Is English an amusing language or what?

The past tense of the verb “lead” is “led,” but the past tense of “read,” the verb, is “read,” not “red.” It’s easy to determine the pronunciation of the former, but for the latter; it depends on the context: “I’m going to read the book,” or “I read the book yesterday.”

And then there’s “read” the noun, as in “The book was a good read” (not to be confused with “reed”). As if that’s not enough, there’s “lead” the noun and “lead” the other noun, as in: “I couldn’t hold the lead in the race because my feet felt as heavy as lead.” Which means I no longer led.

It doesn’t end there. Take “head,” which is pronounced like one “lead,” but not the other “lead.” Or take “heed,” which has nothing to do with “head,” but raises questions because of “bread” and “bred,” which is the past tense of “breed” while “bread” is the past tense of nothing.

Or “great” and “grate” or “flew,” “flue” and “flu.” And is there such a thing as a fowl ball? Well, if your Rhode Island Red plays with the Red Sox, why not?

And then there’s “herd,” “bird,” “word” and “curd” (“heard” creating a category all its own, thank you). No one living or dead can explain why four different single vowels can be used for the same sound. Germans would be appalled. And what about “boarder” and “border”? “Board” and “bored”? “Hoard” and “horde”? “Hoar” and “roar”? “Hoard” and “roared”? “Soar” and “sore”? “Boar” and “bore”?

Yada-yada-yada. It’s enough to make me a neurotic nuisance, but what’s pneu? At least I won’t get pneumonia because I just had a booster shot.

And don’t get me started on “through” and “threw.” Or “throw” and “though.” Or “boy” and “boil.” Now I ask you, why not just tack an L on the end of “boy” and call it “boyl”? Nooooo. Ack. Enough already!

But you do see my point, don’t you? It’s enough to make your head spin. And where in the -gh does the F sound in “enough” come from anyway? Or in “tough” but not “dough”? Why can’t a lousy golfer who’s sick be a “dougher who soughers from the flue”? If -gh is pronounced F, why not “ghorget about it.” Well, I’d love to, wouldn’t you?

Makes you wonder by what miracle English-speakers ever master their language — not that all of us do. And think of the challenge facing immigrants who speak phonetically logical languages.

Meanwhile, today we will not talk about the difference between “color” and “colour,” “neighbor” and “neighbour” or “honor” and “honour.” Besides, there is none, the ocean that separates them notwithstanding.

Don’t get mad if I omitted your favourites. I could have gone on, I suppose, but I was afraid you’d run out of patients and dump a pale of water on my hare.

(Wink.)

On the soapbox, more or less

I’m not going to say that a fraud has been perpetrated on the American consumer, but I think a fraud might have been perpetrated on the American consumer (OK, another one).

I came to this conclusion the other day as I was doing dishes. I suppose I could have come to this conclusion years ago, but usually when I do dishes, I don’t think about doing dishes — I think about quantum mechanics or Gregorian chants. But the other day I paid attention.

Here’s what happened: I was doing the dishes as I usually do, squirting a little detergent into my sponge and working up some suds, and I noticed that I had to keep doing this more often than I remembered. I’d wash a fork or two, a knife maybe, then need a little more detergent. It was almost as if someone had watered down the dishwashing liquid.

And that’s when it hit me. You see, I always buy the old-fashioned dishwashing soap because it comes in bigger bottles, seems less expensive and isn’t labeled “Ultra” or “Concentrated.” I mean, who needs concentrated dishwashing liquid when the unconcentrated kind works just fine?

Except it doesn’t — at least not the way I remember it. Seems to me that in days gone by I could squeeze some detergent into my sponge and the suds would go on and on and on — just like the ultras do now. So is that what’s going on? Are the smaller bottles labeled “Ultra” filled with plain old laundry detergent and the bottles of plain old laundry detergent just watered down?

Part of me whispers, “That’s impossible. Surely manufacturers wouldn’t dupe the public in such a way, would they?” Another part of me says, really loud, “Don’t be so naïve!”

And when I remember the Ultra 2X laundry detergent sitting over by my washing machine, I slap my forehead and say “Silly me.” Because it’s the same thing all over again with clothes. And did I forget the concentrated bleach? BLEACH? How on earth do you concentrate bleach?

