Our First Ever Poll-- Please Weigh In

Well, my inner Grammar Cop is alive and well, and is here to conduct a little poll.


Last week (just before we went to the lake) our newspaper ran a review of a new book of poetry. Yes, I read that section of the paper, and I read the poetry reviews. Sue me—I’m a throwback.

Anyhoo, our illustrious Book Editor wrote this piece, and I’m a fan of her work, so it hit me like a ton of bricks when her opening sentence read as follows:

Even though his new anthology of St. Louis poetry has 55 contributors, Matthew Freeman is sorry there isn't more.

Excuse me, but isn’t that ‘isn’t’ supposed to be ‘aren’t’? I mean, he’s “sorry there isn’t more contributors?”

I’m thinking that the antecedent (the party of the first part) is contributors, and that the verb should agree with the plural subject. Agree? --or disagree?

I saved the section, even took it to the lake with me, in one of my many parcels of reading material. You saw the luggage—deal with it. I kept thinking that if I let a few days go by and looked at it with a fresh outlook, I might realize that I was wrong, she was right, and I could go back to sleeping at nights, instead of debating this weighty matter in my head. (Yes. There is indeed a giant L tattooed on my forehead. Loooooooooserrrrrrrrrrrr.)

Instead, I revisited the column often. I’d be sitting on the screened-in porch, overlooking the scenic Lake of the Ozarks, sipping something icy and reading something from my accumulated stash of goodies. I’d be deep into a column by Maureen Dowd or David Brooks, and pretending that I did not notice the A&E section lurking alongside.

I’d purposely turn it over and re-read something I had little interest in, and play like I had completely forgotten the offending passage.

Then, like a stealth bomber out of nowhere, I’d snatch it up, reread the opening, and cringe all over again. It still rankled. No, it still rankles.

So at last, unable to justify this life-altering conflict of subject-verb disagreement, I decided to share this problem with my life’s mate, my legal and marital partner, my love, my sweetheart, and the one person in the world upon whom I can always rely to say ‘black’ whenever I say ‘white’: my husband.

You may remember him as the Center of the Universe (CoTU). There’s a reason for this, but why digress now? I handed him the newspaper, and asked him to read the first sentence. He didn’t flinch. I said, “Nothing? You don’t see a problem with that?”

“Nope,” he replied. He’s only terse when he’s holding out on me.

“Read it aloud,” I commanded. (I rarely command—in this relationship, he’s more the commander, and I the commandee. Of course, he will disagree with this, in which case, see the paragraph above.)

“No, what’s the question?” he asked, a bit casuistically, I thought.

Thus began a lengthy, spirited and protracted discussion about subjects and verbs and bears, oh my. We could not come to a consensual decision, and thus I decided to conduct a poll. This will be the first ever conducted on Funny Is the New Young, and I hope you will weigh in.  (And unlike your doctor's office, I will let you take your shoes off first.)

Please leave a comment telling me whether you think the sentence should be

“Even though his new anthology of St. Louis poetry has 55 contributors, Matthew Freeman is sorry there isn't more.”

or

“Even though his new anthology of St. Louis poetry has 55 contributors, Matthew Freeman is sorry there aren’t more.”

In fact, to make it simple, if you like, you can just vote “isn’t” or “aren’t”, although longer comments are indeed welcome, and I would love to see us explore this in depth. Yep, that’s just how empty my life is. But seriously folks, if the preponderance of votes agrees with me, I will joyously do a little “I told you so” combined with my famous “in your face” dance. And, to be fair, if most votes agree with CoTU, I will just keep it tactfully to myself. I have enough trouble.

Playing Catch-Up! Thanks Again, Nancy!

The long overdue debt to the lovely Nancy at f8hasit is paid at last! Nancy honored me with the Your Blog is Fabulous award all the way back on November 11th, and I am overdue to execute the responsibilities of this award. Can she rescind it? Well, maybe if I get on the stick today, she’ll cut me just a little more slack…

But seriously folks, since November 11th I’ve traveled to Pittsburgh for a lovely visit with my son and the daffodil (remember: De Facto Daughter-in-Law), nearly burned to a crisp in a hotel fire en route home, (you read that post about ten days ago?) and hosted a gala Thanksgiving dinner here for 16, which (by my own rules) involved marathon cooking for days in advance. And the use of dishes which can not be put into the dishwasher. (Yes. I am nuts.)

So I’m just saying, I have tons of excuses for the lengthy delay…

Anyway, my obligation is to tell you of five obsessions, and to bestow the aforementioned award on five more bloggers. First, my obsessions.

1. Billy Collins. His poetry totally rocks my world. He can make me laugh and cry both within the same poem. He sees things with clarity and insight and shares them like a ripe peach. Oh, please buy his books, read his work, and worship him as I do. We will be the Billy Collins cult. And The Lanyard will be our anthem. Or The Trouble With Poetry. Or The Poems of Others. Or The Man in the Moon. You will so love this man’s work.

2. Fabric. I love everything about it. Touching it, turning it, cutting it, ironing it. Wait—maybe not so much the ironing part. I started sewing when I was very young, and fell in love with what I could do with fabric. Make myself a dress, make curtains for my room, later make clothes for my kids, re-cover seat cushions to my liking, make fun purses, etc. When I discovered quilting about twenty-five years ago, a whole new world of fabrics opened up to me. Great and wonderful colors and designs are out there, and there are new lines and designers coming along all the time. Amazing things can be done, and one can never have too much fabric. That is axiomatic. You can believe the bumper sticker She Who Dies With the Most Fabric Wins.

