I believe in the
power of words. Before mass communications, advertising, TV pundits, and
texting, words were a valuable commodity. People were said to "weigh their
words." A man was "as good as his word." Oratory was an art, and
poetry was read aloud in ordinary homes. People took oaths and held them sacred;
family letters were kept and cherished; and oral histories were handed down
with ceremony and care. The Bible tells us that “in the beginning was the Word,
and the Word was with God and the Word was God.”
In
my growing-up family where I was the youngest of five children, words shot like
arrows hither and yon; discussions were lively and debates common. I read early
and soon learned to pipe up or chime in — put my own oar in the proverbial
water — just to get my basic needs met. The dictionary became my best friend
since I had to catch those big, fat, fifty-cent words like butterflies in a net
and examine them just to follow the constant stream of conversation.
I
learned early that words build bridges among individuals and cultures; and I developed an ease with them, whether talking to
the old men chewing tobacco on “spit corner” or to professors in that college
town where I grew up. Then, when I was just 22 years old, I moved to a barrio in Panama City, and
there I used my best high-school Spanish to converse with my neighbor who would
often yell, “Raton! Raton!” as she took a broom to the rats that were as
pervasive as cockroaches. She would speak English to me, and we became friends
that way: she with her halting English and I with my awkward Spanish.
Ah, words! They comfort, soothe,
stir to action, start and end wars, whisper of love and secrets, create poems,
songs and plays. When I hear the lyrics of Paul Simon — words like “ghosts and empty
sockets” or “diamonds on the soles of her shoes” — I know just what he means. I’ve
written sonnets to my Italian professor, love letters to an Australian sailor, a
family blog to help us celebrate and grieve the life and death of our parents; and
I still relish a good diatribe that stirs the pot.
For me, words are an artist’s palette. They hold endless
possibilities for combining and blending to draw the pictures I see in my mind,
and they hold the subtle shades of meaning implicit in every thought I convey.
I love a good metaphor almost as much as a good story. Storytelling is in my DNA. My granddad told stories peppered
with plenty of swear words, having been a coal miner and moonshiner; and my dad
loved a good yarn. Growing up, I heard people say that my great-grandfather was
such a colorful storyteller that people
looking for his home would be told
to just “drive out that road a ways and look for the house where there’s a
crowd gathered on the front porch.”
But words are also fun. They can be tossed around like a beanbag and can bend the mind and stretch the imagination like a bungee
cord. People can google, lollygag, or dillydally. They can be scalawags or roustabouts.
Sometimes a word practically defines itself, and just the right word can land just
the right punch. Once my daughter witnessed a neighbor berating me for stepping across an
invisible property line to trim a bush. Coming to my rescue, she accused the woman
of being a “quidnunc,” leaving her speechless. Oh, I was a proud mother that
day, knowing that my daughter had memorized every “q” word in the dictionary,
just so she could whup me in our rousing games of Scrabble.
To me, words are little time machines. They can transport
me to faraway places and draw me as close as breath. They connect me to my
past, to my present, to my loved ones, near and far. I can still hear how my dad pronounced “creek”
as “crick,” a telltale sign he grew up in the Appalachians where language is homespun
and descriptive.
Great speeches, simple sermons, and
letters between friends can start movements, heal wounds, and open hearts. And
they can express to an audience just exactly what I believe.
