In the Doctor's Waiting Room

 

In the Doctor’s Waiting Room

Our focus today isn’t on individual words. Rather, it’s the combination of words I imagined overhearing while in a doctor’s waiting room….

“Listen up please. The doctor is way behind on his appointments and we’re looking for three volunteers who are willing to give up their appointments today. We guarantee that we’ll get you in first thing tomorrow morning. We’ll also give you a food voucher, a hotel room for tonight, and a free hysterectomy or any elective surgery for you or an immediate family member.”

***

“Yes, we have your latest test results but privacy regulations won’t let us share them with you.”

***

“Good. You’re all checked in. How do you want to pay your front-desk fee? It’s $27.50. Yes, this is a new fee. What’s it for? Well, it’s to cover our overheads—our computers, our front-desk phones, appointment reminder cards: everything needed to help you check in smoothly today and next time. It’s like the shop fee they charge when you have your car’s oil changed, or the resort fee at those fancy places. And there’s my salary… No, we receptionists don’t have to pay for malpractice insurance…”

***

“No, I’m sorry; it’s been a long, long time since we accepted green stamps to pay one’s bill.”

***

“Yes, we can refer you to a specialist. But off the top of my head I can’t think of anyone in town who’s a pediatric gerontologist.”

***

“We charge $1,300 for each cataract surgery. Yes, we’re aware that Dr. Reesley across town charges only $799. But you’re right, he doesn’t have any openings for six months. We also charge only $799 when we have no openings.”

***

“What do you mean, you want to change your date of birth?”

***

“I’m afraid you must have misunderstood, Mrs. Swallop: we don’t give out free urine samples.”

[300 words]

 

A Week of Words

 

A Week of Words

Well, 10 days to be precise. I’ve just returned from helping to look after our twin three-and-a-half year-old granddaughters in Pennsylvania. Always alert to new, unexpected or otherwise interesting words or expressions, I identified about a dozen that surfaced during our trip.

1.     Tiara. Why was the woman on the flight to Chicago, two rows in front of us, wearing one?

2.     From the Agatha Christie novel I read on that Chicago flight: Cheese-paring, meaning stingy or niggardly, and hole and corner, meaning an attempt to avoid notice or something secret.

3.     Also from Agatha: Chasseur, a soldier trained for rapid movement, especially in the French army.

4.     Somehow the question arose, “What’s a collective noun for dinosaurs?” Google says: “There is no single scientific term for a group of dinosaurs, as they are usually referred to by standard collective nouns based on their behavior, such as a herd of herbivores (e.g., sauropods) or a pack of hunters (e.g., raptors).”

5.     Personal belongings. On several flights, this recurring irritant: What other belongings do I have?

6.     “Too often we have strayed…” Another recurring irritant, from the prayer of confession in church. As with “there are too many accidental gun deaths…,” how many times of straying or gun deaths are acceptable?

7.     Chugga-chugga choo-choo, a refrain as our human train made its way endlessly around the back yard.

8.     Arepas: What we had for lunch at a Peruvian restaurant, defined as a grilled cornmeal cake, often filled with meat.

9.     In the Mary Oliver book, Upstream, read on the way home: scute, an external bony or horny plate, like those on tortoises.

10.  And one I can be sure you haven’t heard, Permoop: a word invented by either Hazel or Sophie, that she said means someone who falls in the toilet.

[300 words]

Squawk 4234

 

Squawk 4234

We focus today on our words for numbers.

The computer or phone on which you’re reading this owes its existence to air conditioning. The first huge computers, from which our current devices are descended, were easily the size of your living room. They got so hot that they would have fried if it weren’t for the availability of effective air conditioners.

Imagine if we hadn’t moved beyond those huge machines. Or imagine how our lives would be different if we still used Roman numerals.

Take air traffic control. An air traffic controller could give this instruction to a pilot ready to taxi:

Cherokee 8121K, Greensboro Ground, cleared to Raleigh, maintain VFR at or below 3,000, departure frequency 118.5, squawk* 4234, advise when ready to taxi.

