It seems woefully apropos to quote Robert Burns this week. In “To a Mouse”, Scotland’s national poet wrote this in 1785:.
“The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men, oft go awry, an’ leave us nothing by grief and pain, for promis’d joy!" I am left wondering, perchance, if Poet Burns was ever disappointed by an Icelandic volcano named Eyjafjallajökull
The cry of “bingo!” resounded through the 2nd floor Simoni Room as it does nearly every Tuesday night at the Norwood Library. A dozen or so adults of all ages and abilities meet weekly to match wits and pursue a passion for Scrabble.
For those unfamiliar with the lingo, a bingo occurs when a player uses all seven of his or her tiles simultaneously to form a word on the board, earning a 50-point bonus.
And, at the Morrill Memorial Library, usually a round of applause as well.
These folks take their Scrabble seriously.
Yes, birdwatchers are curious creatures aware of birds but often oblivious to the rest of the world around them. We had a friend who lived on the island who had taken a shower and walked naked through her living room not realizing the picture window shades were open. Did the birders notice or even bat an eyelash? Nope – they were obviously watching for some elusive gnatcatcher, or warbler, or wren in the bushes.
Excerpt:That simple poem of mine was a celebration of pride, of sibling love and was an example of the pure delight in the miracles around me. A decade later, however, my poetry was full of girlhood angst and suggested an adolescence that was overflowing with the turmoil of the 1960s.
That po etry, nevertheless, helped to get me admitted to the best university in my universe, Cal Berkeley. It was the era just past Beatnik, halfway through the hippie-movement and full swing into California sun worship, college rioting and the Vietnam War. A poet’s heaven.
I’m grateful that my teachers and my family encouraged me to write poetry. In the years that followed, college papers and other communication replaced my poetic impulses. I often miss that rare extravagance of my childhood.
Several weeks ago, my eldest daughter had one of the most important interviews of her life. For 12 hours I stayed at the acceptable mother-distance (while somehow managing to hold my breath at the same time). When I couldn’t stand the suspense any longer, in my I’m-a-digital-not-overbearing-Mom kinda way, I sent her a simple text.
How’d it go, I asked.
Her reply? One word: “Meh.”
Meh? What did “meh” mean? Could it mean “my ego hyperventilates” or “Mom, enough hysteria?” I’ve been struggling with 21st Century acronyms for some time now. I’ve always thought I was tech-savvy. However, I found out that I was an undereducated digital immigrant over a decade ago when I thought LOL meant lots of love. I was finally told LOL meant laughing out loud by my youngest daughter who was, appropriately, laughing out loud.
So, what is meh, I asked my husband. Fortunately, he knew enough to consult the online Urban Dictionary to calm my fears and assuage my ego. Meh, he explained, is a verbal shrug of the shoulders which also means “eh, who cares?” Oh, okay, that explains it. Not.