Wrong Words
Strowed AIIEEEE Sprangled
There 
are
words that sound okay that aren’t really words. As polished a speaker
as I am, I sometimes hear myself saying "up air" instead of "up there." But,
in writing, I’d never make such a mistake. Maybe, that’s because
I can’t type as fast as I can talk.
A decade ago, when I was still a teacher of young adults in what is still
called Sunday School by the average Baptist, I corrected my sister’s
use of the past tense of strew. She had arrived a little early for the class
and mentioned something about the condition of her yard following a visit
from Halloween revelers.
"Paper is strewn everywhere," I heard her say.
I thought I knew what she meant, but believing she had used the wrong word
I quickly responded with, "Strewn? Strewn? Did you say strewn? I believe
that’s strowed."
Our mother was a big user of strowed and was often heard to say, "Just look
at this room! There’s clothes strowed all over this room."
Sometimes her use of strowed referred to the condition of the trash left
at the roadside for pickup, "Somebody’s dogs have strowed our garbage
all over the front yard."
I don’t remember Mama ever using "scattered" if "strowed" would do,
and I certainly never heard her say strewn.
I must have sounded authoritative enough to convince those seated near us,
because none of them questioned my statement. Even Sarah showed signs of
doubt, in the face of my blistering chastisement, and only meekly insisted
she believed she was correct. However, she planted a seed of doubt in my
mind, and once home, I checked my word in the dictionary and couldn’t
find it. I checked for strewn and of course it was there. Worse, I had to
admit to my sister that she was right and I was wrong.
Once, in a game of Scrabble, I almost convinced my brother-in-law, Gene Crouch,
I had used a legitimate word. All of my tiles were vowels, A’s, E’s
and I’s. I laid most of them down spelling out AIIEEEE.
Gene stared at my new word for a moment and then challenged it, "What’s
that spell? I don’t believe that’s a word."
"Sure it is," I responded. "Didn’t you watch western movies when you
were growing up?"
"Well yeah."
"Then you should recognize my word, ‘cause every Indian that fell off
a cliff said, AIIEEEE!"
He agreed and was amused by my made-up word, but he disallowed it, and he’s
subject to reminding me of it whenever we have a chance to visit each other.
Barbara and I recently attended a funeral, and, in the minutes prior to the
service, engaged in small talk with those around us. We also took note of
the sprays of flowers that served as a backdrop for the casket. One particular
arrangement stood out from the rest, not so much with respect to content
as with respect to design. I don’t know enough about arranging flowers
to describe the various components of the spray, but imagining the basic
pattern of a starburst may help one visualize the effect the arranger had
achieved.
I overheard one of our friends comment, "I really like the one that’s
all sprangled out."
Having been wrong in the past (example - strowed), I’m sometimes hesitant
to question the authenticity of an unfamiliar word, but I interjected,
"Sprangled? Is that a real word?"
An eavesdropper behind us suggested our friend might have meant "spangled"
as in "star spangled banner." We laughed and agreed that "sprangled" might
not be a real word, but it aptly described the unique spray.
There are probably not many of us who haven’t used a wrong word or two
in our life. For those of us who have, we may have a good excuse in one of
the following: 1) Its extensive use by others. 2) It was in a movie. 3) It
sounded legitimate at the time.
There are parts of my brain that have not fully recovered from my being put
to sleep for surgery. I’ve probably not misused or made up my last word,
and I don’t have much hope that the passage of time will diminish my
ability to make a verbal mistake. If anything, I expect things to get worser,
or is that worse?
Back To Work
After Six Weeks
Four weeks after my prostate surgery, I felt pretty fit. In each of the first
few weeks of my recovery, I could measure my physical progress by noting
certain improvements over the prior week. However, by the end of week four,
I was having trouble identifying what had improved from the previous week.
Also, I couldn’t say that I felt better during weeks five and six as
opposed to week four. It was as though I had reached a plateau.
My mind had been telling me to go for it and return to work, but family and
friends insisted I take it easy. Several individuals suggested I wait a full
two months before going back to work. But, my doctor told me I could return
to work as soon as I felt like it. When I explained that I routinely drove
four to six hours per day, he suggested I apply the following rule of thumb.
"If a small child runs in front of your car and you are able to slam on your
brakes as hard as you can without considering whether or not you’ll
hurt your incision or anticipate any pain, then and only then will you be
ready to go back to work."
During my third week of recovery, I began walking the circle in my neighborhood.
Initially, I only walked around the quarter-mile circle once, but gradually
I built up to four laps or one mile. By the beginning of week six, I was
walking two miles a day, one mile in the morning and one in the afternoon.
The phlebitis in my left leg was much better, though the blood clot was still
present it continued to slowly diminish in size.
