~Words Matter~
The Winter of 2014
by Rosalind Foley on 03/09/14
Brr. Last year I never took my heavy coat from the closet. In the part of the country where I live we aren't used to ice and snow. Here, January and February may bring a few shivery days, but nothing, usually, like the bitter cold of this year, much less the brutal and deadly storms farther north.
Accustomed to a green view almost year round, I've inwardly bemoaned my brown frost-bitten lawn. A visitor's remark caused me to look at the world a little differently. He'd noticed how much more could be seen and heard with the absence of foliage on what Andrew Wyeth liked to call "the bare bones of the landscape."
Since then I have spotted an eccentric geodesic dome of a house set back in the woods and wondered what it would be like to live there. And, seeing a flutter of male cardinals, I realized how much more vivid their scarlet feathers appear when the background is muted.
A highway runs near my house, linking families and commerce and who knows what. Observing the traffic from the warmth of my home, I pondered on the people in those passing vehicles, driving at all hours in every kind of weather to transport our produce and gasoline and supplies, to respond to accidents, to transfer patients to specialty hospitals. Some are on their way to jobs we never hear about but that benefit us in ways we'll never know. Each one has a story, a life. It's important to remember that.
To all those survivors of winter and drivers of snow plows and rescue vehicles, I salute you.
Changes
by Rosalind Foley on 11/12/13
I understand that cursive writing is being discontinued in elementary education. No more penmanship grades on report cards, although neatness may be marked. Hmm.
It makes me wonder. Wasn't there something about the fluidity of connecting those curvy letters that contributed to clear thinking? For years I kept a handwritten journal. The process helped me gain insights and work through problems.
In the old days men didn't consider fine writing sissy. My father and my Uncle Tom prided themselves on their handwriting, the result of much practice. We have a handwritten letter to his mother from my great-grandfather Daniel, off fighting the Civil War.
Which reminds me. In our university archives is said to be a series of diaries kept by an early 20th Century immigrant in a form of German no longer used. They are unlikely ever to be translated. So what will become of our handwritten documents in years to come? Will there need to be college courses in reading cursive?
I do like easily readable printing and I'm all in favor of computers, but I would miss the surprise of a familiar handwriting on an envelope in the mail.
High Praise
by Rosalind Foley on 11/06/13
The most common reaction by those who have read Hero's Welcome has been "I couldn't put it down." That's a lovely, rewarding thing for a writer to hear. I heard it again last week from an acquaintance called Susu who added, "I read it straight through in five hours."
Later, I found myself a bit rueful, reflecting on what she had said. That what I had spent two years researching, over two years writing and many, many hours re-writing could be read in such a short time was a little dispiriting. But never mind. She liked it. She wanted to keep reading. I would do it all over again.
It's a Regional Thing
by Rosalind Foley on 10/15/13
The first kiss of autumn this week caused a mail carrier to say "I'm happier than a pig in slop." You don't need to have grown up on a farm to get the idea. Farther north they might say they were "Happy as a clam," though how they gauge the emotional state of a clam I have no idea.
In this part of the South people have a habit of doubling words for emphasis. You might hear someone remark that he was up "late, late" the night before, watching the game. On the premise that sometimes more actually is better, another person might describe a baby as "cute, cute", or judge a pastry as "sweet, sweet."
Metaphors, similes, idioms and slang add spice to language. Used properly in fiction, they can even develop character.
Sunday Afternoon at the Library
by Rosalind Foley on 10/01/13
Our main public library, having been gutted to remove asbestos, is under renovation. Meanwhile, its functions are spread out in such facilities as were available. The 'stacks', a limited number of them, are housed in what was once a McCrory's 5 and 10. The always obliging staff makes the best of the temporary arrangement, but light is dim and the whole place has the tired look of old linoleum. I've taken more and more to placing requests and picking up books at the back desk on my way home.
I miss browsing, the fun of discovering a new author or a new book by a well-liked veteran writer. I miss the smell and the tactile experience or taking a book off the shelf and opening it. I miss the whispered exchanges with staff and other patrons.
When the old library reopens it will offer more e-books, more computers and more internet access. That's all good, but I hope there is a light-filled, hushed space for old fashioned book lovers like me.
