Tag: writing

SPANGHEW

Spanghew. This word has made me fall in love again with the English language.

As many of you know, I have a complicated relationship with my native tongue. Compared to other languages, it seems so feeble. For instance, consider the word “love.” The ancient Greeks had a whole collection of words that we now interpret simply as love: agape, philia, storge, eros, philautia, and pragma. We have “love.” “I love my wife. I love my children. I also love Pepsi Zero.”

And so many words we have can mean one thing and the opposite. They are called contronyms. For example, “bolt” can mean to secure something so it can’t be moved, or to run away from something very fast. Weather can mean to wear away, or to endure. Refrain can mean not to do something, while a refrain is something you’re expected to do again and again.

Steve Martin said, “Some people have a way with words, while other people…..not have way.” Even though most of my life has been dealing with words, I find I often not have way. 

Eventually I stopped opening the 20-pound Random House Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary my wife gave me a few years ago. Partly because I had given up on English and partly because the thing is a lumbar injury waiting to happen. 

And then spanghew somehow found its way to me. Spanghew, according to that same dictionary, means “to throw violently into the air; especially: to throw (a frog) into the air from the end of a stick.” 

We have a word for that? 

We have a word specifically for using sticks to throw frogs into the air? 

If I were still preaching, I would have to preach on Exodus 8:1-15 just so I could use the sentence “Egyptians and Jews, everyone from Pharaoh to Moses, spent days spanghewing.” 

There are so many words that I have completely overlooked or misused.

Defenestration- the act of throwing someone or something out the window. “You give me the urge to defenestrate.”

Syzygy- an alignment of at least three celestial bodies in a straight line. “Did you see the syzygy last night?”

Kenspeckle- conspicuous. “Mike’s attire of Dockers and a polo shirt made him kenspeckle at the Boy Harsher concert.”

Maybe I have been too hard on English. Any language that has survived long enough to have a word for throwing frogs into the air can’t be entirely feeble. There are probably thousands of wonderful words hiding in that 20-pound dictionary that I have never bothered to meet. 

And then there is the ever-popular floccinaucinihilipilification: the long, absurd act of judging something to be entirely worthless. Which, dear reader, you may be thinking of using now.

That’s okay. I have some spanghewing to do.

“I fought the law and…”

I was on my way to a meeting. An important meeting. In Columbia. I was thinking about the meeting and all the important people in it. And all the important things we would talk about. That’s when it happened.

I saw the blue lights flash behind me—no need to turn on the siren. I pulled over, turned the car off, rolled down the window, and waited. The officer came up to the window and asked for my license, registration, and insurance info. I have learned to wait until they ask before doing anything. Seeing me reach for the glove compartment (do they still call it that?) while walking up makes the officer wonder, “Is he reaching for something or hiding something?” I unbuckled my seat belt to get my wallet out of my back pocket. (Another thing- always wait until they get there to unbuckle. That way, they don’t ask why your seat belt was unbuckled.) After examining my documents, he said, “Mr. Henderson, you were going 46 in a 30 miles per hour zone.” No argument from me. He was right. He told me to wait a minute while he went to his cruiser. He came back with the ticket. “I’ve reduced your ticket down to 39 and 2 points. You can pay ahead of time or go to traffic court.” He told me the date, time, and address. I thanked him for reducing it. The fine was $76. It would not affect my insurance. At least, not yet.

I decided to go to court. Not because I was contesting the ticket. I was guilty as charged. But if, for some reason, the officer didn’t show up in court, they might dismiss the ticket. And besides, what else do I have to do?

The day for the court came. I was scheduled to be there at 8:15 am. Since Columbia is 60 miles away, I got up at 5:30, left the house by 6:30, drove an hour and fifteen minutes (Columbia traffic at the end slowed me down), found a parking spot, and walked to the building.

There must have been 125 people already there! We were all standing outside, waiting for the doors to open. Most were looking at their phones, busy doing important things. I talked with a couple of people, assuming they were there for the same reason I was. (They weren’t.) Then I started singing Folsom Prison Blues, doing my best Johnny Cash. No one joined in. Then I started Workin’ on the Chain Gang. You could hear Sam Cooke turning over in his grave. People turned and looked at their phones from another direction. I may have been the only person there who was born in the 1900s.

