TWO NATIONS -- DIVIDED BY A COMMON TONGUE!

2002 Toastmasters Speech

            As most of you know, I was born across the pond in good old England.  My title comes from Oscar Wilde by way of Winston Churchill, whose mother was American[1].  Winston was a great speechmaker and quite a wit.  One of my favorites is the story where the Churchills and the Asquiths are having afternoon tea.  Winston did not get on very well with Violet Asquith and must have said something cutting, because Violet said back to him indignantly, “Winston, if you were my husband, I’d put arsenic in your tea.”  Without missing a beat he said right back, “Violet, if you were my wife, I’d drink it.”

 So, when Jennie Jerome, Winston’s mum, emigrated to Britain, perhaps she thought, like I did emigrating here, that I already knew the language. It’s the same, right? Wrong!

 Not only do the cars drive on the other side of the road, but also most of the parts are different.  Over there you put petrol[2] in instead of gas, the Imperial gallon is a fifth bigger, you store things in the boot[3], and you look under the bonnet[4] if there’s a problem.  The only name for car parts that our two nations have in common is the glove compartment, which is never used for gloves anyway!

 When you walk instead of driving, you might hear a British Mum say to her toddler, “Jimmy, make sure you stay on the pavement[5].” The road is the road and the pavement goes along the edge of it.  Little Jimmy should only cross the street where there’s a Belisha beacon, marking a zebra crossing.  And watch out for those lorries[6] and juggernauts[7].

 If you’re going up, lifts[8] will get you a lot further in Britain – not just a couple of inches higher in your shoes, but maybe to the second floor of a building, which [of course] is called the first floor.  [It’s sort of like how the Chinese count birthdays.]  And while you’re traveling about –on the motorways[9] –don’t be confused, the Downs aren’t valleys, they’re hills. But when you get there, don’t ask where the elevator is. Or the pay phone either -- you need a telephone kiosk[10].

 Food gets interesting.  The English have don’t have English muffins, but they do have Swiss Rolls, Welsh rarebit, Scotch eggs, Irish stew, Chinese Gooseberries, and the national vegetable, well-boiled Brussels sprouts. They have French vegetables such as courgettes and aubergines, which we would recognize as zucchini and eggplant.  Wheat is corn and corn is maize.  Amazing!  Cookies are biscuits and biscuits are scones, or ScOnes if you are very proper. 

 Dessert is pudding and is usually swathed in custard, which isn’t custard at all but actually a vanilla cornstarch sauce. But don’t ask me if that’s wheat or maize in the custard powder.  And, I kid you not; a popular English pudding is Spotted Dick. A favorite meal is bubble and squeak, which is fried leftover cabbage and potatoes, or even leftover Brussels sprouts. And if you say you want to wash up, you’ll get dirty looks if all you do is wash your own hands – because you just volunteered to wash the dishes! 

 If you eat out, don’t ask for the check – that’s what you’re going to pay with, after you get the bill.  At the fairground is the only time you might hear about candy – but it’s candyfloss[11], and you’ll need to floss after you eat it.  If you eat a piece of fruit, it might have a stone in it, but never a pit, because that would be the size of a gravel pit, which also has stones in it. And maybe you get a stone in your shoe – but never a rock because that would be so big, it would need a bulldozer to remove it. Rock is candy too, but not stone-shaped, actually more like a candy candle. If you get the collywobbles from all this strange food – and chips with everything, of course, then you might need to look for a chemist’s shop[12] to set you right. Or maybe you’ll actually enjoy British food and gain a stone! [This time, that’s fourteen pounds].

 It seems as if some seventeenth century household words came over with the Mayflower and stayed.  In the meantime they got outmoded and replaced over there.  For instance, don’t ask for a pitcher – you’ll be thought very archaic.  It’s a jug.  And a baby’s crib is a cot, a cot is a camp bed, and a closet is a wardrobe, –– unless it’s a water closet!  Then it’s a WC or a loo –some think named for that famous British Battle and also railway station – Waterloo. [Actually from “gardez l’eau” as the French would holler as they slung the chamber pot’s contents into the street].

 I learned the hard way that linguistic confusion happens to Brits too.  At the age of 17, I was working in France with several American students.    It was a tiny village with not much to do, just a little news and tobacco shop run by an elderly lady everyone called Madame Tabac. 

 So, one evening we were bored, and I said cheerily, “Let’s go and knock up[13] Madame Tabac!”  I learned from the look on the Americans’ faces that I had said something pretty embarrassing! And all I had wanted to do was bang on her shop door and see if she would open it up for us. 

 There were some other entertaining conversations with these American students.  For instance, they asked me where I went to school[14], and in haughty tones, since I had just left high school, I informed them that I didn’t go to school any more – I went to university.  “School” is just for grade school – but the English have you in a form not a grade.  It starts with first form at age five, advancing to 6th form at age 11.  Then, at 11 you might go on to grammar school, and start all over again with first form, only this time there’d be a lower and an upper sixth form. If you went to a private school it’s called a public school.   And these are the folks that ruled the British Empire!

 You have to be careful about clothing too.  If you put on a jumper[15], some pants[16], and a vest[17] over here, you’d be pretty overdressed.  Over there, though, you’d be wearing a sweater and two pieces of underwear.  Braces don’t go on teeth, they hold up trousers, and don’t forget and accidentally call them suspenders because those are what hold up a lady’s nylons [when she’s on stage].  And a garter holds up a knee sock – nothing risqué about that!

