Challenging Word of the WeeK: nescience

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Nescience
(NESH uns, -ee, uns) noun

Nescience is ignorance, lack of knowledge. It comes from Late Latin nescientia, based on the prefix ne- (not) plus Latin scienta (knowledge), which gave us our noun science. Nescience is one of a group of words composed of a prefix plus –science; omniscience (om NISH uns — universal knowledge); prescience (PREE shee uns, -shuns, PRESH ee uns, PRESH uns — foreknowledge). All these words have related adjectives: nescient (ignorant), omniscient (all-knowing), prescient (clairvoyant, prophetic). It is the nescience of the masses that permits the rise of demagogues. In Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar (Act 1, Scene 1), the Tribune Marullus, disgusted with the nescient common throng, calls them “You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things…” In these days when reading has so much given way to sitting in front of the boob tube (awake or asleep), nescience is fast becoming epidemic.

My example: Pardon me if I borrow from Will Shakespeare, but I think it would be fitting for the Tribune Marullus to address the nescience of the StarTribune’s editorial staff: “You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things…” Actually, we perhaps need a new word. If omniscient means all-knowing, then couldn’t omnescient refer to people who just think they know it all?

From the book, “1000 Most Challenging Words” by Norman W. Schur, ©1987 by the Ballantine Reference Library, Random House. I post a weekly “Challenging Words” definition to call more attention to this delightful book and to promote interesting word usage in the blogosphere. I challenge other bloggers to work the current word into a post sometime in the coming week. If you manage to do so, please leave a comment or a link to where I can find it. Previous words in this series can be found under the appropriate Category heading in the right-hand sidebar.

Update:

MBMc at Port McClellan offers What Is You, Nescient?.

Things that go “Huh?” in the Night

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Bogus Doug is traveling with his family, including sharing a hotel room with his kids. Having just completed a long trip that included many nights where my wife and I shared a room with our kids, I have learned some interesting things. Such as:

1. Tiger Lilly growls in her sleep. (Really! It was “Grrrrrr” – breathe – “Grrrr” – breathe – “Grrrr”; kind of scary actually, especially since a remake of “The Omen” is out now).

2. The Mall Diva talks in her sleep. And I mean really talks: fully formed sentences, each word clearly enunciated. The statements are completely off the wall, of course, but I guess it’s harmless as long as she doesn’t start using her cell phone in her sleep as well.

Actually, we’ve known about this Diva trait for some time, ever since she was about five years old and got to sleep in the big bed with my wife once while I was out of town. Everything was fine until about 4:00 in the morning when my little one suddenly said, very matter-of-factly, “I need $9,000.”

Needless to say, my wife did NOT go back to sleep after that one.

Filings: The Awakening

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A childhood memory: waking up in the pre-dawn winter hours to the muffled thrumming of my father’s car warming up in the driveway. In my mind I can picture the clouds of crystalline exhaust illuminated by the back porch light. I would lie snug in my bed and listen to the sounds of my father preparing to go to work: his step (the heaviest in the house) in the hallway, the jingle of the dozen or so keys on the big ring on his belt, the clink of a coffee cup being set down on the counter; finally the closing of the back door to mark his passing. It was familiar and unremarkable, and I would go back to sleep.

When I awoke again my mind was filled with my own thoughts and plans for the day. In this time my father owned his own business and was rarely home for supper. My brother and sister and I would eat with our mother, and go about our evening routine. I would often be in bed again when I heard him return. There would be the sounds of my mother frying him a steak, and of talking; their voices distinct, but not the words. Sometimes the tone was obviously my mother reciting the sins of the day, and if they were heinous enough, we would be summoned from our beds for the promised retribution of When Our Father Gets Home.

As a father now myself, I understand how this had to have been as unpleasant for him as it was for us.

During this time our father was a seldom seen force in our lives, operating outside our understanding, toward ends unknown. We would see him mostly on Sundays, and there was a feeling of awkwardness as if none of us were quite certain about how we should act. And yet there was always food on the table, a comfortable house, and clothes for every season, even though we gave little thought, or saw little connection, to how these things came to be.

It wasn’t until I was 11 or 12 and old enough to go to work with my father that I really started to get to know him, and learn what a just and wonderful man he was. I admit he never seemed to be at a loss for things for me to do: pick up rocks and litter, sweep the drive, clean the restrooms for the rest of the workers and the guests. As I learned more about how to please him, my responsibilities and privileges grew. I came to know the special feeling of joining him in the early morning while everyone else was asleep as we got ready to go to “our” work.

I realize that not everyone has had that kind of relationship with their father. There are men I’ve come to know well who I have ministered with who have horrific tales of growing up with their fathers – if the father was even around at all. But let me tell you something I have learned: the way I got to know my father is very similar to the way that I came to know God the Father.

