Carolyn
J. Rose
Recently
Mike asked me the meaning of “lugubrious.”
Thanks
to my favorite high school English teacher, Miss Smith, I didn’t hesitate
before saying “mournful.”
The next
day he wondered about the meaning of “avuncular.”
Piece of
cake.
“An
uncle,” I replied, “or someone like an uncle.”
I could
almost see the words on those tiny flash cards we made by slicing up index
cards. Five words a day. The word written on one side of the cardlet and the
definition on the other. Quizes every Friday. Spell the word. Define the word.
Use the word in a sentence. Rinse and repeat.
We used
rubber bands to hold the cardlets together but, after a few weeks, the stacks
got too large for one band. I broke my cardlets up into two stacks—words I was
sure of and words I was sure I’d never learn.
During
passing times on Fridays it was a snap to tell which students had Miss Smith—to
this day I can’t think of her as Miriam—and who had a teacher who didn’t place
as much emphasis on the Latin roots of words and what they all meant. Miss
Smith’s students were flipping through their stacks of cardlets as they walked,
lips moving as they recited, foreheads creased in worried frowns.
She was
a demanding drill sergeant of a teacher. At the same time, she was also loved
and admired. I didn’t want to disappoint her.
Only
occasionally did I get a perfect score on the weekly quizzes or the larger
tests. Something always tripped me up. Usually the spelling. An I before an E.
An E tacked onto the end of a word or taking the place of an A.
But,
like song lyrics from the same period (the early 60s) the meanings of many of
those words have stuck with me. Granted, I don’t often get called upon to act
as a walking, talking dictionary. But when I do, an image of Miss Smith forms
in my mind. She’s wearing a white blouse, a dark straight skirt with a muted
pattern, and black heels. She gives me a nod of approval. I toss back a nod of
thanks.
