How Many Languages do You Know?

I have mentioned before that each of my daughters speaks another language besides their native tongue, English. Let me clarify, Eldest speaks Spanish; Middlest speaks Latin (and is learning Spanish); and Littlest speaks French.

I must clarify further. Because these are young people, heading quickly into young adulthood, they are also quite fluent in the modern dialect of Mumble. For those not familiar with that dialect, let me explain. Young people are accustomed to speed: On every corner there is opportunity for fast food; access to the internet is at speeds of over 10 Mbps (I remember my brother demonstrating his first modem at a whopping 300 bps, that could barely keep up with what he typed.); and it is normal for high school students to take a number of Advanced Placement classes, so that when they graduate from high school, they already have college credit. (Eldest started her college career with a year’s worth of college credit.)

In order to keep up with this frenetic pace, young people have developed the dialect of Mumble, or as it is scientifically known, Speedglish, as opposed to my native tongue, which is apparently Sloenglish. The basic structure of Mumble is to truncate as many words as possible and to string them together into one fast paced word. An example might be, “Nahbraugodidalwrngudunderstan.” In regular English or Sloenglish that short burst of noise would be, “No brother, you have it all wrong; you do not understand.”

Do you understand? I hope so, because the concept evades me.

Having daughters fluent in Mumble was handy a couple of summers ago when we were flying from one coast of the United States to the other coast. As I was passing through the TSA check point, I found out quickly that TSA does not stand for “Totally Stinking Awesome”. A TSA agent issued a direction to me in Mumble. I responded politely, “Excuse me?” One of my daughters, seeing the awkward social situation I was in, translated for me, “Dad, he wants you to take your glasses off the top of your head and put them on right.”

I was glad for the translation, but baffled as to the reason. I mentioned to the kind TSA agent, “They are simply for reading.” He was insistent that the security of someone was dependent on my wearing my reading glasses while trying to walk through the security checkpoint. So, I lowered the glasses to the tip of my nose, arched my eyebrow and peered over the top of my glasses (everyone hates that) and asked, “Izdizbetterbro?”

He gurgled, “Yah”.

My daughter scolded me, “Dad, stop it, you are not doing it right.”

And I replied in the only real Speedglish I know, “Fuggedaboutit.”

Planes, buses, and ferrys in Seattle (The final chapter)

Although our trip to Seattle was only a week, I have managed to drag out blogging about it for three weeks, this being the third, and final, week. Unless, of course, I remember something interesting that I cannot wait to share, and then there might be another post about Seattle.

If you haven’t read my first post about Seattle, read it now. Even if you have, you may want to refresh yourself on the details to get the full dramatic effect of this post.

While we did our sightseeing, after completing our quizzing, we took public transportation to get to the sights we wanted to see. And by public transportation, I mean buses, both electric and diesel. It is amazing the kinds of people you meet while being transported in large groups.

After a full morning of sightseeing and a lunch, the entire group met at the ferry terminal to await boarding. We patiently waited in line for all the passengers to disembark before we were able to walk down the long walk way to get on the boat. The walkway had a rope divider down the middle, to keep awaiting passengers from getting in the way of those trying to find dry land.

The young people in our group were polite and kept to the right hand side of the rope, and when the line started to move, they calmly walked with the flow of people onto the boat. As we reached the gangplank to walk onto the ferry, I heard a loud stomping behind me and to my left, and upon further review, I found it to be a young lady, not from our group, boldly stomping her way down the hallway in a rush to board the boat. I wasn’t sure what surprised me more, her disregard for social etiquette by walking on the left of the rope, her lack of grace and poise as she clomped down the hall (I pictured her walking through the forest stomping on the precious little woodland creatures.) or her driving desire to get on a boat that wasn’t going to go anywhere for another 15 minutes.  All of her effort was futile. The boat didn’t leave any sooner, and unless she stood in the bow, claiming her spot to get off first, she didn’t arrive any sooner.

Our flight out of Seattle was uneventful. The TSA agents in Seattle do not speak mumble. When I went through security, I put my glasses in the little chamber pot thingy for an all expense paid trip through the X-ray machine. The TSA person looked at me quizzically, and with impeccable English said, “You can wear those.” I responded, “They are just reading glasses and I usually walk around with them like this,” and put them on top of my head to hold back my thick mane of hair. He seemed a little puzzled and replied, “That’s fine; I don’t care how you wear your glasses.” once again in perfect English, without a trace of Mumble.

