The Christmas parade has to be one of the best events in our little town.  People show up hours ahead of time to guarantee a spot on the route, the churches and businesses spend countless hours and not just a few dollars on the beautiful floats, and the candy flows like water from the parade participants to the children lining the street.  What’s not to like about a Christmas parade?

It was all wasted on the next to the youngest grandchild this year.  She was okay for the first set of police cars, who momentarily triggered their sirens as they passed, and the first few floats weren’t too bad, but after the third or fourth fire engine with sirens blaring came by, she had had enough.  “Me scared Christmas parade!”  were the words which accompanied the sobbing, so the beautiful girl came in to sit with Grandpa and watch the activities from the sofa in the living room, safe from the racket, the unfamiliar people, and the shadowy forms that moved in the dark, illuminated only by the flashing beacons on the emergency vehicles and the twinkle-lights on the floats.  Not that Grandpa was complaining, mind you.  I had elected to stay inside, the cold air having activated a minor episode of breathing problems earlier in the day.  So, her company was welcome, even if her conversation wasn’t completely intelligible to my untrained ears.

Knowing that she was missing out on the excitement and the distribution of candy and balloons, I suggested venturing back out a time or two, only to be met with the original plaint of “Me scared!” and the hint of approaching tears.  So we were content to sit and view the scene, waving to the costumed children and adults on the passing floats and commenting on the changing vista, from dancers, to tractors, to more fire engines.  I’ve watched the parade from the press of the crowd enough times to know that our perspective this time was tame and unexciting, but it was all the frightened little girl could manage tonight.  Her brothers and sister finally came in from the cold, bubbling and excited about what they had experienced, but this little one was happily naive, not interested in the joy she might have missed, but only in the fear averted.

We laugh at the unreasonable fear of a toddler, but I wonder what we are afraid of from our advanced and allegedly intelligent viewpoint.  We live our lives, many times paralyzed with fears which we can’t admit to ourselves, much less to each other.  The list of “phobias” is seemingly as endless as it is ridiculous, from chronomentrophobia (fear of clocks), to phalacrophobia (fear of becoming bald), to xenophobia (fear of strangers), with a host of other irrational fears in between.  Even those of us who don’t suffer from these fears, labeled as extreme, have things which we fear and keep to ourselves, things real or imagined which keep us from achieving our potential, which cause us to view life from the safety of the couch, never venturing into the street to experience life where it really happens.

I have spent the better part of my life terrified that people wouldn’t like me.  I don’t mean the manufactured me, the contrived man who usually stands in front of customers, or acquaintances, or congregations in church.  I mean that I’m afraid they won’t like the real me, the me I know myself to be, warts, scars, and all.  In part, writing is a way for me to open the curtain, little by little, on that person.  The fear that has kept me from doing that before is the same fear that the “Great and Powerful Oz” demonstrated in the Wizard story.  I’m afraid that you’ll realize that I’m a humbug, a fake, and will no longer respect me.  Look at the great phantasm, the contrivance, who inspires respect, awe, and an expectation of  predictable outcomes.  Pay no attention to the little, terrified flimflam man behind the curtain! 

My sister asked me the other day if I plan to reveal every embarrassing story about myself.  While the truth is that I won’t be disclosing all, I intend to keep telling the ones that, within the bounds of good taste, expose how I got to be who I am.  There are a number of my experiences which would implicate others who haven’t given permission for me to pull aside the curtain for them, so they’ll remain untold.  But, for all of us, the person we are becoming is shaped by our life experiences and our spiritual journey.  So, this is me, peeking through the picture window, giving you a glimpse of the real me and getting up my nerve to go out onto the street, into the noise and turmoil.  I fully expect that the process will take quite some time, but for now, it’s a start.

With the little girl, I’m still declaring with quivering lips, “Me scared!”  And like her, I have Someone with strong arms and a patient heart, who is ready to comfort and hold me until I’m able to face the dark, scary world.  He’s there for all of us.

