Category Archives: B words

Cadence

 

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Cadence: (n) the flow or rhythm of events

I remember the first time I heard the phrase. I was a young man sitting in a church with a white shirt collar that was too small for me, wearing a colorful tie which
 had to be tucked into my pants because it was perniciously uneven.

The phrase was “decency and order.”

The minister was pretty sure he knew understood. He preached a sermon offering a cadence of commitment to form and reason. He contended that Godly ways had to be morally correct and follow a sequence which left no doubt of the purity of the intention.

For instance: sin–but not too much, to where it leaves a lasting mark. Come to your senses, find God, repent, get a job, marry, have children and donate adequate sums to your local congregation.

I hated it.

It’s not that I favored immorality nor was an anarchist. Even though I had an immature young mind, I understood that this was not the true cadence of life. Life arrives in chaos and requires triage.

What do I take care of first? How can I keep this together? What can I seek out to keep from freaking out?

It just seemed to me that sometimes there isn’t enough time and space available to consider the ultimate morality or the best way to stack up possibilities.

I don’t know what the original author of these words was trying to convey, but human beings are rarely “decent” and never “in order.”

If God Almighty is waiting for us to transform into a dutiful and meticulous creation, He certainly failed to provide the raw material. We are erratic. We are uncertain. And our greatest mission in life is to make sure we’re not afraid of who we are.

Sometimes the best we can do is slow things down and use what we’ve got. I suppose that doesn’t sound quite as officious as “decency and order,” but it is more accurate.

Over the years I have tried to become more adept at organization and goodness–but when I fail, I have chosen to laugh at the frailty instead of weeping over my insufficiency.

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Caddie

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Caddie: (n) a person who carries a golfer’s clubs

Mike was always trying to figure out ways to make money. He was a fifteen-year-old entrepreneur before anybody was prepared to spell or
pronounce the word.

He liked me.

Now, Mike weighed about 122 pounds. I also weighed 122 pounds–but stored 150 more as a backup. So Mike had a lot of stamina. I just had a lot.

Mike had the brilliant idea of going to the new golf course just outside our town and offering his service as a caddie to our limited supply of financially successful people. He did it for two or three weekends, and came back with… cash.

At fifteen years of age, I so infrequently saw money that it seemed almost mystical and certainly magical.

Mike convinced me that I should take my 270-plus pounds and go out with him the next weekend to caddie at the golf center. He explained that it was nothing more than going on a long walk. (I should have realized at that point that it had been many years since I had been on a long walk. My personal preference was a long drive.)

But I agreed and arrived at the gold course at 8:00 A. M. sharp to carry the bags for Mr. Fundergetz. Now, I’m sure that’s not his real name, but he said it with a German accent so quickly that the best I could ascertain was “Fundergetz.” Most of the morning I opted to call him “sir.”

I had not realized that golf courses were measured in yards–and this was before anyone had thought about using a golf cart. By the time I reached the third hole, carrying the bags and trying to keep up with Fundergetz, I was panting, sweating down the insides of my legs and so flushed in the face that he became concerned for me and asked me to sit down while he ran and got some ice for my forehead.

After a few moments of recuperation, I said, “I’m fine now, and it won’t be too much longer, right?”

At this point, Fundergetz explained to me that it was an eighteen-hole golf course and we were only one-sixth of the way through.

Noting the fear on my face, my trembling brow and a tear coming to the corner of my eye, he showed mercy on me, handed me two dollars and asked if I could make it back to the clubhouse on my own.

I was so humiliated.

Mike was so disappointed.

I was completely emasculated by the whole experience.

So when I arrived back at the clubhouse to complete my restoration, I got two hot dogs, a coke and a Baby Ruth candy bar.

It is amazing how good they made me feel.

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Cadaver

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Cadaver: (n) a corpse.

I found myself at the bedside of a dying friend, as her family came in to offer their farewells.

Even though I knew the woman quite well, her kin were a little bit of a mystery to me. But each one came to her side, said a word or two, and she shared a
sentiment. Tears sprouted, they gave her a kiss and scooted aside.

