Just now I’m up at Silver
Bay at the Quakers’ annual
conference. I’ve told
you about that place: It’s
where, in the middle of the
night, I once accidentally
entered a sleeping woman’s
room and almost sat down
on her head and got arrested;
but I didn’t and wasn’t.
Anyway, for your delectation
I’ve pulled up a column
from about seven years
back. Enjoy it, please.
Last week I made a
quick trip to Annapolis and
back, mumbling Spanish
all the way. Instead of entertaining
myself with a recorded
book, I was gabbling
responses to a language
tape. It’s almost eight hundred
miles, down there and
back; that’s a lot of gabbling.
When I climbed out
of the car back home, Fly
Creek seemed like Guadalajara.
Cramming Spanish is
part of a four-month leadup
to a travel adventure.
One of Anne’s far-flung Canadian
cousins, a great
young guy, is being married
in February. Ryan and his
heart’s love Susie have
shared life for several years,
and now they’re ready to
formalize things. But an
Edmonton, Alberta wedding
in February struck
them as inapt to their warm
relationship. So they decided
on a wedding south of
the border — two borders,
in fact. The wedding’s in
Cancun.
I know — that’s a pretty
dramatic leap; but these
are young people, remember,
and think differently
from us. And to their credit,
they’ve done some practical
planning. Susie’s sister, it
turns out, is heading for
marriage; too, and the girls
agreed they should tie the
knot in the same week, in
the same place. And when
brides and grooms tallied
up the two guest lists, they
had enough potential travelers
to negotiate a sweet
deal on travel and a resort
hotel down Mexico way.
Clever kids! Come February,
wedding guests will
board planes in Alberta,
British Columbia, Ontario,
even New Brunswick Province
(the other groom’s from
there). All those jets will be
winging south to tropic
warmth and a week of celebration.
And who’s tooling
up to Toronto to hop aboard
the Ontario jet? Yep. My
own bride and I. Hence the
crash course in Spanish, a
language I’ve admired but
never learned.
Once, years ago, I had a
fair command of French,
and could even read Latin.
But that was when my
mind was fresh, still trailing
remnants of the amazing
gift for language that
every baby brings into the
world. Some years have
passed since then; and with
them, nearly all the French
and Latin. And with the
years, as well, went my language
aptitude.
I first realized that skill
was fading back in my forties.
I was preparing for a
lectureship in Brazil with
language tapes in Portuguese.
I thought I was doing
fairly well, but got to
Rio to discover I’d been
stuffing my head with Iberian
Portuguese, not Brazilian.
The latter, with its
own set of distinct idioms,
turned out to be a cavalo of
a different colorido. That
same trip, I abashed myself
and convulsed a Carioca
audience by using a finger
gesture in public that, up
here, means A-OK, but
down there is, uh, beyond
just impolite. Oh, well. I’m
not likely to go back.
This time around, I’m
setting the bar low for
learning Spanish. The
course I’m using is called
``Spanish for Gringos,’’ and
its goal is not language precision
or elegance, but bare
survival.
By the course’s end I’m
to know numbers, colors,
months, days, occupations,
foods, places of business,
furniture, family members.
I’ll also command a few basic
verbs, plus some set
phrases to get me to the
hospital, the hotel, or a
bathroom. ``Don’t worry
about your poor pronunciation,’’
the instructor says
blandly. ``Just reinforce
your efforts with lots of gestures
and mugging. Latins
are warm-hearted,’’ he
says. ``They’ll see you struggling,
sympathize, and try
to help.’’
That instructor’s casual
dismissing of accent came
to mind last Sunday. Anne
and I were over in Edmeston
to celebrate John
Blackman’s forty-fifth ordination
anniversary. John
held the pulpit at Edmeston’s
Second Baptist for
over thirty years, and congregants
and other friends
there threw him a party.
Their reminiscing included
lots of jokes about John’s
accent when he first came
to Edmeston. He’s from
Maine, you see, a real
Down-Easter. One man
said that, when John first
arrived, his accent was so
rockbound that he hardly
spoke English at all. ``It
gave us a jolt,’’ he added,
``when he addressed the Almighty
as `Lard Gord.’
Weren’t sure just what we’d
hired!’’