While boarding our flight to Rochester, the man with the microphone called for all passengers in rows 21 through 27. Typically, boarding a plane is done first by the coach (or first-class passengers), when they are loaded, then they start at the back of the plane. This keeps someone from row 17 from blocking everyone in rows 18 through 27 from getting settled.. After the announcement for passengers in rows 21 through 27 was made,  an older lady slipped in front of me, using the right shoulder-make-no-eye-contact maneuver. When her ticket was scanned I noted she was in row 17 and realized she must have a daughter, who likes to ride ferrys in Seattle. We boarded the plane and I had to wait while she held up the entire line as she stowed her luggage. I made sure to stand close enough to be in her private space without bumping into her and I gave her the smile I reserve for parents of grumpy toddlers in public places. The one with equal mixtures of sympathetic, pity, and kindness. As she sat, I said a quick thank you and nodded as I lead the stream of passengers past her seat. When we arrived in Rochester, there she stood at the baggage claim; alone. By now our large group, which had consisted 13 teens, 4 adults, had swelled considerably with all of the family members who swarmed the airport to pick up their loved ones. Their stood my nemesis line cutter, boarding holder-upper, woman. All alone at the carousel, waiting for her baggage. When the large group slowly engulfed her, swallowing her into a mass of humanity, and making it exceedingly difficult for her to retrieve her bags. I felt guilty for a moment for the feelings of joy for her pay back. But just for a brief moment.

Sightseeing in Seattle (Part II)

Nineteen of us flew from Rochester, NY to Seattle, WA to represent our church at the Free Methodist National Bible Quiz competition. I was a coach and my three daughters were quizzers. I have written about Bible quizzing before, so I won’t bore you with the details. If you wish, you can read about it here. 

Since we flew across the entire country, to a city neither I, nor any of my fellow travelers had visited before, we worked in some time for sight seeing. This was a good thing. Seattle is large, and as with most large places, there is a lot to see. Some of the things we saw were unremarkably mundane, but there were still a lot of them.

One of the remarkable sights we saw was the Cascade mountains. While we were in Seattle there was one clear sunny day in which we were able to see all the mountains and especially, the most famous one, Mt. Ranier. The rest of the time it was cloudy and the mountains simply disappeared. I am sure that the TSA is investigating their disappearance.

The city of Seattle is quite hilly due to living so close to the mountains. I think the only flat spot we saw was Puget sound. It is so hilly that if you take purebred Seattlites and stand them on flat ground, they lean inexplicably. It is as if their minds cannot fathom flat land and decide that all land is dramatically sloped and therefore command the body to lean to accommodate the expected slope.

Another tourist sight we went to was the Space Needle, which was built for the 1962 Seattle World’s Fair. The observation deck is a whopping 520 feet above the ground. I was eager to go there since after a week rushing from quiz to quiz, chaperoning teens, and dorming with a number of imperfect strangers, I was ready for a little space.

When I actually made it to the Space Needle I was disappointed on two accounts. First, there was not an abundance of space. We were crammed into the elevator by the dozens and although there was a little more room to maneuver once we reached the observation deck, it was still crowded. It was definitely not named “Space Needle” because there was room to stretch out and enjoy much personal space.

Next, I assumed we would be close to space, as in outer space. This excited me with the possibility of seeing aliens and observing sattelites and space ships as the floated by.  At 520 feet, this was not the case. In the years between 1962 and 2012, someone has moved space further away from the surface of the earth. Since Seattle is predominantly a liberal city, as far as politics goes, I think they would probably blame the conservatives for this and I am sure conservatives would blame liberals. I believe the problem is a bipartisan one of politicians and all their hot air. Whether their beliefs are liberal or conservative does not matter. All their rhetoric filled hot air has made the atmosphere around earth larger, causing space to be pushed further away from earth.

We also took a ferry across Puget Sound to the quaint tourist attraction called Bainbridge Island. I was excited for this ferry ride. My hometown of Rochester, NY had a ferry for a short time and I never got a chance to ride it. The ferry was called the “Fast Ferry” and made trips between Rochester and Toronto Canada. The two major differences between the ferry to Bainbridge Island and the one between Rochester and Toronto are that a large number of people, other than tourists, actually need to ride between Bainbridge and Seattle-- for work and other activities of daily life, whereas people going to and from Toronto were mainly tourists. The other major difference is that the Seattle/Bainbridge ferry is still running and the Rochester/Toronto ferry is not. It was sold, fast, when it didn’t make any money.

I must confess, I do not know what the great attraction of Bainbridge Island to tourists is, but I do know that the town is filled with the quaint little shops that one would expect in a rustic tourist attraction. Small yarn shops, candle shops that have sweet smells coming from the doorways, little cafe’s with names like Pennywhistle Cafe and the Fork and Spoon. The latter is a real cafe located on Bainbridge Island. I ate there and didn’t need either a fork or a spoon. I had a  sandwich and chips, and I felt cheated since there was no use for their touted silverware.

