This week, we’re sampling some of the essays recorded earlier this year
the VPR Commentator Brunch. The theme "When Worlds Collide…" inspired
commentator Bill Schubart to venture into the exciting world of
(Schubart) My name is Bill Schubart and my topic today is When Worlds Collide: Language.
The essence of a good cultural collision is usually found in
language. The malaprop is a great example. Growing up in Morrisville in the shadow
of Stowe’s social ascendancy in the 50s, I heard a number of them.
Forensic entomologists – or is that etymologists? – believe that
the malaprop originated among people with strong social aspirations, limited
vocabulary and a desire to flaunt their verbal prowess. In my own case, I think
it has more to do with hearing loss, but more about that later.
A dear, now departed, friend whom I had not seen for several
winters was regaling me with the news that, as she aged, her voice had lowered
and she was now a tenor in her church choir. Not knowing how to respond to this
exciting news, I asked after her mother. That would be a non-sequitur.
"Oh," she answered," Din’t cha hear, last fall she took a
corollary and died."
I tried to redeem myself, asking after her father only to learn
that he had succumbed to "prostrate" cancer several years earlier.
"I’m sorry," I answered, choosing not inquire further about her choir
"Yeah," she answered, I haven’t been able to get it out of my
cistern. Sometimes, I feel like I’m between a hard rock and a place."
"Wow," I thought, "a triple header."
A social worker friend who moved to Morrisville from Manhattan was
helping an elderly and impecunious gentleman from Wolcott with the recent death
of his 94-year-old mother and the disposition of her remains. After explaining
the various options and the related expenses, the dismayed fellow decided on
cremation. Cost was an issue, and so he suggested, "You know, I could
just drive Ma over there myself, if you could just tell me where the creamery is."
At 67, I’m mastering the hearing-impaired non-sequitur
while my wife’s Volvo is losing its memory.
The driver’s seat can’t remember who’s driving and invariably advances
itself to her preferred position, juicing me in the steering wheel.
I was driving us to the grocery store in this compressed
position, when Kate mentioned the need for a legume for dinner. I
answered, "Good idea," and moved my seat back.