Vernacular of the Peasantry

I kind of judge misery by the innovations we make in everyday language.

Back in August ’04, we in Florida got pummeled pretty hard by a series of hurricanes in short succession. While we in Orlando were spared the direct hit devestation of these storms, as the center crossroads of the state we had the distinction of being in the path of several storms in a row; while other areas were smacked hard (but once) at Cat 3, 4 or even 5 levels, we were repeatedly pounded at Cat 1 and 2 levels until we were whimpering for mercy.

Orlando wasn’t ready for it at all. It had been many years since we’d been hit, and being so landlocked, Central Florida is almost guaranteed not to get a serious lashing at Category 3 or up – even the worst Cat 5 storm would weaken to 2 or 3 after crossing the land to Orlando. So few took hurricane prep seriously, and the end result in ’04 was about a month without power in the height of the humid, hot Florida summer. Eating cold beans out of cans, living by candlelight, fixing coffee on barbeque grilles, selling family members for the mere promise of ice or gas, and then getting the lights back on just in time for the next hurricane to take them out again. It wasn’t exactly the most enjoyable way to spend a month in Florida. But I like to think that we as a society in the process discovered at least several new uses for vernacular interjectives, and thereby enriching us all.

So it’s been a windy week here and unseasonably cool for late May. Tonight it’s supposed to get down into the high 40s, and the wind is running at a steady 20-30mph clip. We’ve had to close up the porch umbrella, bring lawn items into the garage. A big tree branch out front came crashing down last night, and the city of Modesto has been busy running around cleaning them up from the street. We had to get Direct TV out on Monday to realign our dish, which had been knocked off axis by the wind.

The running gag around here has been, “It’s almost like a hurricane!”

It’s a joke, you see, because as annoying as 30mph winds are, 125mph winds are downright irritating.

But for everything that happened in the summer of ’04, for all the damage, all the stress, all the abject misery and all the seething hatred aimed at the neighbor down the street with his [*vernacular gerund*] porch light on because the little [*vernacular noun*] just happens to be on a separate [*vernacular gerund*] street grid and so those [*vernacular gerund*] [*vernacular noun*] Progress Energy [*plural vernacular noun*] are running around absolutely [*vernacular gerund*] at random fixing the [*vernacular gerund*] power lines and that’s why you and your neighbors are fixing to go down there and kick that guy’s [*vernacular noun*].. but for all of that, there was one thing we never had to deal with. A single scourge, a blight that – had we been forced to contend with it as well – would have driven the citizens of Central Florida into a truly psychopathic, devestating mob frenzy.

That blight, my friends, is the styrofoam peanut.

With Kristi’s first wedding shower last weekend and the wedding itself coming up really soon, the registry gifts are starting to arrive. We’re very, very grateful – the love and generosity of our friends and family has been a bit overwhelming; for several days in a row this week, big boxes would arrive in the evening via UPS and we’d spend part of the evening carefully removing dinner plates, salad bowls and commercial grade baking equipment out of small lakes of styrofoam packing peanuts. We’d then put the boxes out back, to be taken to the curb for pickup on Monday.

Well, the winds decided that our collection of foam nuts was much more aesthetically pleasing when assuming a relaxed, stretched-out posture across the back yard.

Just to be clear, it’s a [*vernacular gerund*] lot of styrofoam peanuts.

So while Kristi is at work today dealing with bored, uncooperative freshmen and pedantic, control freak situations, I’ve been out back harvesting the fertile soil for a ripe bounty of polystyrene nuggets. Mostly, one at a time. With every gust of wind, having to chase them across the yard. Sam, amused, mostly not helping. Little bits of white plastic dancing playfully across the grass, mocking the hands that chase after them, knowing that there’s only so much a guy can do when his left slipper keeps slipping off and he’s too dumb to go inside and get his real shoes on.

I can deal with hurricanes. Hurricanes just happen; you stay in the path or get out of the way, but it’s not personal.

But little styrofoam leprechauns taunting me with their momentary alliance with the gods of thermal air pressure?

[*vernacular gerund*] [*vernacular noun*]. Give me a [*vernacular adjective*] hurricane any day.