Tag Archives: memory

Criminal

Criminal: (n) a person guilty or convicted of a crime

If my recollection holds any accuracy of memory, I believe it happened right after my twenty-eighth birthday. I was in a room with a bunch of friends—and some strangers—and a question was posed.

“What was your first job?”

Well, I let three or four people go before me so that I could understand if I was on point, what the question really meant and the best way to answer it.

After the fourth teller finished his story about being a bag boy at a grocery store, I raised my hand and explained, “The summer between my junior and senior year, I joined some sort of national work program for teenagers sponsored by the government, which offered opportunities for local jobs at minimum wage. After volunteering, I discovered that the possibility afforded to me was working at the cemetery, cutting the grass and taking care of the gravestones.

“I was torn between being grossed out and wondering whether anything could be any more boring. But the only other thing available was with a farmer, bailing hay. I did not like hay. I didn’t like heat. I didn’t favor sweating and knew the farmer would be there the whole time, and I’d have to really work hard. I thought that the keeper of the graves might actually trust me to do the job without peeking over my shoulder.”

“I was right. Matter of fact, after about four or five days, I discovered he never showed up to confirm my work. So I started coming to the graveyard, signing in, and then leaving. I was able to continue this practice for about two weeks, collecting my check—until I finally got caught.”

At this point I stopped speaking, thinking I was going to get some laughter and maybe even a round of applause for my tale. But instead, a young woman sitting across the room gasped and said:

“Geez…that was criminal.”

Looking into all the faces around me, I waited for someone to speak up and offer at least some support for my ingenuity.

No one did.

I was angry.

Although I did not stomp out of the room, I made my exit from the party as quickly as possible without drawing attention to my frustration.

I fumed. How dare anyone accuse me of being a criminal? I knew what a criminal was. It’s someone who commits crimes, right? An individual who breaks the law and is tracked down by the police and thrown in jail, to stay there until they learn their lesson or complete their sentence.

Then a horrible thing happened.

My conscience showed up.

For some reason, my conscience was in a mood to talk, in a most accusing way.

Mr. Conscience reminded me that three years ago, I had skipped out on rent that was due.

He also brought up the fact that I copped some money from a drawer when I was at a friend’s house.

There were four or five examples that my goddamned nosy conscience decided to dredge up. Each one could be individually explained away—and had been, by my glib nature.

But collectively, they showcased an individual who felt he was superior to everybody else—certainly high and lifted above the rules—and therefore could do what he wanted.

The conclusion was simple. I was a criminal because I committed a crime by breaking the law, which was really a rule set by those who have the uncomfortable job of trying to make things run smoothly by seeking common ground among diverse people.

I was thoroughly ashamed.

Since that day I have not lived a faultless life, but I’ve never been a criminal again. Because even though I don’t always agree, I always know that agreeable is necessary.

funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

 

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Craw

Craw: (idiom) to rankle

When I received the menu at the Getting Older Cafeteria, there were many items listed which were unappetizing:

  • Chronic pain
  • Memory slips
  • Aching joints
  • Slower movement

But some of the nastier dishes afforded to those who are joining the Gang Just Over the Hill are:

  • Fussy
  • Self-righteous
  • Judgmental
  • And cranky

All of these particular offerings place those with “graying futures” in dispositions where things start sticking in their craw.

It’s an old-time phrase—matter of fact, many younger folks would not know the meaning (and should be commended for their ignorance). But they would recognize the phrase easily if you changed it to a word they are more accustomed to: bratty.funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

I guess you reach a certain age when you just can’t be a brat—so what you have to do instead is “get something stuck in your craw.”

The two conditions certainly appear to be the same. The sour facial expressions are identical. The grumping and complaining, spot-on.

But once your birthdays have accumulated to a certain heap, you are no longer allowed to be a brat. You just get things stuck in your craw.

I, myself, am very careful to make sure this never happens to me. So intent was I to guarantee that nothing got stuck in my craw that I actually went out and had my craw removed.


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Breeze

j-r-practix-with-border-2

Breeze: (n) a gentle wind.

I had absolutely no right or wisdom in hopping into a brown Dodge van and heading off from Ohio to Oregon.Dictionary B

I was twenty-one years old, had a music group and was convinced that the only way to prove to myself or anyone else that this was a viable occupational choice was to go out and try to make money doing it.