“Not half the storms that threatened me 
     E’er broke upon my head,
Not half the pains I’ve waited for 
     E’er racked me on my bed.
Not half the clouds that drifted by 
     Have overshadowed me
Nor half the dangers ever came 
     I fancied I could see.”
(Anonymous [with thanks to my brother, Aaron for the reminder])

“Failure isn’t an option.”  I have to laugh every time I hear the statement.  It most certainly is!  Not a good option, mind you, but a very real option.  The fact that you choose to believe (or choose to claim to believe) the statement doesn’t change reality.  We always, always, have the option of failure looming right ahead of us.  It’s the fear of every successful person, the motivation behind every driven man, and the nightmare of every student who ever stood up in front of a class to give a presentation.  I can also tell you, and I know this by experience, a dose or two of failure is not always a bad thing.

Many years ago, the local university was doing a production of the musical “Brigadoon”.  I was asked to play the horn part in the pit orchestra, I thought , because I must be the best horn player around.  I now actually suspect it was because everyone else with more intelligence declined.  I was excited to be involved.  Who wouldn’t be?  Great music, sung by some very good vocal majors, as well as some great acting….Well, there was great music anyway!

We had rehearsed until even the musicians knew the spoken lines by rote, the singers were prepared, the instrumentalists practiced up, and then came opening night.  My first experience in a genuine pit, initially viewed as an adventure, became an ordeal not very high up on my list of favorites.  The acoustics might be favorable for the auditorium, but not so for the players themselves, to say nothing of the comparison noted with any number of fish products marketed in tin cans.  So you can’t hear what you need to hear, nor do you have any room for movement, and there’s always the potential for losing an extremity if the trombonist moves her slide from seventh position back to first too carelessly.  Even with these issues, I was doing fine until the beginning of one of the male lead’s solos.

What was supposed to occur was that the horn (that’s me!) would sound the C an octave above Middle C as a clear starting note, and the star would begin to sing “Almost Like Being In Love”.  What actually occurred was that the horn (that’s me!) sounded an E an octave and a third above Middle C, leaving the unhappy singer to start a few notes high and then make an abrupt correction when it became clear that he had been led down the primrose path.  In my defense, you should know that the harmonic qualities of the Kruspe wrap F/Bb Horn do not make it conducive to playing this particular C note right out of the blue, especially using the trigger/open combination for fingering.  The horn wants to play a different pitch…Well…okay.   It was nobody’s fault but my own.  You may well understand that there was one horn player who was wishing the pit had been dug just a bit deeper.  I would have loved to find a hole beneath a hole and hide in it.  At least the audience couldn’t see me, but I guarantee, the conductor could.  And he was looking!  Well, not exactly looking…Glaring might be a better description.

I didn’t hang around for any socializing afterward.  I really didn’t want to hear or participate in any of the conversation, either with other musicians or with the cast.  But, as I walked out of the practice room after putting away my horn, I couldn’t avoid hearing the male lead saying, “…horn player…mumble, mumble, mumble…needs to get a clue!”  Did he think I didn’t know it?  I was well aware of my shortcomings that night!

I would have gladly never entered that pit again, but this production was running for two more nights!  I thought maybe I could pretend to be sick and let them get someone else to finish up, but that’s just not my style.  So I went back and faced the music (pun intended).  I didn’t go back empty-handed though.  I “got a clue” in the form of a portable device which could have an earphone inserted and would allow me to hear the correct pitch before I attacked the beginning note on successive evenings.  Victory!  Being confident of my starting note, both nights went off without a hitch and by the end of the last performance, the lead male, whom I had feared would never speak to me again, was shaking my hand and talking about a fine performance.  Opening night was a vague memory, and we had overcome with two very good final presentations.

Failure is an option and sometimes a powerful motivator.  Confidence is important, but it is imperative that we know the possibilities and be prepared to face up to consequences.  If you fail (and you will), keep going.  You increase the likelihood of folks remembering your failures if you don’t go back and get it right (the way you knew you could) the next time.

