HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Citizen, 2012-05-17, Page 5THE CITIZEN, THURSDAY, MAY 17, 2012. PAGE 5.
I f the English language made any sense
‘lackadaisical’ would have something to
do with a shortage of flowers.
– Doug Larson
But it doesn’t – make any sense, I mean.
Why, for instance, would any decent tongue
adorn itself with contronyms? These are
words that, depending on context, can mean
the exact opposite of what they seem to
mean. Thus, we have the word ‘cleave’
which can mean to stick together, or to rend
asunder. We have ‘fast’ which can mean
speedy – or utterly immobile. A trip to Gay
Paree is not the same as a trip over a loose
shoelace. The alarm on your bedside clock
goes off by going on. A pyromaniac/author
could put out a fire – or put out a new book
(Looking Blackward, Harbour Publishing 252
pages).
And if that author was a sado-masochistic
opportunist he could flog himself – or his book
(Looking Blackward, Harbour Publishing, 252
pages).
Don’t panic – I’m about to wind up this
contronym tangent I’m on. But do I mean
wind up as in ‘bring to an end’ – or wind up as
with a baseball pitch?
Forget contronyms, what about verbing?
Your English teacher might call it “the practice
of denominalizing – turning nouns into verbs”.
I call it a viral plague. Much of it is computer-
based. ‘Blog’ is a word that isn’t even old
enough to vote – it’s derived from ‘web log’
and has led to bloggers, blogging, even
blogosphere. Hideous words all, but, like warts
on a toad, with us for the duration. Likewise
‘Google’, formerly a noun (Google it, if
you don’t believe me); also Xerox, fax and
‘text’.
There’s nothing wrong with turning nouns
into verbs; it goes on all the time. One can
dress in a dress, dream a dream and dance a
dance, but where do you draw the line?
For me, it’s at Facebook. I won’t join the
social phenomenon because I cringe at the
thought of ‘friending’ anyone. It just sounds
creepy and vaguely pedophilic. And
defriending? Puhleeeze.
I am much more amenable to the idea of
paraprosdokians. A paraprosdokian is a figure
of speech in which the latter part of a sentence
or phrase is surprising or unexpected. The best
one I ever heard sprang from the lips of John
Wilkes, an English politician who was
lambasted by the Earl of Sandwich a couple of
centuries ago. The Earl roared at him in the
House of Commons: “I do not know, sir, if you
will die on the gallows or of the pox” (i.e., of
syphilis). Quick as a flash Wilkes stood up and
purred “That depends, my Lord, on whether I
embrace your Lordship’s principles, or your
mistress.”
Paraprosdokians don’t have to be that
exquisitely elaborate. Dorothy Parker was a
master (mistress?) of the genre. She once
sniffed “I know a woman who speaks 18
languages and can’t say ‘No’ in any of them.”
Another time: “I require only three things of a
man: he must be handsome, ruthless and
stupid.”
But the master of paraprosdokians? Sir
Winston, of course. Churchill once explained
his facility with English. It sprang, he said,
from his poor scholarship. Other students
were taught Latin and Greek but because he
was considered ‘slow’ he was taught only
English. “As I remained (in third year) three
times as long as anyone else, I had three times
as much of it. I learned it thoroughly. Thus I
got into my bones the essential structure of the
English sentence – which is a noble thing.”
It certainly was when filtered through the
Churchillian vocal cords.
Such as the occasion when a moustachioed
young Winston was confronted by an angry
female voter. “Young man,” she sniffed, “I
care for neither your politics nor your
moustache.”
“Madam,” responded Churchill, you are
unlikely to come into contact with either.”
Arthur
Black
Other Views English just as she is spoke
By now it’s no secret that The Citizen,
The Rural Voice and Stops Along The
Way , all under the umbrella of North
Huron Publishing, now has a new Blyth home.
It’s across the street from its old home.
I say it’s no secret, of course, because when
you move across the street, it’s hard not to
involve everyone in the Blyth community in
some form or another when crossing the street
every few minutes for two straight days.
Not one filing cabinet or desk was moved
across the street without a wave to a local
business owner, a neighbour or a friend of ours.
While all of these folks were more than
willing to offer a wave or some sort of
greeting, some even offered to help. Great
community spirit for a job not to be envied.
I’m joking, of course, but it didn’t take long
to see that a lot of the items coming out of the
building’s basement had value to some.
There were historical books and documents
that found a new home with North Huron
Councillor and local historian Brock Vodden
and some of our “cooler-looking” refuse was
donated to a pair of local artists as part of a
future industrial installation piece for a kind of
art called steampunk (don’t feel bad, I wasn’t
familiar with the term either, but I was happy
to help out). Old chairs and desks found a new
home at a local restaurant and old Citizen
tables will be the future stage for some
woodworking.
All I brought home from the move was a
ruined set of clothes every day and a bag of
aching bones in need of a rest.
For younger folks like Denny and I, going
through The Citizen’s basement of over 26
years was a bit of a history lesson. We were
taught how things used to work in the office
and how much more difficult it was to put a
newspaper together week after week. Back
then, if a mistake was made, it was a lot
tougher to get rid of than simply hitting the
backspace button.
We were schooled in old typesetting and
photography equipment that was in use while
we were in diapers. We also learned about the
solid materials these machines were built with.
Lifting machines weighing hundreds of pounds
out of a narrow basement with little room to
maneouver will teach a young person very
quickly that the old saying “they don’t make
them like they used to” is very, very true.
I have no doubt that some of the machinery
we moved out of the basement was heavier
than Denny’s car.
