in gold dust made offerings of gold objects to the gods.

This got the wealth-seeking Spanish conquistadores all excited, of course, and eventually "el dorado" came to be associated with any lost or rumored place of fabulous wealth. The Spanish never quite found it in South America, which didn't stop Coronado from trekking across a good portion of the American Southwest after it. He made it to central Kansas without finding any cities of gold.

Too bad he didn't have a chance to stop at his local AAA office and pick up a map, because there it was, plain as day. El Dorado, right there on Highways 54 and 77. Even with the map, though, we didn't quite reach it. We just saw the sign as we breezed past at 65 miles an hour, traveling in luxury Coronado could scarcely have imagined.

Of course, Coronado did have the disadvantage of being consistently misled by local people who kept telling him the city of gold was just a little farther down the road. They were smart enough to encourage the demanding and militant Spaniards to move along and become somebody else's problem.

In a way, the locals are still misleading travelers. Not with any inhospitable intent, I'm sure. But we might have had trouble finding El Dorado had we relied on the waitress in Wichita who mentioned it. According to her, it was "El Do-RAY-do."

This regional pronunciation shouldn't really have come as a surprise. The previous day we had breakfasted in Beatrice, Nebraska, which everyone in the state knows is "Be-AH-trice" rather than the conventional "BEE-a-tris" or the pretentious Italianate "Bey-a-TRAY-chay."

Later in our trip we encountered Chickasha, Oklahoma, which an unaware northern traveler might assume to be pronounced "Chick-a-shaw," had she not been informed by someone more familiar with the region that it was "Chick-a-shay." Come to think of it, given the spelling, that makes more sense anyway.

We also spent a day in Lamesa, Texas, presumably named for the "mesa" or flat tableland on which it's located. Nevertheless, it's pronounced "La-mee-sa" with fine disregard for the original Spanish that would have it "La-may-sa."

In the end, the joke was on Coronado, who trekked across this country without ever knowing that it was indeed full of gold. It was just black gold rather than yellow, the kind that's now being taken out of the ground by hundreds of pump jacks.

It is interesting to speculate on how history may have been different had the Spanish made it far enough north to discover gold in the Black Hills. If they had, the capitol of South Dakota might be pronounced "Cor-a-nay-do" instead of "Peer."

In the Doghouse

The first do-it-yourself carpentry project I remember attempting, when I was too young to know any better, was a stick horse. To start out with, I had a wooden head. (That would have been the horse's head—and aren't you ashamed of that unkind thought you just had?) It was cut out of plywood, and I think it may have been something I painted in school.

Anyway, my self-assigned task was to attach the head to a broomstick to make a complete horse. I remember working away, one eighth of a turn of a screwdriver at a time, to screw the two pieces of wood together, until I simply couldn't turn the screws any further. I had no idea that a real carpenter would have drilled holes first.

Another time I started to build a doghouse. I had the idea that you needed to start with a frame and then put boards on the sides, but that was about the extent of my architectural skills. I got four scrap two-by-fours nailed together into a crooked rectangle for the base, and then got stuck when I couldn't figure out how to attach the uprights at the corners. I had maxed out my skills. Since I was scrounging scraps of wood, I ran out of material about the same time, and abandoning the whole project seemed like the only good idea left. You might say the doghouse never got off the ground.

Quite a few years later, as a beginning adult with a toolbox of my very own and a college degree (including a major in art which, unfortunately, didn't encompass anything useful like "Introduction to Doghouse Design"), I set out to build a house for our outdoor cat.

The style was Early Grocery Box. It consisted of one cardboard box inside another with insulating material stuffed in between. I cut a nice round (well, almost round) door into one side and put a couple of towels inside for flooring. I even gave the whole thing a coat of blue paint for waterproofing before I put it in the coziest corner of the front porch. It was kind of cute, in its own lopsided way.

As far as I know, the cat never spent a single night—heck, not a single minute—inside the house. Maybe he didn't like the color.

Or maybe he was too embarrassed to be seen going into the uneven little door. Being a smart cat, maybe he had noticed the difference in connotation the English language gives to "doghouse" and "cathouse." As in, "He was in the doghouse for a long time after his wife found out about his visit to the cathouse."

Wondering about the peculiarities of language may not be any more satisfying than trying to build doghouses or cathouses, but it certainly is easier. I'm a lot less likely to stab myself with a screwdriver, for one thing. And any half-finished constructions that don't work out? All I have to do is hit "delete" on my computer, and all the evidence of my false starts and miscalculations magically disappears.

If only I could do the same with the half-started creations on my sewing machine and my workbench. Somebody really needs to invent a universal "delete" button, something like a television remote. It would be the perfect tool for wannabe crafters like me who persist in imagining they can create vast projects with half-vast skills.