“You may have a fresh start any moment you choose, for this thing we call “failure” is not the falling down, but the staying down.”
(Mary Pickford)

My friend, Becky, says she told her kids today about the embarrassing things that happened to her when she was a kid.  I read her humorous description and jokingly rebuked her for giving them ideas.  Without question, from my perspective, most of the embarrassing moments in which I have found myself entangled in the past were webs of my own weaving.  As I thought about what her conversation might have entailed (she did give a hint or two), my mind was flooded by my own jumbled memories of childhood.  Any of you who regularly read my run-on, rambling writings know, I have shared quite a few of my early memories in the course of the last few months, but there are some stories which should probably be left in the dust-bins of the past, lids tightly affixed, to insure that the embarrassment does not once more overwhelm.

And, although I’m sure that some of you would prefer that a revealing look at my socially backwards past be forthcoming, for tonight, suffice it to say that there is enough material for a very long series of articles.  We’ll leave all of that material intact, so if you had expectations of a tantalizing expose’ of what makes Paul tick, you may want to go back to work for the duration, since that probably won’t be in the offing.  At this juncture, I also should admit that I’m not much of a believer in repressed memories.  My clear recall of so many disturbing events must be the proof against such fanciful theories.  Surely there can’t be any other, more humiliating memories still to be recalled in future moments of emotional distress or flashes of epiphany.  So, the storehouse of historical material is propitiously, for the reader at least, limited in volume.
 
What I am deliberating tonight is the way in which these events shape who we become, or more precisely, who we are becoming.  As I contemplated the profusion of samples of mortification in my history, I realize that each of them still impacts me in a very real way.  Most of them are filed away, thankfully for me, in the “what not to do to your kids, grand-kids, or friends” category.  There are others which fall under the category of “stupid is as stupid does”.  I’m guessing there are also one or two which might fall under the “I’m still a little bitter about this” heading, but I am grateful that, as my life experiences catch up to those of the adults who were involved so many years ago, I understand them and their actions so much better.  I’m still a little mad, but just a little sympathetic too.  My guess is that I’ve participated as an “embarrasser” on occasion, too.

I know folks for whom the embarrassing moments were overwhelming, progressively causing character changes which ensured even more embarrassing moments.  Eventually, introverted, painfully shy, and withdrawn from social contact, although many of these people are incredibly gifted, they live out their lives privately, the boundaries drawn ever closer to guarantee that they will never be abashed publicly again.  For some, a growing number it seems, one particularly embarrassing moment can be the proverbial “straw” which overloads the already demoralized emotional system, leading to a catastrophic event, like suicide or even murder-suicide. In these cases, the results are devastating to those left behind to deal with the chaos.  The sorrow (and anger) I feel when lives are ended for incredibly stupid reasons is beyond what I can put into words.  Suffice it to say that each one of us who has lived through these humiliations and recovered, owes a debt of support and love to those within our influence who suffer the same stress and confusion.  Look for them; Seek them out.  They will almost certainly not seek you out, but they’re in front of us on a daily basis.  One life repaired may mean hundreds, even thousands salvaged later. Is that an exaggeration?   I don’t think so.  History is rife with examples of “failures” who rose from the ashes of public humiliation, only to overcome and surmount their circumstances, influencing untold numbers of individuals in the process.

Whew!  What is it about supposedly light-hearted subjects that makes them so rebellious?  I started writing this with the intention of having you rolling on the floor by this point, only to realize that embarrassment isn’t quite as funny as we’ve been led to believe.  By now, I’ve figured out how to laugh at my own and put it in perspective, and I think that’s the correct personal response, but I suggest that we treat our fellow human beings’ mortifying moments with a little more class and a lot more respect.

Okay, since you suffered through the entire monologue with me, one piece of embarrassing ammo for you to use against me…When I was in second grade, I awaited the opening of Christmas presents at the class party with incredible impatience because there was an extra present, beautifully wrapped, under the tree with my name on it.  The eyes of the entire class were upon me expectantly, as I unwrapped the package.  What beautiful gift awaited me?  Was it the ubiquitous book of Life-savers or maybe a new volume of the “Land of Oz” series (I loved reading)?  Imagine my chagrin when there was nothing in the package but all my trash, taken from my messy desk while I wasn’t around and wrapped in a stunning package, I’m guessing as a moral lesson against the dangers of slovenliness.  I still don’t know whose idea it was, but it sits in my mental file today, a lifelong reminder of how negative lessons seldom yield the result we expect.  Well, as I’ve admitted before, all you have to do is look at my desk today to realize that.

