The Weight of Your Words

Note: Cauliflower Corners will continue next week.

One of my favourite books, Webster’s New Twentieth Century Dictionary, Unabridged, Second Edition, weighs 10.4 pounds. I know this because I put it on the scale this morning. It seemed to be getting a little heavier every time I picked it up. Turns out, it wasn’t the book gaining weight at all but me getting a little weaker; happens as you age.

They (i.e. those pesky guys who always remain nameless) say that you should weigh your words carefully. So this morning, after all the paint I had been observing had dried nicely, one of the twisted little imps that roam my mind suggested to me that, perhaps, I should really find out exactly how much words really do weigh. Immediately, I thought of my favourite science teacher, Monsieur Fernand Crepeau. How would he go about this difficult yet scientifically important task?

As my third and final cup of coffee for the day set in at 8:27am, I was hit with the equivalent of what the French sometimes call a coup de foudre: a lightning strike. It was all so simple. Here are the steps you need to take.

1.       Grab a dictionary.

2.       Place dictionary on a reliable weigh scale.

3.       Record the weight. Remember not to step on the scale as the weight is being noted.

4.       Count the number of words in the dictionary.

5.       Subtract the weight of the paper and book binding from the overall weight to get a net weight.

6.       Divide the net weight of the dictionary by the number of words in the dictionary and, voila, you have the average weight of a word.

Now an astute reader, such as yourself, will want to know if the weight of the words should include the weight of the ink with which they were inscribed in the dictionary. Of course, the answer is no. If, around my house, I say the words “I think...” for instance, they don’t carry any weight at all.

The astute reader will, of course, have another perplexing question. It goes like this: “You have figured the weight of an average word by your ingenious method. But how do you measure the weight of a particular word? Surely the word “beanpole” weighs more than the word “obese” simply because it has more letters.” This is, without doubt, a good point and I can see Monsieur Crepeau bob his head in approval.

What needs to be done then is to modify step 6, above. Rather than count the number of words in the dictionary, all you need to do is count the number of letters in the dictionary and use that number as the denominator. The result is the weight per letter. To calculate the weight of the word “idiot”, you multiply the weight per letter times 4. What you say? It should be 5 not 4. Not true. The letter “i” appears twice. You should not double count.

At this point, I started to count all the letters in the dictionary. By 4pm, I was only a quarter of the way through Webster’s. I was supposed to make supper. She Who Must Be Obeyed would not be happy if I shirked this particular responsibility. I really didn’t want to stop. What would Monsieur Crepeau do? Order take out? Nope. He would say this.

“Your data will probably be flawed anyway, within plus or minus 85%, 19 times out of 20. So, take your total so far at the quarter point and multiply it by 4 to estimate the overall total. Then divide it into your net weight to get your weight per letter.” Brilliant. I started to do the math on my abacus until I realized that I would have to subtract all the double and triple and quadruple etc. letters. Crap. I’d have to start dinner soon and there was no time to go back and pull out the duplicates.

Luckily, I had an epiphany. It went like this: You dolt, there are only 26 letters in alphabet. This is the number you get when you pull out all the duplicate letters in the dictionary. All you have to do is divide 10.4 pounds by 26 letters and you’ll get the exact weight per letter. Comes out to 4/10 of a pound per letter, if you ignore the fact that a double u (w) might count for 2 letters.

Under this system, the word “bug” weighs 1.2 pounds. The word “nuts” weights 1.6 pounds. We all know nuts are heavier than a bug and that alone is enough to prove this method is correct. Very simple really. To prove the point even further, one only has to observe that a pocket dictionary, which has fewer words in it than an unabridged version, weighs less than the unabridged version. In my mind, I see Monsieur Crepeau shaking his head with what appears to be approval but could also just be indigestion.

And then it all comes flooding to me. This is the same method, with a few modifications, used by governments to estimate the cost of any program it wants to launch. This is the same method used by “experts” to justify their eye-popping projections. This is the same method used by teenagers to estimate the damage caused to the car you lent them after they “bumped” it into a fence post while doing donuts in the school parking lot.

