When I overheard my 12-year-old granddaughter chanting jump-rope rhymes, my heart leapt with a sudden and reminiscent joy.
Three, six, nine. The goose drank wine. The monkey chewed gum on the telephone line.
As the singsong rhythm of her voice floated throughout the kitchen, memories flooded with the many summertime hours my girlfriends and I spent hopping and skipping over and under a swaying rope.
The line, it broke. The goose got choked. And they all went to heaven in a little rowboat.
"What jump-rope games do you do with those rhymes," I asked her, expecting a beautifully long-winded explanation of a half-dozen or so.
"A" my name is ALICE, my husband's name is AL, we live in ALABAMA and we bring back APPLES.
I mused to myself; maybe we could play some together. I keep a jump rope on hand for just such an occasion. With a little time and a lot of patience, I think it might all come back to me.
"None," she replied, matter-of-factly.
Raspberry, strawberry, apple jam tart. Tell me the name of your sweetheart.
"Not one?" I asked, not wanting to accept her first answer.
Cinderella, dressed in yellow. Went upstairs to kiss a 'fella…
"No. I just do the words."
Fudge, fudge, call the judge. Mama had a baby…
"Just the words?"
Mama called the doctor. The doctor called the nurse.
"Yes, Grandma, just the words."
Down by the river, down by the sea, Johnny broke a bottle and blamed it on me. I told ma, ma told pa…
I thought, how could this be? Jump-rope rhymes have been in all cultures where skipping is a form of play, dating back at least to the seventeenth century.
Sea shells, cockleshells, Evvie Ivy Over. My dog’s name is Rover…
"I can show you some jump-rope games," I offered with a deep reverential love for teaching her this new way to play.
Engine, engine, Number 9, on the New York transit line. If my train jumps the track, pick it up, pick it up, pick it up!
"No, that’s o.k., Grandma; I just like to say them."
A horse, a flea and three blind mice sat on a curbstone shooting dice. The horse, he slipped and fell on the flea. He said, "Whoops, there’s a flea on me!"
"Really, it’s a lot of fun," I tried again, wanting to impart such knowledge so that it would not be lost on future generations. She allowed me to indulge.
Down in the valley where the green grass grows, there sat Suzie, sweet as a pea…
"Jump rope games are all about getting into the rhythm of the rope," I explained.
Teddy Bear, Teddy Bear turn around. Teddy Bear, Teddy Bear, touch the ground.
"You need two people to be the turners."
Teddy Bear, Teddy Bear tie your shoe. Teddy Bear, Teddy Bear, how old are you?
"Then you stand by the rope and tell the turners to throw the rope over your head."
Bobbi and Sally sitting in a tree k-i-s-s-i-n-g.
"When it reaches your feet, hop over it."
First comes love, then comes marriage. Then comes a baby in a baby carriage.
"Pretend you're jogging or skipping."
One potato, two potato, three potato, four.
"Want to give it a try?"
Five potato, six potato, seven potato more.
"No thanks, Grandma. I just want to say the words."
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/ and find her on FaceBook.
.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Bling, bling – hip or not – you be the judge
All speech, written or spoken, is a dead language until it finds a willing and prepared hearer. – Robert Louis Stevenson
Today more than ever, we find ourselves up against a language barrier.
It seems no matter how hard we try to look young, sound hip and remain contemporary, our use of the language seriously dates us.
Do you still say you'll wind or roll up the window in your car? Your age is showing. Most car windows today don't wind-up or roll-down. We simply push a button to open and close them.
When our guests are invited to have a seat on the davenport (couch), they have no idea what a davenport is and just stand and stare.
The term "Look it up in Funk & Wagnalls" (dictionary) registers a zero in the minds of most people under the age of 50.
We no longer use a hair dryer; we use a blow dryer. When you ask for a lift, you are requesting a ride or plastic surgery.
Try telling someone to place a chair kitty-corner (diagonally) in the room and see what happens.
