Tag Archives: attic

Dawdle

Dawdle: (v) to waste time; idle; trifle; loiter

I don’t know whether to apologize to the word “dawdle” because it’s so old-fashioned that it’s already up in the attic with dust all over it, or to feel sorry for folks who never had a grandparent speak to them tersely, “Come on! Don’t dawdle!”

You see, I didn’t know what “dawdle” meant when I was a kid, but I did know the sound of my grandparents when they were pissed off.

That was an era when grandparents were very dignified and would never think of saying “fuck you,” but with the same intensity of voice would call you a “pernicious dawdler.”

“Pernicious” meaning constant and unchanging.

And “dawdler”—a lazy mofo.

We call these words “old English.” Sometimes I wonder if they’re still spoken in England or just bandied about the royal palace by aging monarchs.

I think “dawdle” would suffer anyway—even if it weren’t so stuffy-sounding.

People, in general, do not like to be hurried.

Matter of fact, one of the worst things you can do if you’re waiting in line behind someone is suggest they speed up—or dare to act upset because they’re taking too long. (This usually causes them to slow down.)

But writing this essay makes me think about when I dawdle.

I now dawdle a little bit about going to pee. It’s not a big deal—and when I get there, I really enjoy myself.

And sometimes I delay by watching another television show—putting off getting my butt up to go to bed.

I dawdle over doing chores (although I never call them chores). Chores are things you would never do yourself, but somebody has suggested you address them. Yes, I have dawdled over things that people want me to do that I don’t necessarily want to do myself.

So I am grateful you can join me here, on the final day of “dawdle’s” life on Earth.

From now on, young children, when asked what the word means, will look with a perplexed face and say, “Dawdle? Isn’t that one of Donald Duck’s nephews?”

Cremate

funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

Cremate: (v) to reduce a dead body to ashes by fire

I grew up with a “Kellogg’s” approach to death and burial.

This was more or less taking your loved one, sticking him or her in a box, sealing the lid and tucking the flake away.

All the funerals I went to had gorgeous cereal boxes. They all ended up at a gravesite where the container was lowered into the ground, covered over and marked with a stone that insisted in granite that this individual once lived.

So when my thirteen-year-old son passed away from complications due to a hit-and-run accident, I was far from any home we had, traveling on the road. I immediately discovered that those boxes ain’t cheap.

Not only are they expensive, but they demand that you buy a plot of land—which is also extremely costly—and place your loved one in an area where you must to drive to visit.

Well, I realized I was not going to live in the community where my boy died, so I was offered the option of cremation. It was considerably less money. Also, at the end of the process, they handed over a box containing a sealed, plastic bag of dusty and ashy remains.

It was rather shocking. Opening the lid, I took a peek at the contents. It reminded me of when I was a kid and was given the job in late October of cleaning the fireplace out so we would be able to make a nice, cozy flame on cold, winter nights.

… Ashen, clingy powder that wanted to stick to your skin—or if you got it too close to your face and inhaled, could make you cough.

This was not my son. This didn’t represent his brief journey.

I thought to myself, maybe it’s a good thing. Instead of painting up something that’s dead and gone, burn it up, confirming that it will no longer be here.

I picked up the carton, put it in the back of our van, and we traveled with it for years—stuck in the corner near the wheel well.

At times I considered scattering the ashes, but there was no particular place that had more significance than another. Absent finding a resting ground for his soot, I felt more inclined to just keep him nearby.

Matter of fact, he’s still with us.

My younger son has taken him and lifted him up in honor … in a corner of the attic.

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Belying

Belying: (v) to give a false idea of something

Dictionary B

What a cool word.

Because you could have a classical rendition of this particular term, phrased, “Beneath her explanation was a mistruth belying.”

Or you could have a street rendition, “She be-lying.”

And in both cases it would be right.

But setting all that to the side, I do believe the greatest mystery of human life is finding a way to eliminate having a closet, attic or basement to store our thinking.

We should be so open and willing to be viewed by the public that we welcome a living room without curtains.

It scares the crap out of us to think about such a vulnerability–and we don’t offer this transparency to please others.

Rather, when we start tucking secrets away into private rooms of our memory, we become infested with ghosts and demons, which will not leave us alone.

And as difficult as it may be to survive trials and tribulations, it is virtually impossible to escape the belying grit and grime which accumulate in the corners of our mind.

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Attic

Attic: (n) a space or room just below the roof of a building.dictionary with letter A

I grew up in a two-bedroom house with a mother, father and four brothers.

If you’re wondering if the space provided failed to meet the requirements of the number suggested, you would be absolutely right.

So as a young boy, I was always looking for new places to go, which I felt provided me opportunities to escape the common cloister.

First was our garage, which was very tiny–not large enough to hold a car and a lawn mower.

We had a huge back yard, which was very nice, but my father had haphazardly planted trees, which were now growing everywhere, making it somewhat impossible to find any space for an actual playground.

There was one enclosure of solitude: our attic.

To get to this room, you had to pull down a set of wooden stairs in the ceiling of our garage, climb up carefully and wiggle through the tiny hole into a space about twice the size of the interior of a car. Our house was not insulated, so as soon as you got up into that territory, you were either freezing in the winter or boiling in the summer.

I didn’t care. I liked to go up there and look through the stuff.

Then one day I realized that I was not surrounded by treasures, but rather, rejects–items which were no longer found worthy to co-exist with the mortals.

  • Maybe they were outdated.
  • Maybe they were ugly.
  • Maybe they had worn out their usefulness.

But mostly they were abandoned.

Pictures, frames, papers and periodicals, periodically boiling and freezing.

After a while, I got depressed being up there. I had this strange sensation that someone would come, pull up the ladder and close me in, deeming it necessary to have one less person in the house and deciding that I was more suited for the rejects on high.

It spooked me.

I know that Anne Frank once found solace in an attic, but for me it was merely a reminder that when people get tired of things, deciding to hoard, they take them to a place where they’re out of the way … and soon forgotten.

 

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Abet

by J. R. Practix

dictionary with letter A

Abet: v.  encourage or assist (someone) to do something wrong–in particular, to commit a crime or other offense.

I don’t think we appreciate enough how powerful it is to do things halfway. Matter of fact, I’ve heard people in casual conversation criticize or even put down that amount of concerted effort.

Isn’t doing things halfway at least acknowledging that something should be done?? Even though you ended up not buying enough gas for the trip or packing enough tuna salad sandwiches (with just enough Miracle Whip…)

So now that I know the definition of abet, I am going to make a commitment (halfway as it is) to merely AID without abetting.

I have been as guilty as the next one, to both aid and abet. That means I’ve been willing to assist in projects, but also use lies, deceit and various other forms of chicanery to cover up the true actions transpiring.

This dictionary definition has convicted me of all my abetting. I will no longer cover up–just offer assistance to my calamitous and often-comical stumbling brothers and sisters.

So if you plan on shooting your pet pig, and are making an exit out of town to escape the trailing  police force from PETA, you can feel free to stop off at my house, and I will give you a baloney sandwich–to go. But I have absolutely no intention, from this point on, of hiding you in my basement and pretending I know nothing about your hog slaughter.

Now, I realize that’s halfway. But it just seems cruel to remove abetting from people AND suddenly to yank aiding at the same time.

So you will continue to receive sympathy from me, but I will no longer participate in hiding you out in my closet, safe from those who come to track you down.

Well, I suppose if you were Anne Frank … you could still use my attic.