There was an outdoorsy kind of store called Wild Erness, and a modernish kind of clothing store called Dan Ger as well. When I pointed these out to littlest she just rolled her eyes and said, “Dad, it is Wilderness and Danger.” I think she was wrong.

To conclude this entry on my trip to Seattle, I want to pass along an interesting tidbit I picked up about Bainbridge Island. It is thusly named because it is completely surrounded by water.

Off to Seattle, If I make it. (Part I)

After the frenetic activity of last week, it might be understood that Beloved and I decided to rest and relax. We did not. Instead, we packed ourselves and our three daughters and headed to Seattle, Washington, with fourteen of our closest friends, for a total of 5 adults and 14 teenagers.This was for the annual Free Methodist National Bible Quizzing Finals, which were being held this year at Seattle Pacific University.

As you might imagine, traveling with this many people, especially teenagers is fraught with danger, miss-steps and miscues. For the trip out, we made it with only a few minor bumps.

The two people who are always late came early to the meeting and everyone else was on time as well. We got through the TSA checkpoint with only a minimum of trouble. As I was standing at the conveyor putting all of my precious metal into a plastic tub, I heard a mumble behind me. Throughout the years, ignoring mumbles has served me well, getting me out of many an unwanted task. Then I heard it again, a little bit louder, slightly clearer, but still a very distinct mumble.

I broke my “ignore the mumble” rule and turned to see a bald TSA agent looking at me. I inquired politely, “I am sorry; I didn’t hear you; could you say it again?”

He happily obliged, and repeated himself, but still with that delightful dull squawk of Mumble, just like an adult on a Peanuts TV special. I blinked, trying to process what I had just heard. Thankfully, Middlest, who is fluent in both Latin and Mumble translated for me, “Dad, he wants you to put your glasses on.” This was confusing because my glasses were on my head holding my thick mane of hair back away from my stunningly clear blue eyes. At this point, Mr. Bald TSA person, realized I did not speak mumble and spoke in English, “They have to be on your eyes.”

I am not sure what the problem was with glasses on my head, rather than on my eyes, but I think perhaps he was jealous of my thick mane of hair.

Other than that, the rest of the trip to Seattle was uneventful, except for the one quizzer, who inquired why the plane had stopped, while we were still flying at an altitude of thirty-thousand feet with an air speed of around 500mph. Ignoring the obvious fact that if the plane had stopped at thirty-thousand feet we would be plummeting to our deaths, I quipped, “We had to stop for a train.” This seemed to satisfy her curiosity.

Seattle has one of the fastest growing economies and is one of the best cities in the country to start a career. These facts are inextricably linked to the cities topography. Seattle is built on the mountains that descend into the southern reaches of Puget Sound. Since the landscape is so steep, there are no ground floors in local buildings. The buildings I visited start with the first floor and if I walked around and went in the side of the building I was on the second floor, and when I walked to the back of the building, I was on the third floor.  Being that there are no ground floors, there are also no ground level entry positions in companies. This is, in my estimation, the reason for the fast-paced growth of jobs in Seattle.

Seattle is known as one of the healthiest cities in the States. As I walked the streets I found a large number of people walking, running, and biking. There is apparently a polite way of doing this. I heard a voice behind me call out, “To the left, to the left.” I turned and there was a 100 lb woman barreling down on me with blood-lust in her eyes as she was about to body slam me and knock me into the ground. I quickly jumped to my right in an act of desperate self preservation. Beloved says I exaggerate and perhaps I do; she may only have weighed in at 90 lbs.

Another thing I noted during my walk. On every other street corner there is a gym, or martial arts dojo, or some other place where people can engage in physical fitness activities. This preoccupation is not just due to some weird confluence of as yet undetermined environmental factors; it is rather a case of self-preservation. In the few short days that I have been in Seattle, I have found that it is very difficult to get anywhere without climbing half a mountain. Thus, for Seattlites, exercise is necessary to maintain Olympic conditioning, just to walk around the block.

Do you suffer from Valentine's Day Panic?

Valentine’s Day is the holiday each year I look forward to with the least fondness. I am sure this is from the years in elementary school where teachers had each student write a valentine for every other student in the class. This frustrated me for two reasons.

First, I had, and still have, the world’s worst penmanship. Being a left-handed male has doomed me to smudged and wriggly letters. All through elementary school, I struggled with writing. The mention of an essay sent me into a panic. For those of you who have more youth than age, a bit of clarification. There was no internet, no personal computers, and no printers. The only way I could type was using a typewriter and if I made a mistake, I had to use ‘white-out’ to cover it and type over it. When I did type and with the amount of typo’s I made, I kept a 5-gallon bucket of latex white semi-gloss next to the desk and dipped a small paintbrush into it to fix my errors.