There was a girl about twelve years of age who came up, said her speech, did not receive any encouraging words, but went ahead and kissed my friend anyway. As she pulled away the nurse stepped in, took a pulse, realizing that the lady had passed away.

The young girl lurched back in horror, and before she considered what she was saying, proffered, “Yuck! I kissed a dead person!”

It made me think.

Moments before, this was her great-aunt but because breath had left the body, she had instantly become a frightening cadaver.

It’s why we all work so hard to stay alive. The breath that the Creator breathed into us is what really makes us valuable.

Once it’s gone, we just become kind of yucky.

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Cad

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Cad: (n) a man who behaves dishonorably, especially toward a woman.

Consider the following three statements:

  1. “Women are too emotional to be placed in positions of authority.”
  2. “Happy wife, happy life.”
  3. “I don’t know why women want equality–they’re already better than us.”

All these statements are chauvinistic.

Unfortunately, we don’t have a word like “cad” in our present vernacular to describe such cavalier attitudes. For the truth is, women are not too emotional and they have just as much responsibility to make a happy husband–because they are not better than us, just equal.

Let me give you another three prototypes:

  1. “I always buy my wife presents because she deserves consideration.”
  2. “Women are greedy gold-diggers.”
  3. “All women need from men is respect.”

Once again, all chauvinistic–the dialogue of a cad. Because after all, it’s not exactly what you’re saying that makes you a bigot, but rather, what you’re implying.

And if you think women deserve the best just because they’re female, it’s similar thinking to the guy who considers women to be gold-diggers because they want the best. And that means that women need monetary evidence before they consider themselves respected.

Although the approaches get slicker and the dialogue has a more tender nature to it, cads still roam the earth, eyeing the ladies in the herd, trying to figure out how to woo them … just enough to screw them.

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Cactus

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Cactus: (n) a spiny plant native to the New World

Draw a cactus.

If you’ve ever actually seen a cactus, you could take a piece of paper and draw almost anything, and it could be a cactus.

They don’t really have a typical shape, but kindly imitate the human race in being all sizes, not to mention configurations: one arm, two arms, little arms, big arms, stubby arm, tall arm, two stubby arms, and sometimes even multiple legs going into the ground.

They are absolutely gorgeous because they have so little competition for beauty. In the desert the standard for attractiveness is low. There is sand as far as the eye can see, and then the cactus–which juts on the horizon, offering visual diversion.

Rumor has it they have even been used to grant moisture to traveling souls who found themselves destitute of a cool drink. I don’t know the true story on that, but will pass along the Western fable without fear.

I like the cactus. I like the fact that when they get together they become cacti. Distinction after distinction for these tall ladies and gentlement.

(I guess there’s a female cactus. Why would I feel that way? Ah…I know. They’re prickly.)

 

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Cacophony

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Cacophony: (n) a harsh, discordant mixture of sounds.

To blend together as one while still maintaining the presence of an individual tone.

That’s what a band is.

You should be able to close your eyes and hear each magnificent instrument. It should not be a wall of sound. It should not blare. It should co-exist without disappearing.

Part of this is the sensitivity of musicians playing with precision while honoring their collaborators, and part of it is the ability to mix the sound in such a way that everything doesn’t blur into a cacophony of colliding notes which often do not seem to coincide.

Some people choose to go solo because they don’t believe it’s possible to find harmony. Other people have surrendered to the inevitable orchestration, often ending up as a cacophony.

It’s the same thing with people.

Freedom is not an overwhelming explosion of celebration; it is a distinctive melody played by each human soul, which is not smothered by the harsh overtones of the brassy.

 

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Cack

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Cack: (n) a talkative, gossiping person

I have a new favorite word!

Cack!

How perfect! Does that not describe every single gossiping soul that you have encountered in your life?

They cackle–like poultry. And this stimulated me to realize that there are three types:

There’s the duck cack:

This is the person who tears another individual’s character apart, under the guise of concern and prayerful wishes, ducking away from the responsibility of being a back-biting loser.

