The Dictionary That Got Away

Connie and I visited the antique show today at the Fredericksburg Conference Center. I espied a beautifully worn Websters 1934 Second Edition dictionary. A foot thick, it weighed in at fifteen pounds.

The problem was that the proprietor of the booth was nowhere to be found. A half dozen people were browsing and waiting. Another fella picked it up, thumbed through it. Connie and I decided we'd wander that aisle and up the next before returning to see if the owner was there. That took 15 minutes. By the time we reached the booth, he was back. The dictionary was gone. Just to know, I asked how much he'd sold it for. I was near tears when the proprietor said it was only $35.

That was the first dictionary I've seen at an antique show. Now I have a quest. Though I'll continue to use my beloved Webster's New World, College Edtion, circa 1958, I will scour the world to find her an older partner.

Words are important to me. Writing may be the only thing I'm half good at. It's not only important to be precise and logical but to do it with style. The best teachers I had were the the then ancient bureaucrats I met thirty years ago when I was just starting out. They had the knack of composing a six page memo where you thought you were reading something of substance but it turned out there was nothing anyone could pin down as being for or against the matter at hand. The composition had not one unnecessary or inelegant word to spare, reflecting the E.B. White style manuals found on their desks. Today they're dead.

On the hour and twenty minute commute to work, I've continued reading the history, theology and philosophy books I feel is a part of a self-punishing Protestant read ethic bequeathed to me by my parents. In the evening, though, when I'm bushed from the day's labor, during the same eighty minutes it takes to ride the train home, I've been reading Thurber, Runyon, Cerf, and I'm still looking for Fred Allen. You can find these dusty books on the welcoming shelves of our Carnegie-era library down town. I miss the date stamp lists so you can tell the last time someone checked it out. I'm sure no one's checked out these funny old tomes in quite a while. The best book on writing I've found so far is The Art of Fiction by John Gardiner. His main point: remember all the bad stuff you've read, realize you can't do any worse, and that you might do better.

I've started this blog because I've felt uncomfortable sending emails to all the beloved Faithful Fabric. Though Connie and I left the parish in 2005, my heart remains at St. Margaret's. It's no secret I would have voted against leaving the Episcopal Church but there are many reasons for casting a similar vote. Mine is primarily human rights. Just as I couldn't remain a member of the fundamentalist church where I was baptised, when I felt my presence and pledge was contributing to a world view and discernment of Scripture, I thought wrong, harmful, and even dangerous, I could not have sat in a pew at St. Margaret's Nigerian knowing my presence and pledge were part of a movement I felt the Christian and political antithesis of all I've held dear for almost fifty years.

That is only my view, however, and just as I reject the arrogance of those who would impose their view upon me, I shant impose mine. As an ex-pat, I feel so strongly about what the Faithful Fabric means and how important it is not only locally but nationally and for the world. By writing in a blog, and continuing to write letters to the editor of our local rag, I'll write what I can't hold back, but it'll only be available if you choose to read it. I don't have a right nor the temerity to speak on behalf of you or The Fabric.

As President Reagan, said, there you go again. And I do. You can see that I've capitalized so that is an improvement from the emails already. I'm still trying to learn how to indent paragraphs. Connie's niece has a blog. She's managed to bring me thus far though I'd still feel more comfortable with a quill and parchment. To indent is on the horizon. And more. As the great philosopher, Stymie, of the Little Rascals, was wont to say, "I don't know where we're going but we're on our way." We'll get there together, whevever it is, if you come along for this ride.

If anyone knows of an antique dictionary that needs a good home, let me know.