I know what you’re thinking. So what if the manufacturers of these products save a little money by using less water in their products. After all, water is precious, right? And if the bottles are smaller, they’re using less plastic. Isn’t that also a good thing? But then they’re selling what must be that watered-down version I’ve been using, so water isn’t that precious after all, is it? And putting it in the original-sized bottles, so they don’t give a hoot about plastic, do they?

Incidentally, my findings have been corroborated by an independent test kitchen in western Massachusetts, so it’s not just me.

Consumers everywhere don’t know if they’re getting a break or being taken for a ride. All I can say is this: If there had been a little more soap in my soap, I would have written about something else — maybe the incredible shrinking pound.

Thurber in Our Time — A Fable for Some Other Time

Not long ago a woman came up to me in Ingles and said she liked my funny little stories. I guess it was something I picked up from James Thurber, whose funny little stories were a lot funnier than mine are. It was back in high school that I first made Thurber’s acquaintance, and he was probably my first adult literary hero. I was so taken that I decided I wanted to write like him.

Of course he tried to disabuse me of that the night he stopped by my house. It was late — past midnight, if I recall — and there was a knock on the door. “Now who could that be?” I remember muttering. I’d been staring at a piece of blank paper in my typewriter for hours, trying to write like Thurber.

“Thurber,” came a shout through the door. WHAT?

When I opened the door, sure enough — there he stood. I recognized him from the photo on his book jackets. I looked over his shoulder and there parked at the side of the road was a 1947 Buick. It was idling.

“Come in,” I said, noticing the white sock stuffed in the breast pocket of his black tux.

“Can’t, left the car running. I just wanted to tell you to quit.”

“Quit what?” I asked.

“Trying to write like me. You can’t do it, so give it up.”

“But ...,” I started to say.

“No buts. You want to write? Write like yourself.”

“But I’m not as good a writer as you are,” I said.

“That’s not my problem. Say, you wouldn’t happen to have a cigarette, would you?” He patted his pocket. “I’m out.”

“Sorry,” I said, “I quit.”

“Just as well,” he said, turning to leave.

“Do a lot of people want to write like you?” I asked his back.

He turned back to me. “Just you,” he said. “I think most people have forgotten about me.”

“And you drove all the way down here to tell me to stop?”

“When you’re dead you have a lot of time on your hands.”

That made sense. “I appreciate the advice,” I said. “But now I have to write like me, and I’m not sure I can.”

“Just quit thinking about me and see what comes out. Quit trying to be funny and write about politics for a while, and if that doesn’t drive you batty, take another stab at humor. By then you’ll have forgotten all about me, and you’ll have found your own voice.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said as he went back to the Buick. And just like that, he was gone.

I took his advice and did write about politics for a few years. But politics was often so hilarious that I started writing humor by default. So while Thurber’s advice turned out to be good, he was wrong about one thing — I never forgot him.

The Great Condiment Wars of 2015

Last April, Heinz, of ketchup fame, launched its own mustard, because it didn’t want to share the picnic table with any other brand of condiment. Not to be outdone, French’s, of mustard fame, launched its own ketchup, because it too wanted to dominate the picnic table.

According to an anonymous source at Heinz, folks in the product development department confabbed at length about the launch with top execs, advocating for the new product because “the world doesn’t have enough mustard.” When I asked the source for details, he said, “Follow the mustard.”

So I did. I scheduled a trip to a local supermarket and, equipped with notebook and pen, I headed for the condiment aisle. On the way, I brushed up on my counting — one, two, three, four, five. Piece of cake - how high would I possibly have to count?

I decided to start with the ketchup (spelled catsup in epicurean circles) — and I quit counting when I reached 10. I counted only brand names, not varieties within brand — no-salt, sugar-free, spicy and so forth — and didn’t include any of the designer brands I’d seen in specialty and health food boutiques because I was limiting my report to coverage of a regular supermarket.