“Humility is the only certain defense against humiliation.”

Things change.  On Wednesday, we enjoyed seventy degree temperatures with the sun shining, but late tonight the severe thunderstorms have rolled through, a precursor of the wintry mix and high in the thirties predicted for Thanksgiving day.  I want yesterday back!  I’ve heard numerous meteorologists talk about the departure of the beautiful weather, and seen countless deprecatory posts about it via the online social networks, but I’m fairly certain that no one I know will be rewinding the film, unraining the rain, unflashing the lightning, and uncovering the sun for today’s weather.  We’ll endure the cold and whatever precipitation comes from sky, simply because the change in the weather is inexorable, asking no one’s permission and concerned about no one’s opinion.  Change happens in spite of our wishes or hopes and we learn to live with it.

I admit, I’m a creature of habits, from my bedtime, to my work routine, to the type of toothpaste that I brush with.  We are comfortable with routine.  We find a solace in sameness, which shifts in the pattern disturb.  We equate routine with normalcy and change with upheaval.  When presented with a choice, invariably, I will choose the former.

But the fact is, all of life is about change.  From the cradle to the grave, our existence is marked with revisions and transformations.  And all of our life, we resist it.  The little baby would be perfectly content to lie in bed and be changed, and fed, and pampered, but we urge him on.  We hold the bottle just out of reach so the child will begin the radical undertaking of moving his hands toward the bottle to bring it closer.  When the baby is ready to walk, we move away from him to encourage him to put one foot in front of the other.  And, he follows, complaining all the way, whimpering for us to put things back like they were.  Oh, once the steps are taken and the pain of the transformation from crawler to walker is passed, he embraces the new routine and can’t be stopped, but he has to be pushed and prodded every step of the way right out of the cradle and into the great, big world.  And the process never stops.  Some of us embrace change more than others, but there still must be a strong motivation.  Thrill seekers choose the path they take because, at some step of the way, they became accustomed to the rush, the jolt of adrenalin, and they are pushed to bigger and better activities simply because the addiction demands it.  All through our lives, we move only because some strong force give us the impetus to do so.

The first of Sir Isaac Newton’s Laws of Motion, the Law of Inertia, plays a big part…“Things at rest tend to stay at rest.  Thing in motion tend to stay in motion.”  We’re not all that different from all other things in nature.  We want to sit still!  Fan motors require a capacitor (simplistically, a power boost) to get started, even if they can run for hours without needing any stimulus beyond the regular motor turning.  It takes much more torque and therefore, more fuel to get a car moving than to keep it cruising at a constant speed.  We humans are a lot like that, maybe not quite as simplistic, since our motivators aren’t always physical.  But once we get moving and are kept properly motivated, we’ll keep moving for as long as the motivation is appropriate.  Of course, we also know from science that there is no such thing as perpetual motion.  Everything eventually slows to a complete stop once the energy source has been removed. 

What’s the point of this science lesson?  You might well inquire.  Today is Thanksgiving, a day of both feverish activity and, later on, of an almost universal comatose state (for most adults anyway).  In the morning, we rush around in preparation, moving tables, cleaning the special dishes, cooking, and tasting (I like that part!) and setting the table until it seems that it will buckle under the burden.  The motivation is the anticipation, the expectation of the feast to come, shared with family and friends, mixed with the expressions of gratitude and the companionship of kindred spirits who understand that the bounty we enjoy comes from above.  One of my favorite quotations from the Bible comes from the book of James 1:17…“Every good gift and every perfect gift comes from above, coming down from the Father of lights.”  Together at the meal we enjoy collectively, we celebrate His bounty in every way.