In my early days, God, like my father, was an unseen presence operating just at the edge of my senses. I knew He was out there, but I didn’t know the connection between Him and the blessings in my life. My family would take me to church on Sunday, but just like with my own father, this was strange and uncomfortable, and I wasn’t really sure how I was supposed to act.

I’d hear the sermons and see God as some Great Hairy Thunderer, appearing suddenly to mete out some punishment and then disappearing until the next time, just like my father did when we had to get out of bed those times. Looking at it now, I see how much like a priest or minister my mother was. She was the contact between us kids and my dad, giving us a picture of him as she communicated his rules and assignments, waiting on him in the hours when we were asleep and oblivious. I knew of him, but I didn’t have a personal relationship with him until I began to align myself with the things that were important to him – in the same way my personal relationship with God developed.

And just like starting out with my father, I started out with God by doing the little things. Picking up, helping out, cleaning toilets. As I learned – and continue to learn – how to please Him, my responsibilties have also grown (though there are still opportunities to pick up, help out and clean toilets).

When I was a child, it never occurred to me that my father ever thought of me during the day or into those long night hours. Now I understand that what he did he did for me and my brother and sister, so that we could have security and an education and the things he thought we needed to be successful in our lives, whether we noticed or understood his sacrifice or not. I have peace knowing that the decisions he made were, if not always the best, were always his best.

Likewise it never occurred to me that God ever thought of me, or had a plan for me. How he must have waited in anticipation for me to recognize the sacrifice He made for me, the gifts he gave me, the security He gave me, the future He gave me. Ultimately, the job He gave me.

And while He has shown me how my relationship with Him and with my father have been similar, I know that His plan for me was unchanged, regardless of what my father did or didn’t do. Perhaps my childhood experiences were better than some people’s and worse than some others. I could ask, “Where would I be today if I had grown up with a father like one of the men I mentioned earlier had? Where would he be today if he had had my father? Somehow or another I think we’d be exactly where we both are today, side by side, doing what we’re doing, not in spite of our fathers but because of Our Father Who Art in Heaven.

Don’t let bitterness, anger or frustration at what you had or didn’t have growing up hold you back from what God has – even if (especially if) your natural father is long dead. Don’t say, “Well, he made me this way,” when He has made you to be the light of the world. God the Father has a plan for each of us, something to impart to us, and something for us to impart to those coming after us. Listen for His footsteps, watch for His blessings, get up early in the morning and meet Him. There is much work to be done.

One ringy-dingy

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I finally got a new cell phone. It came just a few days before we left for England so I haven’t had a lot of time to get used to it. In fact, after the long break I wasn’t even sure what an incoming call sounded like.

The other evening though, as I was walking across Hennepin Avenue after work, this funky, salsa-style tune starts chirping from somewhere. I half-roll my eyes at the small group of strangers crossing the street with me, wondering who would have such an annoying ring-tone. After noticing that no one was fumbling for their phone I realized the tune was coming from my own briefcase. Oh. Well. Let’s bailar!

I’m of the opinion that musical cellphone ringtones are like farts: a necessary and important function, but they ought to be as unobtrusive as possible when out in public. And never in church.

Yes, technology is a wonderful thing and people should be congratulated for their cleverness in pushing the creative envelope and developing new revenue streams for Verizon and T-Mobile and any other consolidation survivors out there, but, like flatulence, there are narrow windows of appropriateness. When you’re by yourself, feel free to curl the wallpaper if you must, or indulge in the ringtone equivalent: a few bars of “Who Let the Dogs Out.” When you’re in public though, please have a little consideration and self-control; if not out of respect for others, at least for yourself. Sure, you might like the song “It’s Hard Out Here for a Pimp”, but if you were one of those people next to me on Hennepin Avenue the other day and I heard that come out of your phone I might feel compelled to call the police (not that you’d have much to worry about with Amy Klobuchar in office).

Something else this reminds me of is when telephone answering machines first came out. Everyone wanted to play with this new toy and show off their creativity by creating a two-minute poetic rambling just to say “leave a message,” or else gave in to the preciousness of letting their three-year-old record the nearly unintelligble message. (If you were one of those who did this and were wondering who all the hang-up calls were coming from, it was me.) Similarly, today it’s hard to resist the temptation to be cute. While it might be funny the first twenty or thirty times I receive a call from my daughter to the tune of “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” (or for her to get a call from me with the lyrics from “Papa Don’t Preach”) the novelty will soon wear off, leaving those in the vicinity to wonder about my home life.

It amazes me how people who would never dream of having a bumper sticker on their car are readily downloading musical ringtones that say just as much about them to total strangers (hmmm, I wonder what’s the ringtone equivalent of “What Would Wellstone Do?”) I don’t want to dismiss this phenomenon entirely, though. I think there is a useful application that the developers are so far missing: Monty Python snippets.