In my not-yet-formed brain, the logical step was to drive to Oregon, where two people had promised us a place to perform–as long as we understood there would not be much money.

Who could pass up such a bonanza?

I have mercifully had most of the trip wiped from my memory and relegated to oblivion–but I do remember driving through South Dakota, where the temperature had soared well over 100 degrees, and being so hot in our un-air-conditioned confines that we stopped in a small town at a public pool to cool off.

Even though the sun was blistering and scorched our skin, the water was ice cold, so we were a little deceived by the fact that we were actually being poached.

I got the worst sunburn of my life.

It was so bad that when we went to the drug store and bought one of those spray treatments, my hot skin turned the liquid into little scraps of paper.

I was miserable.

On top of that we had no money–procuring lodging in a motel was completely impossible.

So we found a park just outside that little town, pulled the van over, opened up all the doors, perched on some bean bag chairs we carried with us, and lay there, broiling in our burnt flesh, surrounded by humid air.

I was so miserable that I prayed.

I didn’t know if I wanted God to kill me or peel me like an orange.

About twenty minutes after I finished my little supplication, a breeze came up.

I will never forget it.

Because my skin was ablaze, the air was chilly–and felt so good. That breeze stayed with us all night long, so we didn’t swelter in our van or die of sunburn.

Now, some people probably would say that wind was a natural phenomenon of the South Dakota wilderness.

Others might insist there were three exhausted angels blowing in our direction all night long.

It doesn’t really matter what you believe, because God made the breeze … just as surely as He made the angels.

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Berry

Berry: (n) a small roundish juicy fruit without a stone.

Dictionary B

I find it mentally erotic to allow each of the words that I write about every day to leap into my memory and drag out the stories.

The word “berry” has two significant meanings to me.

First of all, I love berries. They are something I can eat without guilt, even though they tell me it is possible to consume too many.

I don’t know if I’ve ever eaten a berry I did not like. Some berries do grumble my stomach a bit, but that doesn’t keep me from enduring the growl.

But I also have a memory of berries which is less satisfying–maybe just a little bit frustrating.

When I first got married, my wife and I were very poor. To complicate our poverty, we were also lazy. The two don’t work well together, for when they arrive at the same time, they can leave you really hungering and thirsting.

My parents had a small parcel of land outside of town–a farm which had some blackberry bushes. (I think they’re called bushes. Maybe they’re vines, but I’m too lazy to look it up.)

My wife and I had the brilliant idea of going out, picking blackberries, and selling them door to door. It was not going to guarantee us a lot of money, but it would definitely succeed in buying a loaf of bread, some bologna or even the more coveted peanut butter and jelly.

It was an arduous task.

The berries are small, so it takes a lot of them to fill up a container. We got hot, stung by bugs and poked by thorns. It was not what I would call pleasant, even though we rejoiced in the opportunity and turned it into a lark.

We picked for about three hours and got seven little baskets, which we sold for fifty cents apiece. It was a long time ago, but that still was a good deal.

We were so overjoyed over the process that we decided to do it again two or three days later, but when we went back to the houses to sell our berries, the customers began to complain about twigs in the baskets, and the fact that some of the berries weren’t quite ripe.

Suddenly we had become a $3.50 corporation, which apparently needed a customer relations department. It took a lot of joy out of the experience. One lady even demanded that we return a quarter as a refund.

So as I sit and enjoy my berries topped with a little Cool Whip, I am grateful for those souls who have to pick them … being careful never to complain if I discover a twig.

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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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Bearer

Bearer: (n) a person or thing that carries or holds something.Dictionary B

“Here he comes,” said the gathered as they notice me arriving in the distance.

What will they say next?

What whispered comments will be exchanged as I make my way into the room?

What do they really think about me?

What is my value to the clan?

What gifts do I bring to the tribe?

Am I viewed as a bearer of good news or a naysayer?

Am I critical?

Do I balance my comments with positive reinforcement?

What do those who love me appreciate and what do they merely tolerate?

Even though most of us would insist we want to know the truth about our value, some of the discoveries might be depressing, if not completely debilitating. Because with every spoken word comes a tone of voice and a facial expression.

We only remember what we say, not how we said it.

And we certainly are not privy to the output from our countenance.

Are we considered valuable to the cause, or just someone plays devil’s advocate?

What kind of bearer are we?

