Language, Language

I say "I'd love to."

My son says, "I'm down with that."

I say, "Cool."

My daughter says, "Sweet."


Ah, language. It is the writer's metaphorical life-force that propels us as we navigate the page. We search, explore, and find surprises that can take us in many directions.  And, we often need look no farther than our immediate family.


My elderly mother tends to speak in "code." If she says, "I had a hard time getting out of bed this morning, it could mean "I was still sleepy," OR "I was dizzy and my heart was racing." 

Last Christmas, she asked my daughter to add a little water to a vase of flowers "when you have time."  My daughter cheerily agreed, and went back to reading her book. Ten minutes later, Mom whispers to me, "She doesn't get to things right away, does she?"  I whispered back, "She doesn't know your code, Mom." She laughed.


My husband teases me about things I say--in pure innocence!--that are unintentionally funny.  For instance, last month I bought a cut of pork butt to make pulled-pork sandwiches. I cooked it in

the crockpot and saved the broth for soup. The night I served the soup, my husband asked what kind it was, to which I replied, "Vegetable. I made it with drippings from a pork butt."


My husband said, "Sounds good."

My teenage son got very still, and with a pained expression said, "Drippings from a pork butt?"


Oops! I realized I was speaking in cook's code.

(For the record, the soup was a hit.)


Switching to writer's code...  The beauty of language is ours for the taking. I, for one, am down with that.









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