Scattershot

Smells and apostrophes

Once a week, my husband and I go to a little Mexican restaurant for dinner.

Once a week, I go to the restroom at the restaurant and wince at the sign on the door: Womens.

Once a week, I contemplate taking a felt pen and drawing an apostrophe before that “s.” I think I could do it nicely, without defacing the door. (I only briefly consider chipping off the “s” entirely, so that the sign just says “Women.” This, however, would leave a hole, and there are limits to what I will do in the name of good grammar.)

Once a week, after I enter the bathroom in a Cranky Language Lady frame of mind, I suddenly stop and smile, struck by something new: the wonderful flowery smell in this bathroom. I’ve never been in a bathroom anywhere that smells so good. I marvel at the smell—me, a person who spends a lot of time looking for “fragrance free” everything, who sneezes at air fresheners, who gags in candle stores, who has to change seats when someone with perfume sits down three seats away in a movie theater. How can I love this smell so much? How is it that it can surprise me every single week with its existence? What the heck is it? How does the restaurant create it?

Once a week, any nasty apostrophe thoughts evaporate in the pleasure of this smell, and I leave the restroom happy.

I think there are far-reaching implications here. If the smell can make a writer/editor/English teacher like me forget her standards week after week, what other powers might it hold?

Once a week, I wonder.

 

The times, they aren't always a changin'

My ancestors on my dad's side of the family—Germans from Russa—came to Colorado in the early 1900s to work in the sugar beet fields near a tiny Colorado town called Sugar City. I often think about them when I read about suspicion, prejudice, and anger toward immigrants today. It's nothing new, of course. 

I have a copy of a letter from 1918, sent by the pastor of the German Lutheran St. Paul's Church of Sugar City to the governor of Colorado. The pastor was worried because "On last Friday demand was made upon us by a number of citizens of our hiterto peaceful town to discontinue all use of the German language, not only in the parochial school and Sunday-school, but also in our church services, giving us the alternative of complying with the demand or having our church property burned down."

Use English or we'll burn your church down? Anti-German sentiment during World War I was prevalent, but—as the pastor points out in his letter—the members of his church had "bought bonds, war savings stamps, given toward the Red Cross, Y.M.C.A., Soldiers and Sailors Aid etc; in short they have proven themselves loyal citizens of our government." However, most of these new farmer immigrants did not speak English. When were they going to study English? Farming is very hard work with long hours, and it was even harder in those days.

Whenever I hear people angrily say, "Learn English!", I wonder if they know how hard it is to become fluent in a new language, especially as an adult. I wonder how many of their own ancestors struggled with or never learned English. I know my grandparents did not speak English (though we suspect they understood a lot more than they let on). I imagine they were just a teensy bit busy, running a farm and raising 10 children. Those 10 children, like the children of most immigrants, did become English speakers. 

In his letter, the Sugar City pastor asks the governor for advice, pointing out that conducting services in English would be the same as depriving his church members "of all services." He points out that "under the constitution of our country, we have the right of free exercise of our religion." He suggests that a word from the governor could help "quiet the sentiments and relieve tension."

What happened? The typed letter has a note scrawled on it, saying "Please make a copy" and "Should handle personally." Did the governor do anything? I don't know. The war ended just a couple of months later, so perhaps the issue resolved itself.

Yes, it would be nice if everyone could learn a new language at the drop of a hat. It would also be nice if we all could remember that immigrants do learn English, but it may take a generation.

 

 

Words with Friends

A couple of nights ago, some friends and I were talking about how much fun it is to play "Words with Friends" (a form of Scrabble) on our smart phones. One remarked that friends she hadn't seen in years had found her through Facebook. "I feel so much closer to them," she said. "I think about them whenever I play a word."

I might have thought that was a crazy thing to say, except that I'd said something similar only the week before. My sister and I have been playing, and I said to my husband one day, "It's weird, but I feel so much closer to her because of this game."

How is it that I can I feel closer to someone several states away, someone I'm competing with via random words placed on a digital screen? Maybe it's because I know her so well that I can imagine her complaining when I submit a word with a "Q" on a triple word score space, and I can imagine her giggling with glee when she sends me words made in two directions with a triple letter "Z." I can imagine her moaning and groaning when she draws all vowels and yelling at her husband in frustration when I win. And when she skunks me, I can imagine her grabbing her little dog Dixie, dancing around the kitchen, and chanting "Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah. I beat your Aunt Cheri!!!!!"  

Yes, we do indeed live in strange times.