Now it was on to mustard, which is only spelled mustard, and here’s where it really got out of hand. I started getting cross-eyed when I reached 24, which is where I quit counting. That’s 24 different brands, most with varieties like honey mustard, deli, yellow, horseradish, spicy and Dijon. There amongst them was the new Heinz, and I couldn’t help but think that it’s a good thing they got into the mustard side of condiments because they really filled a niche.

I concluded my research thinking the consumer could spend a day in the condiment aisle alone, trying to decide on something to make their food taste better. I thought about what my source at Heinz had said: “The world doesn’t have enough mustard.” Well, it does now.

But then I made the mistake of turning down the cereal aisle, and I immediately flashed back to my childhood and my local grocery store shelves, when I could count the number of known cereals in my world on under 10 fingers — oldies-but-goodies like Corn Flakes, Rice Krispies, Wheaties, Cheerios, Shredded Wheat, Quaker Oats, and maybe a few others you had to supply your own sugar for. Variations on a theme began to proliferate even before the 1950s were over — Frosted Flakes and Sugar Pops were just the beginning of the trend in 1951 — and the result today is cereals on both sides of the aisle, stretching 56 feet toward the rear of the store. Cereals as far as the eye could see.

The takeaway from all this, of course, is that just when I thought I’d run out of ideas for columns, someone in Facebook happened to mention Heinz’s new mustard. Thanks, Consuelo.

Anthropomorphism in everyday life

           Most people don’t give much thought to anthropomorphism, but it’s an inescapable part of all our lives. It’s in our face all the time. Take the talking Charmin bears, for example, or the dancing Kellogg’s Frosted Mini-Wheats. We know bears don’t talk and Mini-Wheats don’t dance, yet we don’t scoff — we accept it. What does that say about us?

           Before I go further, let me explain what anthropomorphism is, for those who knew yesterday but clean forgot. Simply put, anthropomorphism is the attribution of human form or characteristics to something other than human — animals, inanimate objects, forces of nature, etc. Woody Woodpecker and SpongeBob SquarePants come to mind.

           Our exposure to anthropomorphism begins in early childhood, in the countless books, shows, and films designed to jump-start our imaginations. And that’s where it probably should end. That’s not to say I don’t still find the story of “Tubby the Tuba” entertaining. You remember Tubby, don’t you? He’s the tuba that wanted to play a melody more than anything, instead of just oom-pah.

           Some of our favorite childhood friends were the cartoon animals that were funnier than most of the grownups we knew. Bugs Bunny was my favorite, and of course the Disney stable is legendary. For the most part I grew out of my fondness for anthropomorphized creatures — except Shrek. And I confess to liking Donkey a lot.

           As children we often name our stuffed animals, which I suppose makes it more natural to have conversations with them. I had a stuffed lamb, and for some reason I called him Bambi. Go figure. This isn’t necessarily something we outgrow either. A woman I knew called her old VW Beetle Bernie, and I never asked why. Today in Facebook two friends revealed they’d named either their present or past cars, so I don’t want to forget to pay homage to their beloved vehicles — Rosie and Priscilla.

           I’m sure the creative people at advertising agencies can’t resist — perhaps trapped in childhood themselves — but by adulthood we should be well past the need for talking dough and moping mops in commercials. Lately these creative types have introduced anthropomorphism to pharmaceutical ads, which won’t motivate me to ask my doctor for any drug. In one commercial I saw this morning, a woman was going about her daily routine as her bladder tagged along, gripping her hand and dragging her off toward restrooms in much the same way a spoiled child might tug Mom toward the toy department. How appealing — especially when the bladder, looking pitiful, sat next to her at a table as she ate lunch with a friend. I wonder if she said to the friend, “By the way, this is Betty, my bladder.”

           My current favorites are those Charmin bears (read “most annoying” for “favorites”). I hope parents take the time to explain to their kids that bears don’t really have bungalows with full bathrooms, that they, um … well, you know.

The evolution of the telephone

           In the beginning, there were no telephones. When people wanted to communicate, they walked up to someone and said, “Hi.” If they were far apart, they sent someone with a message. “Go to the village across the valley and tell George I said hi.” If they couldn’t send someone, they either went themselves or forgot about it. If they forgot, George would think they stopped caring. Before long, people invented drums, hollow logs, and smoke as ways to communicate over distances, that worked for a long time because Grandma didn’t live too far away.

