Ghost Words

    Ghost words are actually and in fact words that entered the dictionary by mistake and were either discovered and deleted—ghosted, as it were—or gathered lovingly into the language in spite of their ghostly ancestry. 

    "Dord" is an example of a word taken into, then out of, the dictionary. It was written down as a synonym for "density" because in the original entry, the lexicographer added, helpfully, after "density," "D or d," meaning that "density," a term of physics, could be spelled with or without a capital D: "Density, D or d"—"Density, Dord." It was an easy mistake to make, but it became a ghost word when it was removed from the dictionary in a huff.

    "Syllabus" is an example of a word with a ghostly, i.e., nonexistent, ancestry that was left in the dictionary in spite of the error that birthed it. In some 17th-century scriptorium, a scribe copying words into a dictionary came to the Latin word sittybas, defined as a parchment label. In the dim light in which he was working, he apparently didn't notice the crosses on the "t"s and created the word "syllabus." In time, the meaning also got twisted, from a "parchment label" to "a list," and on to the most common modern meaning, "a list of lessons for a class."

    But I like to think of ghost words as wraiths, hovering into the language and then evaporating. "Crapulous," for instance, a word for the way you feel after you've eaten too much—isn't it a shame that that word became a ghost? Elflock— hair that elves have tangled—is another ghost word (by my definition) we could use today—much better, don't you think, than "bad hair day"?

    I wish curglaff, the shock felt at a cold-water plunge, hadn't turned into a ghost. I would love to be able to say, as I plunged into a lake at 10,000 feet, "Wow! That was a great curglaff!" And I still could, I guess, even if no on knew what I meant, except that I probably won't remember it. It has only a spectral existence, flitting through the linguistic atmosphere as insubstantial and unsnatchable as a ghost.

Incivility Comes to My Little Corner of the World

     A few days ago I posted on the local "nextdoor" website: "I need, as my son said, 'a man with a shovel' to divert the water on my driveway to the side ditches. Any ideas?"

    I probably should have added that this was a paying job, though I thought it was obvious.

    Someone named Amy Templeton, whom I don't know, responded: "Can't your son do it? I see so many women out here expecting the neighbors to bail them out. If you can't handle rural property, or do it yourself please go back to the city."

    How astonishing.

    (1) My son lives in another state.

    (2) I am 80 years old. Am I expected to dig ditches?

    (3) I have lived on this property for 50 years. (I built my own house, too, if that is a relevant fact.)

    (4) I didn't come from the city. The only time I have "lived" in a city was when I was at college in Nashville, Tennessee, where I lived on campus and seldom went into town, and again in graduate school in Eugene, Oregon, again more on campus than in town.

    (5) Why would this writer assume that I wouldn't pay my helper?

    However, it is beside the point that Amy Templeton had no idea of those facts, as she couldn't be expected to know them. The point is how rude it was to attack me—any person—in such a way.

    I was taught as a child to treat all people with respect—and, for my parents, that included Black people, which was not always the case in the South, where I grew up (in the boondocks, by the way, Amy, not in the city). I am grateful for that upbringing. I wonder why Amy wasn't taught the same thing. Is she of a generation that weren't taught to be polite? Did she have a harsh upbringing that left her bitter and resentful? Or has a general air of incivility, disrespect, and permission to attack people you don't know permeated so deeply into our society that it touches even those of us who don't live that way?

    

A Staycation in Ashland, Oregon

     Let's say you live in the mountains and a friend who lives in town has offered you her house while she's away for five days. Here are a few tips, in case that happens to you.

(1) A staycation! Accept excitedly.

(2) Pack the car with everything you think you might need: skis, since you'll be an hour closer to the ski trails; yoga gear and clothes (this is not an excuse not to do yoga for five days); computer, books, hiking clothes and poles, dinner-out clothes and ski clothes and hang-around-the-house clothes and everyday shoes and dress-up boots and hiking boots, and don't forget your ski boots and poles, too.

