Second child dilemmas and the love of words
Third one's a charm. In the continuing series (saga?) of my retrieved blogs ...
THIRD BLOG 30.10.13
It’s ridiculous I know, but it bothers me when my mother tells me she can’t remember my very first word (even though it’s likeliest to have been ‘Mama’ or ‘pony’ or maybe even ‘Tout’ as I wasn’t able to say ‘Scout’, the name of our black labrador at the time). My older brother’s first ‘words’ were apparently ‘AA’ and ‘BP’ (yes, I know they’re letters) because he had a little toy garage to play with and these were the signs that came with it. Mum then tried to make up for this apparent failing in her memory by telling me ‘We-e-ll, you just started talking in sentences’ – that’s right, because I was a child prodigy. (I really wasn’t.)
Whether or not I started talking by putting lots of words together to somehow miraculously make sense, I did happen to do that with the printed version and embraced reading from an early age. Cereal packets (who else remembers wondering about thiamin, niacin and riboflavin?), dog food tins, my little library of Beatrix Potter, plus all those wonderful Ladybird books including Janet and John and Five Little Kittens … Oh dear, I just lost myself (and potentially a few pounds of currency) for some moments there, searching Amazon to see whether it’s possible to still get those ‘Well Loved Tales’ hardbacks, and it appears you very much can. Chicken Licken, The Three Billy Goats Gruff, The Sly Fox and the Little Red Hen, The Elves and the Shoemaker, The Gingerbread Boy and that old favourite, The Magic Porridge Pot. They’re all still there, ranging in price from 1p to £300. Now I’m an Auntie, I can use the excuse that they’ll
be ‘perfect for the twins’ – and of course, I’ll get to read them again.
I used to do that ‘thing’ that a lot of kids do, in that I’d have favourite stories read to me at bedtime so often that I could mouth along to the words while my mother read aloud, and would notice and chastise her if she skipped a page or two because she thought I was dropping off to sleep (or she was close to doing the same). I think one of my favourites when I was very little was Little Grey Rabbit's Party (I keep losing myself in rhapsodies of remembrance, sorry!)
At the age of four, I would prefer to curl up with my books and read voraciously rather than play with my teddy bears, and this all stood me in good stead. Regularly reading to the year below me at primary school when I was only six years old is still a proud moment for me. (I’ve achieved so little since … *grin*). The truth is, of course, that my absorption of all these words from such tender years has helped me with my word recognition, vocabulary, comprehension and spelling. It was something that I loved, it came easily to me and I was good at it. So what, if sometimes my reading matter was occasionally a little ahead of my pronunciation or understanding. It took me a few months of reading ‘picturesque’ and ‘grotesque’ before I realized you didn’t need to pronounce the last four letters as ‘skew’! But when the penny dropped, I do remember it was a delicious moment.
Those of you who enjoy reading, know that there is sometimes nothing comparable to a good book, where you lose yourself to another time, world or country; can find yourself staying up to the small hours or fail to see an entire afternoon or even day pass by because you’re so immersed in the story. My next phase of reading appreciation came when I moved to a new school at the age of seven, and for the last lesson every day we would be told to rest our heads on our desks – pillowed by our arms – asked to close our eyes and have The Adventures of the Little Wooden Horse, Stig of the Dump, Mrs Pepperpot or Gobbolino the Witch’s Cat read to us by Mrs Sterck. Bliss.
I wasn’t the most diligent pupil in most subjects, so I’m grateful that the school did allow my small talents to be polished in the one subject that I’ve always loved. Mrs Sloan, the senior school’s English teacher was indulgent and allowed me the chance to read aloud the part of Scout in To Kill A Mockingbird in almost EVERY lesson – possibly for no reason other than I could conjure up a passable American accent. How I LOVED that. I would literally be buzzing with happiness after every lesson where I got to perform, and would be quite grumpy if I wasn’t allowed the privilege when someone else ‘got a go’.
Last week on Channel 4, the episode focusing on Mr Burton from Thornhill Academy in Dewsbury, aka ‘that great English teacher on Educating Yorkshire’ moved me (and many others) to tears in the final episode of the series, with the heart-warming story of Musharaf. Here was a boy with a crippling stammer who, by the end, had a revelatory moment inspired by Mr Burton’s re-watching of ‘The King’s Speech’, the film starring Colin Firth as King George VI. Donning headphones and listening to music, Musharaf found his voice, (cue *dramatic music* as Musharaf himself typed), was able to pass his English Oral examination and also made a speech to his fellow students on the last day of term. It was tear-jerking stuff, but also delightful that this teacher and school had been able to have such a profound effect on the boy. It was inspirational to watch and I found myself full of admiration for Mr Burton, and also a little envious of how wonderful it must have felt to know that he’d been able to do something quite amazing for a pupil.