Proud of myself, I got up and started to make supper. I hummed away over the hot stove, comforted in the knowledge that, with my new discovery, doing taxes this year would turn out to be a breeze. Merci Monsieur Crepeau. You taught me well as you could.

Bob Walpole can be corrected at:

theredcravat@yahoo.com or

www.theredcravat.blogspot.com

A Small Victory

Not all victories are wins and not all defeats are losses. Usually there is a little of both in each. When it comes right down to it, it is what you get out of them that matters.

I remember with not a little fondness the time I lost my first real job out of school. The job was with Worldwide Monolith Industries, a vast, unwieldy, international conglomerate which consisted of Dennis, the owner, Sharon the receptionist, and me, the newly minted Marketing Intern. My new employer imported glass and rubber goods from Malaysia and Italy and sold them to drugstores in Canada. The products were as exotic as hot water bottles, eardrop dispensers and measuring cups.

Well, I worked at Worldwide Monolith for about a year until it became evident that:

1.       I had as much talent for sales as a duck has for crossword puzzles, and,

2.       The business would run out of cash before that duck got good at the puzzles.

So, at the appropriate time and armed with these realizations, I slunk myself into Dennis’s office to let him know of my decision to relieve him of his star sales anchor. “You must have been reading my mind” he sighed in relief. “Wasn’t sure how to tell you”.

It was not as difficult as I thought leaving behind the glamourous world of global commerce. But I had to find something else pretty quickly because I hadn’t been smart enough to secure something else before handing in my resignation. The home printing press was never so busy. Every day, ten letters and their accompanying resumes were dispatched to potential lucky employers in Toronto.  Never in the history of that amazing city had so many been offered the rare chance to avail themselves of Walpolian genius.

After three weeks, I had enough rejection papers to start a small bonfire in the modest living room of the basement apartment I was sharing with my best friend Dan. We almost had to start a little conflagration because it was January and the landlord had just cut off the heat on a cold Tuesday morning. She claimed something about a late rent payment which caught me by surprise, having just paid some rent about sixty days before. When you are in the throes of letter writing, time seems to whiz by way too quickly and some obligations tend to get forgotten.

To remedy the situation, Dan and I conducted an impromptu bottle drive the next day to raise the rent money. Luckily, between us and the landlady, who only imbibed on days with a “y” in them, we had enough Labatt Blue/Black Label/Ruby Rouge empties to get us caught up with the pressing monthly housing ransom and then some.

The heat came back on along with the return of our landlady’s smile and, having enough extra cash for pizza, suds and a conciliatory 60 0uncer of Ruby Rouge, we organized a party for the upcoming Saturday. We needed a theme. “The Really Satisfied Landlady Party” seemed a little too risqué so we settled on “Take A Hike, Loser” in honour of all the rejection letters I had been getting.  All the usual suspects were invited and the rejection letters were wallpapered all over the living room, dining room and bathroom. Not only did the insulation factor in the walls double, but we were able to hide an awful lot of the accumulated evidence our less-than-superior housekeeping skills.

The party was a grand success. Condolences were offered in embarrassing profusion and multi-surface dancing was committed. No one peed on the toilet seat and even the landlady came down to share a bit of her bottled enthusiasm. Those who went home, went home happy. Those who stayed had to clean up.

Now, an astute reader may ask what this convoluted tale has to do with the opening premise: victories as losses and losses as victories. Well, it so happened that, while Dan and I were at the Brewers’ Retail conducting our glass for liquid exchange on the Wednesday in question, we had invited the manageress of that august establishment to our Saturday party, after boring her with all the details of our sorry plight. Much to our delight, she showed up with a case of Black Label and three dance-crazy friends from the Ford Modelling Agency. Even better, by midnight, she offered both of us fulltime jobs at the place she managed. Job loss turned into job victory in under four weeks. Makes you want to throw a good party doesn’t it.

Small Joys, Small Victories

You just never know when the crap is going to hit the fan. All you know is the fan is always on and stuff is going to be propelled in its direction. If anyone ever finds the plug, please give it a good yank and beat the whole apparatus into a really good cappuccino machine.

