by Linda, Alan
So when someone says, “That guy is hell on wheels,” they’re not talking about the way he drives, they’re connecting him to the behavior generally seen only at the end of the line, where hell on wheels was.
When the end of the line moved on, which it did every month or so, hell moved with it, in wagons. On wheels.
If someone tells you that you don’t have a Chinaman’s chance in hell of doing something, then what you should do is make tracks out of there. Maybe on another day, you’ll be riding the gravy train again. If you try to do it anyway, maybe you’ll go to hell in a hand basket. That saying came from the hand-woven wicker baskets that the Chinamen slung from ropes down the cliffs of the Rockies. As they hung there, they hammered holes in the granite and packed them with black powder, hoping that the fuse was long enough and that someone pulled them up quickly enough. Hell in a hand basket. I guess so.
The Romans drove horse-drawn chariots that left ruts a certain width apart all over Europe. When better carriages were built, later on, they were of course built to fit the ruts that the Romans left in the roads. Building horse-drawn carriages became a major industry, so when railroad cars and locomotives were first built, the axles were of course built to the same size as the carriages, which were the same size as the Roman chariots.
When the United States built its railroads, well, I guess you know why our rails are the same distance apart as a Roman chariot. The next time you walk over a railroad track, remember another expression: When in Rome, do as the Romans do.
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English: Hooker and Colonel
The English language is endlessly fascinating because of the origin of its words. Here are two I just came across. They both came from the Civil war.
Union General Joseph Hooker, an 1837 graduate of West Point, is credited with a successful reorganization of the Union cavalry, which was charged with the responsibility of “disrupting” Confederate General Robert E. Lee’s supply line. The person put in charge of this first effort was Colonel Hugh Judson Kilpatrick.
Col. Kilpatrick returned from that first circular sweep through Dixie with every cow, pig, chicken, and bag of grain in their path, which allowed the Union army to advance far ahead of its supply line. This “foraging” will lead us directly to our first word.
General William T. Sherman, who became notorious as the instigator of “Sherman’s Raiders,” due to his order for the Cavalry—which he now commanded—to show South Carolina how he, Gen. Sherman, felt about them being the first to secede from the Union. “Let this march be one of the most horrible things in the history of the world.” With that, his cavalry units, one of them headed by Kilpatrick, another of them headed by George Custer, tore through the countryside, leaving a path of destruction behind them.
“How shall I let you know where we are?” Kilpatrick once asked of Sherman. Sherman’s replay: “Burn a town. We’ll see the smoke.” Kilpatrick’s unit amongst all the cavalry units was without doubt the worst of them all at completely stripping the local population, including blacks, of everything of any value. They collected everything from silverware to silver buttons to fine dresses and bedding. A Union lieutenant wrote back to his wife: “Fine gold watches, silver pitchers, cups, spoons and forks are as common in our camp as blackberries. I have about a quart of rings, earrings, breastpins…for you and the girls.”
General Sherman’s personal take from the pillaging of South Carolina’s towns and countryside was huge. The Union lieutenant above wrote: “Gen. Sherman has silver and gold enough to start a bank. His share of gold watches alone at just the sacking of Columbia, South Carolina, was 275.” After all the valuables were collected, Columbia was burned to the ground.
(It isn’t hard to see why the South hated the North for so long. One person described that all he saw after the Civil War ended was an endless number of brick chimneys extending up from piles of ashes.)
As to his part, Col. Custer was eventually relieved of his command because of his apparent inability to either follow orders or use basic military sense during battle.
The booty that the raiders collected each day was distributed to all the men in the command as follows. One-fifth, the finest choice, fell to the share of the commander and his staff, one-fifth to the field officers of the regiment, and three-fifths to the men of the company. This three-fifths was distributed by nightly auctions, where the soldiers bid on the items they wanted to buy. This “sale” was thus in the form of an auction, and was led by the commander of the regiment, who was always a colonel.
That explains why today’s auctioneers still retain the honorary title of “colonel.”
As to our next word, Union General Hooker, whom we mentioned first up above, may not have been anything above average as a military strategist, but morale in his unit was the highest of any unit, due to the number of women in his camp. He was renowned for his preference for liquor and ladies. “His headquarters,” according on one historian, “was a place where no self-respecting man could go, and where no lady could go.”
Col. Kilpatrick himself, perhaps inspired by Gen. Hooker’s example, had audaciously brought two black women into his tent to serve, he said, as his “cooks.” The camps buzzed with gossip about Col. Kilpatrick’s sexual exploits with his cooks. Both Kilpatrick’s and Hooker’s camps soon attracted a substantial number of women of either ill repute, or southern women whose husbands had been killed in the war and whose homes had been burned to the ground. It must have seemed to these women that the only safe place left in the world was with these “conquerors.”
So many women accumulated that they became known as Hooker’s women. And that is where the term “hooker” came from.
Now you know.
