The Grammar Policeperson

I was sitting on the beach yesterday chatting with my good friends Karen and Mike. The conversation got around to grammar do’s and don’ts, and effective writing in general. Karen mentioned a children’s book she had read recently which called ocean waves “it” instead of “them.” Mike bemoaned the esoteric language of certain press releases he reads on the job. I try to hit that happy medium—I hope that my writing can be understood by people of all ages, without being too simplistic. Even so, I agonize over certain of my grammatical choices (in a recent essay, I wrote “none of us are going anywhere.” Should it have been “none of us is going anywhere”? Call now with your opinions! Operators are standing by!) 

With Mom and sister Mo--bookish even then!

I was a Catholic school girl. Diagramming sentences was hugely important in my English classes, and I just ate that stuff up. Spelling bees were my forté, and I played to win (even after I discovered that the “grand prize” was always a miraculous medal instead of, say, a sports car). As I grew older, I discovered that some of the people I loved the most were lousy spellers and so-so writers. It didn’t alter my feelings for them, of course, but I always harbored hope that they would start toting dictionaries and thesauruses (thesauri?) around, and step up their game a bit.

My kids were raised largely in the Internet era, a time when the speed of their typing trumped their content every time. Abbreviations came into, and went out of, vogue quickly (though the obnoxious “LOL” remains quite popular. I recently read about an older lady who thought LOL meant “lots of love” and would write it next to messages of sympathy. “So sorry your Uncle Willy died! Laughing out loud!”) In school, diagramming and spelling bees are things of the past. Who needs ‘em now that there are spellcheck and autocorrect? The problem is, of course, that machines don’t always capture the meaning of what is being shared.

When I am in the mood for an apoplectic fit, I love to peruse the comments section after articles posted online. When the comment is in ALL CAPS, I can predict with certainty that it will be a grammar catastrophe. And Lord help the soul who attempts to correct these errors! In a world where ignorance is bliss, any signs of intelligence are ridiculed by subsequent posters.

So where do we go from here? Perhaps we could start by valuing our beautiful language more, and attempting to use it properly. Maybe we could place a bit less emphasis on “plain talking” (and writing), and more on eloquence. You don’t need a graduate degree to appreciate a well-written turn of phrase, but it would be great if our vocabularies could crack the kindergarten ceiling once in awhile.

OK, soapbox time is over! I’m off to diagram a few sentences and do the New York Times crossword puzzle! With a pen! LOL!

On TV promoting my books! Hope everything was spelled correctly!

Winging It

Doing my homework!

I like to think of it as “doing research,” but I approach almost everything by first Googling it. I don’t remember what I did in the pre-Internet days (probably counted heavily on books, newspapers and magazines), but since the dawn of the world wide web I haven’t made a move without getting background (lots and lots of background) on it. Doctor visit coming up ? I scroll through at least 12 pages of websites until I find the diagnosis I want. Movies, concerts, plays? Don’t plunk down a red cent until I read all the reviews. Without Yelp, I would never make a restaurant reservation. And travel? Tripadvisor was my constant companion as I booked flights and lodging, and checked out museums in Europe on our vacation.

All this is well and good, but I seem to have lost the ability to navigate the world without a goof-proof plan. Maybe it’s a reaction to the chaos of our times, but I feel much more secure when, for example, I read at least a hundred comments on the fit of my possible online dress purchase before I buy. If Mary S (age 45-59, style sleek and classic) complains that an outfit makes her look “middle aged,” that does it right there (never mind the fact that she—and I—actually ARE middle aged.) As my hundred commenters rarely agree, I haven’t bought a dress in ages.

Same goes for cooking. I love to prepare meals for my family and friends. My stack of food-

PJ's delicious entree!

splattered cookbooks attests to my intense interest in the subject. So why am I feeling like a kitchen fraud these days? Blame my sons, daughters, and daughter-in-law. None of them usually rely on recipes before they launch into meal prep. They all saunter around the kitchen like Top Chef finalists, flinging garlic and onions into skillets sizzling with olive oil, making substitutions to beat the band (no spinach? Collard greens! Chicken cutlets instead of fish fillets? Why not? I hesitate to adjust printed instructions by so much as a dash of pepper. Even after 50 years of cooking, I have little confidence in the outcome of any shortcuts or switches I may make. In the fish market the other day, they were sold out of rockfish for my intended “blackened rockfish” entree. PJ was with me, and not only did he suggest red snapper instead, he came up with his own blackening seasoning mix, and took over the sautéing and plating (adding his own touches like honey-lemon dressed greens on top of the fish). Delicious, and truly his creation.

I’ve decided to go Google-free for the rest of the summer (or at least Google-lite), and get used to winging it once in awhile. Trusting my own judgement and abilities for a change. What’s the worst that can happen? An inedible dinner? An unflattering skirt? Nothing fatal. And maybe, by relying on my instincts, they will gradually improve.

So who cares about Rotten Tomatoes ratings? “Ghostbusters” remake, here I come!

Better Than New

You'd think, after 13 mission trips, that I would have suggested we travel to an all-inclusive resort in Aruba, but no! Down to steamy Bayou la Batre, Alabama we went. We were warned about the heat and humidity and bugs. We traveled with plenty of water bottles, sunscreen and DEET. 

As is my pre-trip habit, I spent most of the last month worrying--about safety, about health, about you name it. By the time 5 AM on July 3rd rolled around I was pretty much a basket case. The teens were very excited (though slightly bummed when my "no phones" rule turned out to be enforced), so little by little I caught a glimmer of positivity and even enthusiasm in myself. 

With Beverly

There followed our week of service. We spent several days painting a house and shed, and clearing brush, for a lovely lady named Beverly, and the other days running a "Kids Club" for the local youngsters. All things I've done many times before, albeit not in 98 degree temperatures (being outside was like walking through soup). I reminded myself that our time was short, and we should accomplish as much as possible in this Katrina-battered Gulf Coast town. I noticed some little differences this year, courtesy of my aging body...the aching back and feet, the pains in my knees as I knelt to wash the kids' feet the last night in Bayou la Batre. I felt it wan't fair to give less than 100% when the young people were trying so hard, so I pushed on.

Our travel day home was lengthy. Up at 6, first flight from Gulfport, Mississippi to Atlanta, four hour layover, delayed flight to Philly (we got in two hours later than expected). Of course, a bag was lost. Mine. It was eventually found and delivered to my door at 1 AM, heavily damaged (but props to Delta Airlines, they also delivered a brand-new suitcase).

I'm feeling better every day. Like the tattered tote replaced by the latest model of luggage, I am feeling refreshed, and for that I thank my week in Alabama. Pushing my limits was a good thing; I realized I can still do quite a lot. It was a joy to see bonds form and strengthen among the teens. Since we've been home, I've looked at the photos with affection more than relief. 

I don't know what Summer 2017 will bring. It may be time for me to take a break from these trips. But I will always be grateful to Bayou la Batre, as I am to Guatemala, Alaska, West Virginia and on and on. I may depart incredibly stressed, but I ALWAYS return a better person. Stronger. More compassionate. Closer to God. Inspired to continue to do good work here at home. These experiences force me to live fully in the present moment, and to let go of some of my baggage. And in letting go, I have faith that what returns to me will be good as new. Better than new.

What's left of the old suitcase!