3. Justice. I know, this should have been first, not third, but I’m weak. I despise and detest injustice in all its many forms. I cringe, rail, and shake my fist in the face of any display of bias, discrimination or unfairness. I write letters to the editor, to my senators, to my congressman, to anyone I think can effect change in the face of some perceived wrong. I attend meetings, sometimes I organize meetings, letter-writing campaigns, or other means of protest when I think that justice is not being served. Right is right, and wrong is wrong, and who are we if we do not speak up when we witness an act of inequality?

4. Reading. My earliest memories are of reading. It was Harold and the Purple Crayon by Crockett Johnson. I have very vivid memories of riding the Elmwood-Darstdale bus to the Delmar Loop to visit our local library on Saturday mornings. I can (seriously) conjure up the smells of that wood, and the marble floors and the beautiful, and seemingly endless, shelves of books. I recall that I was allowed six books each week, and would read them over and over again until the next Saturday rolled around. I also remember that I couldn’t wait for my fifth birthday to come, as that was the day I was permitted to get my own library card. I printed my name on the line, and my mother attested to my age. This was perhaps sweeter than getting my driver’s license. A license to read. My driver’s license had more limits than a library card. I still couldn’t leave our metropolitan area at sixteen years old, but even at age five, with my own library card I had a passport to everywhere. I was reborn! (We should talk about The Elegance of the Hedgehog—have you read it?)

5. My kids. (Photos some other time!) Enough said. I’m getting ferklemt just going that far, so fill in the rest for yourselves. And this includes, of course, the grandkids. Sniff, sniff.

Step two: Bestow the award on five deserving recipients. For that, tune in Friday! This post has become a tome in itself!

Oh Yes I Can (Get Satisfaction!)

I can safely say that I know less about the Rolling Stones than anyone else of my baby-booming generation. The sum total of my knowledge lies in these three statements: 1) There are four guys in the band; 2) Mick Jagger is their lead singer; 3) Their biggest hit of the ‘60’s was “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction”. And frankly, I’m not that sure about number one.

When my son encountered “satisfaction” as a third grade spelling word, his unforgettable teacher introduced the class to the Stones’ famous anthem. What she did not do, however, was introduce them to the true path to satisfaction: memorizing poetry.

As children we all started learning rhymes subconsciously. Usually it was the a-b-c song, or “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star”. Eventually we learned the jump rope ditties required to be a part of the playground scene. Beyond the Pledge of Allegiance, most students balk at the notion of memorizing anything. Ask your kids to commit a poem to memory, and prepare to hear a loud chorus of groans and moans.

High school students who know every lyric of the most obscure and absurd songs ever written still claim that being required to memorize poetry is brutal, punishing, and offensive in ways that defy description. This is likely because it requires such exhausting tasks as reading and concentration. They don’t know what they are missing. Words are powerful, and words that rhyme are magical. Poetry connects us in our marrow. You never know whose cells share your poetic DNA until some serendipitous event occurs.

For example, take the night my husband and I were in a restaurant with our good friends Dave and Betty. When my husband used the phrase, “There are strange things done…” Dave and I simultaneously, and without further prompting launched into a recitation of “The Cremation of Sam McGee”, given that my hubby had unwittingly offered up its opening line. Dave and I amused ourselves, and amazed ourselves at how automatically it spewed forth. Our respective spouses’ jaws dropped. They could not have regarded us with more disbelief if we had picked up straw hats and canes, and done an old-fashioned buck-and-wing across the dining room floor in striped blazers and straw hats. I couldn’t recall as many of its verses as Dave could, so I eventually looked up the old poem and set about memorizing it all over again. If it ever comes up in the future, I want to be ready. The competitor in me wants to be able to match him, line for line. And I found once again, that for pure satisfaction, not much can beat memorizing poetry.

I originally learned that work of Robert W. Service in the tenth grade English class of a wonderfully earnest and enthusiastic teacher; she inspired students to learn. The poem came back readily, and I took pleasure in re-learning it. That competitive side of me, (which certain small-minded people sometimes describe as cutthroat) can only hope that at some future trivia competition they ask for the name of the derelict boat in this poem. (Look it up.)

I confess that these days my personal preference is to read the work of our former poet-laureate Billy Collins. He can make me laugh till I hurt my stomach muscles (who knew I had any?), and he can stop my heart with a simple poignant line. Oh, to write like Billy Collins!

But it’s not only baby-boomers who enjoy this secret pleasure. Five or six years ago my first and oldest friend, then aged 101 years, mentioned in a letter that she always recited “The Day is Done” by Longfellow at bedtime. She did so because her late husband had done so before going to sleep each night. This simple nightly ritual clearly made her feel closer to him, and somehow eased the pain of losing him. Of course, that compelled me to seek out “The Day is Done” so that I, too, could recite it to myself at bedtime, spiritually connecting me to my dear friend. She left this world a few years ago at age 102, but I recite it still, and keep her in my heart.

Poor Mick. He was just memorizing the wrong stuff.