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Finnglish
The English language, about which I have written intensely, never fails to enchant me, especially up here on the northern end of the great rural American prairie. That’s because, around here, you have to stay alert for Finnglish, which is a hybrid cross between English and Finnish that is heard quite often. (Less now. Those old timers have left us, and everyone else didn’t get it that language like this is neat.)
Before those of you with Finnish roots gets his or her knickers bunched up about how the Finnish live in Finland and not here, yes. I know. Nonetheless, a good Finlander can live in either place. It is, after all, much easier to say “Finlander” than it is to say “someone of Finnish language-speaking origins.” English is about easier, which is why all is welcome in this language.
On the other hand, speaking true “Finlander” isn’t easy. So in case you visit around here and need to understand the spoken dialect, I’ve compiled a dictionary to help foreigners—anyone from some other town—understand the spoken words.
To truly speak Finlander, please remember that p’s, b’s, t’s, and w’s and v’s can at random be used interchangeably, one for the other. Also, the first syllable of all Finnish words must be emphasized and drawn out and given great respect.
Here are some of the words I’ve learned:
Cawfiah: (caaaaaa-fiah) Local hot drink, used as a tranquilizer and mood leveler. To drink it properly, it must be first poured into a saucer. Then, the drinker must take one sugar cube and insert it in his or her mouth, through which the first swallow is filtered, after which the sugar cube is swallowed. Spilling is prohibited under the waste not want not proverb.
Furthermore, caaaaaaa-fiah is a lie serum in some locations, as in the local restaurant, where no one who consumes it can utter a whole truth, tranked to the gills as they are, usually. The good news is that everyone else is just as tranked, so no one cares about the truth.
Line: What cafiah often makes you do. Example: Ole is line now, and he’s been line just about his entire life, especially when he drinks cafia.
Noose: Something just told to you that you didn’t know a minute ago, probably by some one
with whom you were drinking tranquilizers, as in, no noose is good noose.
Wetter: Also pronounced “wedder,” and sometimes “weffer.” Wedder is what’s happening outside, meteorologically. For example, the wedder today is cloudy with a chance of rain, waitress, bring us another round of cafia.
Swatter: A machine used by Finlander farmers for putting hay and grain in a windrow. In other parts of the world, this is called a swather. It cannot be used when the wedder is raining, or during cafia breaks.
Wary: An adverb indicating an extreme something. For example, this cafia is wary good. Or, when it’s forty below in the winter, the wedder is wary cold.
Bat: Opposite of good, as in, bat wedder.
Verse: To become more batter, as in, the wedder is verse now than it vas a while ago. Fooey!
Bret: Something from which you make a sannich.
Sannich: Two slices of bret. Makes a wery good sannich.
Budder: What you put on a sannich.
Letter: What your boots are made of.
Prick: A small building block made of hard clay. Since most small town’s structures are built with these things, descriptions of buildings are often misinterpreted as character dispersions, and foreigners should avoid talking about them, lest the natives think you’re talking about them. Let pricks be pricks, I always say.
I was in the hardware store one day and an elderly Finnish lady walked in, came up to me, and asked if I had any flatlights. She had quite a lisp on the “f” sound, I noticed, but I shook off the spray and led her over to a display of fluorescent lights that are flat and fasten up over the kitchen sink.
“No!” she strongly spat, and I was glad she was short. I took that blast pretty much in the chest, and led her over to the outdoor section, where some more flattish camping lamps were located.
“No!” once again she lisped, repeating the word “Flatlite! Flatlite!” Then she stomped out.
Someone else came in immediately after she left and asked me: “Did Sadie find a flashlight she was happy with?”
Oh. Um. No.
One should always learn the native language.
I looked at him and asked, “Cafia?”
And across the street to the restaurant we went.
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Chapter 4
Young Girls
Rituals
Pulling 15’s Leg
Girls: Moons
Girls: Twits, Flat as the Walls
Clothing War
Prom Night
Spilled Chickens
Little Red Car
GaGa
Grandkids: Eleven’s Lesson
Rituals
Throughout history, a great deal has been written about different cultures and their various rites of passage for males. “His-tory,” that kind of explains that.
For instance in American Indian tribes, it was considered a test of your manly abilities to camp out in thick woods and shoot your first bear, then to go without food until you were dizzy and had strange dreams. Maybe then they’d let you hang up in the air by ropes attached to wooden splinters fastened through your chest muscles.
That was nothing. The rites of passage that are required of today’s society of The Tribe of Girls are far worse than bad dreams and hanging by your chest hairs.
Years ago, I decided to dedicate the rest of my life to getting intimately acquainted with a Tribe of Girls. To do that, I gained the trust of one of them by wining and dining several of them, and sending them flowers and chocolates. None of them trusted me. It took me a long time to find one that did. The Girls of the Tribe are smart, and I think that They were onto me. It took me a long time to find one that wasn’t.
Except in retrospect, it only now is occurring to me that She probably was, and I didn’t know it.
