Dearest Rachel –
I honestly can’t remember when I last visited our village public library, despite the fact that it’s supposedly one of the largest in the state (although obviously superseded by that of Chicago itself, I don’t think there are too many others that are larger). Sometimes, if I think about it, I assume I stopped bothering with physical books once the internet became my source of all things information. At the same time, I could swear that I’d been there little more than a decade ago – although the recent discovery of an old wallet containing my last known library card, with an expiry date in late 2008, would belie that assumption.
I mention the place because one of the last books I can ever remember checking out from there was on the topic of what it referred to as “family slang”; words and phrases used between family members to summarize concepts that don’t have a formal name in received English (in part, because there’s not the perceived need for such throughout the general Anglosphere). It’s like an inside joke, but with less outright humor and more actual utility; at leas, as far as the family has informally agreed upon.
To be sure, I don’t remember much of the phrases or definitions in the book itself; for the most part, only the underlying concept stuck with me. The only phrase I can recall actually having gleaned directly from the book was that of “Christmas Adam” (i.e., December 23rd), which I’ve made reference to in a much earlier letter, as well as the fact that the 23rd of any month carries a much less festive weight to it than it used to, so it’s not one that I really make light of anymore. But between the three of us, we created a few such things on our own.
Your mom used to use the phrase “if it were a snake, it would have bit you” for things that we (or, let’s face it, I – by contrast, you always seemed to know where everything you needed was, and if you didn’t, you would pray for guidance, and lo and behold, there it was) couldn’t find that proved to be in close proximity. Somehow, the two of us condensed the phrase into its component onomatopoeia such that, upon finding an item we were looking for that turned out to be right at hand, we would simply make the sound “hissss… chomp!” It wasn’t so much of a term or expression as it was an acknowledgment that what we were seeking so desperately was right there, and had escaped our notice multiple times as we attempted to search for it.
The other such term we used with surprising frequency (given the peculiarity of its provenance) also had to do with loss, but rather than dealing with the embarrassment of its discovery so close at hand, it focused on the likelihood of the item, once used or consumed, no longer being available to us if we happened to take a liking to it and wanting it again at a later date. I sometimes wonder if that’s why we had so much on our pantry shelves going stale or otherwise bad, since we were afraid we couldn’t get the items back if we were to actually use them; the irony being that, once they went bad, we never got to use them in the first place (but until Jan went through the place, we couldn’t bring ourselves to admit what had happened and get rid of them). I’ve actually explained the origin of what we called the prospector’s tangerine, and went into detail about my efforts to cope with just such an item (with middling success at the time, as I had yet to discover the Nutio stuff at that point. To be fair, the Lindt Noir would qualify as a perfect example, too, if it wasn’t for the fact that the Nutio was a near-perfect replacement).
Since you’ve been gone, though, Daniel and I haven’t been using a lot of such family slang, and certainly not creating any new expressions of our own… until just recently. Apparently, he’s been seeing various shorts about what members of a certain socioeconomic stratum (let’s call them “renters,” for the sake of argument; I’d prefer to think the word comes from an ironic reference to one’s landlord’s insouciance towards maintenance, as opposed to that level of pure ignorance) refer to as “ceiling birds”; that annoying chirp that the smoke or CO2 detector gives off when its battery has run down and needs replacing. It would seem that these folks just deal with the sound rather than try to do anything about it, and give it that name.
What does that have to do with the two of us? Well, just before going on this latest trip together, I got myself a new pair of walking shoes, and their soles are so pristine (as are the carefully-polished decks of the ship) that whenever I would stop suddenly, they would make a squeak not unlike that of those smoke detectors. Daniel started to refer to the sound as a ‘floorbird,’ and the word seems to have stuck; I still have to apologize to him for its appearance in the kitchen here at home every now and again, and I can’t deny that it’s an annoying sound. Only by acknowledging it, and laughing at it, can it be mitigated.
You know, I really don’t know why I’m telling you about this. This seems like a particularly frivolous thing to be relating to you – and even if it weren’t, you remember these examples as well as I do, and then some. Indeed, you could probably list more such examples, leaving me to nod “oh, yeah, I’d forgotten that one” in mild embarrassment.
My best guess is that, by Daniel and my creating such a word to use between the two of us, it might be a sign that we’ve been able to adjust to our situation without you. But then, shouldn’t that have happened long ago by now? This is every bit as embarrassing to admit to in its own right, that it took this long to get here. I don’t know what to say, honey.
Still, for the moment, if you’d be kind enough to keep an eye on us, and wish us luck all the same, it would be appreciated. After all, you can see that we’re still in need of it.
Letters to Rachel 