How Many Words Do YOU Know? Sort Of.

I don’t need anyone to remind me of how little I know, least of all myself, yet that’s what I’ve been doing on a daily basis lately.  In an effort to reinvigorate my quest for knowledge that took a major detour about thirteen years ago (two daughters), I’ve reintroduced an old custom of mine of writing down words unknown to me while reading novels.    

Although I consider myself a relatively intelligent person, I fully admit that vocabulary has never been my strong suit.  Sure, I can string a bunch of words together to get my point across, but ask me to use a more obscure word in a sentence, and I start to panic.  I guess I take some solace in that the average educated English-speaking person knows an average of 17,200 base words, a mere percentage of the total number of entries in the Oxford American Dictionary (over 180,000) and the Unabridged Oxford English Dictionary (over 600,000).  (Base words are “word families.”  So the base word “love” might extend to words like lovely, lovable, lover, etc.)

There are words I clearly know, like the ones I’ve written thus far in this essay.  There are words I clearly do not know, like rehoboam.  This I can accept.  What kills me are the words I kinda sorta know but would be hard-pressed to define or use in conversation.  My kids have exposed this gaping hole in my chest of knowledge numerous times when asking me the meaning of a word that I thought I knew, but couldn’t for the life of me explain.  (“Well, capricious means…um…like unusual, right?  Um…why don’t you look it up?”)  And even when I sort of know a word, like bereft (meaning: void of), I would never use it in conversation for fear of making a fool of myself in case I used it incorrectly.  Just last weekend I used the word “indoctrinate” when I actually meant to say “inoculate,” which is sad an embarrassing, but I DO happen to know the word that describes the misuse of another word – malapropism.  I should have that word tattooed on my forehead.

Despite the odds, I’m determined to go to my grave with a better command of the English language than I have now, so I’ve created a list of words I’ve come across recently.  The latest book I read was Nick Hornby’s Juliet, Naked, a fine read and certainly not high-brow.  In fact, it’s really quite accessible, but that didn’t stop me from not knowing the meaning of the following words (how many of these could you use in conversation?):

Bathetic.  Opacity.  Perspicacity.  Torpid.  Detritus.  Phlegmatic.  Circumlocutory.  Feckless.  Pastiche.  Demur. 

And this is from a #1 New York Times bestseller!  Give me a copy of Ulysses and I’d be toast.  What’s worse is that even after looking up all these words and writing down their meanings, I still don’t remember them well enough to use them, so all my efforts have basically resulted in increasing the number of words I’ve heard before, but couldn’t use in a sentence to save my life. 

Luckily over the years, a few words have managed to squeeze into my lexicon (so if I’m average, I now know 17,202 words).  I can now successfully use the word loquacious (talkative) in a sentence, and I’ve recently added misanthrope (someone who hates people).  I’m still waiting to come across the word that means, “Ineptitude in expanding one’s vocabulary.”

Tribune Editorial

Riveting, I know.  Here's my editorial in October 30th's Chicago Tribune (or you can click here)

Waste of money

Imagine if all the money spent this year on campaigns was instead invested in those who have lost a job and who struggle to purchase basic necessities. How much better off would our country be? How many people could be fed, clothed or housed in lieu of one mass mailing or one TV commercial in a coveted time slot?

— Paul Heinz, Elmhurst

Living in the Moment vs. Recording the Moment

Two years ago I attended a concert with a friend who texted his way through most of it - he apparently had some very urgent message that simply couldn't wait.  This is in sharp contrast to the days my wife and I go without communicating with each other when she's on the road, as the most riveting text I could probably come up with would be: "Just completed my fourth load of laundry. Love you!"  My friend's interest in (euphemism for "addiction to") his backlit companion irked me for several reasons during the show, not the least of which was, "Can't you for two hours manage to enjoy the moment?" 

Of course, one needn't have a cellphone (I don't) to fall victim to an electronic obsession.  Cameras have often served as security blankets, as their owners worry more about documenting an occasion and less about actually participating in the occasion.  And I'm not necessarily busting the chops of the photo enthusiast.  I too have had spurts during which I was hell-bent on capturing a moment on film, but far too often these efforts resulted in a memory that exists only within the confines of the .jpeg files that seem to have obliterated my own capacity to remember.  When I imagine a party I attended two summer's ago in Milwaukee, I don't imagine the party - I imagine the photo of the party that's saved on my computer. 