           Over time we came up with different ways to communicate, but they mostly involved writing on paper — letters. While it got the job done, people craved the intimacy of speech. It’s hard to emote on paper unless you’re Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

           Morse did his best with the telegraph, and it did provide an instantaneous form of communication (as long as people who knew Morse code were doing the communicating), but can you imagine “How do I love thee/stop/let me count the ways/stop”?

           Then along came Alexander Graham Bell with the telephone. Crude at first, early phones involved cranking and party lines, but finally George could reach out and touch someone across the miles, as long as someone else with the same number wasn’t already using the phone — the party line, FYI.

           Eventually almost every home in America had a phone — and a number they could call their own. Now George would know the call was probably for him when the phone rang, and he’d be able to hear “I love you” or “Your prescription for Epidermathinaglim is ready” without worrying that someone was listening — providing he didn’t miss the call.

           Answering machines solved that problem. Now if someone called when George wasn’t home, they could leave a message and he’d call them back. Maybe. Some people would just hang up because they hated talking to a machine.

           Finally someone came up with the perfect solution — the cellphone. Now George could take his phone with him and never be out of touch, and if Lucy wanted to invite him to a Fourth of July BBQ at the last minute, he wouldn’t miss the call. Of course, early cellphones weren’t much smaller than phone booths, so it was hard to put one in your pocket or purse. But now cellphones are small, and despite their size you can do a lot of things with them besides make calls — browse the web, order something from Amazon, text a friend, play games, locate a restaurant, take pictures, watch a movie, find George’s cellphone if he’s kidnapped, make a latte.

           Okay, I made that last thing up, but everything else is almost true. No kidding.

The ride of my life — with sirens

           It’s the morning of May 31, a day shy of the 18-month anniversary of my heart attack, I’m feeling a little odd when I get up but otherwise semi-okay. After breakfast and halfway through my coffee I decide to check my blood pressure, even though I’d only taken my meds a few minutes earlier. The monitor says my heart rate is 30 at first, then just says “Error.” Uh-oh. I’ve heard of runner’s heart, but that’s a little low. I check it on two other devices. Same thing.

           So I call the Triage Nurse at the VA, tell her what’s up, and ask what I can do to bring it up. “Nothing,” she says, then tells me to get to the ER as quickly as possible — as in call 911. I call, and within minutes the EMTs come in force, sirens roaring. Dang, I hate drawing attention to myself. They finally get me in the vehicle, get me all strapped down, hooked up, and poked with an IV needle, and as they begin to roll they call the VA ER with the info and their ETA. VA says “Divert to Mission.” Huh?

           The EMT explains that this means the VA can’t handle it, which means it’s worse than serious. “Total heart blockage,” he calls it. So here we are underway, sirens roaring, and already I’m thinking “I want to go home.” Then my son arrives, and he’s worried. I tell him I didn’t have a chance to say goodbye to anyone.

           In the ER they do some preliminaries, then get me up to Cardiac ICU, where I am again poked and hooked up to monitors — only to find they can’t get a blood pressure reading and have to do it with the manual cuff. Meanwhile, my heart rate is bouncing around between about 15 and 30, and someone explains that the heart chambers have stopped communicating.

           The following morning I wake up, which means I’m still alive. Since I’m about to have an echocardiogram, I’m not given food. After the echo, a nice cardiologist tells me he’s gotten my records from the VA and that my heart is a lot stronger than it was almost two years earlier, and that a pacemaker would now be a viable option. Not so last year. He heaps praise on my VA cardiologist for whatever she did that enabled me to beat the odds.

           The next morning they do a heart catheter, to see if there’ve been any changes since my last one. Afterward they tell me my heart stopped five times during the procedure, and they had to connect a temporary pacemaker. For this reason, a permanent pacemaker becomes urgent, so that is done later Tuesday. That evening I finally eat, and the food is surprisingly decent. Ditto breakfast the next morning — and by one Wednesday afternoon my son is driving me home.

           By the time you read this, I’ll have had my follow-up exam at Asheville Cardiology and I’ll be driving to the grocery store again — better than before, they say. Well, alive is good.