When
I ‘first started’ to celebrate anniversaries
by
Robert LaFrance
Some things seem so obvious once you
know them; for all of my six and a half decades I thought people celebrated (or
dreaded) their birthdays every year, but it turns out I have been wrong.
I won’t embarrass him by mentioning
his name, but a few months ago I heard Dr. Martin MacCauley telling someone
that, contrary to what they had been thinking, they were not celebrating their
birthday, but the ANNIVERSARY of their birthday. We only have one birthday,
right? After that the only thing we can ‘celebrate’ is the anniversary of that
joyous event.
So as one who makes much of accuracy
in speech, I and others who care about such things as that accuracy must now
change the name of our annual ‘celebration’.
I have another suggestion for those
who do care about accuracy in speech. When you say, out loud, that you ‘first
started’ something, perhaps you could ask yourself: “How many times did I
start?”
*****************************
My friend Flug was pleased to have a
visitor last week. His nephew Rock Maninoff, who is a professional baseball player in Alabama, was
waiting out a hamstring injury and decided to visit his uncle (and my old
friend) Flug. They had a grand time while Rock was here in the Scotch Colony,
but they were busy.
Here’s why: Rock made the mistake of
telling someone on a committee that he had time to spare. The committee to
which I refer is the Scotch Colony 140th Anniversary Committee which
is having a celebration in about nine days to mark the time 140 years ago when
all those Scottish settlers arrived here looking for their destinies. They
expected log houses already built for them, at least some cleared land, a Tim
Horton’s maybe, but you know the old story – they found trees, rocks, and
hills.
Back to the point. All the while
Rock Maninoff was here with his MP3 player ear buds glued to the side of his
head, he was forced - by those dragons on that committee - to work. Oops! I
forgot my wife is one of those dragons…er…I mean…PUT DOWN THAT ROLLING PIN!
Rock may have headed back to Alabama
a little early because he has never been in favour of work, you know, the kind
of thing where you get up in the morning and go to. He would play guitar from
supper time until 4:00 am and then the next afternoon complain because those
dear ladies asked him to move some chairs in Burns Hall. And then move them
again because they didn’t fit the ‘ambience’. And then once more back where
they were because the ambience had apparently shifted in the meantime.
The bottom line, as they say – and I
have actually heard them say it – is that Rock Maninoff has headed back to
Alabama - and headed back a wiser man.
I should say a Wiser’s man, because while he was here he certainly went through
a lot of his own particular lemonade.
******************************
In the remaining portion of my
column (you might say ‘the remains’) I will write down a few observations I’ve
made in the past month or so.
The first is, of course, about the
weather, or rather we humans’ reaction to the weather. During that wicked hot
spell, while everyone with a brain was seeking out an air conditioner and
complaining about the heat, Flug was being a Stoic which can be defined as
‘toughing it out’. I asked him why he wasn’t complaining like the rest of us.
“Listen,” he began, which was redundant
since I was standing there looking him in the eye. “Listen, remember how I
complained so much when it seemed to be raining every day and I couldn’t go
fishing? I couldn’t do anything but watch TV. I’m afraid if I complain the sun
will stop shining and we’ll get the rain back.”
“Flug, I hate to say this, but ‘cum
hoc propter ergo hoc’ ain’t true.” He looked baffled for some reason. “Those of
us blessed with a classical education,” I continued, “know that the phrase I
used is Latin and means ‘B follows A, therefore A caused B’. It ain’t true. So
you go ahead and complain about the hot weather; it won’t make a difference.”
And so he did, breaking forth with
what in bad novels they call ‘a stream of invective’. I went home to finish my
Georges Simenon book, and before I’d finished a page it was raining. It’s still
raining. Once in a while I look over at Flug’s house. He continues to stand by
the window and stare over at my house as if he were having evil thoughts.
-end-
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