WordGazing: Finally, Justice Will Be Served

I WAS A DRUM MAJOR FOR JUSTICE
PEACE AND RIGHTEOUSNESS

The text above is on the Martin Luther King Jr. memorial in D.C. Not only is it carved without punctuation, it’s also paraphrased.

Yup. Not really a quote. And not even the gist of the original utterance, which is:

“Yes, if you want to say that I was a drum major, say that I was a drum major for justice; say that I was a drum major for peace; I was a drum major for righteousness. And all of the other shallow things will not matter. I won’t have any money to leave behind. I won’t have the fine and luxurious things of life to leave behind. But I just want to leave a committed life behind. And that’s all I want to say.”

What’s more, when you think about the abundance of material the highly quotable Dr. King provided us, why in the world was this chosen in the first place?

The truncation was a “design change” according to Ed Jackson Jr., the executive architect. He ran it by the oversight body, the U.S. Commission of Fine Arts, and they didn’t have a problem with it. Neither did the Council of Historians.

Shame, shame, shame. If space was really an issue, then the solution was not to abbreviate but to choose different material. A quote that’s paraphrased isn’t a quote. Period. PERIOD, screams the editor in me.

I don’t expect architects to understand the problem with this kind of language bastardization, but I certainly expected more from the historians who approved it.

The good news today is that the stone-chiseled text is going to be fixed. Not sure how, but I’m glad someone in D.C. finally saw the light.

Here’s a King quote that speaks to me, that reminds me how to live my life:

“Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.”

I’ll Be Back

Sorry for the quiet here on Lull. I’ve been time-traveling.

“Reading is a discount ticket to everywhere.”
—Mary Schmich

OMG! I’m Normal!

Before stress started wreaking havoc with my mental filing system, I had an excellent memory.

I could quickly and easily memorize every line of a play. As an editor, I could remember what month and where on a page a particular piece of information had been published in a newsletter. Scenes from my family’s history could be retrieved in detail, sometimes to the embarrassment of family members. My first memory on this planet predates my ability to use language.

The weird twist to all this recall? Personal memories were affiliated with clothing. I could remember what I wore when something happened: The Easter photos taken beneath the redbud tree? Powder-blue dress with white ducks on it and the powder-blue crushed-velvet trench coat with silver buttons. Parents’ reunion picnic at the neighbors’ farm? Turquoise terrycloth playsuit with kelly-green piping. Getting invited to the big-deal country club for lunch? Flowy, ruffly dress of tangerine roses with hints of yellow in it.

I’ve inquired of friends and colleagues whether their memories also included wardrobe choices, but no one ever fessed up to sharing that quirk with me. Made me feel weird, as if my memories were tainted by vanity.

Until now.

Yesterday, on a morning television program, I learned that sisters Delia and Nora Ephron wrote a play about this very memory quirk. Love, Loss, and What I Wore hit Broadway in 2009 and is about to go on tour. It’s a collection of women’s monologues depicting life’s ups and downs and what the women wore when each occurred. According to the Ephrons, this is a gender thing and not my personal psychological disorder. (Apparently, all the women I’ve known are exceptions to the rule.)

Whew! You can’t imagine how much better I feel about my mental health! No longer must I hide this dark secret. No longer must I wonder why in the world my wardrobe got tucked away in my brain with my memories.

You can bet that years from now, I’ll be able to recall the plaid of the Pendleton blanket I wrapped round my nightclothes when I first heard the news of my normalcy.

Getting the Dish on Family Lore

I have been washing and packing—and washing and packing—my collection of vintage Fiestaware, the colorful mix-and-match ceramic dishes that debuted in the ’30s. With each piece, I’ve wondered about its history: Who used it before me? How long did they have it? Where did they get it? What moments of their lives are forever intertwined with it?

My current collection grew out of a set inherited from my mother and grandmother. When I left home after college, they gave me their dishes—which have moved with me from one apartment to another over the years. And now, as I prepare for yet another move, I want more details about the early history of the pottery. For instance, which color was my mother’s favorite? How many pieces of my grandmother’s Fiestaware came from promotional giveaways? Did either of them have any Fiestaware entertainment tales to share?

I called my mother, who laughed at my questions.

“I never liked those dishes,” she said. She couldn’t explain why, nor could she recall using them—though she must have for a while, she ceded. “They were a bridal shower gift and came from your great-aunt’s hardware store.”

Ah. Humble origins. From family to family. I like that.

“And those weren’t your grandmother’s dishes.”

“What do you mean? She gave them to me.”

“Yes, but she never used them. She found them out at the farm.” My grandfather had what today is known as a hobby farm. My grandmother found all sorts of treasures there—none with a verifiable provenance.

This wasn’t, of course, the history I’d expected. And certainly not the one I’d imagined.

Sometimes the better story is the one in our heads.

[For more pics of Fiestaware and its history, visit collector Heidi Kellner’s Web site.]

Closing the Book on Salt

At last I've read the final page of Mark Kurlansky's Salt: A World History. I started it a year ago, which is by no means a reflection of Mr. Kurlansky's writing abilities. My snail's pace is a result of the unusually short attention span I've been afflicted with while unemployed. It seems that for every bit of history I want to absorb into my brain, I have to first push aside the worries that take up so much space there.

But now I'm done and I feel liberated—free to start a new round of books in the year beyond My Year of Unenjoyment.

Salt is filled with wondrous details about world history—which, of course, includes the tragedies that salt has incited. Wars were fought over it, countries' borders were changed or eliminated for it. Kurlansky interweaves histories not only of countries and powermongers, but also histories of commerce, cultures, cooking, exploration, and technology. If you're a trivia junkie, this is a must-read. Some tidbits:
• Detroit sits on a 1,400-acre salt mine.
• Prior to the 7th century, the Italian mainland was quite a distance from Venice—the commercial epicenter for salt and other commodities of southern Europe. The water between these two land masses was called the "Seven Seas." And the phrase to sail the Seven Seas meant, literally, to sail this 25-mile stretch filled with sandbars, which required skilled navigation and probably a dose of luck.
• Many countries mandate that iodine be added to salt sold for consumption in order to prevent thyroid problems. In China, this requirement forced many small salt producers into the black market for varying reasons: They couldn't afford the iodine, they didn't want this extra governmental control over their businesses, they thought the additive would taint the purity and taste of the salt. Some of the black market salt producers conduct business with Myanmar highland tribespeople who live too remotely to purchase treated salt from their own country. For the Chinese salt, they trade exotic endangered animals used by the Chinese for medicinal purposes. Sadly, the salt the tribespeople believe to be iodized is not.
• What goes down into a salt mine doesn't always come back up. Scores of animals used for transporting were left to die (or were killed) in abandoned salt mines. Today, trucks, tractors, bulldozers, and other equipment lowered into salt mines piece by piece and then assembled underground are left there once the mine is no longer productive. Companies say it's not cost-effective to do otherwise.
• A salt mine in Poland began holding daily Catholic church services for its workforce in 1689. The miners began carving religious figures into the rock salt,then a chapel complete with bas-relief scenes on the walls and ceiling. The miners continued carving through the decades—chandeliers, a ballroom, dining tables—and soon the salt mine sparked a new revenue stream for the government: tourism. Affluent guests visited and attended parties courtesy of the Polish Crown. And the Wieliczka Salt Mine Band accompanied the revelry (salt mines apparently have excellent acoustics). Today nonroyals may tour the mine.

Finishing Salt has been an uplifting way to start the final day of My Year of Unenjoyment.

And now, dear readers, let's toss a pinch of salt over our left shoulders as we look toward a brighter new year.