This is followed by the chicken cack:

“Cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck” all day long, pecking at the integrity of others, only to turn chicken and deny their involvement when confronted. They’ll even tell you who started the rumor.

And finally, there’s the goose cack:

These are people who are so sure that they’re direct emissaries from the Lord God Almighty that they’ll take their long neck and beak and unapologetically stick it up your ass–goosing you.

After all, when you speak for the heavens, you’re certainly not concerned about earthly criticism.

Here’s the question:

Can I catch myself when I become a cack?

Can I keep myself from barnyard nonsense so I have the right to live in the house with other sensible human beings?

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Cachet

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Cachet: (n) the state of being respected or admired; prestige.

Reading today’s word with its definition, I diagnosed a problem I’ve been experiencing in my personal life over the past five months.

After many years, numerous victories, and an amazing assortment of achievements, I want to continue my work, but I really would love to do so without having to promote myself or reaffirm with others around me that I am capable.

I don’t know what the magic number should be, but somewhere along the line we should have built up a cachet of evidence which doesn’t constantly have to be drug into the court of public opinion in order for us to receive a positive verdict.

I especially desire that my children, friends and dear acquaintances would provide space for my ability, my mission and for the little ego I feel is necessary to tote so that I don’t implode with self-pity.

When I don’t get that portion, I am in danger of sharing my work from a root of bitterness instead of a blossom of sweetness.

It is our responsibility to remember the authority and value of each other–even if we happen to temporarily be put out or miffed.

Sometimes I can’t promote myself and still remain righteous. I need people who have benefitted from knowing me to remind me and others of the gold that God has entrusted to my soul.

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Caboodle

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Caboodle: (n) a lot, a group

Nothing in the world identifies you as an old person as much as using words that are no longer in circulation.

Honestly, I’m astounded that “cool” has survived through so many generations. But don’t think that “boss, groovy” or “hip” made the journey.

I caught myself the other day, in trying to emphasize the need to use all available resources for a project, nearly saying, “Let’s include the whole kit and caboodle.”

Fortunately, my radar spy sense was beaming three or four words ahead. I came to a halt–for a few seconds simulating dementia–trying to find a current terminology that equaled that ancient one.

I came up with a blank, so I said, “We need to include the…well…everything.”

It was awkward, but not nearly as devastating as having a bunch of younger folks try to figure out what “kit and caboodle” meant, while simultaneously jotting down suggestions on their I-Phones for Christmas gifts for me, which would include a tapioca maker.

Words can kill.

But in a greater sense, they can wound your fragile ego.

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Cable

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Cable: (n) an insulated wire

Life is very reassuring if you’re not stubborn. You’ll find out very quickly that answers are not evasive, just require a moment of patience.

The first time I rented a home and decided to sign up for cable television, I was in awe of the whole process. When the cable man came–three days after his promised arrival–and brought all the boxes, all the instructions and all the drills to do his work, it had the feeling of God arriving to create the universe.

I was infatuated.

I was over-complimentary.

I was perplexed.

I listened carefully and then took notes to make sure that when the magic man departed my home, I would be able to access the universe of channels on my own.

But when he left, it suddenly stopped working.

I tried to remember what he had done, fooled around with it a little, but quickly became convinced that I was a four-year-old in a hospital operating room.

As time passed I became more and more enraged that this mysterious system I had ordered was failing to meet my entertainment needs. So I called the local cable operator and they immediately sent someone over. Two days later.

By that time I had built up a good head of steam and was prepared to ram my emotional freight train into the hapless technician. I ferociously explained how they had cheated me and how they had wasted my time. The young man was rather nice.

He asked me a simple question. “Did you move the TV after the guy left?”

Actually, yes. It was a little distant from the wall, and I had pushed it back. I retorted, “What?? I’m not allowed to move my TV?”

“Sure,” the repairman replied calmly. “But when you did, you knocked the cable loose.”

He reached down and with too much ease, restored my world of wonder.

I was embarrassed. I tried to duplicate in apologies what I had spewed forth in fury.

The repairman smiled and said to me, “Just remember–it usually isn’t something difficult. Just a loose cable.”

 

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