Because the machines were headed for the
junkyard, we became experts in breaking down
large machines. We learned to shed any kind of
weight that we could from a machine. If it
wasn’t bolted down, it was coming off, one
way or another, and even sometimes if it was
bolted down, we found a way around that
minor problem (ask me about my hacksaw
skills).
There were plenty of minor injuries and
some narrowly-avoided major injuries, but in
the end, the move was executed without
incident.
There were, of course, blunders and miscues.
It wouldn’t have been a moving operation if we
didn’t have those types of things. Oh, and there
was some cursing, but not too much.
In the end, however, the move was executed
and here we are in our new building.
Surprisingly enough we were able to pull the
whole operation off without killing one
another and it may have even brought a lot of
us closer together and all of those little bruises
and cuts on my arm will heal in no time
anyway.
Movin’ on up
While I’m sure most of you are aware
of this; The Citizen moved last
week.
It was a group effort and, though it’s still not
completely done as I’m writing this, everyone
pulled together to clean out the old and move
over to our new location at the corner of
Dinsley and Queen Street.
Less than two days later, I found myself
doing the relocation shuffle again as I boxed
up the last of my ‘personal’ items in an attempt
to make my home more inviting for people
interested in buying it.
Ashleigh, my girlfriend, has found herself a
job in Mississauga and it’s her dream job. To
that end, our home is up for sale and the future
is very uncertain.
I figured the best way to deal with this is to
be up-front and honest but my hands are tied
somewhat in that I just don’t know what the
future really holds for me.
Anyway, with that out of the way, I can try
and tackle something a bit more important; the
idea of closure and safety in the aftermath of a
horrific event.
When I was growing up I had a discussion
with a family member about a break-in at a
Seaforth-area jewelery store.
Please, don’t stop me if you’ve heard this
story before because I promise it has new
implications.
While I listened to this family member talk
about how those people would never feel safe
again and how they would probably re-
evaluate every decision they made regarding
safety and security, only one question popped
in to my head;
“Did they have insurance?”
I guess this attitude has always been a
shortfall of mine; I know that bad things
happen and I don’t see the point in getting
wrapped up in them.
Whether it be a death in the family, a
robbery, or some atrocious crime that hits
close to home, my attitude is largely the same;
bad things happen. You can learn from them or
leave them, but either way they need to be put
in the past.
That belief makes my presence at funerals
and other mournful events an awkward one in
my eyes. I truly believe that the best way to
pay homage to a victim of death is to celebrate
the way they lived their life.
While I’m not so morbid as to plan out my
own funeral, I have given thought as to how I
hope people react.
I don’t want any tears when it comes time
for me to be shuffled loose from this mortal
coil. I want people to remember who I was and
revel in the fact that I enjoyed my life to the
utmost, I don’t want them thinking they’ve lost
something.
Maybe it’s some kind of religious left-over
from my upbringing or maybe it’s from the
religions I studied in my philosophy classes,
but I have to believe there is something after
this world.
With all those religions out there I have to
think one of them is right and that means that
there is some kind of eternal reward (or
punishment), I guess I just won’t know until
I’m on the other side of that long tunnel with
the light at the end.
I’ve also given some thought as to how my
life might end. I guess it’s a hazard of reading
too much and learning about the demise of
others.
Whether it’s heart disease, cancer or a lone
gunman cutting short the political career
people keep advising me to consider, I don’t
want people hating the deliverer of my fate.
Quite the opposite is true: I don’t want the
deliverer of my fate, if it is an individual, to
even receive credit for the act.
I guess that’s where I might be different
from most people.
This entire idea for a column came from
watching Tori Stafford’s father Rodney on
Canada AM talking about how seeing his
daughter’s convicted killer, Michael Rafferty,
sentenced to prison brought closure to the
death.
Rodney cheered when he left the courtroom
and threw his arms in the air.
Now, again, I’ve never had the best luck
empathizing with people and maybe, when
you have to sit through a court proceeding
outlining the grizzly details of a murder of a
loved one, it can change the way you feel
about things, but I think the greatest
satisfaction I’d get, if I were murdered in cold
blood, would be for my killer to silently fade
away in prison and have their name erased
from the annals of my life.
Again, I can’t imagine what Stafford’s
family went through, I can only say what I
would want of the deliverer of my demise.
When it comes time to remember who I was,
I don’t want my memory to forever be linked
to a failure in apoptosis or a calcified valve or
someone with a grudge against me. I would
rather that my memorial mention nothing of
what took me and, instead, I’d rather it talk all
about what I did while I was capable of
following my dreams.
While I’m capable of holding a grudge and
forgiving one as well, I prefer, when it’s
dealing with non-family members, to get
revenge the best way; by living a good life, or,
in this case, having a life lived well
remembered instead of focusing on the time at
the end.
(Family members are a special circumstance
for me. My brother and I have an unspoken
truce where we ridicule each other mercilessly
as a way of showing we really are invested in
each other’s lives.)
Either way, I’m not saying I don’t
understand why Stafford was happy. I’m
happy a murderer (and kidnapper and possible
rapist) was locked up behind bars. It makes the
rest of the world safer.
I just can’t say for certain that, beyond a
victim impact statement (something that I
have serious moral qualms with to begin with)
I don’t know, if I were in his shoes, that I
would be at the courthouse at all for the
proceedings.
Paying attention to these kinds of crimes is
exactly what some truly sick individuals want:
they want to be the centre of attention of the
whole world.
I, for one, would never want to give anyone
that pleasure, regardless of what they may take
from me.
Shawn
Loughlin
Shawn’s Sense
Denny
Scott
Denny’s Den
Emotional and empathetic handicaps