Well, it’s an amazing
gift, our bent for language
— and all the more so when
we think about reading.
When first learning to read,
we looked at individual
squiggles, translated them
to sound, grouped the
sounds, and grasped meaning.
But, after years at it,
the reading process got
more subtle: Now we see a
word’s familiar shape and
at once grasp its meaning.
Here’s an example that
popped up in my email:
``Aoccdrnig to rscheearch
at an Elingsh uinervtisy, it
deosn’t mttaer in waht
oredr the ltteers in a wrod
are, olny taht the frist and
lsat ltteres are at the rghit
pcleas. The rset can be a
toatl mses and you can sitll
raed it wouthit a porbelm.
Tihs is bcuseae we do not
raed ervey lteter by ilstef,
but the wrod as a wlohe.’’
Now, if you and I still
have enough language skill
to grasp that paragraph,
maybe there’s hope for me
with Spanish. Maybe I can
teach this old perro a few
new trucos.
Read about Jim Atwell’s
book, From Fly Creek--Celebrating
Life in Leatherstocking
Country, at JimAtwell.
com
Columns
Jim Atwell: New tricks for an old dog
- Columns
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From Fly Creek: Cheers for the Blue Rabbit!
My handwriting’s always been an embarrassment. Way back in elementary school, while most of the others were developing a clear, sometimes graceful hand (especially the girls), my penmanship showed no improvement.
Continued ... -
In These Otsego Hills: This and that ...
We have found the weather so far this year to be on the unusual side. And while we have no problem with the fact that we have received very little snow, we are of the opinion that what we have had instead is not particularly to our liking either. In fact, we are very hesitant to venture out much as we live in fear that the rain will turn to mixed precipitation which will freeze into a sheet of ice. And we are definitely opposed to encountering a sheet of ice underfoot. In fact, we are so hesitant that we now have taken to canceling our participation in events based on what just might be a dubious forecast.
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Book Notes: Feinstein’s latest is sheer enjoyment
Most people who follow sports have probably heard of John Feinstein. As a nationally known author, sportswriter, pundit and broadcaster, he has brought a unique angle to sports journalism. His groundbreaking book on Bobby Knight’s 1986-87 Indiana University basketball team, “A Season on the Brink,” still resonates today as an all-time classic.
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Book Notes: No Trekkie should miss Shatner’s books
It would be hard to find a television phenomenon as popular as “Star Trek.” Even though it was only on television for three seasons and 79 episodes (1966-69) it attracted viewers and devotees that still follow it passionately 45 years later. The fanatical supportspawned several movies and television spinoffs. Star Trek conventions continue to this day. There has never been anything like it.
Continued ... -
Up on Hawthorn Hill: Making sense of things
A book I have been reading investigates the various ways over time that we have made sense of the world. It carries the reader through to the present via several seminal classical texts and ultimately aims to suggest a strategy for “ finding meaning in a secular age.”
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In These Otsego Hills: ‘Property must be secured or liberty cannot exist.’ − John Adams
Last week we were asked if we would be interested in previewing a documentary, “The Empire State Divide,”produced by the Foundation for Land & Liberty. And we were more than happy to do so as we understood the documentary dealt with the problems that continue to face family farms.
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From Fly Creek: Now wait a minute!
On the ninth day of Christmas, driving down Cooperstown’s Eagle Street, I saw something astounding! No, not “nineladies dancing, eight maids a-milking, seven swans” etc. I saw one jogger jogging. And puffing on a cigarette.
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In These Otsego Hills: Goals of the past and goals of the future
We have long subscribed to the concept that we are always more successful if we, number one, set a goal and then, number two, meet it. And this was our thinking when we decided before Christmas to watch at least part of every college football bowl game. It was perhaps an odd, if not completely nonsensical, goal.
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In These Otsego Hills: Not to our liking ...
It is with sadness that we note the recent death of Steve Nagel. The son-inlaw of our late husband’s cousins, Alice and Harvey Eckler of Fly Creek, Steve was married to the Ecklers’ oldest daughter, Gail. We had the pleasure of spending Christmas Eve with the Nagels and the Ecklers in Fly Creek, greatly enjoying the delicious food and delightful conversation.
