When I was in grade five we had individualized spelling lists (I've told this story before) of misspelled words that were pulled from our writing. I tended to write a lot and also wasn't afraid to use words that I wasn't quite sure of the spelling for, so I had some rather tricky words on my spelling list. Or perhaps I simply felt the words were tricky because they were words that I clearly already found to be tricky (having misspelled them in the first place).
I had this one friend who would purposely write as little as possible and very slowly and carefully so as to select only the words which she knew she knew how to spell. In that way she avoided spelling tests in the first place.
Clever? Perhaps.
But I couldn't write that way. I wrote furiously, passionately, filling page after page with copious script, using the most lavish words I could think of. I wrote some very purple passages, I'm sure, and I had a spelling list as extensive as my little vocabulary could muster.
I took risks. I spelled a lot of things wrong.
Where my friend would write "yummy" I would try out "delicious" or "scrumptious" and...I'd probably leave out an i or something. Onto the list it would go!
And that's fine.
I just then had to learn how to spell those words, which, again, was fine. It's not like it's outlandish to have to learn how to properly spell scrumptious. I was fine.
But I also was forever telling stories about words.
I still do, even though the point of this story is that I got in trouble for making up stories about words.
For example, Rachel said that she took a test on Duolingo to skip some of the earlier Arabic lessons, which is fine because she just took Arabic 101 at BYU and did quite well. However, now she feels like she's behind in vocabulary for Duolingo.
"They just keep expecting me to know all these words that I don't know!" she said. "Like hotel. We never talked about hotels in Arabic class!"
"Oh, hotel is easy!" I assured her. "It's funduq. فندق. Because ducks always have fun at the hotel."
I can't even help it. That's just the way my brain works.
I once wrote an entire paper about folk etymologies and how making up stories about words can help with vocabulary development for one of my linguistics classes at BYU—I believe it was actually an etymology course with Cynthia Hallen. I don't remember precisely all the connections I drew in that paper but I distinctly remember connecting 'tie' (the noun) in Russian (галстук) to "gallows" in English.
Morbid? Absolutely.
But effective because I will never forget the word for 'tie' as long as I live.
And somehow that feels important.
Anyway, I started doing this when I was very young.
Together = to get her, as in "we are going to get her together."
People = pee-ople (I say it like that in my head...still).
People = pee-ople (I say it like that in my head...still).
Beautiful = b-e-a-U-tiful (I also say it like that in my head...still).
So that's what I would do for these spelling tests. And I taught one of my best friends (Kayley) this trick as well. So we'd get together with both of our lists and would create stories to help us remember how to spell them.
"The pen is mightier than the s-word," we would joke for sword.
Because swearing is bad, obviously, so we wouldn't be using the s-word.
A sword? Perhaps. The s-word? No.
One time one of my words was vanilla and we made up a story about a man, Mr. Illa (the second—to remember that double L), who drove an ice cream van (or truck, if you will, but for our purposes...it was a van...and even though we typically call them ice cream trucks in North America—not so elsewhere in the world—you have to admit that they are often suspiciously van-shaped).
It was a good story.
It was a good story.
Anyway, you might be wondering how a teacher administers individual spelling tests to every student in a classroom. Easy—Mrs. Bienert would have us split up into pairs and administer the tests to each other. So I would read off my partner's spelling words and my partner would read mine. And that's how it would go.
My story-writing friend and I would typically pair up together (to get her) and we would use part of our stories to give "context" to our words.
"Vanilla," my friend would say. "As in Mr. Illa, The Second, drove an ice cream van and served vanilla ice cream."
And I would write down vanilla as simple as that! And we'd move on to the next word.
Well, another friend...perhaps frenemy?...overheard our sentences and decided there were far too many hints in the sentences. So she told Mrs. Bienert that we were cheating.
Mrs. Bienert was very disappointed in us.
Why she was so very disappointed before hearing our side of the story is beyond me. Had I not proven myself to be a rather trustworthy person in her class? Alas...Mrs. Bienert was the sort of teacher who...was very quick to punish. It was like she had been waiting the whole school year to get the chance to lower my "discipline score" (I always had a perfect discipline score...which again should have given me some social capital or something but evidently not).
"So-and-so tells me you were cheating during the spelling test," she accused.
"I...don't think so," I said.
"She said you were giving each other the answers."
"Not really," I said, and I explained our whole method.
We would study together during the week, writing the words out as we were supposed to, but also creating convoluted stories to go with the words that helped us remember how to spell them, and we would use those stories (typically truncated versions of those stories) as the sentences we were allowed to (and supposed to) offer our partners during the test.
Mrs. Bienert thought for a minute.
"Well," she finally said. "Ask yourself this—do the other students have that benefit?"
And just like that I was a cheater.
For...being creative? Golly—like it's my fault the rest of the students are dunces!
Kidding. But also not kidding.
Kayley and I were banned from partnering up during spelling tests for the rest of the school year (and had a few more punishments to boot). I think she even told us we weren't allowed to make up stories about words anymore...which...sure...okay...that makes sense.
I was mortified and furious.
And I kept making up stories secretly (because I'm a rebel) and rather loathed Mrs. Bienert for the rest of the year. But her husband, Mr. Bienert, was great!
Small town—both of them teachers, complete opposites.
Anywho...vanilla.
The word makes me shudder.
But it sure tastes great, doesn't it?
Last Thursday, Phoebe and I made a cake just before bedtime, with the intention of having it ready for Rachel when she came home with Andrew after his evening course. Her plane landed around the same time his class let out, and he was right down there by the airport, so it worked out very well. Hard to believe Rachel has been here for a full week—it's been wild! We went up to Tennessee almost immediately upon her arrival and then were home for like two days before her friend Corbin drove up from Florida and then he'll leave and I'll leave for Austria and...it's quite a whirlwind and I feel like I've hardly seen her (but also she's fallen right back into home like she's never been gone, so that's lovely).
Phoebe was sad that she wasn't going to be awake when the cake finished baking, but she was very excited to help make it. She loves baking with anyone who will let her.
(I evidently cannot stay on topic today—apologies for another tangent!)
Rachel made cookies earlier this week and Phoebe wanted to help, but Rachel didn't want to let her help because she knows how...enthusiastic...of a helper Phoebe can be.
"What if I just help you by licking everything off when you're done using it?" Phoebe offered graciously (after hearing a dreaded 'no').
"That...sounds like a great idea," Rachel agreed.
"Great! I'll get an apron!" Phoebe said.
"What for?!" Rachel asked.
"To be a helper!" Phoebe exclaimed.
"You don't need to put an apron on to lick a spoon."
"Helpers always need aprons."
"Whatever."
So Phoebe wore an apron around the house while Rachel mixed up some cookie dough and, when it came time, she licked the spoon.
*****
And now! The moment you've all been waiting for! The story that actually inspired this post!
Phoebe and I made a cake for Rachel's arrival last week. And Phoebe got to actually help measure and dump and mix, which she was thrilled about (even if she didn't get to see the cake when it came out of the oven).
"Can I put in the vanil?" she asked me. "I really want to put in the vanil. I love putting in vanil. It's such a good flavour. Don't you just love vanil? I do. Can I put in the vanil?"
"Sure," I said, pouring some into a measuring spoon for her. "But...why do you keep calling it vanil?"
"Because," she explained. "I don't want to put no into your head."
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'No' in Arabic is laa (لا).
So if she said vanil-لا, it might make me say...no. And we couldn't be having that, so vanil it was!
Silly goose!
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