Tag Archives: kid

Dago

Dago (n): a contemptuous term used for a person of Italian or Spanish descent

I was seven years old and not about to lose the blessings of my youth by questioning grown-ups on what they did.

There was fifty cents worth of allowance at stake and the occasional affectionate pat on the head—plus a half pound of pickle pimento loaf, purchased once every two weeks just for me at White’s Market.

I had much to lose.

So when I heard grown-ups say “Spic,” I thought it was short for “spicy.” After all, Mexicans do like their hot peppers.

When they said “Chink” I thought it was a tribute to Chinese armor, or that protective gear worn by the Samurai.

“Negro” sounded to me like “Negro,” which I believed to be an appropriate term for a race of people I rarely saw.

“Injun?” I had convinced myself it was the Iroquois word for “American Indian.”

And of course, “Dago,” for Italian folks, seemed logical to me because it sounded like pizza dough, and I sure did like pizza.

I was a full blown-out adult when I realized that these terms were not only derogatory but disabling.

I repented quickly of my foolishness and tried to find a way to understand the ignorance that brought this nasty language my way.

Billion

Billion:(n) one-thousand million.

Dictionary B

I certainly feel that one of the signs of aging is beginning to pine for former times, “when things were better.”

Matter of fact, if one could avoid that nostalgia, he or she could always appear to be contemporary, therefore potentially more youthful.

But somewhere along the line, a little grump appears in the stump speech.

  • You start recalling when candy bars had more nuts in them.
  • Or Coca-Cola cost a mere fraction of what it does now.

I heard one old fellow heave a huge sigh and explain that loaves of bread used to have twenty-three slices, and now a mere nineteen. (Who has time to count bread??)

I avoid this kind of activity like the true plague it is. It is certainly the moss growing on a crumbling tombstone.

Yet…I do have to admit that I am curious about when a million dollars stopped being a lot of money.

Matter of fact, the show “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?” might just evoke the response from the common man, “It’s a good place to start…”

I believe this was all caused by the introduction of the word “billion.”

I remember as a kid, “billion” was something you said when referring to an idea existing somewhere beyond the stars. Matter of fact, when you said it, you’d giggle.

“Maybe we could get a billion of ’em! Ha-ha-ha.”

Now we spend a billion dollars on toothpicks in the mess hall on army bases. (Don’t hold me to that stat. I’m just attempting irony.)

We even have people who are billionaires.

This isn’t right.

I don’t mind people having money; I just don’t know if you need a billion of it.

Somewhere along the line, to cease the insane greed for more and more material goods, we have to calm down the language of covetousness.

We need to teach our children the simplicity of enjoying five dollars because they fully understand … the complexity of earning it.

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Thank you for enjoying Words from Dic(tionary) —  J.R. Practix 

 

Bedding

Bedding: (n) coverings for a bed, such as sheets and blankets.Dictionary B

Scratchy or warm?

I remember that was my choice when I was a little kid in dealing with my bedding.

My parents had these old blankets that were off-white with colored stripes, which reflecting, I would swear were probably removed from the backs of horses and brought into the house and thrown on our beds.

They were woolen, itchy and sometimes smelly–though I’m sure that odor was attributed to them due to my dissatisfaction.

But since I grew up in a frigid environment (which certainly has a double meaning) I would eschew my horse blanket for half the night, and then, due to shivers and quakes, grab it and tolerate its coarse texture to eliminate freezing.

This, of course, makes the emphasis on “bedding” which we see in today’s society ever-so-much more humorous to my experience.

Unbelievable as it may seem, I have even sat in patience around a table, listening to a lengthy conversation of people discussing the “thread count” of their sheets. Ignorantly innocent, in one of these initial pow-wows I even asked what they meant by thread count.

Thirty minutes later–dazed, bewildered and sleepy–the explanation finally mercifully ceased.

I wonder what the thread count was in my horsey bed-throw? I’m sure no one in my family would have known nor cared.

The attitude in my household on the issue of bedding was similar to the approach to every matter of personal comfort:

“Shut up and be glad you have it.”