An officer came out and said, “Everyone here for jury duty, form a line to the right.” About a hundred people moved to the right. Including the two I had been talking to about speeding and going to jail—the twenty-five of us not-yet-convicted felons lined up on the left. I looked at the people in the jury duty queue. A few were wearing suits, and most were in casual clothes. One woman was in pajamas. Not cute ones. These you would not wear to Walmart. And she was wearing bedroom slippers.  I thought, “Now there’s someone who will hear a lawyer say ‘Your honor, please dismiss this juror.’”

The jury folks went in first. Then the rest of us did our perp walk in and through the security area. We spread out around the courtroom, more sparsely seated than most churches on Sunday morning. A man went around collecting our tickets. An officer asked us to watch a film in which a judge advised us of our rights. Then the officer said anyone who wanted to take the Traffic Education Program (TEP) could do so. It would cost $285, take 7 hours online, and require 4 hours of community service, which we could do at our local church. Then the ticket would go away. It was a good deal if you had a four-point ticket. He said he would answer any questions, but could not give legal advice. But he mouthed, “But take the course.” About half of the people raised their hands asking for the application.

The judge walked in. Then came three police officers. Mine was not there! I unfurrowed my brow. The judge was very good at going through the cases. She was patient with the offenders, always explaining their options, never losing her temper even when they asked the same thing four times in a row. Finally, my name was called. I approached the bench. “Mr. Henderson, your officer (she said his name) is not able to be here this morning.” I knew she was going to say, “So we are dismissing your case.” Instead, she said, “You can plead guilty or no contest, and I will reduce your fine by twenty percent. Or you can plead not guilty and come back in September. What do you wish to do?”

I threw myself upon the mercy of the court. “I’m guilty, your honor.” “Okay. Your fine is $61. Have a good day.”

I left the room, did the perp walk to the place where you pay the fine, and gave the City of Columbia $61. I did some quick math as I was walking out. I saved $15 on the fine, but paid $16 for gas driving to Columbia and back.  And I got up at the butt crack of dawn to do it.

Walking through the folks standing around as I headed back to my car, I started singing with the Bobby Fuller Four. Or The Crickets. Or The Clash. “Breaking rocks in the hot sun…”

Again, no one sang along.

In Defense of College

I’ve noticed that our society seems to be turning against students who choose to attend college after high school. Back in ancient times—when I was a teenager and dinosaurs roamed the earth—college was almost assumed. Some students chose technical schools, but most were headed to a four-year campus.

These days, many young people seem more committed to choosing a college football team than choosing a college education. Allegiance to a university can feel like a matter of religious faith, passed down through generations. Choosing a rival school can cause family shock on par with announcing a change of denomination. Thanksgiving dinners are never quite the same again.

One argument I hear often is that college doesn’t make economic sense. The cost of an in-state four-year degree can range widely—often between $48,000 and $180,000 when tuition, housing, and fees are included. It’s true that not every degree produces the same financial return, and student debt is a real concern. Still, while graduates typically earn more than those with only a high school diploma—and often more than many technical certifications—not all benefits of college can be measured in dollars.

College teaches you how to think.

I’ve heard countless people say something like, “Another day gone and I didn’t use trigonometry,” or substitute any least-favorite class. Maybe that’s true on the surface. But education is not only about specific content; it is about learning how to reason, analyze, question, and argue ideas responsibly. Those habits of mind transfer everywhere. And judging by the state of public discourse, they are in short supply.

In the old television series The Paper Chase, the law professor Charles W. Kingsfield Jr., played memorably by John Houseman, tells his students: “You teach yourselves the law, but I train your minds. You come in here with a skull full of mush; you leave thinking like a lawyer.” The line is harsh, but the point stands. Thinking is difficult work—which is exactly why it matters.

College also teaches you how to live with people who are not like you. When you share a dorm, a classroom, or a late-night study table, you encounter different backgrounds, beliefs, and habits. You learn not just to listen, but to understand why others think and act the way they do. That understanding has no direct price tag, but it has enormous civic value.

You learn discipline and delayed gratification. Getting up for class, managing your time, completing assignments, and caring for yourself without constant supervision build habits that last a lifetime. Learning to do the work now instead of postponing it pays steady dividends long after graduation.

Most of all, you learn that you can stand on your own. You learn that you can adapt, struggle, recover, and succeed without a safety net. That confidence—earned, not given—may be the most valuable lesson of all.

College is not the only good path. But it remains a good one—and worth defending.