23 January, 2012 § Leave a comment
“Remind them of these things, and solemnly charge them in the presence of God not to wrangle about words, which is useless and leads to the ruin of the hearers.” -II Timothy 2:14
Often times I am reminded of this verse when I come across an article or a person who is addicted to using words as they would have been used for their original purposes—word hoarders. Words like “Awesome” and “Creative” come to mind, but it’s interesting that more often than not these same people wouldn’t use the words “Faggot” or “Gay” to mean stick and happy—the double standard bothers me. Not that I would prefer the insensitivity and hurt that their consistency would surely cause, but if one is going to let other words move with the times and transform his or her vocabulary for those words, why not for words like “awesome” and “creative”?
While there is merit in “wrangling” about words if the wrangling is for authorial intent, I think that the Apostle Paul wouldn’t be too impressed with some of the pointless word hoarding that goes on in some of our literature and Churches. The limitations of the English language are more clearly known to those who refuse to broaden their vocabularies because of the passage of time and the transformation of a word’s current definition.
4 October, 2010 § Leave a comment
The sight of Crystal Lake in coolness fresh, it overwhelms me.
In Old Vermont, in Irasburg, that’s where I’d like to be.
The Halls of Danville springing alive, in dance and celebration.
In each home a softer glow of warmth and resignation.
The old farm house in Waterford, with Briar and all the cats,
long walks down the leaf strewn road, the attic filled with bats.
Oh to see the reddening leaves of bustling St. J,
The house on Costa Avenue, now empty it does lay.
To sit in Boxcar and Caboose and read to hearts content,
or defy the cold, to Carman’s go and try the Chocolate Mint.
I would like to be there sir, but here I am to be,
And someday I will see again the lake at Willoughby.
For now I reminisce; the sights and sounds of autumn’s breeze,
For certain that of Old Vermont in which I am at ease.
Today is the two year anniversary of this poem that I wrote in Pottersville New York. I still feel the same way, Ohio has a harsher autumn than New York or Vermont.