(3) Leave your work behind so you don't end up doing everything you do at home except in a different place. Be free to do things you can't do at home, such as:

(4) Walk twenty minutes to a coffee shop every morning for a leisurely cup of coffee.

(5) Go to a poetry reading at the college and a dramatic reading at the local bookstore and especially go to the local theater to see the new Bob Dylan movie.

(6) Browse the bookstores and clothing stores. But watch your wallet; it could empty fast.

(7) Slip around the corner to a pub for dinner and have the best beer you've ever had (pFriem pilsner).

(8) Once you figure out how to work the remote, sit on the couch and watch movies, like Erin Brockovich, The Pianist, The Great British Bake-off.

(9) Meet a friend for dinner.

(10) Meet a friend for a hike.

(11) When it's time to go home, leave a nice thank-you gift on the table and be sure to lock the door behind you as you leave the house.

(12) Walk into your own little house on the mountain, glad to be home and grateful for the good time you have had on your staycation.

Cleaning Out the Entry Closet

   The Swedes have a word and, I guess, a concept that we don't have in English—döstädning: dö (death), städning (cleaning): death cleaning, downsizing so your children won't be burdened with your stuff after you die. I thought that's what I was doing when I started cleaning out the entry closet last week, but now I think I was just wanting to be able to walk into it again.

    Basically, I don't have a lot of "stuff" in my house, though I did in the entry closet. Most of it was memorabilia that, sentiment aside, wasn't worth keeping, although when I found a box of puppets my son and I had made when he was small, I gasped with delight. What characters we had created! And the puppet shows we performed with them! But the cloth faces were dirty and the gourd faces had been chewed by insects and the sock dragon had lost teeth, and so on. Out they went. I boxed the good ones to donate to a school, and, yeah, okay, I kept a few, too. 

    When I was cleaning off the shelf of games, I found cards for a game Ela and I had been making up when he was still learning how to write. It was going to be a literary board game. I don't remember what the start and end squares were, but the cards were delightful: "You dropped your golden ball into the well. Go back 2 steps." "The tortoise wins the race. Go forward 8 steps." We must have been reading Robin Hood stories and Arthurian tales at the time because a lot of cards reference those stories: "Arthur pulls sword out of stone. Advance to any intersection." "Little John fights Robin Hood on bridge and knocks him off. Go back 3 steps." The game was never completed, but the cards are too fun and hold too many memories to be tossed. I put them back on the shelf.

    I also kept the Alice in Wonderland chess set Ela made from Sculpty clay–Alice as the Queen, mushrooms as castles, lobsters as pawns, and so on. I don't play chess, but I love these playful chess pieces.

    I don't think I'll do any more beading and I don't paint any more, so why keep the equipment? It wasn't hard to give away such things, or to toss paint that had dried up and children's books that won't have any more readers in my house. I tore the hardback covers off books too ragged to give away and recycled the paper. I don't know if children read books these days, but I took the books I liked best to the Goodwill. They had probably come from the Goodwill in the first place. And I kept the ones with the most sentimental attachment, either for me or for Ela. I'll probably never read The Little Colonel's Hero again, but looking at it gives me a warm feeling from my childhood, and maybe, after I die, Ela will feel the same way about finding the Dr. Seuss and Richard Scary books I used to read to him.

    Still, I got rid of a lot of stuff. Here's a picture of the second carload to go to the transfer station and the Goodwill, as well as a couple of elegant jackets and other special things I'm offering on Jo's List at a good price.

    I found the architectural plans for my house and thought why should I keep them now that the house was built? But I was unsure, so I asked my son. He said they had important information about the house and that I should keep them. That made me uneasy. What if I had thrown out something important? What if I threw out sentimental stuff that Ela would have enjoyed seeing again?

    No matter. What's done is done. And it feels good, now, to walk into the entry closet and see all those half-empty shelves.  It feels like a good way to start the new year.