The Doc Will See You Now

Waiting with eager anticipation for the dental hygienist to summon me, I was browsing through a magazine. Not knowing it was going to provide me with a target—er, material—I didn't especially notice its name, but it had something to do with women's health. It was obviously targeted at a demographic other than hopelessly last-century me, with its bright colored frenetic layout and breezy editorial style.

According to a snappy little article about skin health, suspicious moles, spots, or rashes were all reasons to consult your "derm." After a couple of encounters with this truncated usage, I figured out this was just-between-us-girls shorthand for the doctor a more dignified age would have called a "dermatologist."

Another article, or possibly an ad—the distinction between content and commerce wasn't clear—made me painfully aware that the professional to be consulted for reproductive and pelvic issues is now a "gyno." "Gynecologist" is so old-fashioned, not to mention hard to spell and time-consuming to text.

Presumably, a woman might also need to consult other medical specialists from time to time. A gastro, perhaps, or a surg. Even, for more serious issues, possibly a cardio or an onco. Her children, of course, would be taken to a ped or perhaps a pedia. Her parents' failing hearing might lead them to consult an audio. Those annual eye exams would be done by an optho—so much easier to pronounce than the clumsy "ophthalmologist." An ortho would be the person to see if you broke an ankle, especially if the accident happened while you were fertilizing the lawn. On occasion, it might even be necessary to see a uro or even a procto.

I didn't have a chance to find out whether any of these other professionals were mentioned in the magazine. The hygienist interrupted me before I got that far. It was my turn to see the dent.

Just in time, too. I was almost stressed enough from all the amputated English to need a visit to the psych.

(Yes, I know. We take our animals to the vet, and we've done so for years. That's different. Don't ask me how or why; it just is.)

"Got Milk in That Silk?"

Milk silk. It's an idea, according to NPR, whose time has come.

A report that aired October 7, 2011, on "Morning Edition" featured the upcoming line of clothing from a German designer. The silk-like fabric is made from the protein casein in cow's milk. Apparently, people have been experimenting with milk fabrics since the 1930's—who knew?—but this may be the first time anyone is trying to sell clothes made from it. The process is supposedly chemical-free, and it takes less than two gallons of milk to make a dress.

I don't know whether milk silk garments will ever join nylon, rayon, and polyester as common fare on the racks at Sears or Wal-Mart. It's not likely to happen unless maintaining a dairy full of cows is more cost-effective than raising silk worms. But I do hope this new fabric catches on, if only for the marketing possibilities.

By way of example, here are just a few possible products that Milk Made Clothiers might include in its Udder Undies line:

The Cow Slips, featuring embroidered flowers in delicate shades of primrose.

The Jersey jersey lightweight sports bras.

The Cal-See-Um novelty sheer teddies.

The Cud-dler line of warm winter undergarments.

The Open Range line of men's boxer shorts.

The Milk Shake bras, designed especially for fuller figures.

The Bum Steer line of panties for the British market.

The Bossy bras—firm support for the executive woman on her way up.

The Moo-La-La combo, our sheerest teddy with matching Latte Lace thong.

The Cow Patty panties—just a touch of Spandex to give you those tempting, touchable curves.

The Dairy-Air bikini panties—so light and comfortable you'll forget you have them on.

And these are only a few of the possibilities. I'm sure a really good marketing expert could milk this idea for all it was worth.

How Come Everybody Knows This Stuff But Me?

Maybe it's because I spent grades kindergarten through eight in a rural school that never had more than five pupils. (I was the only person in my high school physical education class who didn't know how to play softball.) Maybe it's because we didn't have television when I was a kid. Maybe it's because I spent most of my teenage years reading instead of dragging Main Street or sneaking out to illicit parties.

Whatever the reason, there is a surprising amount of stuff "everyone" knows that I don't. Not just who Snooki and Lady Gaga are, or whether the Kardashian sisters actually do anything or simply are famous for being famous. I'm talking about a more fundamental layer of shared cultural background that I seem to have missed.

Every now and then I am reminded of some odd bit of apparently common knowledge that isn't common for me. These are things everyone else seems to understand and take for granted, but I don't get. Either I've never had a chance to learn them, I've never needed the information, or—more likely—I never wanted to admit my ignorance by asking.

Now, for the first time ever, the depths of my ignorance are about to be revealed. You read it here first, folks. These are some of the things I don't know:

1. Jumping-rope rhymes. As far as I can remember, I have never chanted one in my life.

2. When a vehicle with a standard transmission won't start, and you push or pull it to get it moving and then start it by "popping the clutch," how exactly do you do that? Do you begin with the clutch in, then let it out at the crucial moment? Or do you push it in? Or push it in and then let it out? Confusion over this issue is probably the major reason I have always driven an automatic. At least I know exactly what to do if that ever fails to start: dig out my cell phone and call AAA.

