Searching for the Island

It’s a little disturbing to watch Rudolph and see how mean Santa and the reindeer coach are — all that bit about not letting Rudolph join in any reindeer games and what a shame it is that his nose is ruining an otherwise high-potential flying career.

Then there’s the whole “Island of Misfit Toys” — that Santa would simply toss aside obviously thinking, feeling toys because of imperfections flies in the face of the benevolent, chuckling, jelly-man we all know and love. And it’s particularly glaring in today’s inclusive, ADA-aware world.

While I’m certainly glad Santa sees the error of his ways by the end of the show, I do think there’s still an island out there waiting for rescue — only it’s not populated by misfit toys but by misfit ideas.

I know every “creative” who’s ever peddled an idea has come away disappointed when some higher-up hasn’t shared the vision. It still hurts to think of the really clever Christmas (errr “holiday”) card my designer partner and I created last year. Perfect image, perfect message. We loved it, the client’s marketing team loved it, but the man signing the checks, not so much. So off it went to the Island, replaced by a generic greeting. Just like that.

And there was that ad from so long ago. Again, designer and writer in perfect harmony. The boss? Out in left field, his usual hangout. So what the client eventually saw (and approved) was not the cool concept we proposed, but one decidely less cool that the boss liked better (his idea, of course).

You learn to toss aside those disappointments and go on. But just imagine the thousands — millions — of really clever, really inventive ideas voted off the table and onto the Island. I can see them out there — waiting desperately to be discovered. To find their place in an ad, brochure, commercial, Web site. To finally be recognized for the bright spots of inspiration they are. That paradise is lost out there — if only I could find it. I’d make sure every one of those sweet little moments found a good home with a creative soul to love and nurture it.

Santa? Rudolph? Yukon Cornelius? Anyone up for a new search-and-rescue?

An idea whose time has come was waiting there all along. 
                                                    ~ Carrie Latet

Potato, potahto n’at

Last night, I woke up just in time to see David what’s-his-name on CSI Miami say about the victim du jour, “His name was Steve Lancaster.”

It perked me right up. He said Lancaster like Burt — langCASter. But not like the town in Pennsylvania. Folks there call it LANGkister — all run together, veddy British. And if you’re from Latrobe, you call it LAYtrobe. And if you’re from the Laurel Mountains, you say Donniegol (the Irish way), while the typical PA Turnpike traveler simply says Donegal (DAWNigll). 

Of course, the natives are pronouncing it correctly. But I think it’s funny that we ‘Burghers, who are quick to laugh at a new newscaster who says MUNroeville or KITTENing or North Versigh, are almost universally wrong about Lancaster, Latrobe, and Donegal. (I met a girl in college, and all of us thought it was so funny when she said, “I’m from LAYtrobe.”)

I always notice accents. Also pronunciation, though I’m not always right in what I think is correct. After my diatribe against pronouncing verbiage “verbage,” I learned that was OK — the #2 way in the dictionary. Just like my husband’s pronunciation of compass to rhyme with pompous (but you’d think an eagle scout would know better), or saying aunt like taunt, or vase like voz.

At my husband’s church, while everyone was AHmen-ing, I was AYmen-ing. I’m still studying that one — maybe it’s a Catholic thing or a ‘Burgh thing? We (my relatives) were praying aloud at the funeral home a few weeks ago and we all AYmen-ed while my husband AHmen-ed.

I can always pick out a Western PA accent, even a latent one, though I didn’t know I had one of my own until 7th grade, when Mr. Klebaha amazed our entire English class by pointing out our Pittsburghese. I’ve learned to suppress it in the years since, but there’s still something comforting (although funny — Stanley P. Kachowski funny) in hearing someone who’s going dahntahn or doing the worsh or taking an ahr to get to work on a slippy day. These are the voices of home — and I’m proud to throw in a yinz or a “needs fixed” or a trip to the Sahside every now and then — it’s my right as a native. It bothers me when people equate those terms with being uneducated (or downright unwashed) — no one accuses Southerners of that or Chicagoans or Bostonians. We Pittsburghers share a unique voice (all the linguists agree), and it’s OK to be proud of that!

Why just a couple months ago, Mike and I saw an unfamiliar weatherman on The Weather Channel, and I immediately said, “He’s from around here.” Yep, according to his profile on weather.com, Severe Weather Expert Dr. Greg Forbes was born and raised near — you guessed it — good ol’ LAYtrobe.

Language is not an abstract construction of the learned, or of
dictionary makers, but is something arising out of the work, needs,
ties, joys, affections, tastes, of long generations of humanity,
and has its bases broad and low, close to the ground.
                                        ~ Noah Webster

Though the weather outside is frightful…

16 degrees last week, and windy too. But oh so pretty with the snow covering the branches just so. 

frontporch.jpg  Over the past couple weeks, I’d just taken to leaving my coat on when I came in, as real winter started to set in and my feet and nose and hands couldn’t take it. Now though, especially because I was so harsh on living in boiler world (See Bubble, Bubble, Toil & Trouble), it’s only fair that I report some return to normal body temperature.

…the fire is so delightful.
No, radiator heat is not redeemed, we’ve simply circumvented it by purchasing a vent-free gas stove (wow, the price went up from 2 weeks ago) to fit into our living room fireplace, after seeing my brother’s. Unfortunately, I didn’t win the battle to get one as cute and petite as his — ours is bigger and more powerful (read: too damn hot). But it sure does cozy up the room. And at 98% efficiency or some such, it should be better for the gas bill than the 68% efficient boiler and more effective than the little electric space heaters. It’s a huge improvement over the gas logs some previous owner had stuck in the decorative tile opening — an open flame, mind you. We tried them once and promptly said, “never again.”

This one doesn’t get two thumbs up yet — it’s still burning off that “new smell” (akin to drying varnish or some other awful chemicals) that was supposed to go away after a few hours (it hasn’t), and it’s too powerful for my tastes, even though we have a big room that’s open to the hall, stairway, etc. (We may have to replace the pretty lighting fixture we installed with a ceiling fan.)

But that said, warmth counts for a lot when it’s something-teen outside. Maybe I’ll expand my winter entertaining menu to include toast-your-own marshmallows on a stick (you decide how black). Or a luau theme. Feel free to wear shorts…

Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth,
for the touch of a friendly hand and for a talk beside the fire:
it is the time for home.
 
                                              ~ Edith Sitwell

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