The Frigidaire is the fridge. We have vents instead of radiators to conduct heat.
To zap or nuke it in the microwave is to warm up food. A hooded sweatshirt is a hoody.
Fifty years from now, will anyone understand that "Don’t beat around the bush" means "Get to the point"? Who will really know the meaning of "Don't let the cat out of the bag" (keep it secret) or "Go back to square one" (start all over again)?
Our language continues to evolve. We no longer pollute the environment; we leave a carbon footprint. When we decarbonize the planet, we are kinder to it.
Today's phrases sometimes stray into street rap. Another name for wearing a lot of shiny jewelry is "bling-bling." Some casually refer to the people in their departments or organizations as "my peeps."
So will you know what to do if you're told to roll up the window, look it up in Funk & Wagnalls, use a hair dryer, place it kitty-corner, get a cold drink in the Frigidaire, warm up by the radiator, zap it or nuke it in the microwave, wear a hoody, get a lift, don't let the cat out of the bag, go back to square one, reduce your carbon footprint, decarbonize the planet, wear less bling-bling and go tell your peeps?
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/ and find her on FaceBook.
Today more than ever, we find ourselves up against a language barrier.
It seems no matter how hard we try to look young, sound hip and remain contemporary, our use of the language seriously dates us.
Do you still say you'll wind or roll up the window in your car? Your age is showing. Most car windows today don't wind-up or roll-down. We simply push a button to open and close them.
When our guests are invited to have a seat on the davenport (couch), they have no idea what a davenport is and just stand and stare.
The term "Look it up in Funk & Wagnalls" (dictionary) registers a zero in the minds of most people under the age of 50.
We no longer use a hair dryer; we use a blow dryer. When you ask for a lift, you are requesting a ride or plastic surgery.
Try telling someone to place a chair kitty-corner (diagonally) in the room and see what happens.
The Frigidaire is the fridge. We have vents instead of radiators to conduct heat.
To zap or nuke it in the microwave is to warm up food. A hooded sweatshirt is a hoody.
Fifty years from now, will anyone understand that "Don’t beat around the bush" means "Get to the point"? Who will really know the meaning of "Don't let the cat out of the bag" (keep it secret) or "Go back to square one" (start all over again)?
Our language continues to evolve. We no longer pollute the environment; we leave a carbon footprint. When we decarbonize the planet, we are kinder to it.
Today's phrases sometimes stray into street rap. Another name for wearing a lot of shiny jewelry is "bling-bling." Some casually refer to the people in their departments or organizations as "my peeps."
So will you know what to do if you're told to roll up the window, look it up in Funk & Wagnalls, use a hair dryer, place it kitty-corner, get a cold drink in the Frigidaire, warm up by the radiator, zap it or nuke it in the microwave, wear a hoody, get a lift, don't let the cat out of the bag, go back to square one, reduce your carbon footprint, decarbonize the planet, wear less bling-bling and go tell your peeps?
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/ and find her on FaceBook.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Her front, her back, her insides transmit hope
"La esperanza muere ultima – hope never dies." – Studs Terkel
The smooth texture of the paper between my fingers, the nurturing aroma of newsprint, the blessed assurance of holding the paper in my hands has a calming effect on news junkies like me.
It was no different with the New York Times, which inaugurated my Sundays as a kid growing up in New York State. A tradition that predated me, stopping at the local newsstand after church was a religious ritual as natural as crossing my head, my chest and my shoulders with holy water when entering sacred places.
Then and now, the Sunday Times is a newspaper as thick as a novel and as wide as a seat cushion. Lugging it home took some doing.
Even though my parents were not self-described news junkies, they were more than casual readers. And when sharing the Sunday paper, I had to wait in line.
With subdued excitement, I hung out in the background of their mysteriously silent weekend interactions, while Mom carefully unfolded Section 1A and Dad pulled out the Sports and Business sections.