Using Roman numerals, this would read:

Cherokee MMMMMMMMCXXIK, Greensboro Ground, cleared to Raleigh, maintain VFR at or below MMM, departure frequency CXVIII.V, squawk MMMMCCXXXIV, advise when ready to taxi.

We find numbers at every turn, every day in English, like a visit to that convenience store, VII-XI, which boasts that it’s open round the clock, XXIV/VII.

Perhaps you’re blessed with XX/XX vision as you watch one of your top-X movies—not to be confused with X-rated movies.

Some music lyrics would need adjusting, ranging from hymns like “We III Kings” to popular tunes such as “VIII Days a Week” or “When I’m LXIV” by the Beatles.

Back to air traffic control: What to do with this vector for departure: “After takeoff, fly heading 030.” In Roman numerals…

Uh oh: the Romans didn’t have zero. So the air traffic controller may say, “Um, after takeoff, fly heading a bit to the left. Or the right. Whatever.”

I’m sure you can think of other examples. Phone with suggestions, no later than X-XV p.m. My number is DIX-CDLXVI-MMMMMCMXVI.

[CCC words]

*  Google says that “in aviation, ‘squawk’ refers to setting a specific four-digit code on an aircraft’s transponder, which communicates its identity and status to Air Traffic Control (ATC) radar, allowing for tracking and specific alerts like emergencies.”

The Short End of the Stick

 The Short End of the Stick

A few days ago I gave a talk at the Barton Language School, which helps refugees and immigrants improve their English. The School is affiliated with First Presbyterian Church in downtown Spokane.

My comments were about English as a strange (and hence difficult to learn) language, one of my emphases being that we English-speakers rely heavily on idioms.

Among the examples I shared with the audience were “It’s raining cats and dogs,” “Throw someone under the bus,” and “The short end of the stick.”

What is a non-native speaker to make of these and other expressions that enliven our speech? They’re mostly explained easily enough but pity that poor soul whose starting point is to take the expressions literally.

Now about that stick: how can you tell from the picture above which is the short end? More importantly, what does the expression mean?

Google says: “‘To get the short end of the stick’ means to receive the less favorable or unfair part of a situation, deal, or arrangement, ending up in a worse position than others through no fault of your own.” It’s similar to another idiom, “Drawing the short straw.”

Where does this idea about the stick come from?

Google says: “Possible theories include a reference to carrying loads mounted on rods. Leverage works against the bearer holding the short end, so they must carry more of the load. Another refers to a staff, or straight pole used as a weapon in the 1500s.”

Other possible explanations are available here: https://www.worldwidewords.org/qa-wro3.html

Then there are the cats and dogs….

The fact-checking site, Snopes, provides equivalents from other languages:

• “Like a pissing cow,” in French.
• “Chair legs,” in Greek
• “Female trolls,” in Norwegian
• “Tractors,” in Slovak.

Then, significantly, there’s Welsh: “Old ladies and sticks.”

(Yes, but which end of the sticks?)

[300 Words]

The Words We Don't Have

 

The Words We Don’t Have

One of my minor regrets is that I didn’t acquire a Scottish accent when growing up. I think it’s far more appealing that my South African one. Still, I’m infinitely grateful that I at least grew up speaking English.

When it comes to languages spoken around the world, English is the 800-pound gorilla. About 400 million people speak it as their first language. But another billion are estimated to speak it as their second language. One measure of its universality is its use by air traffic controllers and pilots around the world. (Exception: China.)

So what is the appeal of my mother tongue to so many people? One reason is that its grammar is relatively easy to learn. Another is English’s extensive and versatile vocabulary.

Yet even English, with our hundreds of thousands of words, can’t cover everything. So what words don’t we have? The Meaning of Tingo begins to tell us. It’s an anthology by Adam Jacot de Boinod of non-English words that he’s gleaned from around the world. Some examples:

Koshatnik = A Russian word meaning a dealer in stolen cats.