3. How exactly do you play "Rock, Paper, Scissors?"

4. I've done enough hiking to be able to identify poison ivy. I'm rather too familiar with thistles and creeping Jenny, since the yard is full of them. But what precisely does a pot plant look like? Yes, I've seen pictures, but to the best of my knowledge I've never seen one in the flesh. (Of course, since I'm not sure what they look like, how would I know?) The stuff could be flourishing in the overgrown back half of our yard right this very minute, along with the thistles and that one tall asparagus plant. If anybody should ever discover marijuana growing wild back there, could I go to jail?

5. Did Gilligan and company ever get off that island? If so, how?

Instead of whining about it, of course, I could just look up some of this stuff online. Or maybe I should focus on all the other things I do know. Like what a "gerund" is, or a "stoat." Or what part of a car in England is called the "bonnet." Or what Harry Truman's middle initial stands for. I'd be perfectly willing to enlighten you on any of those important facts.

Right after you explain how to pop a clutch.

Antique, Collectible, Or Just Plain Junk?

What's the difference between "antique" and "vintage" or "collectible?"

Oh, about a hundred bucks.

By the way, have you ever noticed that, even though most of us probably say it as "antique shop," most stores that sell old stuff call themselves "antiques shops?" That may be a distinction only an English major could love, but it does make a difference.

Here's why, if you want to get nitpicky about it (and of course editors always do—it's what we get paid the big bucks for). An "antique shop" would be a very old store that may or may not sell old stuff. An "antiques shop" would be a store that may or may not be old itself but that sells very old stuff.

Which means you'd better be careful to refer to the mature lady who is explaining the provenance of that 18th century chamber pot as an "antiques dealer" rather than an "antique dealer" if you want to get a decent deal.

But back to the definitions. It's really quite simple.

1. Any object that was made during my lifetime absolutely cannot be an "antique."

2. Any object that I remember being used in our household when I was a child is not an antique. It may, just barely, with caution, be referred to as "vintage."

3. Any object that I have personally used in my adult life is not "vintage." It might possibly be considered "collectible."

4. Calling a new object that is mass-produced in the millions a "collectible" does not automatically make it a potentially valuable investment. (Beanie Babies, anyone?)

5. Sometimes old junk is just old junk. Describing a 15-year-old computer as an "antique" will not help you get rid of it at a yard sale.

Suppose, however, an object of a certain age is in my possession and I want to sell it. If calling it "antique" rather than "vintage" will increase the price, I could live with that. If you're willing to buy it, you can call it whatever you like.

Just be sure your check is good. Otherwise you may discover a whole different meaning to the term "collectible."

The Green Leaves of Summer

When did it get to be September? Apparently I wasn't looking. But I just turned my back for a few minutes, I swear. A week ago, we traded the 95-plus temperatures here for the 100-plus temperatures of southern New Mexico. It may be, as everyone there points out, a "dry heat," but it would be easier to live with if it would cool off at night enough to at least consider opening a window.

While we were gone, summer not only opened its windows, but carelessly left the back door ajar as well, and fall began creeping in. Or at least it started sniffing around the opening. It was chilly here this morning. Summer, still lush and arrogant with this year's abundant rain, just hasn't noticed yet that its days are growing shorter.

Neither have our tomato plants. It's been almost six weeks since they were stripped of all their leaves and most of their fruit by a hailstorm. They were nothing but battered stalks that obviously needed to be pulled up and tossed onto the compost pile.

Before I got around to cleaning up the mess the hail had made of them, though, the plants started to recover. A few leaves started growing back, and then a few more, and now the plants are almost as tall as they were before the hail, vibrant with new green leaves and covered with blossoms.

I don't have the heart to tell them that all their hard work is in vain. There's no way they can produce another crop before the first hard frost. It's like seeing someone get badly injured in a car accident, who survived surgery and has been working furiously at rehab and making a great recovery—only you've seen this movie before and you know they're going to walk out of the hospital and get run over by a garbage truck. I can see what's going to happen, but I can't do a thing to stop it.

Meanwhile, out on the deck, the two pots of pansies that also got hit by the hail are still blooming. The first hailstorm smashed them into a quarter of an inch of green mush. About half the plants didn't survive. Within a week, however, battered stems with a few tattered leaves had managed to stagger more or less upright and put out defiant buds. Two weeks later, the second hailstorm knocked them around. Beaten but unvanquished, they were blooming again within a few days. They are blooming still, their vivid yellow and purple making the most of every day between now and the first freeze.

In her first draft of Gone With the Wind, the name Margaret Mitchell chose for her heroine wasn't Scarlett O'Hara. It was Pansy. I can understand why.

Fall may be just around the corner, but its time hasn't quite come yet. It can wait its turn.