After they quietly settled into their places at the kitchen table, each gripping a coffee cup in one hand and the paper in the other, I carefully flipped through the bundle of newsprint and pulled out the Fashion, Arts and Classified sections.
Finding a place to sprawl on the living room floor in our spacious two-story century-old home, I spread the paper out before me and escaped to New York City.
Using the Times as a compass for my dreams, I virtually traveled down Broadway, up 72nd Street, across Time Square, through Central Park and over the Hudson to Long Island.
Ironically, when I lived in New York State from ages 9 to 19, I never did go to the Big Apple. It wasn’t until 1978, three years after I moved to South Dakota, that I traveled to the City on a business trip.
Therefore, the Times expanded my world to a larger world, a place that I could only imagine through dozens upon dozens of articles, photographs and artists’ renderings of glamorous people, famous places and important things.
For me, the Sunday Times was a map that simultaneously summoned and guided me. I camped in it and charted distances between where I was in the world and where the world was in me.
It was my classroom where editors, reporters and columnists were my teachers from whom I learned much.
On many characteristically dreary Sunday afternoons in Southwestern New York State, where annually there are more cloudy days than sunny ones, I slowly, methodically thumbed my way over the smooth and rough terrains of those back sections and was enlightened.
The presence of the newspaper in our home – her front, her back, her insides – transmitted the power of information and, therefore, hope.
With newspaper closings, some as old as 150 years, I shutter at the thought of them going away all together.
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/ and find her on FaceBook.
The smooth texture of the paper between my fingers, the nurturing aroma of newsprint, the blessed assurance of holding the paper in my hands has a calming effect on news junkies like me.
It was no different with the New York Times, which inaugurated my Sundays as a kid growing up in New York State. A tradition that predated me, stopping at the local newsstand after church was a religious ritual as natural as crossing my head, my chest and my shoulders with holy water when entering sacred places.
Then and now, the Sunday Times is a newspaper as thick as a novel and as wide as a seat cushion. Lugging it home took some doing.
Even though my parents were not self-described news junkies, they were more than casual readers. And when sharing the Sunday paper, I had to wait in line.
With subdued excitement, I hung out in the background of their mysteriously silent weekend interactions, while Mom carefully unfolded Section 1A and Dad pulled out the Sports and Business sections.
After they quietly settled into their places at the kitchen table, each gripping a coffee cup in one hand and the paper in the other, I carefully flipped through the bundle of newsprint and pulled out the Fashion, Arts and Classified sections.
Finding a place to sprawl on the living room floor in our spacious two-story century-old home, I spread the paper out before me and escaped to New York City.
Using the Times as a compass for my dreams, I virtually traveled down Broadway, up 72nd Street, across Time Square, through Central Park and over the Hudson to Long Island.
Ironically, when I lived in New York State from ages 9 to 19, I never did go to the Big Apple. It wasn’t until 1978, three years after I moved to South Dakota, that I traveled to the City on a business trip.
Therefore, the Times expanded my world to a larger world, a place that I could only imagine through dozens upon dozens of articles, photographs and artists’ renderings of glamorous people, famous places and important things.
For me, the Sunday Times was a map that simultaneously summoned and guided me. I camped in it and charted distances between where I was in the world and where the world was in me.
It was my classroom where editors, reporters and columnists were my teachers from whom I learned much.
On many characteristically dreary Sunday afternoons in Southwestern New York State, where annually there are more cloudy days than sunny ones, I slowly, methodically thumbed my way over the smooth and rough terrains of those back sections and was enlightened.
The presence of the newspaper in our home – her front, her back, her insides – transmitted the power of information and, therefore, hope.
With newspaper closings, some as old as 150 years, I shutter at the thought of them going away all together.
2009 © Copyright Paula Damon. A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her columns have won first-place in National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women Communications Contests. In the 2009 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contest, Paula's columns took three first-place awards. To contact Paula, email pauladamon@iw.net, follow her blog at http://my-story-your-story.blogspot.com/ and find her on FaceBook.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)