For example, if they mayor ever got my cell phone number it would be handy to hear, “Hello, I’d like to have an argument, please” whenever he rang me up. Or, “Four hours to bury a cat?” when my boss called. All other general purpose calls could be simply, and briefly, announced with, “Nee!”

I think I’ll suggest this to the bright boys and girls developing these things. I only hope that doing so won’t take too much time away from their efforts to find a cure for cancer.

Where’s My Weetabix?

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While we were staying in Quilty, Ireland, I discovered my new favorite breakfast item: Weetabix. It’s a gray brick and looks kind of like the pellets we feed to our guinea pig………never mind.

Anyway, you just put it in your bowl and pour some milk on it like normal cereal. It soaks up the milk just like a sponge! Don’t pour too much milk, though, or it gets all soggy and nasty. Then sprinkle several tablespoons of sugar on top and you’re good to go!

Or if you want to be unconventional, I guess you could dip it in your morning cup o’ joe or Mountain Dew, but that would be weird.

But now I have a dilemma because I don’t know where to get my Weetabix fix, so I’m sending out a plea for help:

Does anyone know where in the Twin Cities I can get the weety goodness before I go through withdrawal?

Challenging Word of the WeeK: meliorism

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Meliorism
(MEEL yuh riz um, MEE lee uh-) noun

Meliorism is the belief that everything tends to get better and better. One who lives by this doctrine is a meliorist (MEEL yuh rist, MEE lee uh-). These words are derived from Latin melior (better), the comparitive of bonus (good). The superlative is optimus (best), which gave us optimism and optimist. It may be hard to find much difference between the attitudes of meliorists and optimists, but the English novelist George Eliot (1819-1880) did find a shade of difference: The English poet A.E. Housman (1859-1936) wrote, in an autobiographical note: “I am not a pessimist but a pejorist (as George Eliot said she was not an optimist but a meliorist)…” In Latin, pejor means “worse” and pessimus means “worst.” A pejorist (whose doctrine is known as pejorism) believes that everything is getting worse; a pessimist thinks that it’s all going to be as bad as possible: superlatively bad, shall we say, in this atomic age? In any event, George Eliot thought that the world was going to get better – but not as good as possible; and that is the fine difference between meliorism and optimism. Other words from melior are ameliorate (uh MEEL yuh rate, -ee uh-), to improve; amelioration (uh meel yuh RAY shun), improvement generally, but with a special use in linguistics: semantic change to a better, i.e., more favorable meaning, the way Okie, once a pejorative term for a migrant farm worker, usually from Oklahoma, became merely a colloquial nickname for any Oklahoman, and exactly opposite to the way egregious (from Latin egregius, extraordinary, preeminent, based on prefix e-, out of, plus grege, a form of grex, herd, i.e., out of the herd) changed from preeminent to glaring, flagrant, notorious, as in an egregious blunder. But caution: meliority (meel YOR ih tee, mee lee OR-) hs nothing to do with attitudes about which way the world is moving; it is only an uncommon synonym for superiority.

My example: The death of Al-Zarqawi inspired meliorism in almost everyone except the media, members of the Democratic Party leadership and other professional pejorists.

From the book, “1000 Most Challenging Words” by Norman W. Schur, ©1987 by the Ballantine Reference Library, Random House. I post a weekly “Challenging Words” definition to call more attention to this delightful book and to promote interesting word usage in the blogosphere. I challenge other bloggers to work the current word into a post sometime in the coming week. If you manage to do so, please leave a comment or a link to where I can find it. Previous words in this series can be found under the appropriate Category heading in the right-hand sidebar.

Cleaning out the camera

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We’ve been back from our trip for almost a week and it’s time to finally close up the travelogue. Below are a collection of previously unpublished photos selected from the 899 that we took over the course of the trip. (Really, it was 899! If I’d realized that it was that number I would have taken one more just to round it off!)

The places you go, the people you meet

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I wasn’t just gone to foreign lands the last three weeks; it felt like I was in a different world altogether. In those three weeks I read two newspapers, both of them English tabloids I picked up from chairs in airport waiting areas. Except for two nights in Ireland when the girls watched “X Factor” (an “American Idol” type of competition) we never turned a television on. Occasionally in pubs or restaurants I could see a big screen tv showing sports highlights that looked very ESPN-like, except that the highlights were soccer, rugby or cricket. When I was able to get internet access I spent most of the time uploading posts to my own blog and couldn’t browse around to find out what people were talking about.