During the last two weeks of my convalescence, Mother Nature called me to
crank up the lawn mower, the weed trimmer, and the hedge shears, and get
a jump on my yard work chores. I’m uncertain if my ability to resist
the urge to work was due more to my own willpower or the fear I would have
to listen to my wife or someone else say, "I told you, you should have waited
until you were better."
It was with my doctor’s admonition that I returned to work on Monday,
March 29th, believing that I could comply with his rule of thumb.
The drive to Indianola was mostly uneventful. I avoided listening to the
news on public radio, concentrating more on road conditions made miserable
by the off and on drizzle of rain. I noted that the trees were partially
leafed and that hawks were hard to find except for those on the occasional
utility pole.
I chose a route from Pontotoc to Indianola that passed through Batesville,
Marks, Lambert, and Tutwiler, much of which consists of two-laned roadways.
And, for the most part, the roads were relatively smooth. About half of the
section between Batesville and Marks needs to be resurfaced, but the roughness
experienced in the ride was relatively mild compared to the final ten miles
into Indianola on Hwy. 49.
Someday, a highway commissioner will decide it’s futile to continue
to resurface the fifty years old or more concrete roadbed with asphalt and
will order a completely new roadbed be constructed. As it is, the expansion
and contraction of concrete beneath the asphalt creates buckled areas that
rise several inches above their surroundings and make for a healthy bump.
I once figured it was time to resurface such a road when the bumps were bad
enough to knock an empty Coke can out of the beverage holder in the armrest.
Repair crews recently shaved down a few such bumps, between Sunflower and
Indianola, but by my count there are another seventeen that need attention.
Those were the ones that jarred me enough to make me aware my incision is
not completely healed.
I’ve told several folks that the only way to know whether or not I’m
ready to return to work is to try it and see. So, by the time readers receive
this issue, I’ll know if I did the right thing or if I made a mistake.
I may be ready for work, but I’m not ready for the beach. All those
hairy sections that were shaved when I was being prepped for surgery have
not fully recovered. The stubble on my thighs is about a half-inch in length,
but the unshaved areas are triple that in length. To put it in golfing terms,
picture the fairway versus the rough. There’s also about a six-inch
vertical scar that runs from just below my bellybutton to right above where
modesty begins. The scar and the associated indention at the top of the scar,
which makes it look like I have a secondary bellybutton, will definitely
rule out any bikini briefs this summer.
I jest, of course, about going to the beach wearing revealing swimwear. If
I’m ever seen on a beach and am not fully clothed, call the police,
because I’ve been beaten, robbed, and stripped or else I’ve wandered
off from the asylum.
Meanwhile, the best thing I can say about my scar is it helps keep my
grandchildren in line when I tell them, "If you don’t behave, I’ll
make you look at my scar."
Cookout Planned Fish
Fry - July 31
Readers are encouraged to mark their calendars for a forthcoming celebration.
In keeping with tradition, the staff of Ridge Rider News is planning a cookout.
For the past three years, fried catfish with all the trimmings has been a
huge hit. The state’s two best fry-cooks are booked for the occasion.
Lee Gordon and Jim Hess will once again be in charge of frying the fish,
hushpuppies, and potatoes.
Local experts will ply their confectionary skills and bring a large enough
variety of desserts to satisfy the most discriminating palate. Desserts run
the gamut from cakes and pies to cobblers and homemade ice cream.
Jason Carter and whoever is available to perform with him that weekend are
expected to provide the entertainment.
Assuming the weather cooperates on Saturday, July 31, 2004, there’s
no reason why this year’s celebration shouldn’t be the biggest
and best ever.
Bodock Beau
American Made Troubles
It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure what’s happened to
the American economy. However, it will take something better than rocket
science to find a way to fix the economy. But, poor Joe Smith wonders why
he can’t find a job in America:
Joe smith started the day early having set his alarm clock (Made in
Japan) for 6am. While his coffeepot (Made in China) was perking,
he shaved with his electric razor (Made in Hong Kong). He put on a
dress shirt (Made in Sri Lanka), designer jeans (Made in
Singapore) and tennis shoes (Made in Korea).
After cooking his breakfast in his new electric skillet (Made in
India) he sat down with his calculator (Made in Mexico) to
see how much he could spend today. After setting his watch (Made in
Taiwan) to the radio (Made in India) he got in his car (Made
in Germany) and continued his search for a good paying
American job.
At the end of yet another discouraging and fruitless day, Joe decided to
relax for a while. He put on his sandals (Made in Brazil) poured himself
a glass of wine (Made in France) and turned on his TV (Made in
Indonesia), and then wondered why he can't find a good paying job
in....America.
Contributed by Hortense Wakefield
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