jumpingfish

1. Strange Noises

There we were sitting on comfy pillows in the “pod” at the end of the fourth grade hall. I was on a huge one with another comfortably pushing against my back. I had a mic around my throat to compensate for my weak voice and a bottle of water to ease the pain. The kids were arrayed around me on square pillows on the floor which they would grab and bring up to the front so as to be as close as possible, except for the quiet kids who were content to sit silently towards the back listening more intently that the rest to every word I said.

It starts out this way, “Twas brillig, and the slithey loves…”.

And then, “Il brilligue, les toves rubricieux…”.

And finally, “Ex brillig war, die schlichten Toven…”. 

Every time we sit down like this — every single time, because each year it’s a different batch of fourth graders — their eyes widen and their jaws drop, and they start glancing at each other to see if the others are thinking what they’re thinking.

2. Strange Spelling

“Ein-zwei, ein-zwei, und durch und durch, die vorpal Schwerd zerschnifferschnuck!”

Holding up my hand as if I were holding a sword, I ask them what’s happening?

“The sword!” they say. “One-two. One-two!” some of them shout.

Right! “One-two, one-two, and through and through…” 

And then I stop. In the sudden silence I stare at each one of them and lean slowly forward.  “How do you spell ‘through’?” I ask.

They love this. They know the answer. They know it’s a trick. And they spell the word correctly, although in their zeal, they often forget the ‘r’.

Right! And then I stop again and lean again. “But… what… is up… with the ‘gh’!?”

They know what I’m talking about. You do, too. They’ve wondered the same thing, although I suspect they’ve never heard an adult ridicule it in precisely that way.

3. The Evolution of Language

Imagine, I tell them, that there’s someone in a village who speaks old German. So the word ‘through’ to them is ‘durch’. Say it with me: durch.

They all repeat it as if this is a German class. And they get the ‘ch’ right, relishing this sound that no English word lets them make.

But now, I say, imagine that that person has children, and that child has cousins, and those cousins pronounce the word differently, with some kind of accent. They say ‘th’ instead of ‘d’, because… well because their tongues are lazy. So they say ‘thurch’. Say both of the words with me: durch, thurch.

We say the words together.

And now, those cousins have children who have cousins who have children. And their tongues get tired of saying ‘ch’, so they pronounce the word, thur. Say them with me, durch, thurch, thur.

And the follow along again.

And then, I say, imagine that some of their children or their cousins get confused about the word. Imagine that they switch the ‘r’ and the ‘u’, so that they pronounce the word ‘thru’. Say them with me one more time, durch, thurch, thur, thru.

And so, one more time they repeat the words with me. 

Durch, thurch, thur, thru. 

Did you hear that!? What was that last word? Where did we end up?

Their eyes open wide.

4. Archeologists of English

Do you know what archeology is? (Some of them do.) Digging and dusting and sifting thru stuff to discover things about past civilizations.

Do you know what paleontology is? (Some of them do.) Digging and dusting and sifting thru stuff to discover things about extinct species.

What did we just do? We dug and dusted and sifted thru words. And we discovered something buried in the language we speak. We discovered something about English. We discovered that buried all around us in the words we know is evidence about the past. We discovered that English used to be something like German.

You, I say to them, are archeologists of English.

And with that, it is usually time for them to go to the next Culture Fair station.

The kids had chosen their team name, Tiger Roar! We had just done a team cheer to get started, and now I was giving them some instructions — about weighing out the ingredients of their experiment, about putting food coloring into the water (just a few drops), about each of them taking turns letting one of them do the work.

My voice was very low. I mean, very, very low, as it’s been lately. Resonant in a way. Sonorous, even. My theory is that this is mostly because of the severe Oak pollen that’s been falling from the trees, but undoubtedly it also has something to do with the cancer. Either my throat is still recovering from the trauma of the surgery. Or it’s still healing from the radiation. Likely all three.

One of the boys came over to me as soon as I spoke. 

“Have you been breathing … neon?” he asked.

It must have been a joke. If breathing helium makes your voice high, then perhaps one of the other noble gases makes it low. Knowing these kids, I’m surprised he didn’t ask if I’d been breathing ununoctium.

