Felicitous diction 1: No, It's Not Going to Start With Jane Austen.

Now that I'm (snicker) a professional blogger, I need some more blogging discipline. And since the audience here is way more homey and less critical, I think I'll warm up my blogging discipline at the expense of my friends. And since it's hard to justify blogging about my academic obsession here (since I'm obliged to it there), I decided to do something off-the-cuff.

Hence, a new (daily? it could be daily! we'll have to see!) series: Things I Like To Read. See that carefully crafted thematic territory? You don't? Well, I said off the cuff.

Part 1 of the series will focus on one of my pets about literature: felicitous diction. I go crazy for felicitous diction.

The funny thing about really spine-tingling word choice, for me, is that I sometimes don't notice a writer has it until the second, third, or fifth time through a novel. But if it's there, I usually notice it in spades once I get past the third reading. I'm probably going to concentrate on one book at a time here, just introducing a representative example and explaining why it is, to my ears, felicitous diction. At the end I'll explain why felicitous diction is so key to my literary appetite.

1.1: No, It's Not Going to Start With Jane Austen. (But Yes, It Will Probably End There.)

Why not Jane Austen? Well, because it's fitting (for Deep Thematic Reasons that are totally half-baked at this time, and perhaps even because it's off-the-cuff) to start with felicitous diction in some of the earliest books I remember reading. Yes, children's literature.

I actually didn't have as many memories of picture books as some other people I know, before I had my own kids. I'm certain I could count on one hand the books I really remembered something of (and yes, that counts Dr. Seuss). The two that have memorable, felicitous diction are not, as one might expect, catchy poetry. They are poetic, but not poetry.

The Poky Little Puppy. The funny thing about this choice is it's hardly anything but felicitous diction, from "Five little puppies dug a hole under a fence and went for a walk in the wide, wide world" all the way to "No desserts EVER unless puppies NEVER dig holes under this fence again!" For me, at least at age 3 or 4, it was not the story (such as it was) that kept this treasure going (and I wore it out). No, it was that one line:

And down they went to see, roly-poly, pell-mell, tumble-bumble, till they came to the green grass, and there they stopped short.

Why (in retrospect) was this felicitous diction? Well, it has alliteration and assonance in spades, complete with some complex alliteration in the repetition of p- and b- sounds. It had enough familiar words to clue me in to the meaning ("roly", "tumble") but one completely opaque set ("pell-mell"). And the rhythm of it sounded like overeager puppies bouncing down a hill: beginning with liquids and a little bump, continuing with the short abrupt bouncing of "pell-mell", and finishing with a fully satisfying "tumble-bumble".

I actually remembered this phrase at 27 and bought my son the book anticipating reading him that exact phrase. It never disappoints.

Anecdotes of parenting

I asked Thomas the other day what he wanted to do when he grew up.

"Cook! I'm-a cook soup like mama."

Seems pretty safe. I wonder if he wants to do laundry too?

***

I had to take Juliana to Thomas's daycare for the first time on Monday when I picked him up. His face lit up. "Baby sister is here!"

All the little kids lined up on their knees in nice neat rows to peer into her carseat. "Don't touch the baby," his teachers warned.

"I get to touch her," Thomas objected, looking at me.

"Yes, you do," I agreed, "because she's your sister. But your friends are just going to look."

Julie loved looking at all the kids faces, one by one.

"She looks just like Thomas!" one of the older girls said.

"She looks like me," one of the boys said. (This is the same boy that calls me "mom" and Matt "dad". We have no idea whether he does this with everyone's parents.)

***

On the way home from school today, "Message in a Bottle" came on the radio.

"This sounds like Rock Band!" Thomas yelled.

I didn't get one!

Yesterday a day came that I've been dreading for at least three years.

It started out so well: we went to Palm Sunday mass, and Thomas was paying very good attention (for a two-year-old, that is). We talked about the entry to Jerusalem ahead of time, and although he was disappointed to hear that there wouldn't be any donkeys at church, he was interested in the palm leaves. He paid good attention through the procession and even followed along with a good bit of the Passion reading. (I was pointing the pictures out in his picture Bible and whispering the important words.) Despite the length of the Palm Sunday mass, and the fact that it started right before naptime, by the communion rite he was still gamely hanging in there, sitting in the aisle so he could see what the priest was doing and murmuring to himself.

When it was time for communion I showed him how to hold his arms across his chest, and we went forward. By the time we got back to the pew, he was in tears.

"Why didn't he give me one? Why didn't he give me one? I didn't get one!"

This is the one question about the liturgy my time at Notre Dame hasn't prepared me to answer. I'm just left here in my own pain, saying, "Why doesn't he get one?" And I fear that by the time five more years have passed, he'll be left with an indelible impression of his exclusion from the Lord's meal.

The eucharistic celebration shouldn't leave a bad taste in anyone's mouth.