It would be easy  to lay down, curse the universe for your rotten luck and spend the rest of your "daze" in your favourite bathrobe, jamming down Cheetohs and watching reruns of Baywatch. Not that there is anything wrong with that, in small doses. After an appropriate period of moaning, you’ve got to pick yourself up by the bootstraps and carry on.  This is not to belittle the tremendous suffering some have to face.  Here the healing takes a lot longer and extracts a much greater toll.

Yet, most of our perceived woes fall into what my son calls “first world problems”: the internet goes down temporarily, we get a flat tire, or The  Husband takes too long to empty the dishwasher etc.  The list is endless. So what do we do to counteract our all too human tendency to see the worst in so many things? Well, we do what our mothers and fathers, grandmothers and grandfathers did: suck it up and count our small joys and small victories. Funny, but if we just look, they are as plentiful as our woes and certainly more psychically rewarding to dwell upon.

Here is just one example from this morning.  We woke up to 6 inches of snow in the driveway and two feet where the friggin’ plow kindly deposited its accumulated half mile load. On purpose. At the end  of my driveway. Did I mention ON PURPOSE? I am sure the plow driver backed up at least twice to get as much snow into my space as he could. His wife must have been on him before his shift for taking too long to empty the dishwasher.

With a lot of grumbling, I started to dig. And you know what. It sucked…until I changed my perspective. I gave my head a shake, flicked the dandruff off my collar and thought:  this feels good; I’m out in the fresh air; my dog is having a ball; aha,so that’s where I dropped the leather glove my son gave me for Christmas. Then  a snow-festtoned car pulled up, a frosty window got rolled down and I heard "hey, Bob, when you’re done, come on up to my place for a Scotch!”  Woohoo! Scotch for lunch. Small joy, small victory.

I’d like to continue with this theme for the next few blog postings. It’s very therapeutic.  If you have any small joys or victories you would like to share, use the Comments feature for this posting or email me at

theredcravat@yahoo.com

Just remember, it could always be worse. The fan is always on.

This post is dedicated to L. at Canadore College who so thoughtfully sent to me a lovely book entitled "Don't Forget To Sing In The Lifeboats".

The Case of The Juggled Eggs

This is a story I composed from memory. It is based on a tale written by Wendell Berry, a Kentucky professor, farmer and philosopher. I'm sure his version is much better. But stories need to be passed on, however imperfectly.


1928. Heart’s Content. A clear, crisp afternoon that reminded country folk of apple cider and all too short fall fairs.

It had been five years since Ptolemy Proudfoot had passed away quietly in his sleep, an unfortunate victim of some strange, unknown and indiscriminate infection which had, for months, agonizingly befuddled both Dr. James Perkins of nearby Lansing’s Ford and his friend and counterpart, Dr. Elzevere Grant  of Greensboro.

Ptolemy, or Tol to all who knew him, had been a strong man, in body and in the quiet force of his character. To see him laying limp and lifeless in his bed on the morning of his death had been the saddest moment in the life of Miss Minnie, his greatest love and best friend. He had hopelessly captured her heart thirty one years earlier as a gangly and nervous suitor, unpractised and unsure of himself, yet possessed of a simple kindness which makes a man a real man.

Today, Miss Minnie sat at her kitchen table fondly reminiscing with her neighbor Hank Coulsome. Hank Coulsome, Miss Minnie’s nephew, was a committed lifelong bachelor who owned the farm adjoining his aunt’s. Miss Minnie and Hank were sharing oft-told stories of Tol. They had just returned from their annual three mile pilgrimage to the cemetery where Tol had been laid to rest.

Hank was now a slim man of thirty four, all sinew, muscle and good humour. He loved his life almost as much as he loved he aunt and his departed uncle. Tol was and would always be the most important man in Hank’s life. From the time Hank first came to stay with his only living relatives a long 28 years ago, he would find any reason to accompany his uncle on any journey or to share in any chore, however small; for Ptolemy Proudfout, to young Hank, was his hero, his mentor and his friend all rolled into one. Even after Hank had saved enough money to buy the farm next door, he was always eager to seek out Tol’s company, whether it was to clean harnesses, dig a new outhouse or even to meander through fields of freshly cut hay for the sheer pleasure of breathing the fragrant air.