With the advent of Youtube, Facebook and Twitter (not to mention self-indulgent blogs) our ability and desire to document that which is meaningless has never been stronger, and the results at live concerts haven't gone unnoticed.  This week, the Wall Street Journal has a great article about differing sides of the video-taking coin.  Some musical acts, like Radiohead, not only except fans taking concert videos, they encourage it and, in one case, even supplied the master recording for a fan's video project.  Others groups attempt to limit those who take videos of their concerts, not so much because of the monetary ramifications, but because they believe that the concert-going experience should be sacrosanct, and hundreds of glowing cell-phones undermine the thrill of The Moment.

I've benefitted from those who've worked to capture a moment on film, and I've suffered for it as well.  It isn't the no-brainer that some might make claim.  When I see a parent texting at a park while a child begs for attention, I can't help but think that something's wrong with this picture.  When I see a fan recording a concert, I can't help but wonder if it'll be posted on Youtube by morning.

Well-Hung (a short grammar lesson)

When I was young, I used the words dove and hung, as in, “I dove in the water,” and “I hung the picture on the wall.”

More and more lately, I’ve seen the words dived and hanged, especially in print, and I wondered if I’ve been saying it incorrectly all these years or if the words have gradually transformed due to common usage (will “irregardless” one day be considered a word?  Probably).

A little research in my handy dictionary (and on-line just to confirm) allowed me to learn the following:

With dive, both dived and dove are considered acceptable past tense verbs.  Dived is the earlier form, but the newer form of dove echoes words such as flung (past tense of fling) and drove (past tense of drive).  (thanks to our scuba diving brethren for this little insight – click here)

As for hang, hung is the proper past tense verb in every case except with executions, as in “He was hanged until he was dead.”  (click here)

Who knew?

Another interesting transformation: when I was young, it was pounded into our little brains again and again that we should say, for example, “Paul and I are going to the store,” not “Paul and me…”  This lesson appears to have been stressed so vehemently that now many people have gone to the other extreme, using “I” when “me” should be used, as in, “He went to the store with Paul and I.”  (It should be "me.")

And in the interest of marital harmony, it should be noted that correcting one’s wife about the aforementioned ill-use of “me” is ill-advised.

Basements and Water

I like basements.  I like basements the way some people like newly remodeled kitchens with custom-made cabinets, granite counter tops and glimmering mosaic tiles with the words “Home Sweet Home” patterned into the backsplash.  A basement is the one room that truthfully recounts a house’s history with lengthy prose instead of sleek sound bites.  I love the smell of an old basement whose beauty hasn’t been tarnished by the modern notion that a cellar impersonating a living room is preferable to one with shiny paneling, stained ceiling tiles, and unadorned flooring. 

When our Realtor first showed my wife and me our future home a decade ago, I knew.  I knew as I descended the narrow stairs, the lilting rhythm of our steps along the creaky floorboards, that this was going to be the discovery to end all searches.  It was love at first scent.  And then scent was backed up by sight.  The basement’s floor dipped and raised inexplicably, it’s contours giving it a feel of a natural cavern rather than man-made perfection; the ceiling tiles displayed just a touch of rusty-colored water stains, not an indication of a failing foundation, but of a family who’s children had splashed too zealously in the bathtub above; the low support beam running along the center of the room was just high enough so as not to require a six-foot man to duck, but it nonetheless prompted me to duck each and every time I passed under as a matter of instinct; the window wells with white cloth curtains were recently vacuumed for the sale, but still showed traces of the spider webs left unchecked for so long.  In the weeks that followed, my wife and I discussed the placement of furniture and how each room was to be arranged, but all I could think of was the ping pong table on the far end of the support pole and a throw-rug on the near-side where I’d set up my old Kenwood receiver and Phillips turntable. 

In recent days, as I’ve watched the destruction in Milwaukee and Chicago, I’ve begun to wonder.  Eight inches of water from the sky – that’s all it takes to make life difficult, as people are forced to discard miles of saturated carpet, piles of drenched drywall and hundreds of sofas, chairs, recliners, toys and boxes.  I hope those who’ve been hit hardest can rebound.  And it makes me wonder if maybe basements aren’t meant to be finished the way we finish other rooms.  All basements, under the right circumstances, will fill with water.  Even the best of them.  Maybe finishing a basement is like building a home along the banks of the Mississippi.