My point (and I do have one) is some of us find reading and spelling easy, and take a lot of enjoyment from this. Others have strengths in different areas. Some of us are lucky to have teachers that did see the good within us, and encouraged that potential. Others have been let down by the education system, and sadly this pattern seems set to continue. No matter, for there is an unbeatable spirit in many, and even the stoniest ground can produce a flower.
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2018 EDIT - LOOK AWAY NOW if you don't want an English lesson. I've tried to make it amusing in parts, and you might learn something, but it isn't for everyone.
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Now for the ‘science part’, oh, who am I kidding, this isn’t a hair commercial, and language isn’t a science, it’s an art. So here is the first in an occasional series regarding parts of speech (or anything to do with our beloved – and tricky – language.)
What exactly is a gerund? I know, I know, you knew it once, but your English Language lessons seem a long time ago now.
A gerund is a noun made from a verb by adding the ‘-ing’ ending. To give an example, the gerund form of the verb ‘read’ is ‘reading’. A gerund can be used as the subject, the complement*, or the object of a sentence.
Reading is more fun than arithmetic. (Subject of sentence.)
My favourite hobby is reading. (Complement of sentence.)
I love reading. (Object of sentence.)
Not surprisingly, gerunds can be made negative simply by adding ‘not’.
Hyperbole– no, it’s not an extra special version of an American football game. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times it is pronounced ‘hy-pur-buh-lee’, and is the use of exaggeration as a rhetorical device or figure of speech. It can be used to evoke strong feelings or create a strong impression, but is not meant to be taken literally. They are used to create emphasis or effect. See if you can spot where I’ve used it in this paragraph.
A preposition connects nouns (e.g. dog, ball, book), pronouns (e.g. she, it, this) and phrases (a group of words/single word that form a constituent and function as a single unit in the syntax of a sentence) to other words in a sentence. Examples of prepositions include – ‘on’, ‘beneath’, ‘against’, ‘beside’, ‘over’, ‘during’, ‘in’, ‘to’, and so forth. It can help locate the noun in time or in space – e.g. the cat sat on the mat. The word ‘preposition’ is derived from Latin prae ‘before’ and ponere ’to place’. In Latin grammar, the rule is ‘that a preposition should always precede the prepositional object that it is linked with: it is never placed after it’. According to a number of authorities, it was the dramatist John Dryden** in 1672 who was the first person to criticize a piece of English writing (by Ben Jonson) for placing a preposition at the end of a clause instead of before the noun or pronoun to which it was linked. These days, as with many things, the ‘rules’ can and tend to be more relaxed; this ‘never end a sentence with a preposition’ rule is perfectly acceptable in conversation and informal writing. In formal writing it is more closely adhered to … argh! and now I am hoisted by my own petard***, as I wanted to end the sentence at ‘to’, but have had to continue on with a whole lot of other words.
*Before anyone writes in, this is the CORRECT spelling of the word ‘complement’. This is one of my biggest bugbears, and something I have had to correct many times. A compliment (with an ‘i’) is only ever used when something nice is being said to someone i.e. ‘a polite expression of praise or admiration’. When something goes well with, or its quality is improved or emphasized by the addition of another thing this is when complement (with an ‘e’) is used. There are many more occasions for complement to be used (also ‘a number or quantity of something, especially that required to make a group complete’) than the paying of a compliment (although if we were all nicer to each other, the balance may tip in favour of kind words.)
**To (mis-)quote Not the Nine O’Clock News parodying Esther Rantzen’s That’s Life ‘This has got absolutely nothing to do with me.’
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4NVk6hf4hFE
*** One of my favourite phrases, ever. Meaning to be injured by the device that you intended to use to injure others, or ‘blown up by my own bomb’/'fall into my own trap’, with hoist meaning lifted and petard literally a sixteenth century bomb.
And on that literal bombshell, until next time I bid you adieu.
P.S. Think I’ve got something wrong? Like my self-indulgent ramblings? Then please feel free to leave a comment below.