And yet somehow the world kept turning, despite my ignorance — and inability to comment. Despite that I did learn that the world can be a pretty friendly place. Aside from our professionally friendly (and always helpful) hosts at the various B&Bs we stayed at, I was regularly approached by others throughout the trip who struck up conversations, including the fellow in Ireland I mentioned earlier who had once lived just a few blocks from my house in South St. Paul.

During our last couple of days on the farm in Tuscany I met Leonhard who arrived with a group of Swedes for a week of sunshine. I met him when he and his wife were touring the grounds and came across me in the laundry cave. In a short time we had exchanged the details of our respective trips, other trips we’d been on and points of interest in the area. Leonhard also seemed very happy to have gotten a rather severe looking sunburn on his chest and face in just one afternoon, and found my trips back and forth the washing machine amusing. At one point he asked me why I didn’t just throw the dirty clothes away and buy new ones. I told him that in America that’s what we always do but when I travel I like to try and live like the common people we visit. He had a large laugh over that one.

Laundry also brought me into contact with some other nice people. It was in Carlisle, near the Scottish border where we were staying at a B&B that was more like a hotel. We had driven all day from the Cotswalds in stop and go traffic to get there and I still needed to find a laundromat or else fashion kilts from bath towels for everyone the next day. The lodge graciously allowed me to use their washing machine and dryer, which was in a little room next to its lounge. It had been a long, frustrating day and I still had a few hours of laundry to do, but this situation was significantly improved by discovering that the lounge had a very fine collection of single malt whiskeys, including a fine Isle of Jura that was more than old enough to be out that late.

After I got the first load of clothes started I treated myself to a wee dram of this golden elixir with just two small icecubes, but first I positioned myself on a comfy couch, plugged my laptop in and got it started, and then, drawing out the suspense, took that first, slow sip, letting it amble warmly over my tongue. I must have even closed my eyes because I was startled when a voice near me said, “I bet you rather enjoyed that.”

Looking up I saw a couple named David and Jan beaming at me from their own comfy chairs. I admitted that, yes indeed, I had enjoyed that very much. They were from Wales and David was on his way to meet with a group of friends to play golf around Scotland, including a tee-time at St. Andrews, but at the New Course (which was just laid down in the 1800s). “Oh yes,” I said, “The New Course. I hear it will be very nice when it finally grows in.”

It was fun to talk to another golf enthusiast, though I told them I didn’t know much about Wales outside of some Max Boyce “Live at Treorchy” rugby songs and the movie “Zulu.” Turns out they also have that album and like that movie, though David can’t abide the song “Men of Harlech” that the Welshmen sing during the movie. Still, it was appropriate for us to caterwaul our way through a short chorus of Boyce’s “The Scottish Trip” (since that’s what we all were on). This was remarkably easy for me to do because the Jura was bestowing magical properties and because David may well be the only Welshman who cannot sing. A couple of days later my family and I bumped into Jan while touring Stirling castle. We were surprised to see each other again, and she commented on it being a small world. “Well, it certainly is a small island, at any rate!” I replied.

The whole family also enjoyed a pleasant evening in the Cotswalds when we had dinner at the Lygon Arms in the town of Chipping Campden. We sat down to eat at about the same time as a family next to us which consisted of husband, wife, daughter and two in-laws. A little ways into our meal the husband struck up a conversation and our families discussed our trips. They were visiting the Cotswalds on their way to a vacation in Portugal, and I said we were on our way to Carlisle and then to Scotland. It turned out that his family was all from the Carlisle area and they gave us some good tips on where to stay. During dessert he asked if he could buy us a drink and we said we’d enjoy a coffee with our dessert, which he happily took care of. When I asked the waitress later for our check she said our entire bill had already been settled by the gentleman at the next table.

We were very surprised and appreciative, but he shrugged it off saying, “It cost a lot less to feed you than my lot, believe me.” I asked if I could know his name and he said it was Edward Stobart. As we were leaving his father-in-law said we’d see that name a lot the next day, especially as we got near Carlisle. “About every third lorrie you see on the motorway will say ‘Eddie Stobart’ on it,” he said. It turns out that Eddie Stobart, LTD is not only the U.K.’s largest independent logistics company, it has its own fan club of people who watch for the distinctively liveried trucks, with each cab named bearing a woman’s name. To us, however, they were just a down-to-earth family that we enjoyed talking to about kids, movies, scenery and traffic. (And I ordered a model of one their trucks from the Stobart web-site as a souvenir.)

I also greatly enjoyed talking to our host in Italy, Francesco; the McDougals – a lovely older couple in Inverness who were right out of Brigadoon; Christopher and Vreni at Bran Mill Cottage B&B in the Cotswalds; and of course John and Maire Daly in Ireland who I mentioned in an earlier post.

All in all I’d have to say that even though I didn’t have much access to the media while we traveled, I was far from being disconnected.