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2002-11-06 - 5:50 p.m. Name on the tape It�ll come as no shock to the rest of you, but engineers can�t spell. We had a long meeting today about cutting stuff from our design. The exact phrase was �we can�t afford to guild the lilly�. That�s not how you spell �lily� says a voice from the back of the meeting. Oh. Doh! Well at least I looked up �guild� so I know that�s spelled correctly. Actually, I say, cause it�s been a long meeting, I can spell, and I�ll take the cheap shot at my English-challenged brethren who don�t read, you�ve got the wrong homonym. For that phrase you need �gild� There was a pause while everyone struggled to remember what homonym meant. You�ve just described a group of lilies who have banded together to protect their mutual interests. I also had to define �capricious� for several of my teammates. Hey, it came up in conversation and it wasn�t applied to me. Though the instrument manager described me as �acrimonious� last week. I still like him. Being overly read makes me such a freak in this profession. I just finished Big Stone Gap, a novel by Adriana Trigiani, set in a town about an hour further into the mountains that where I was raised. My grandfather used to drive over that way and load up his truck with coal which he would drop off at homes of our less fortunate neighbors as �extra got delivered.� Set deep in Appalachian coal country, it was a book resonant with memories of my childhood. Familiar family names and places, memories of driving through the hollars described so vividly, church socials, noisy neighbors, poor folk. And casserole dishes. Birth or death, newlyweds or new neighbors. A knock. A friend stands on your front porch holding a covered dish. It is wrapped to stay warm, redolent with delicious aromas and accompanied by empathy and conversation appropriate to the occasion. Coffee is poured and gratitude expressed. Your friend leaves, having nourished your body and soul, with a final comment of �My name�s on the bottom. Return the dish whenever you get a chance.� A week goes by, maybe even a month, but, the recipient drops off the dish, and stays �just a minute.� More coffee is poured and the gift of friendship is returned. I would say from personal experience the entire fabric of small town society is bound together with casserole dishes with piece of masking tape on the bottom, the owner�s name printed neatly in permanent marker. Now I live in an urban world where I am an anomaly because I cook. Potluck affairs generally mean picking up something from your favorite deli to bring to the party. There�s no need to put my name on the dish because I�m usually the only one bringing a non-disposable plate. You can take the girl out of the mountains, but not the mountain of the girl. I miss my grandmother. I still have some of her potluck serving spoons, the handled labelled 'Mammy' in her careful script. I miss my great-aunts. And mother. And their dishes that bound all us womenfolk together - even if Aunt Dolly always put too much mayo in everything. Somehow, I�m sad that it�s never been my name on the tape � almost like a tradition broken. And I don�t even like coffee. � � Scribble to Theo previous - next �