Dave Wood 

The BW and I recently celebrated our 53^rd wedding anniversary, which is amazing for me to ponder, especially since I made a dreadful mistake on our 12^th, which threatened to undo the marriage then and there. Thereby hangs the following tale.

At that time I was a callow young whippersnapper, fortunate enough to have gotten a job as a book reviewer, and by happenstance, I reviewed a new book about the making of the Oxford English Dictionary (known in the crossword puzzle world as the “OED,” the monumental ten-volume book about appropriate usage of the English language).

In my column I mentioned that I sure would like to give a set to my Beautiful Wife, who happened to be studying for her Ph.D. At the University of Minnesota. We were soon to celebrate a wedding anniversary, and I thought, academic that she aspired to be, she would love to own this treasured set. Soon after, I received a call from a wealthy dowager in Wayzata to tell me she enjoyed reading my O.E.D review and said she possessed TWO sets of the famous project, and she had room on her shelves for only one copy. “My husband didn't know I owned the original edition, so he gave me another published in 1937. I've never even opened a volume of this newer edition, and it’s yours if you'll come out and pick it up.”

TWO sets, talk about conspicuous consumption, thought I, an ink-stained wretch from the local newspaper, who couldn't even afford a condensed one volume edition. Ah, but it would be great to rub elbows and erasers with the Rich and Famous.

I told the dowager that I'd be right out in my ancient 1970 Olds 88, if it would start. I made it through her gates, and she graciously had the beautifully bound volumes boxed up for me. I took them home to my humble abode in south Minneapolis, for I had plans. Big plans.

For on the following weekend I planned to take my B.W. to celebrate our anniversary in St. Cloud, where restaurants and motels are cheaper than in the Mill City, and present her with a very big, very expensive present. After a lovely candle-lit dinner at one of Stearns County's finest night clubs, we motored to a motel, where I presented B.W. with her ten-volume present all boxed and ready to peruse.

B.W., I'm sad to report, was underwhelmed. Close to tears, she explained that she had expected something more appropriate to her present situation, “something I can use for my current pursuits,” I believe she said. “Haven’t you noticed how frustrated I am, always looking for meanings of contemporary jargon that I can never find in our pathetic little old Webster’s?”

So much for a great celebration, ah those many years ago.

Disappointed, but not daunted, I threw the boxes into the trunk of the 70 Oldsmobile, hauled them home and not knowing what to do with them, but put them in our modest library. They’ve now resided in our library in River Falls, untouched and unloved these many decades.

Until last Sunday. B.W. returned home after attending a new play at the Guthrie Theatre set in the 17^th century (z-z-z-z) in which two famous rival playwrights, Christopher Marlowe and William Shakespeare debate about writing a play together for 90 minutes (z-z-z-z).

“How was the play, my love?” asked I.

“Sort of boring,” replied the L.O.L. (no, not Land O' Lakes! I mean “Love Of my Life!”)

“I just can't understand why you and your pals keep going to the Guthrie.....”

“Hold on,” she interrupted. “The Guthrie gave us these neat programs about the play and its language and even included a game, which we can play. During the play, Shakespeare and Marlowe spent most of their time hurling insults at each other, and the game is a catalog of 17^th century epithets in use during that time, but with no 20th century translations.”

“Good grief! That's a game? What do we know about 17^th century English?”

“Don't you see my pet,” she replied. “We have the O.E.D.,” and she grabbed one of the dust-covered volumes and began to translate 17^th century words into their modern equivalents.

“For instance, if you  should call me, '’Thou Bootless Beetle-Headed Bladder,' I could look up those words in the in this old dictionary under Volume B and find out what you meant to say in 21^st century English.....'”

“And that would be.....?”

“You Useless, Scurrying Pimple'”!!!!

“Let's try one more,” said M.B. (My Beloved). “If you called me ‘Thou Craven-Clawed Bug-Bear,’ I would be able to find out you really meant 'You Contemptibly Timid Soured-milk Goblin.' These books are really going to come in handy, for I'll be able to brush up my Shakespeare, and brush you off the face of the earth, you reechy, horn-mad March-child,” concluded the Love of my Life. I held out some hope that the last two referred to my passion for playing Sousa on the tuba, but she confessed the last one only meant that I was a terrible conformist. And the first two, better left unsaid.

“Brush up your Shakespeare!

Start quoting him now!

Brush up your Shakespeare—

And the women you will wow!”

               - from Kiss me, Kate

                   by Cole Porter

I guess not every woman!

Dave would like to hear from you. Phone him at 715-426-9554.   

P.S. Ruth wanted me to mention an entertaining new novel, “The Dictionary of Lost Words,” which tells the lively story of the workshop and its employees who spent decades compiling and editing the original O.E.D., published in 1928.

.