Back when this all started, there were grants to study wolves. There were none for studying Tribes of Girls. I thought that was because no one was interested. Time has shown me that there was interest, but studying wolves just seemed safer. Had I stuck with studying wolves, I’d have saved a bunch of money on flowers and candy. Plus, a couple of chunks of red meat would have been cheaper than all those dinners I paid for.
It did take me a long time to find the Female; it took thirty years, matter of fact. There were a lot of Girls out there to check out, and it was slow work, because the Female of the species is pretty suspicious, I’ll tell you. Finally, I managed to grab onto one of the apparently well-qualified Females available, and marry her before she got away.
I had to wine her. I had to dine her, and give her pretty words and flowers, until she seemed to like me. I hoped, through her, to study the rest of The Tribe of Girls.
I set out to trap her, and soon found myself trapped instead. One day I was a scientist studying them, and the next, I was helplessly held in a spell-trap she had placed on me, confined to her tipi.
Several years went by, during which I believe I was under the influence of drugs, which she laced the food she gave me with. When she was done with me, which I know she was because suddenly her cooking went south, I awoke and found that I was surrounded by my own Tribe of Girls--The Old Girl, and three Young Girls. She had drugged me and used me to start her own Tribe of Girls. This was one formidable creature. I never saw it coming.
In the tipi in which they confine me, time has taught me that truly understanding them is proving to be far more difficult than I had earlier estimated. Although I have gained their trust to the point at which I am allowed to watch some of their minor ceremonies and unique ordeals and tests, I’m pretty much out of it.
Some of their rites I have actually observed, some I can only speculate about. I see daily evidence of their secret goings-on, and must infer behavior traits from that evidence. I have, for instance, been vehemently denied any participation in something called “Searching for a Training Brah.” They also go on frequent “Lingerie Hunts.” They all return from that one totally exhausted. Of course, anyone would, since this hunt occurs in a particularly vicious place called a “Maul.”
It’s been seventeen years of my cautiously letting them get to know me, and finally, the other day, my Tribe of Girls gave me one of my greatest thrills by lowering their guard and letting me observe—“Remember, you cannot utter on single, solitary word!”—a ritual called the “Merry Khay Makeover.”
It was awful. I don’t know how they could endure it. First, a medicine woman from some other Tribe came with a huge container of secret tools and herbs. Then they all sat at the kitchen table and pulled their long hair back and fastened it by driving steel pins into their scalp. That, judging by their grimaces, must have truly hurt.
After a prolonged period of pinching and squeezing each other’s faces with wooden sticks and bristly brushes, they went at each other’s eyes with black mud and metal pinchers. All during this procedure, they complained stoically about why Tribes of Girls all have to go through this torture.
Next, no doubt to staunch the bleeding, they plastered a mask made of some kind of magic white clay all over their faces, leaving only their eyes peering helplessly out. As the mask dried and turned into concrete, there was a lot of groaning and more than once, one of them asked: “When in Hell is this stuff coming off?” As the concrete dried and shrank, it pulled their lips into a sneering smile. They could hardly talk.
They laughed a lot while all this was going on, to show their bravery while enduring this agony. They are indeed a brave Tribe.
When the shrinking concrete had nearly pulled their lips right off their faces, they peeled a bit of the concrete mask up at the edge, and yanked the whole thing off, yelping with pain. Then they put different colors of magic clay on their eyes and cheeks and lips. Some of the clay was blue; some was red. I’d guess it was concocted of berries and herbs. I can only guess, because they wouldn’t tell me. When
I asked, they pretended like they didn’t know. Even the visiting medicine woman clammed right up and became very evasive about the clay’s origins. It must be some powerful stuff.
Some of the colors were so garish and so horribly indescribable that I could only guess they put it on to scare away the demons that force Tribes of Girls to put themselves through this rite of passage. They must be scary demons. I was scared. I found it extremely upsetting the way they spread this stuff all over themselves.
Just when I though they were finished, they started poking themselves in the eyes again.
I secretly observed all this for about an hour. When they started talking about removing the hairs from their legs, I lost my appetite for any further research, and I left.
I should have studied a wolf pack.
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Pulling 15’s Leg
Children grow up. We spend the first several years of their lives in a hurry for them to act their age, and the next several years regretting it. As they grow up, one of the problems of parenting is putting enough tension on the rope to hold them in the nest and out of harm’s way, yet letting enough slack in the rope to let them find their wings with a minimum of danger.
15, our oldest daughter, had been out with her girlfriends the night before, one of whom—this is where the “slack” part comes—had her driver’s license. They went to a movie and were home quite early, so her mother and I, who were basking in the post-traumatic complacency of a fledgling’s first successful flight, were suddenly alarmed the next day at the dinner table to hear the following tale unfold.
I’m telling it so that those of you now with similar-aged children may be warned. Perhaps this telling will help you avoid what we had to go through. For those parents for whom this is too late, I extend the shared sympathy of mutual experience, the empathy of overall understanding, and the frustration of knowing that you have very little hope of controlling what happens to your kids once they’re out of the nest.