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Up on Hawthorn Hill: Of birds and faith
I watch birds quite a bit. Every five days or so I send in a report to Cornell as partof its annual Project Feeder Watch program. The data, collected from volunteers from all over the country, enables scientists to track population trends. I would spend quite a bit of time checking out the visitors to our feeders anyway. Participating in the feeder program makes a personal pleasure that much more meaningful. It is rare that aesthetical and scientific endeavors work in tandem.
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Book Notes: Biography captures the real Stephen Colbert
It would be hard to find a comedian as unique as Stephen Colbert. As the host of “The Colbert Report” on Comedy Central he hasmanaged to leave his mark on the nation’s consciousness in both a serious and humorous sort of way. His unusual wit has allowed him to become American icon. It would be difficult to find another entertainer quite like him.
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From Fly Creek: Christmas and varied blessings
I’m still astounded! The last farmers’ market before Christmas, I was sitting up front, directly under the ceiling heater, shmoozing with the hoi-polloi. (That’s an awkward linguistic mix,but let’s let it go.) As I sipped my hot coffee, a gloved hand came to rest on my shoulder and a warm voice said, “Merry Christmas, Jim.” I looked to my left—it was Santa Claus!
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In These Otsego Hills: Always a learning experience ...
We must admit that we thoroughly enjoyed our 2011 Christmas celebration. We partook of Christmas Eve dinner at the home of Alice and Harvey Eckler of Fly Creek and Christmas Day dinner at the home of Sandy and Al Bullard of Milford. We had our usual Christmas Day brunch at home on Pioneer Street, although we must admit it was a tad bit later than usual as, what we enjoyed most about Christmas, namely our granddaughter Abby, took a great deal of time opening her Christmas presents.
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In These Otsego Hills: Coming up ... 2012
Difficult as it seems, 2011 is fast coming to an end. And it is always our hope that as a year draws to a close, the issues which have been in the forefront during the year will be resolved. Unfortunately, we suspect that will not be the case this year. Instead, we are fairly certain that many of the issues that plagued this year, will continue to plague next year. Thus we will find ourselves still musing about the same issues we have spent time with already. And while we have not come toany conclusions about many of the issues, we do think they would all likely benefit from both sides thinking critically about perspective, risk assessment and possible solutions.
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Up on Hawthorn Hill: Circularity
When she was a puppy my dog Gabby would run in what I described then as “circles of joy.” She celebrated her15th birthday a few weeks ago and despite the inevitable frailties that old age imposes upon all of us, she is doing pretty well.
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Book Notes: Grisham doesn’t disappoint
John Grisham is one of this country’s most popular authors. Every time he publishes a book it’s an instant best-seller. He appeared on the scene about 20 years ago with his tense legal thrillers, “A Time to Kill” and “The Firm,”and hasn’t stopped producing top-notch novels since.
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From Fly Creek: Still singing, beyond our hearing
This column from Christmas 2001 still speaks deeply to me, and perhaps will to you, too. Take it, please, as my Christmas gift.
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In These Otsego Hills: The 2011 Cooperstown Carol
Since 1984, with the exception of one year, 1999, we have looked forward at the end of the year to going through all the issues of the paper in order to glean those news items which have been worthy of note throughout the year and which should make their way into our annual Cooperstown Carol.
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In These Otsego Hills: Dear Santa ...
Although we tend to think Christmas is for children and thus rarely think about what we might like to have, this year we have decided to let Santa know what might be left under the tree with our name on it. Of course, we fully understand if our list is a bit long, a bit expensive and a bitlate. However, we have just finished reading our November issue of Health and so have just realized what we need that we do not currently have.
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Up on Hawthorn Hill: Irony abounds
These are querulous times. Dissent and disagreement, as uncomfortable as they sometimes are, are essential components of a viable democracy. Democracies are always messy because everyone has a right to speak his mind and because whenever a majority is able to gain the numerical upper hand it pretty much runs the show. Several political philosophers have written quite persuasively of what they characterize as the “tyranny of the majority.” Get enough people on your side and you have the opportunity to get your way so long as you are able to maintain power. I suspect that most thoughtful people would agree that wisdom is hard to come by.
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From Fly Creek: Cheers for the Blue Rabbit!