Curglaff = Scottish dialect for the shock felt when plunging into cold water

Jeruhuk = A Malay word meaning the act of stumbling into a hole concealed by long grass.

Verbunkos = Hungarian, a dance performed to persuade people to enlist in the army.

Menetah = An Indonesian word meaning to help a little child walk by holding its hands.

Ngarong = A word from the Dyak language, in Borneo, meaning an adviser who appears in a dream and clarifies a problem.

Finally, remember zirad. You never know when you might need it. It’s from the Maasai people of East Africa, meaning a rope tied around a camel’s neck to prevent it from vomiting on its rider.

[300 words]

Just One Word: "Hi"

 

Just One Word: “Hi”

People who count this sort of thing estimate that on average we speak about 16,000 words each day. Not Chris Knight, however. Over the course of 27 years he spoke just one word: “Hi.”

Here’s the story. Knight is the subject of Michael Finkel’s fascinating book, The Stranger in the Woods. It tells how Knight became a hermit, living in a campsite in a forested area of Maine, and for nearly three decades lived undetected within shouting distance of hikers and kayakers on nearby ponds.

He survived that state’s brutal winters in his campsite, which went undetected until he was finally caught breaking into the kitchen of a nearby camp for special needs children. Knight repeatedly broke into the camp and into scores of cabins in the area for food and other items useful for his survival: everything from propane tanks to flashlights and batteries. It’s estimated that he committed about a thousand burglaries before being caught.

So what about the word “Hi”? Knight made a point of avoiding people. Only twice during those years did he encounter anyone. Shortly before his arrest, he came across a father-son-grandfather trio who’d been fishing—but no conversation took place. The only other time he inadvertently made contact with anyone was when he and a hiker saw each other. Each said “Hi” before going their way. The hiker was oblivious to the fact that he’d run into the elusive hermit who by then had attained legendary status in the area.

Knight ‘s story is masterfully told and includes thoughtful explorations of aloneness and loneliness; Knight’s motivation for withdrawing entirely from society, not even telling his family where he was; and how the legal system creatively dealt with this iconoclastic man who just wanted to be alone. And wordless.

He almost succeeded.

[300 words]

 

The Andrew Formerly Known as Prince

 

The Andrew Formerly Known as Prince

I was shocked and appalled, then appalled and shocked, to learn that Britain’s Prince Andrew (brother of King Charles) was stripped of his title as Prince and forced to vacate his gargantuan lodge.

But whatever the ramifications of Andrew’s decline and fall, it got me thinking about his title of prince, and similar words. We ex-colonials in the US and South Africa neither embrace nor understand these royal titles.

For example, I don’t’ know what a marquis is, or what he or she does.

[Voice from off-stage: You mean a marquess and it’s a “he.” The she version is a marchioness.]

Here's the Marquis I was thinking about.

This is a 1971 Mercury Grand Marquis.  What does it do? 0-60 in about 12 seconds (yes, I checked)

I digress. What other titles do these royals obsess over? There’s a baron, for example. Maybe you recall that time when King John signed the magna carta (1215) under pressure from the barons. (We’re not told if 1215 was a.m. or p.m.) There was a heavy French influence in England at that time (day or night) at Runnymede. Maybe that’s why Chrysler followed the practice of turning to faux nobility titles and named their car with a French touch, LeBaron.

A 1985 Chrysler LeBaron

The Brits also have a baronet. (Is that a baby baron?). But while they have dukes and duchesses, they don’t have archdukes.

Dukes, by the way, rank just below king or queen in the British hierarchy, above the aforementioned marquess and marchioness, who in turn are above an earl or countess, and a viscount and viscountess. Then there are the lowly knights and dames at the bottom of the hierarchy.

But to bring things back home, someone needs to tell Donald Trump that his son’s name, Barron, is misspelled.

300 words