"I love words but I don't like strange ones. You don't understand them and they don't understand you. Old words is like old friends, you know 'em the minute you see 'em."
----- Will Rogers
Assembling a repertoire, of words, as a kid in small town Franklinton, I discovered pretty quickly that some were more complex than necessary. And they didn't win me any friends, among my peers. In my defense, I was merely repeating what I had heard at home. My mother and father, forty plus years my senior, were not only from an earlier era, they were voracious readers. Vocabulary flowed, like water, at home down on the Enon Road.
And if I didn't understand what was being said, I was instructed, "Look it up." Not on the internet. In Webster's Seventh New Collegiate Dictionary, found on the wall-to-wall bookshelves in our paneled den. Dave Berry, the humorous newspaper columnist, once wrote, "If you have a big enough dictionary, just about everything is a word." But I wasn't looking to expand my vocabulary. I was just trying to understand that which crossed my path. Nothing frustrated me more than the mystery of the meaning of a word. Little did I know what was to come, and I am not referring to college or law school.
It was fourth-grade gifted --- at thirty-six-years of age, I recall sitting in that classroom at Tchefuncte Middle School in Mandeville in 2001, like it was yesterday. Our kids' foray into middle school, the third-grade gifted parents had filed in for an introductory session with a teacher, who explained her elevated expectations with a flourish and a flurry of words. With my husband Rodney, then the Entergy Telecommunications Manager for Texas, working out of state at that time, I went solo to that ambitious gathering of competitive parents, the folks with whom we survived thirteen years of schooling.
Back to the memorable meeting, I got a sinking feeling as that teacher revealed the rigorous regimen, including vocabulary, of gifted fourth grade. She urged us not to enroll our children, and most definitely not in all four sections, unless they were ready --- but how was I to know? When the intimidating session ended, I left quickly, skipping the small talk. My mother met me at the door, wanting to hear all about the middle school meeting. Delaying, I told her that, first, I had to grab Daddy's dictionary (which today is held together by tape). And there were all the words, in his 1963 edition of Webster's. When Betsy scurried off the school bus that afternoon, Momma and I quizzed her - a vocabulary bee of sorts, while she polished off a bowl of cookies and cream ice cream. Betsy didn't miss a word so I promptly enrolled her in all four sections (English, math, science, and social studies) of fourth grade gifted. And that was that.
My education, courtesy of my daughter, had just begun. In four more years, Betsy had me in tow at the Scripps National Spelling Bee in our nation's capital where she competed with our country's brightest champions, many of whom had coaches accompanying them. Betsy had her mother --- what a disadvantage. We were introduced to polyglots, who spoke several languages --- a real advantage at the Bee. And there were experts in etymology, using the origin of a word to determine its meaning and spelling. While I was just along for the ride, what a ride it was. Learning spelling and vocabulary paid off, handsomely, for Betsy. Our daughter aced the SAT in high school, with a perfect score.
All this rigmarole --- one of my mother's favorite expressions --- to explain my journey with words. I am infatuated with favorites, the ones I wear out in this column. Words like felicity. It sounds so happy, probably because it is. Cavalcade is another --- it reminds me of the procession of ducks at the Peabody in Memphis or the famous bronze line-up in Boston's Public Garden. Perseveration is what I'm guilty of. I tend to harp on things. For example, I have repeatedly used gumption to describe my Ga-ga; she had it in spades. Jo Ann Clevenger of the Upperline (which closed during the pandemic) - gosh, we miss her! --- returned to our table to say she enjoyed my use of that word in my column. If I'm lucky, my daughter and son-in-law will use it, someday, to describe me. But before that, they might say that I have been roistering.
On the downhill side of middle age, I've begun to appreciate what Will Rogers said. So, Betsy and her husband Erik, who have moved to New Hampshire where he has accepted a cardiothoracic surgeon position, didn't have to say the next word twice. Baby! Now, that's a word I understand. Fantastic news! And so, the roistering began. Later this year, right around Thanksgiving, our daughter and son-in-law are going to have a baby. I'm going to be a grandmother and Rodney, a grandfather. Our first grandson --- felicity all around!
