We have a middling sort of winter so far. Too chilly for outdoor summer sports, not enough snow for skiing or snowshoes. At least not nearby.
So what I do is sit inside and complain. I don’t like to brag, but I’m good at it … really good. In fact if there was a merit badge for kvetching I would have a chestful of honors. An international whining competition? Just hand me the first-place cup, buddy, and it will save us all a lot of time.
And that’s not because the competition is weak. Most people love to complain. It’s even expressed in our language. You know how Eskimos are supposed to have 50 words for snow because of its importance in their lives? In my online Merriam-Webster Thesaurus there are 55 synonyms for complain.
And some of them are the greatest words! A delight to any logophile! My typical day is when I get up in the morning, stretch a bit, and then begin the day with a good yawp, blubber, or caterwaul before breakfast. Couldn’t be off to a better start! Here is the list that Merriam-Webster provides:
Whine
Grumble
Bitch
Cry
Gripe
Nag
Inveigh
Wail
Bellyache
Beef
Yowl
Caterwaul
Grizzle
Crab
Yawp
Quarrel (with)
Lament
Bewail
Blubber
Scream
Mutter
Growl
Kvetch
Kick
Squawk
Holler
Grouse
Bleat
Fuss
Kick up a fuss
Carp
Grump
Yaup
Object (to)
Quibble
Fret
Deplore
Moan
Worry
Squeal
Whimper
Whinge
Murmur
Repine
Keen
Protest
Yammer
Kick up a stink
Grouch
Croak
Sob
Maunder
Cavil
Bemoan
Stew
There. Don’t you feel better knowing what a wealth there is available to you for use in such a good cause? (I especially like “deplore” because one uses it from a position of moral superiority, looking down the length of one’s nose.)
Notice that I called it a “good” cause. Think about it. Many of us have learned that our existence is not that fabled bed of roses. Things could be going along sweet as you please and suddenly a truck backs up and unloads a metric ton of horse excrement on your life.
This is where the usefulness of complaining comes in. It is something to do while you’re picking straw and other oddments out of your hair. It is a blow struck for sanity and survival when the world is just too much with us.
******
******
******
I’ve tried to recall just how old I was when my belief in Santa took the big hit. I was pretty young, maybe five or six years old … don’t know for certain. Thinking back I wonder why it took so long. After all, the presents had always borne tags that read: To Jack from Aunt Addie, or To Jack from Dad and Mom, etc. etc. None of them had ever said from Santa. I guess I was a slow learner.
Even when the myth was busted I do remember desperately wanting it to still be true. Sheesh. What a soft-headed little citizen was I.
.
******
******
I had a sort of epiphany last night. Get to be old enough and you start going round for the second time in places. Like that old shirt that went out of style long ago but didn’t wear out and now it is just the thing once again. Last evening the realization that I was involved in yet another of those time circles was when I was getting ready for bed and I was just at that moment when the clothes of the day had been tossed aside but the flannel pajamas were not yet in place and much dermis was at the mercy of a very cool room.
When I was a child we did not have central heating in our home, but an oil burner in the kitchen that depended on air currents to distribute the warmth to other rooms. There were lots and lots of shivery rooms and corners under such an arrangement. But by my adolescent years we had left that all behind and now there was central heating, with shining ductwork carrying blessed warmth to all areas equally. Fuel was cheap, global warming as yet undreamt of, and our homes were toasty warm throughout the season. A person could hang out in their living room in January wearing a t-shirt and pair of shorts without risking chilblains or the loss of digits.
Which brings us to today, where our winters are being spent layered up in our own living rooms as if we were going walking to the mailbox a block away, as we keep cutting back on the thermostat settings to reduce expenses and be good citizens of a warming planet.
The French have a phrase that I think fits this phenomenon: Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose, which translates to – the more things change, the more they are the same. The French are really good at coming up with pithy phrases. Surely you remember that there was quite an excitement that accompanied this one: “Let them eat cake!”
*****
******
Little Home In The Valley 