As he sipped his tea, a slight smile began to decorate Hank's handsome face. But the smile could no longer contain itself and soon blossomed into that joyful laughter with which he always greeted life.

“Aunt Minnie, do you remember the time uncle Tol and I went to the Hanover Cattle Auction in 1919? The time he showed off his juggling skills?” Miss Minnie smiled and began to chuckle. She had not attended the auction but she had heard the story fondly recounted  so many times, that she was sometimes not so sure she had not been there.

“Tell me again Hank. It never fails to bring Tol back to me.”

Hank began his story as he always did.

 It had been as especially bountiful spring. There had been more lambs and foals and calves born in the county than there had been for a very long time. And Tol had been especially blessed.

Of all his farm animals, Tol was proudest of his cattle. He treated them with reverence and always felt a sharp pang of sadness knowing that some of them would have to be sold at summer’s end. It pained him that something so beautiful had to die so that he and his family could live. Another of life’s mysteries.

All summer Tol groomed his herd in preparation for the auction. At last, the day arrived when he and Hank would make the thirty three mile trek to Hanover. It would be a working vacation. For after the auction, Tol would shop for those things not readily available closer to home. He especially enjoyed choosing the fabrics from which Miss Minnie would miraculously fashion her new Christmas dress and her new winter coat. He disliked shopping for himself. He felt he always had everything he needed and, if not, he could make do with whatever his able hands could create.

Hank and Tol left just before dawn after hitching up the two dapple greys to the wagon. The cattle to be sold were tethered to the back, gloriously unaware of their final destination. At 10 am, they pulled into the fairgrounds at Hanover and set up in the small corral they had reserved the summer previous. The auction went well and Tol felt he had received a fair price for his animals. He and Hank then boarded the wagon and headed to the general store to continue their pleasant outing.

Now Hanover is what some would call a proud town, maybe a little too proud. It boasted a small drug store, a large feedlot and even a solicitor’s office. While most of its residents were unassuming folk, not a few others thought themselves quite a bit more sophisticated than their rural cousins. More sophisticated and more vain. The vainest of the vain liked to assemble around the big pot bellied stove in the general store.

Tol approached the counter still basking in the warmth of a beautiful day shared with Hank. As he neared the counter, the owner asked “How can I help you Mr. Turnipseed?”The chorus around the stove guffawed not too quietly into their sleeves. Tol knew right away he was being made fun of but shrugged it off, not wanting anything to ruin the pleasure of his working vacation.

“ I’d like to see any new fabrics you might have. My wife will be sewing herself a new Christmas dress.”

“Well let me see. We have this just in from St. Louie. It's made of a fine cotton they call Hayseed. I would think it would be perfect for her.”

The chorus fell again to giggling and chortling at the magnificent wit of their ring leader. Hank, though, was a little concerned. He knew his uncle to a gentle man, slow to anger, but, still, no fool.  Tol preferred peace to trouble. But the insults hurled would be tough to take by any proud man.

Tol graciously replied.  “Thank you sir. I’ll take three yards. And, oh, have you any fresh eggs?”

“We do. How many would you like Mr. Turnipwagon?”

“I’ll take a dozen, please. What is the price?”

“Twenty five cents a dozen. And I’ll even throw in some Hick….ory sticks to seal the bargain.”

At this, the chorus burst into a cacophony of cruel barking laughter. But Tol was unfazed. He paused a moment and with a slow deliberateness offered:

“Tell you what, kind sir. I’ll bet you a quarter. I can juggle those 12 eggs in the air, all at once, without breaking even one of them.”

At this, the chorus was silenced in disbelief. This kind of feat was impossible.

“Take Mr. Hayseed’s bet, Bert. That feat can’t be done.”