Of course, what follows is also proof of the science lesson, since most of us will find a place to settle, some in the den with the television, some in various seating (or reclining) arrangements throughout the rest of the house, but all of us settle in.  The motivation has faded, the contentment of being stuffed (much like the turkey was earlier) ensues, and the juggernaut comes to rest, having expended its energy, and is satisfied to remain stationary for the time being.

Yes, change is inevitable, but today, I wish to speak for the ebb and flow of traditions, the joyous celebrations of gratitude, of family, friends and of rest after labor.  May your commemoration of thanks be blessed with His presence!

“There is a certain relief in change, even though it be from bad to worse!  As I have often found in traveling in a stagecoach, that it is often a comfort to shift one’s position, and be bruised in a new place.”
(Washington Irving, American author, 1783-1859)

I’ve said for years that I’m not still not sure what I want to be when I grow up.  When I was a teenager, my Grandmother asked me the question and I answered, “I want to be a bum.”  As I contemplate that, now years older and having attained the bare minimum of wisdom that comes with my advancing age, I’m astounded at the arrogance of youth.  What I thought I said was that I wanted to have an easy life.  What she heard was that I had no work ethic and would be happy to live on handouts and welfare.

My grandparents had struggled to make ends meet in a dying town in southern Kansas at the end of the dust bowl days, until they decided to try their luck in California.  Packing up their three kids, my mom and her brother and sister, they made the trek out to San Diego and put down roots there, working hard to make a good life for their family.  After that hardship and years of struggling to provide for a better way of life, I imagine that years later, it was a blow to hear one of their grandsons declare that all of it was less than nothing to him.  When I really call my childhood to remembrance, I don’t recall my mom talking much about her roots, so I probably wasn’t aware of the slight to Grandma, but it might not have changed anything.  I was young and no one could tell me anything.

But, my parents did a few things right (maybe even more than a few) and one of those things was to instill in each of their children the desire to work, to be productive.  We all worked from an early age, not necessarily to get things, although that was part of the drive, but mostly to achieve the satisfaction of doing something constructive.  Funny, I’ve always thought of myself as a bit lazy, but all my life from age 12 on, I’ve been working.  It was nothing more than delivering papers at first, but this was in an age when most of the other kids were going to club meetings and watching Batman after school, or at least that’s how it seemed to me.  From then on, whether part-time or full-time, I’ve been employed.  From pharmacy delivery-boy, fire & safety installations and repairs, washing pots and pans, and making donuts,  I worked.  It was only after we had owned our music store for several years that I realized that there was not only the reward of the paycheck, the financial gain, but there was another reward for the work ethic.

Emotionally, we are fashioned to accomplish tasks and reach goals!  We observe this all our lives, starting with the little physical things; rolling over, holding up our heads, crawling, walking, etc.  The reward is a new-found freedom, but also the praise from the adults in our lives, urging us on to bigger and better tasks, swimming, riding bikes, reading, writing, sports, music, and on and on.  The list is endless, but always, we are driven by the emotional need to achieve and also to be rewarded.  While we say things like “virtue is its own reward” and in our heads we might believe it, in our hearts, we know that we need more.  We all work better if we get an “atta boy!” or “atta girl!”  The pats on the back don’t put food on the table, but they sure put a cache in the storehouse for a rainy day.  The monetary reward is soon spent, it soon dwindles into an empty memory, but the praise of another stays with us, to be taken out, sometimes many years later, and to brighten a dark day in the light of the brilliant blaze with which encouragement and acclaim shine.

I’m aware that our society is rife with false praise.  I see our children being given awards just for showing up, and every team, not just the victors, being given trophies and I realize that excellence is being cheapened.  When the reward is the same for all, there is no longer any motivation to achieve and excel.  But I also know that the more genuine praise is heaped on, the harder we work.  I love it when a customer takes the time to email me with a word of thanks, or telephones just to say, “Good job!”  It drives me to do even better, to raise the bar to greater heights, and that’s how I think it should be.  So, don’t be afraid to offer praise where it’s due.  Tell your waitress or waiter “thank you” and leave them a bigger tip if their service has exceeded your expectations.  If your pastor, or teacher, or even the janitor has over-achieved in your book, tell them!  They’ll appreciate the pat on the back and you’ll reap the future benefit even more. 