I always paired writing with penmanship. My difficulty in writing legibly caused me panic that generalized to not only forming neat letters, but gave me great anxiety when faced with stitching words together to make sentences and stacking sentences together into paragraphs. There are times when I sit at the computer and type meaningless, random letters, just to see how neat and tidy they appear on the screen. I want to cheer at this technological marvel that takes my words and makes them neat and orderly. There are even times I am filled with such joy at the orderly characters I publish those in my blog.

The second frustration of my elementary school Valentine’s Day memories is that I always seemed to have been left off another student’s list. Every year another student or two would seem to neglect to give me a little card with a heart, or superhero, and a shining example of their perfect penmanship. I am sure that some of those cards were simply overlooked as students checked names off those unending lists, or some that were dropped from paper bags as they were carried into school. I have a deep-seated suspicion that some were deliberately and malevolently unsent. As a child, I found this deeply and profoundly troubling and hurtful. However, now that I am an adult I see things differently and wish those former classmates no ill will. I used to think that deliberately leaving my valentine unsent was the beginning of a downward spiral eventually leading to a lifelong incarceration in a federal penitentiary. I now realize that those children probably grew up to be normal, healthy adults, with wonderfully fulfilling careers as convenience store cashiers or TSA agents.

It has been a few years since elementary school and the number of people on my Valentine’s list has shrunk. I buy a card for my wife and some small tokens of affection for my daughters. Those small tokens usually involve sugar and cocoa. The act of buying a cardhowever, still stirs a sense of panic , but I no longer fret over my penmanship. My wife seems to be able to recognize my scrawl; at least enough to know it was I who signed her card.

I would give cards to my daughters, but they make fun of my handwriting. I once wrote a note asking them to switch the laundry and they assumed I wanted them to send it to Switzerland. I did not want my shirts in Europe, I wanted them in the dryer. It is for this reason I have scratched them off my Valentine’s card list.

I am not Muqtada al Sadr

I recently attended a family reunion on my wife’s side of the family. While talking to my wife’s cousin, Doug, who was on leave from Afghanistan, he mentioned he saw my picture every day. I told him he was spending too much time on Facebook. He replied that he saw my picture in the newspaper over there.  Apparently, there is a Shiite cleric, Muqtada al Sadr, going around Afghanistan Iraq fomenting trouble, and he looks like me. I need to clarify two things, first, I have never been to Afghanistan Iraq (although I am fond of their blankets during the winter months), and B) I have no idea what foment means.

I asked my daughters for a definition of foment. They are intelligent young ladies, who, when they were younger, actually pretended to be in school. I was sure they could give me a definition. One of them said, “Dad, go look it up.” I think they played school too much when they were younger. As I crossed the room to get a dictionary, the kind printed on paper and bound with a stiff hard cover, another daughter said, “Dad, don’t you have a dictionary app on your ipod?!” Such an intelligent young lady. I stopped and looked for my ipod. At this point the third daughter chimed in, “Dad, you were just at the computer. You could simply go to dictionary.com.”

I looked up the word using dictionary.com and discovered foment means to stir up trouble and I aim to stir up trouble for three smart alecky…I mean intelligent young ladies.

After finding the definition of foment, I made a to-do list. It started with a scientific inquiry into whether I really look like Muqtada or not. Not having access to facial recognition software, I uploaded a picture of Muqtada to Facebook and asked my friends there if I looked like him. Astonishingly, 80% of the five people who responded said we looked alike. Thank you Mrs. Redfield for believing in me.

Of the four who said that Mr. al Sadr looked like me, two were my daughters. I foresee even more foment from me in their lives.

I then turned my attention to the next item on the list and started to search through every drawer, shelf, and safe spot in our house for my passport. My wife saw the path of destruction I left everywhere I searched and asked, “What are you fomenting about now?!”

I responded that in light of recent developments I was going to turn in my passport. I could just imagine what atrocities the TSA might do to me when they realized you-know-who looked like me. I read just last week that they frisked some woman’s hair. I could not bear the thought of them pawing through my full mane of hair. So, I told Beloved I was going to return my passport to the State Department. Then Beloved reminded me I did not have a passport.  I took my to-do list and marked that item off and proceeded to the computer to scroll through my email and check my calendar.

“What are you doing now?” Beloved inquired.

“I am checking what international travel plans I have and cancelling them.” I responded.

Beloved rolled her eyes. “No passport, no international travel plans. You don’t travel!”

I took my to-do list and scratched that item off the list. Then I went upstairs and laid down in bed.

“What are you doing now?” Beloved inquired.

I showed her my to-do list. Scientific study-done. Passport-returned. International travel plans-cancelled. I have had a busy morning; I am going to take a nap.

I hear the hushed voices downstairs as Beloved and my daughters foment trouble for me.