“Alright, condescended Bert.  Twenty five cents it is.”

The store owner handed the eggs to Tol who held them easily in his large hands. He tossed the first 2 high into to air, followed by another 2, and another 2 until all the eggs were in various degrees of freedom between the ceiling and Tol’s able hands. Soon, the first well aimed egg came sliding down to meet an abrupt end on the keys of the cash register. The next splattered on the counter, and the next landed in the candy bin. The avalanche continued until the last egg came to its ignominious end upon the warm stovetop surrounded by the chorus. More than one freshly starched city slicker shirt front bore the evidence of a gelatinous ooze gone awry.

Tol slowly picked a quarter from his wallet and placed it gently into the pocket of Bert’s egg stained apron. “Guess I’m not as good as I thought” he shrugged as he gathered his Hayseed parcel  and calmly strode from the premises, a small trickle of egg white hanging from the edge of his mischievous grin.

A few moments passed as Hank and Miss Minnie made the journey from  a general store of long ago to the kitchen table of the present. Each was momentarily lost in the memory of the proud, kind man they would always miss.

theredcravat@yahoo.com

A Tale of Two Children

One of my favourite authors is Charles Dickens. Not only was he a master wordsmith, storyteller and possessor of a beautiful imagination, he loved people, especially those who were the castoffs of polite society. His introduction to a Tale of Two Cities is perfection.

“IT was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way- in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.”

A lot of our views have to do with our attitudes. I’m not sure how we develop our outlooks on life: perhaps they are due to the way we were raised, or to the friends we were lucky enough to have (or not have) or maybe our outlooks were determined at the moment of conception when two whirling pools of DNA began their dance of life in our mothers’ wombs.

Here is a story of two children, each with a different relationship with the universe. Which one are you?

A Tale of Two Children

Bertie and Nicola were twins, born to a happy mother and a doting father.  The family was not rich by any means but, with a little thrift and a good dose of common sense, they had what they needed.

Bertie was the firstborn by 22 minutes. He entered the world already peeved at his fate, wailing at his unfortunate choice of parents. Now you may say that babies cannot possible be so prescient. Alas, there is no way of proving or disproving this.

Nicola, on the other hand, slid blissfully out of the birth canal, a little uncomfortable as she made the age old transition from an aquatic life to one on dry land. Her lungs greedily gulped at the air, she whimpered briefly and fell into a trance of contentment as she found her mother’s breast.

By the time Bertie and Nicola were five years old, their personalities were set for life. Bertie, who  tenaciously held on to the grudge with which he was born, was and would remain a lifelong pessimist, more interested in acquiring things and miserly exercising the meaningless scraps of power of which he was so proud. He could not be more different from Nicola who found  pleasure in smallest droplets of water and who could see the beauty of tadpoles.

On Christmas morning of their fifth year, Bertie and Nicola both woke up in barely contained anticipation.  Their parents, awakened by the noise, cheerily wiped the sleep from their eyes and came downstairs a few minutes later. Bertie was already at the tree, clawing his way through the presents. He could not get them open fast enough. With barely a glance at his new skates, he was onto his next present, always looking for something he would never find.   “Where is Nicola?” asked his mother. “She’s outside” said his father, “playing in the pile of manure that Burrows Country Store delivered yesterday evening.”

“Nicola darling what are you doing?” inquired her mother gently.

“Mommy, can’t you see? With a pile of manure this big, there’s got to be a pony in here somewhere.”

Merry Christmas to all the Nicolas of the world. May the Berties find peace.

The Gift

Ronny and Denis were the best of friends. They had met in kindergarden in Miss Breault’s class at St. Anne’s when they were assigned the same red blanket for nap time. It didn’t take long for them to start giggling and poking each other as little boys are known to do. More than once, they had to be admonished by the kindly Miss Breault who just smiled inwardly at the boyish behaviours she had been witnessing since she first started teaching.

Every year, Ronny and Denis would be promoted to the next grade. They always sat together unless pulled apart by some mean teacher who valued order over friendship. It did not matter. Because every recess, they could get together again to play tag, tug the girls' ponytails, hand upside down on the swings and shoot marbles. The best was shooting marbles. By grade 6, they were the undisputed alley players of the school, even though they were still two full years younger than their grade 8 rivals.