Is it possible to be too positive?

Is it plausible to insist that everything is going to work out well and come across idiotic because we did not adequately count the cost?

What is the balance?

Whether we like it or not, we are all bearers of something … and in the minds of others, have a caption written beneath our memory.

 

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Acquit

Words from Dic(tionary)

by J. R. Practix

dictionary with letter A

Acquit: (v.) 1. to free someone from a criminal charge by a verdict of not guilty 2. to conduct oneself or perform in a specified way: e.g. he needs to acquit himself well.

The word “acquit” makes me flash back to the O. J. Simpson trial in the 1990’s. Of course, if I was much younger, that might not be the case. But the memory of Johnnie Cochran saying, “If it don’t fit, you must acquit” immediately popped into my mind with the revelation of this day’s word.

To freshen your memory, the statement was made in relationship to a bloody glove discovered at the crime scene, which was placed on Mr. Simpson’s hand during the trial and seemingly was ill-fitted.

I guess that’s why the word “acquit” is an uneasy concept for me. I have to admit when I occasionally think about the idea of life after death, I don’t envision myself to be gloriously saved so much as I think of being “acquitted” by a really slick lawyer.

So after the experience with what they referred to as “the trial of the century” with O. J. Simpson, the word “acquit” leaves me a bit cold. What it connotes to me is that somehow or another, someone escaped responsibility due to a lack of evidence.

What I would hope for myself is that I would bring the evidence of my strengths AND weaknesses to the forefront BEFORE others prosecute me, making it clear that I am a mysterious balance between bungle and blessing.

Is that so hard to do? I guess it is. I would assume that our “jungle instinct” keeps us from admitting our faults, and instead, praying for an acquittal.

But of course, the danger of being acquitted is that unless you start walking the straight and narrow, you’re liable to slide off the path AGAIN–to get caught and this time, not have your fancy lawyer around anymore.

Thus the story of “The Juice.”

I think I’m going to work on being candid instead of counting on twelve people in a box deciding I’m not guilty.

Yes, that seems wiser.

Accomplice

by J. R. Practix

dictionary with letter A

Accomplice: (n.) a person who helps another person commit a crime.

I have a piercing memory of the word “accomplice.”  In this recollection, I see the crimson cheeks of an angry principal at a high school, huffing at me, insisting that I was a criminal and that I had turned my ten-year-old little brother into an accomplice to my law-breaking.

At the time I believed that he was overwrought, but I was still intimidated by the dramatics.

You see, what happened was that I was supposed to get into the high school to set up some equipment for a performance. When I arrived, the janitor had not showed up. Being sixteen years of age, I patiently waited four minutes and then began to figure out the best way to enter the school without breaking glass or brick.

Someone had told me there was a window down near the back staircase where the boiler room was located which was always open, although it was extremely small and difficult to enter. Fortunately for me, I had brought my little brother who was more than willing to be on an adventure with his cooler older sibling.

I had no trouble finding the window and as promised, it was open. But there was no way in any kind of physical world of my awareness that I would be able to get MY frame through the tiny hole.

On the other hand, my little brother fit perfectly.

Here was the problem: the inside of the room where my little brother would be entering was dark, so it was impossible to determine how FAR it was from the window to the floor beneath. This did not deter me. After all, what good is a ten-year-old brother if not for experimentation?

So I lowered him through the window, holding his hand and reaching down as far as I could to suspend him. He whined up at me, “I still don’t feel the floor…”

My thought was, how much further could it BE? So I yelled back, “Hang on!”

And then I let go of his hand and he dropped.

Now, this younger brother was not a good athlete. He hit the floor hard, fell back and bumped his head on a nearby metal something-or-other. (After all, it was dark. Who could know?) He was dazed but was able to get to his feet, stumble up the stairs and open the door for me to enter.

But I didn’t consider that when the janitor DID arrive, he would be curious about how I entered the school without his key. I attempted a creative lie on the spot, but honestly, needed more time.

So I found myself standing in front of a screaming educator who wanted to impress on me that I was a renegade and a rascal and had involved my brother, making him an accomplice in this hideous crime.

Even though I did not believe it was nearly as serious as the principal insisted, I have since refused to participate in such capers and have never, to my knowledge, made anyone else an accomplice to my misdeeds.

That is, unless you want to count my wife–and the four mischievous sons we conjured.