 So, maybe you Yanks think that I’m daft as a brush, that this is all a load of codswallop, and that speaking British is a doddle[18].  Well, if so you’ll probably make a right twit of yourself when you go over there.  Speaking of Yanks – you’re all Yankees to the Brits, even though here, as best I can figure, you’re only a Yankee if you’re from the north, or if you’re in the north, a Yankee is only from New England, or if you’re in New England a Yankee is just from Maine.

 So, that’s our common language – from A to Zed[19]!

 


[1] His mother was Jennie Jerome; and as her mother, Clara Hall, was one-quarter Iroquois.

[2] Gasoline or “gas”

[3] Trunk

[4] Hood

[5] Sidewalk

[6] Trucks

[7] 18-Wheelers (A Term Rarely Used)

[8] Elevators

[9] Freeways

[10] Pay phone (and of course, they’ve largely gone away due to cell phones (mobiles)

[11] Cotton candy

[12] Drug store

[13] Get someone pregnant

[14] Term used for K-12 (kindergarten through 12th grade (=upper 6th) and also for college and university

[15] Pinafore dress

[16] Trousers

[17] Waistcoat

[18] A cakewalk

[19] Pronounced Zee in American.

Why I'm Not a Pilot

Recently there was enthusiastic talk about the recent Army and Navy game, and I confessed that I am not much of a team sports person.  I was seriously discouraged from team sports in my teens, when a hockey stick hit me across the eyebrow and chipped off a bit of bone (no doubt that blow to the head explains a lot!)  But basically, I am a klutz. Couple of weeks ago I found a new word for it – I have dyspraxia.

 Back to my story title. Why I decided to learn to fly was because many years ago, I became Chief Planner, for the Massachusetts Aeronautics Commission.  In case you’re wondering, every state set up these commissions when aviation started to be popularized in the 1900s by the barnstormers.  Eventually the big airports such as Sea-Tac and Logan broke away and are managed by elected port or airport districts. Meanwhile the aeronautics commissions, now often folded into a state department of transportation, take care of the smaller, general aviation airports.

Well, so here I was with the Chief Engineer and the Chief Pilot, listening to them have ding-dong argument in a staff meeting about “ponding”.  What the heck is ponding? I quickly learned that it means a dip at the mid-point of a runway, where a small pond can gather after rain. “The Chatham airport has ponding; I skidded on ice there last time I landed”, said the Chief Pilot.  “There’s no ponding; I measured it myself,” said the Chief Engineer, who’d sworn never to become a pilot himself.  “Hmm,” I thought, “There’s some things you just can’t learn from the ground.” So, I started flying lessons.

I aced the ground school, and had about four actual lessons in the air.  Now my instructor’s telling me that next time, I should solo.  Oops.  I just couldn’t see this.  What I could see, was me plowing the nose of the Cessna into the tarmac. Although I didn’t know the word at the time, I knew my dyspraxia could kill me.  Airplane controls are sort of reversed from an automobile’s, as all you pilots know, and unless I were to fly every day, I don’t think the right muscle memory would have kicked in for me.

Examples began to come to mind supporting my decision not to solo; well spread out over the years….  In my first basketball lesson, I caught the ball on a fingertip and dislocated it backwards. As a young adult I went backpacking in Maine with my new husband.  It was a muddy trail with lots of tree roots, twigs across the path, and bugs.  After a week, he was completely unscathed, and I was head to toe bruises, scratches and bites.  We’d been on the same trail for the same length of time, and he had even held the twigs aside for me as I passed (as an attentive new husband should!); the only real difference was his hairy legs gave him an early warning system for the mosquitoes. I still have no idea how I accomplished all those injuries.

 I’d already proven my dyspraxic nature when I foolishly went cross-country skiing in New England.  I fell on my butt about every 30 seconds, and at least eight of those falls were on the same wretched patch of ice.  Result? I broke my coccyx (tailbone) and for the rest of that winter I carried around a doughnut cushion. It still hurts sometimes to sit, or to fly too long on an airline.

I didn’t give up the great outdoors; I broke my left leg in three places by falling off a bike when the tire caught between the asphalt trail and the sand at the side. Later, I broke the other ankle out hiking. I broke my big toe by falling through about a foot of crusty but melting snow and hitting the pavement, in a parking lot!  After that I stayed indoors for a while; then I broke another toe by walking past a bookcase in my bedroom.  One toe went caught on its corner while the rest of me kept walking in some other direction.

One day before work, I was rushing with a full basket of nicely folded laundry around the island in my kitchen.  I couldn’t see, of course.  Too bad that the dishwasher, which was part of the island, had its door open.  Laundry and I went splat, and the edges of the door cut both my legs.

 I must have a thing for sharp doors, because recently the new sweep under my door completely took off one of my toenails.  Don’t ask me what I did this time, and don’t do what I did!

 What takes the cake though, in my dyspraxic life, is the time I hurt myself with a shampoo bottle.  It was the kind with the lid that swivels up and down, and had gotten gummed up.  So, I’m in the shower, holding the bottle with one hand and peering at it closely.  A bit too closely, and a bit too tightly held!  It shot upwards and bingo! An incredible and embarrassing black eye. And I managed to make it look worse by going swimming next day.  My goggles pressed on the damage and made it spread to more of my face.  Yikes!

So, I conclude -- I’m kinesthetically impaired; I’m dyspraxic; I’m a klutz!  So, I’m still not a pilot.  There’s a saying “There are old pilots, bold pilots but no old, bold pilots”.  Well, I’m old and I’m bold, and I’ll never be a pilot!