My father was somewhat of a linguistic artist, he liked words, any way to express yourself, really. He was over-educated, several bachelor degrees and a Masters in English Lit. as well as his medical degree. He spoke several languages, read and wrote in them as well. He had a fascination of roots and meanings of words. And in particular the “drift” of languages, some call it the “evolution” of words- but I live in the buckle of the bible belt and the word “evolution” is forbidden. Thankfully they are only a few here that can actually read. so I doubt I can be prosecuted for using the term.
Pop was an artist with words, often using a word or phrase just for the mental picture that it created. Any word, nothing was off the table. There’s a saying that cursing is the last resort of the uneducated, NOT TRUE! Some of the most articulate people on the planet use “foul” language to weave webs, to capture your thoughts and draw your attention into their grasp. Hemmingway, Kissinger, even our beloved Kennedy, are just a few of the great minds who stooped to the use of “gutter language” to make a point.
Pop also considered himself an actor, playing what ever part he needed to achieve the desired outcome.
Amongst his peers he would dress himself in expensive tailored suits, but, to buy a car or anything expensive, he don a pair of blue jeans and a tea shirt and sneakers. Always playing to his audiences perceptions. A skill that my sister had learned very well in her brief 17 and a half years. I on the other hand was always the mesmerized observer, captivated by their performances. Never quite getting the hang of performing on the fly, without the narrative to guide me.
I once watched my father carry a loaded gun onto a commercial flight, pre 9/11 of course. It occurred in the late 1970’s. He realized that he had not unpacked the gun from the carry on bag, but only as we reached the point where they rummage through your stuff. The young man doing the cursory search had just come to my fathers “ditty bag” when my father started “hitting” on the guy, HARD, asking personal questions and commenting on his looks, culminating with my “straight” father actually asking him out on a date! The guy was so flustered that he closed dad’s things and pushed them across the counter. When we got onto the aircraft and was seated, I finally got the chance to ask Pop “what the f##k” that was about. Dad told me about the gun and described his strategy. He thought that it might work either way. If the young man was straight he’d want to get out of the situation as fast as he could, which is what happened, and if he was gay he’d be less inclined to do a thorough search, being more interested in the “date” with a guy in an expensive Italian suit and shoes. At least that was Dad’s plan. It worked, so I’d say it was a good one!
The gun was small and concealed in a pair of socks, not to hide the gun, but to keep it from hitting the glass bottles of cologne in the ditty bag. Of course you couldn’t do that today, not without spending some quality time with government agents, who work for agencies, whose names are just a bunch of initials, but in the 1970’s things were a lot less “tense“.
There are lyrics of a song from one of my favorite artist that goes "So they say that life's a play, and that all the worlds a stage, and for another part I pray, the show ends the same way every day." " And my heart carries the pain of a life I can't explain."
He should have known my father, I think he just might have had a different perspective on things!
Pop was an artist with words, often using a word or phrase just for the mental picture that it created. Any word, nothing was off the table. There’s a saying that cursing is the last resort of the uneducated, NOT TRUE! Some of the most articulate people on the planet use “foul” language to weave webs, to capture your thoughts and draw your attention into their grasp. Hemmingway, Kissinger, even our beloved Kennedy, are just a few of the great minds who stooped to the use of “gutter language” to make a point.
Pop also considered himself an actor, playing what ever part he needed to achieve the desired outcome.
Amongst his peers he would dress himself in expensive tailored suits, but, to buy a car or anything expensive, he don a pair of blue jeans and a tea shirt and sneakers. Always playing to his audiences perceptions. A skill that my sister had learned very well in her brief 17 and a half years. I on the other hand was always the mesmerized observer, captivated by their performances. Never quite getting the hang of performing on the fly, without the narrative to guide me.
I once watched my father carry a loaded gun onto a commercial flight, pre 9/11 of course. It occurred in the late 1970’s. He realized that he had not unpacked the gun from the carry on bag, but only as we reached the point where they rummage through your stuff. The young man doing the cursory search had just come to my fathers “ditty bag” when my father started “hitting” on the guy, HARD, asking personal questions and commenting on his looks, culminating with my “straight” father actually asking him out on a date! The guy was so flustered that he closed dad’s things and pushed them across the counter. When we got onto the aircraft and was seated, I finally got the chance to ask Pop “what the f##k” that was about. Dad told me about the gun and described his strategy. He thought that it might work either way. If the young man was straight he’d want to get out of the situation as fast as he could, which is what happened, and if he was gay he’d be less inclined to do a thorough search, being more interested in the “date” with a guy in an expensive Italian suit and shoes. At least that was Dad’s plan. It worked, so I’d say it was a good one!
The gun was small and concealed in a pair of socks, not to hide the gun, but to keep it from hitting the glass bottles of cologne in the ditty bag. Of course you couldn’t do that today, not without spending some quality time with government agents, who work for agencies, whose names are just a bunch of initials, but in the 1970’s things were a lot less “tense“.
There are lyrics of a song from one of my favorite artist that goes "So they say that life's a play, and that all the worlds a stage, and for another part I pray, the show ends the same way every day." " And my heart carries the pain of a life I can't explain."
He should have known my father, I think he just might have had a different perspective on things!
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