Do I think that we should only labor for the praise of others?  No, it’s a fringe benefit, secondary to actually accomplishing what we set out to do.  In addition, if we labor as if the work is for our Maker, we’ll toil on without any praise at all.  But, the aptly spoken word, offered at the proper time, will give encouragement and provide fuel in the tank for future accomplishments.  As our God encourages, why wouldn’t we?

And the bum thing?  I’m having too much fun now, so it’s not going to happen.  I think maybe even Grandma would be pleased…

“Well done, good and faithful servant! You have been faithful with a few things; I will put you in charge of many things. Come and share your master’s happiness!”
(Matthew 25:21)

“A little praise is not only merest justice, but it is beyond the purse of no one.”
(Emily Post, American authority on social behavior)

The problem started about three or four years ago.  Most people I know with this affliction have it when they are children and then it lessens in severity as they get older, but leave it to me to wait until my waning years to acquire an infirmity that I should have outgrown instead of grown into.  I have asthma.  Oh, not the full-blown, struggle to inhale, think you’re going to black out, wheezing asthma, but enough to cause shortness of breath and an annoying tight cough, which can’t be relieved by regular cough medicines.

I’ve got my father to thank for it…well really, his father…come to think of it, I shared it with my son too, so there’s enough paternal blame to go around on this one.  Heredity seems to have played its part here.  My father had to take an early retirement due to respiratory problems brought on by allergens in the workplace.  Long before that, his dad (my Grandpa Phillips) was stricken with emphysema, a lung disease far more serious than my touch of bronchial asthma. 

I thought about Grandpa today.  I had helped the Lovely Lady with a reception for a friend of ours and was carrying boxes out to the car.  The extreme change in temperature from inside the building to the frosty air outside, was enough to bring on another attack and before I knew it, I was straining to breathe.  I felt a kinship with Grandpa that I had never thought about before, as I saw him in my mind’s eye, struggling to breathe from the exertion of walking 10 feet across the room.  He would stop and lean against a table, or chair, or desk, with his chest heaving, the over-developed chest muscles forcing air in and out of the diseased lungs.  I must admit that as a child, I didn’t empathize well.  This was just how he had always been in my memory, and I assumed that it was his own fault.  Grandpa had been a heavy smoker, his brand of choice, filter-less Camels.  A he-man’s cigarette if ever there was one.  But for a person predisposed to breathing issues as seems likely, the habit was a slow killer.  I’m not a smoker and my problem doesn’t begin to approach the gravity of his, but just for a few moments this evening, I felt an empathy, a bond with my Grandpa that I never considered when he was living.  And, I missed him again.

Grandma and Grandpa lived across the street from me when I was a kid.  What a great blessing, to be able to grow up so close to your grandparents that you can run across the street and sit with them on the screened-in front porch, or maybe watch  an episode of “I Love Lucy” or “Gunsmoke” on television with them. Two channels on TV then, with the signal literally coming through the airwaves and being picked up by a pair of “rabbit ears” on top of the tiny black & white set.  Every time an airplane would approach the local airport (we were in the flight path), the static and wavy lines across the screen would interrupt the program.  But the best thing was listening to Grandpa tell stories about people he knew.  He loved to talk–even talked about talking…“So, I says to him, says I, …”, was one of my favorite phrases I heard him use when describing a conversation with someone else.  If I weren’t such a language snob, I would incorporate that into my own speaking.  Maybe it’s best to keep that as a memory instead.  But I think I get my penchant for story-telling from him and, from where I’m standing, that’s not a bad legacy.  The reader is free to agree or not…

The asthma won’t go away, but I carry an inhaler with me when it flares up and a couple of puffs on it usually relieve the symptoms within a minute or two.  I’m not happy to have the problem, but tonight, I’m actually a little grateful for the walk down memory lane.  We’ve all got memories that live in our heads and hearts; some sad, like Grandpa’s ultimately fatal affliction, but also some happy ones too, like my memories of life with him so close.  There are times when I think it would be great if all our memories were like the latter, but I’m reminded of a song I heard as a teenager that reminded us that hardships make us value the good times more; just as we cherish coming home because we had to be away in the first place.  I think memories are often like that, the bittersweet giving way to the heartwarming, actually making the happy occasions seem more bright.