For his eleventh birthday, Ronny was given an exquisite  purple velvet Crown Royal bag full of marbles by his father. What a treasure. No one had ever seen marbles of such beauty. Among the booty was  a large croaker of coloured glass which looked like a miniature Jupiter, all swirls and smoke and perfect heft. This one Ronny prized above all the others. In fact, he nicknamed it Jupi. Denis was forever complimenting him on this possession and always asking if Ronny would like to trade for it. No price was ever set.

At recess  one day, Ronny was using a small steely. Steelies were the best when the ground was a little wet. The rest of his marbles were laid against the wall nearby, snug in purple velvet. Recess ended much too early as usual and the games had to end in favour of learning more about dangling participles. When Ronny went to fetch his Crown Royal bag, he instinctively checked for  Jupi. To his horror, Jupi was not there. Frantically, he checked his pockets, the ground against the wall and asked pleadingly if anyone had seen his prized possession. Alas, no one admitted to any useful knowledge.

Then Ronny did something he had never done before. He accused Denis of stealing Jupi when he wasn’t looking. “Ronny, I don’t have it” he said. But Denis knew who did. It was Henry who had pocketed Jupi while Ronny and Denis were playing. Henry did not have any marbles of his own.

Denis could not bring himself to tell on Henry. Henry was an outsider. His parents were never around and when they were his father beat him in front of his mother and his brothers and sisters. He often came to school with “injuries” he had sustained on the weekend: a biking mishap, a fall from a tree, an unfortunate encounter with a door. Everyone knew what really happened but what can eleven year olds do in cases like this.

Denis knew that if Henry were caught he would be suspended from school and certainly beaten by his father. Denis took Ronny’s accusation with a heavy heart. It was the most difficult thing he had ever done. Ronny, convinced of his best friend’s duplicity, decided never to speak with him again.

Fifty years passed. Denis and Ronny went their separate ways. Ronny became a school teacher, taught elementary classes for 35 years and had been retired for quite some time. Denis had passed away the year before surrounded by those he loved. One day, Ronny was looking through old boxes in his attic and found the purple velvet Crown Royal bag, still in pretty good condition and still holding the marbles of his childhood. Without thinking, he emptied the bag, hoping that maybe Jupi would be there. As he secretly expected, it was not there. Magically, the bag made him think of Denis, the childhood friend he once adored. He thought ruefully about the circumstances of their split and chuckled a bit at the tempest in a teacup that it truly was.

For a few days, he mulled over fond memories of his old schoolmate. “I should have forgiven him” he thought. “It was just a piece of glass.”  Ronny then decided on the spot that he would try to reconnect with Denis and let him know that he was forgiven because that’s what real friends do. They shrug off imagined slights and errors of youthful and not so youthful exuberance. “Better late than never”.

Ronny dug around and found out that Denis had been living in Mattawa for the last 20 years. After a few phone calls, he located a number for Denis’s widow, Annalise, but still did not know of Denis’s passing. He called the house and the phone was answered by Annalise. Ronny ran through his story and told Annalise that he was calling to forgive Denis for his offence of long ago, with the hope they might get together soon to mend the bridge that had been ruptured in childhood haste.

Annalise, holding back the tears welling painfully behind her eyes, told Ronny that her husband had recently passed away. Denis had always spoken kindly of Ronny even after all these years. Not a year went by when he hadn’t thought about calling Ronny. Annalise guessed that the time must never have felt right to him. Then Annalise said something unexpected. “ Denis forgave you long ago”. “He forgave me?” asked Ronny. “I don’t understand.”

“Denis never took Jupi from you. He was just protecting someone who would have paid much too high a price had he been pointed out. That’s the kind of man he was. The loss of his friendship with you, his boyhood idol, was the price of the gift he made to Henry.”

Forgiveness...a gift of love.

Bob

frailcanoe@hotmail.ca