What happened to the humble semicolon? Why is it so neglected? It has two essential uses in writing, but perhaps the sixteen-second attention span we learned watching Sesame Street is obsoleting one of them—long sentences. In Compound Sentences* Let’s look at the writing of a master of semicolons, Jules Verne, in a translation I have […]
My mother raised me to marry a diplomat, “just in case,” she said. At the same time she pushed me to become an engineer, because the only way to make any money was in a man’s job, and even then I’d get paid only half as much. She gave me a romantic middle name—Arlis—to use
Growing up, Grandmother lived on a farm in Fulton, New York, with her parents, two brothers, and four sisters. Her father, Harold Phelps, Sr., was a teamster who hauled coal, sand, gravel, soil, and rocks. He had fourteen wagons and twenty-eight giant horses to pull them. Naturally, he also had on the property pits for
My grandmother wore the smallest hat size—yes, hats for both men and women used to come in different sizes—and she, jokingly, called herself a pinhead. By contrast, her teeth seemed especially large. She said that as a child, she was constantly teased about them. People would ask if they could use one of her teeth
My mother’s mother, née Mildred Phelps, was born in upstate New York in 1896. Her tales of her early life fascinated me and kept me laughing. They also taught me to laugh at myself when I pulled a blunder worthy of one of her stories. She married Elmer Waffle; we all called him Pop. Here
There is a church directly across the narrow street from me. (See photo to the left.) Their church bell rings most Sunday mornings at some time between 8:50 and 9:05 (even the church runs on island time). They sing hymns, usually a cappella, with an occasional guitar or drum as background. There are not many
At the end of Easter month, I turned four years old and contracted scarlet fever. The doctor came to the house and put a yellow quarantine sign on our front door so everyone would know not to enter for any reason. He then moved Pop into my bed in the room with my brother and
I could go to church; I had permission, but this was a tough bunch of people to impress. I went out and bought a new dress. I’d never been to Renton, so I picked up a map at the Auto Club and asked how long it would take to get there. I was told 45
It was February 15, 1998; I was living in Lynnwood, Washington, with my daughter, Mooréa, and granddaughter, Raiatéa. Mooréa had needed to get away from her abusive partner; she was an RN on call 24/7, and her daughter was eight years old and couldn’t be left alone. Two years earlier, I had left my precious
There was a happy time—Mother wasn’t slapping me; Grandmother was dressing and petting me; and Pop was playing with Jerry and me at night. Pop and Mother sang and whistled around the house. Grandmother knew a good note when she heard it, but she couldn’t sing on key to save her life. She taught me