Next week, we’ll celebrate Thanksgiving, another of the memory-fraught times of the year for most of us.  I’m going to be remembering my Grandpa’s dinner prayer as we approach this holiday.  “Our Gracious Heavenly Father, we thank thee for the many blessings which Thou hast bestowed upon us…”  When I was a boy, it was only remarkable in that the language never changed.  As an aging man, now a grandfather myself, the message of those words has lasted well beyond his mortal years and still resonates today. 

“Many blessings” indeed.

“To live in hearts we leave behind, is not to die”
(Thomas Campbell, from his poem “Hallowed Ground”)

“…but words will never hurt me.”  We know the children’s rhyme well.  I’ve even discussed the fallacy in an earlier note, with regard to harmful language.  By that, I mean hurtful words, spoken in anger or with hateful intent.  Tonight, my objective is not to continue in that vein, but to explore the other side of how words can be hurtful (at least to people like me). 

I’ve turned into a language purist, a word cop, if you will.  And, I am hurt by words.  I obviously don’t have a huge working vocabulary, so quantity is not the issue.  The issue I speak of is the pain that is caused by the slow death of the English language as we know it.  Every day, I hear some usage of our shared mother tongue (at least for those of us who aren’t first generation Americans) that makes me cringe a little.  And my reference is not just to local idioms.  Those, I hear on a daily basis, since my vocation now encompasses a national clientele, rather than a local one. I do wish that the regional dialects weren’t spoken in such a variety of accents, since it makes information gathering more difficult, but I’m actually expressing my distaste for the abuse of the everyday words which should be our tools, one of our most valued assets. 

I’m constantly reminded of how my demeanor toward offenses against our language has changed through the years.  There was a day when I approached the English language with a cavalier attitude, intending that it should serve me and not the other way around.  I have come to realize, over my lifetime, that we are more the slave to cobbled-up speech, than we are its master.  The misunderstandings, the slights by those more educated, the flat-out errors which occur because of our abuse of the language, require more time and pain to repair and recover from than using the correct words would have in the first place.  Yes, English is a difficult language, but it is our language, and it doesn’t appear that we will see a change in that anytime soon.  We should probably make the effort to achieve mastery over it.

I now find myself concerned with words like “lay” and “lie”, one of the most common usage errors we hear and one which actually plagued me in earlier years.  If you are placing something down, you use the correct form of “lay”.  If you are reclining, “lie” is appropriate  A fairly simple concept, but one that is abused daily, even by some of the most educated folks I know.  And, when I speak, I can “imply” something.  When I listen, I can “infer”, but not vice versa.  “I couldn’t care less” means that I really am not concerned, while “I could care less” means nothing close to what you think it means. 

These are just a few of the examples I hear every day, and they hurt.  Making no comment whatsoever about his political views, I like a phrase that Rush Limbaugh has used in the past (I haven’t listened recently).  “Words mean things,” is his adamant statement and I find myself in total agreement.  Careless use of words diminishes their meaning.  When our method of communication is impaired and devalued, so is our society.  Is it the end of civilization as we know it?  Of course not!  But the lack of  concern for these common tools of every person’s trade demonstrates a carelessness which makes us less sophisticated and less enlightened than our fathers and forefathers, despite our advanced technology.

So, now that you know that I’m a speech Nazi, you may roll your eyes and shrug your shoulders.  Infer what you will from my rant.  I really couldn’t care less, since it’s about bedtime and I’m going to be lying down to rest (under my electric blanket) very soon. 

“Morals and manners will rise or decline with our attention to grammar.”
(Reverend Jason Chamberlain, professor of languages, University of Vermont, 1811)