After dinner, I sat in the zen-zone in the late afternoon.

The slanting light lit our front yard project in a golden glow: the Purple Trailing Lantana struggling to come back from the wet year we had last year, the Mealy Blue Sage with new purple spikes just emerging, the Bluebonnets along the curb, the wild Primrose that my mom brought back from the Wildflower center years ago, the Suess-like Pin Cushion Daisy that successfully multiplied from one to three or four, the everlasting Golden Eye that blooms in October and due to this year’s warm winter has never completely stopped, the Coreopsis in the shade of the Monterey Oak with its yellow blossom on a curling stem searching for the sun, the yellow-flowered Tropical Milkweed that has faithfully blossomed year after year never to see a Monarch, the dense batches of Purple Coneflowers standing upright, the Spiderwort that has been the pride our our yard this year, the low-growing Four Nerve Daisy, the purple Prairie Verbena that is beginning to spread, the traditional Sage that just put out light purple spikes last week, the Salvia Gregii in white and pink and coral and red, the yellow Zexmenia, the yellow Engelmann’s Daisy, the Cowpen Daisy a few of which are still blooming from last summer even as new ones are just poking up from under the leaf litter, the Wright’s Skullcap with purple blossoms happier than I’ve ever seen them thanks no doubt to the loving care of Chachi Bette weeks ago, one white Iris blossom the last of the Irises that have been blooming continuously since December and the Coral Honeysuckle growing on the trellis on the side of the house.

The air was full of flying things, bees and flies and mosquito hawks and little gnatty watchamacallems. Silver strands of spiderweb silk glowed in the light of the setting sun. And a butterfly was fluttering around, visiting each Coneflower, black and orange wings opening and closing slowly from its perch atop the orange pokey things that crown each coneflower flower. It would stay there for a moment and then launch again into the air, flying in a wide circle, returning after a while to the next Coneflower, repeating this cycle from flower to flower until every blossom had been visited, or perhaps until the sun had set sufficiently low and it was time to go.

The fair and industrious Trudy sat down beside me, returning from the task of fertilizing and watering the tomatoes in the back.

“This has been the best spring we’ve ever had,” she said.

Indeed.

Yesterday was my birthday.

At 5:30 in the morning, the fair and industrious Trudy rolled over and asked if I was ready. I was not. You see, I have been mortally exhausted night after night for weeks, and that early in the morning, all I could muster was a pathetic mumble (without even opening my eyes).

An hour later, she could stand it no longer and turned on the bright lights of our rejuvenated bedroom, and she held an envelope in front of my face. It was a card with a dog and cat on the cover and a folded piece of paper inside. I read the cards and her gentle words and then unfolded the paper. And there was an 8×10 photo of my beautiful wife smiling from a seated position in a kayak… a bright red kayak… my birthday present. Oh my gosh. What more could I ask?

Wait. There is also a paddle on the way — a Werner paddle. Oh, what more could I ask?

But wait. A letter had arrived in the mail from the Great White North the day before. It contained birthday and anniversary greetings and a generous contribution to the house rejuvenation fund that we have drained over the last six months. What more could I ask?

But wait, there was more. That evening, Trudy and Ben took me out to eat. I got to pick the place — Threadgills. You see, my sense of taste has been returning, and savory foods have been tasting… oh so savory. So there we were, staring at a menu of comfort foods. With great relish and anticipation I ordered chicken-fried chicken and mashed potatoes and cream gravy and corn off-the-cob. And then I ordered seconds on the mashed potatoes. And then I ordered a slice of strawberry-rhubarb pie. And then I ordered it à la mode. What more could I ask?

But wait, there is more. This afternoon I get home, and a box is waiting for me. “Get a grip!” it says on a note at the top, and when I look further, there is a box of clamps. I mean, like a box of many, many clamps. Because… well, you know, you can never have too many clamps. What more could I ask?

But wait, there is still more. I come into the study and sit down, and there’s an ecard from a friend from years ago. A green field against a blue sky with white, airy dandelion seeds blowing in a gentle breeze and rising into the air and then flapping away as white birds on the wing.

And there were also other greetings from afar. 

I tell you, I will not ask for anything more, for these will all last me a very long time.