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Alarm

Words from Dic(tionary)

dictionary with letter A

Alarm: (n) 1. an anxious awareness of danger 2. the sound or warning of imminent danger

Do they still call it a fire drill?

I’m not sure.

When I was a kid, about every six or seven weeks, the school bell rang uncontrollably, and we were told to rise from our seats, get into single file and march out of the building into the awaiting parking lot in anticipation of what could have been a fire breaking out.

Of course, we all knew it was just a drill. A practice, if you will. But it was still a bit alarming to hear the bell, and delightful to be able to escape the world of desks, pens, paper and droning “teacher voices,” to go outside for a few minutes with your friends.

Of course, in the adult world, they had plans set in place to rectify that potential for pleasure.

You had to remain silent.

This was the same thing you were cautioned to do when standing in line for the cafeteria, gathering for an assembly or even finding your path to the bathroom.

Silence.

I realize now that we were never in danger of fire. And I’m not being critical of the craft of preparation. I understand it thoroughly and agree with the premise.

But the alarming part of the process of leaving our school, considering the potential for a blazing inferno, was actually the fact that we were taught to be non-social.

  • Couldn’t talk in class.
  • Couldn’t talk in the cafeteria.
  • And couldn’t talk on the way to the fire drill.

And then we wonder why human beings grow up sheltered, protected, suspicious and just downright cranky. After all, we’re not about to let our offspring chum with one another when we were forbidden to do so.

Yes, I would say the most alarming thing about hearing the alarm bell tell us to go to a fire drill, considering the alarming possibility of a burning school, was the fact that we weren’t allowed to be human and interactive.

I guess that’s true all over the world. I’m sure Chinese people discourage chattiness in their children just like Americans quell such outbursts. But I wonder if we lose something by being too alarmed.

Don’t we sacrifice the child-like instinct to enjoy ourselves, believe for the best and want to whisper interesting things to our neighbor?

 

Ablation

by J. R. Practix

dictionary with letter A

Ablation: n. 1. the surgical removal of body tissue 2. the removal of snow and ice by melting or evaporation, typically from a glacier or iceberg.

I guess I’m familiar with both types of ablations.

When I was a kid, our house sat on a small hill, completely covered by trees. So in the winter, when snow fell in our back yard, there were patches of turf which were untouched by sunlight due to the covering of the branches and therefore, the accumulated ice would not melt, even when May Day came around.

My mother would ask me to go into the back yard and dislodge the frozen precipitation from our yard so little kids wouldn’t slip on it on their way to play ballgames on our property. I seriously doubt if any kid would ever have slipped on the ice. The patch was only about five feet long and a foot and a half wide. But you don’t argue with your mother. She always has a second and third more boring reason for doing things which she will be more than happy to reiterate to you, and also controls the purse strings and access to kitchen treats.

I will tell you–this ice was determined. It had survived some very warm April days and had seen all of its friends dissipate into a watery grave as they drizzled down the hillside.

So I chipped at it with a shovel, dislodging some pieces, and actually had to dig up some of the ice, which had developed a deep and lasting relationship with the underlying grass and dirt. Not certain of where to take these leftover pieces of winter, I walked them over to our trash barrel, placed them in there and set some pieces of paper on fire in an attempt to melt them.

It was amazing how long it took for the ablation to have its complete effect.

Ice and fire.

You would think that fire would have the advantage, but ice really does hang in there, melding itself into a harder and harder nugget of determined cold.

I also had a tumor removed from my body at one time, which was a rather strange sensation. It hurt very badly, but no one believed I actually had an internal problem, so the doctors attempted to treat it externally. One day it just popped. Turns out there were two in there–one which exploded and drained (have I lost you yet?) and another which had to be surgically removed.

That second was quite similar to my back yard ice.

I was always curious about how long that ice would have lasted in my backyard had my mother not insisted on relegating it to the trash can. I guess I am also curious about whether my second tumor would have taken care of itself like the first one did.

But I also see a time and place for ablation. And now I have a much better word for it, which I can show off in those embarrassing times when ice and soft tissue need to be dramatically removed.