From: owner-aml-list-digest@lists.xmission.com (aml-list-digest) To: aml-list-digest@lists.xmission.com Subject: aml-list-digest V1 #786 Reply-To: aml-list Sender: owner-aml-list-digest@lists.xmission.com Errors-To: owner-aml-list-digest@lists.xmission.com Precedence: bulk aml-list-digest Monday, July 29 2002 Volume 01 : Number 786 ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Date: Sat, 27 Jul 2002 01:12:10 -0700 From: harlowclark@juno.com Subject: [AML] Request for Prayers Friday July 26, 11:58 pm. I had a motherboard crash in early June, and finally got a new (fairly inexpensive) 1.2ghz AMD Duron (I thought it was an Athlon when I ordered it) with Mandrake Linux 8.1 (It really is guru friendly--now I've just got to find a guru), only to find the motherboard had no ISA slots, so I had to order a new modem, which just got here today (USB, which Mandrake recognizes, but I haven't fired up Linux yet--can't get the BIOS to recognize the secondary IDE master, so I have to plug the IDE cable into the Linux or Windows HDD depending on which OS I want to use), so now I can write a few much needed e-mails, instead of writing my news stories on a 486-66 with 4 megs ram and WP5.1 and taking them over to American Fark on my bike. I have heard bits and snatches of the conversation at the library and rejoice to hear of Margaret Young's granddaughter (I think). My father just turned 86 July 13, and it occured to me that if Margaret lives that long she could see her first great-great-grandchild. I spent three hours yesterday working in my father's garden, planting July 24th corn (ok, a day late, but the pioneers probably planted some the second day in the valley as well)--a 68-day variety, and grinding tree prunings and other stuff. "Here, let me show you a trick," and before I stopped him he had pulled the pullcord thrice. Gas in the carburetor and gas tank worked better. He is not as spry as he used to be. Hasn't been for 15 years, but even less so now. I walked into D.I. July 5 and found a copy of Henry Roth's _Mercy of a Rude Stream_, his second novel--published 60 years after his first, _Call it Sleep_ (also a hardback of _Edgar Mint_). Much as I wanted to keep it, I gave it to my father for his birthday. I guess he's halfway through. Broke my heart when he asked, "Have I read _Call it Sleep_?" I remember his enthusiasm for that novel when we read a section in AmLit, The Makers and the Making. OK, this started out with rejoicing and seems to have grown a bit melancholy. Will you forgive me if the mood gets even a bit darker? (I'll try not to sing out of tune.) On July 4 Donna's sister's daughter Sarah, who lived with us before and after her mission, went into labor, and gave birth July 10. As the gap in those dates might suggest, she wasn't supposed to give birth until Oct. 27, and David Jr. (aka Harley (David's son)) wasn't prepared to receive the gift. They had him in newborn ICU at Utah Valley for a few days, very disquieting to see this small person with palms big as the first joint on my finger (so we anointed and laid on fingers) his chest heaving ("That's the ventilator") but he had a heart valve that hadn't closed properly and had to be life-flighted on Sunday the 14th up to Pennies-by-the-Inch Hospital for surgery. They did the surgery Monday morning, the 16, between the time Donna and Sarah drove from Draper to Primary Childrens. Doing well at that point. This past Tuesday afternoon I was riding my bike down the street and my neighbor Larry asked if I'd take churchhouse lockup duty this week. I told him we'd likely be up at the horsespittle most days, but I wouldn't mind going around and rattling doors, but probably not by 10:30 each night ("Why did you tell Larry yes?" Donna asks). "Well, I've got to run over to the chapel and lock up." "Wait for a minute," David said in his sober news voice. "This morning as we were going into the ICU the nurse practitioner stopped us, and said David had developed an infection." And he already had strep throat. And the infection is worse, and not clearing up. So David and Sarah had to decide whether to keep fighting, or take their baby off life support. "We don't know if we can keep him alive even on life support," the dr. said. So tonight Sarah's sister (who wanted to have the baby she just delivered as a home birth--but that's another story), is flying in from TaXes, and her parents are driving in from Warshington. Sarah and David have been spending nights at my sister's place a few miles from the hospital. We had a picnic there on the 24th and her daughter Carrie, who had a baby (that's what going to visit your Kuwait-stationed husband in Germany'll get you) the same time as Sarah, said, "You might ask the baby what he wants." Carrie's baby, Oceana, was born with the cord wrapped around her neck, and it took some doing to revive her. She had also swallowed myconium. Anyway, they are going to take David off life-support tomorrow (actually that's today now, but I'm pretending I'm writing this all on Friday) in the early afternoon. I've been thinking about this for the last few days, that death is going to come at a certain time. It's a wrenching decision for Sarah and David, as it was for my sister Krista, whose husband, Brian, developed a mysterious illness less than 7 months after they were married, which turned out to be a several-years-incubating rabies. "My condolences. The man you married is no longer with us," the dr. said as she was contemplating whether to keep his heart pumping or let him go. (I've written about it in one of my better pieces, "Rock Canyon in January." If you'd care to read it drop me a note.) So by the time you read this we will be preparing for a funeral. Our neighbors have been so kind. One family, all adopted through an agency in Philadelphia, the youngest named Chancy after her prognosis (sickle cell anemia) came to the door with bags and bags of groceries, and gift certificates for gas. (We just had a funeral Monday for their next-door neighbor's preemie grandson who only lived an hour and was so tiny they couldn't get the ventilator tube down his throat.) Another neighbor called last night. She had seen a funeral dress for a two pound baby at Little Things Mean a Lot, and she would bring it over--but no offense taken if they wanted to use something else, she just wanted them to have it available. Anyway, thanks for listening. Good to be back. Any prayers you might send our way would be welcomed and appreciated. Harlow S. Clark, whose cousin Adam Soderborg was on KUER's Radio West this morning. (Adam is 17, has cystic fibrosis, and his Make-A-Wish was to visit the studios of NPR. My cousin Mark, his father, is a colleague of David's stepmother at Snow College in Ephraim, Utah. It looks like David Jr. will be buried in the family plot in Moroni. I would like to help dig the grave.) ________________________________________________________________ GET INTERNET ACCESS FROM JUNO! Juno offers FREE or PREMIUM Internet access for less! Join Juno today! For your FREE software, visit: http://dl.www.juno.com/get/web/. - -- AML-List, a mailing list for the discussion of Mormon literature ------------------------------ Date: Fri, 26 Jul 2002 16:19:56 -0700 From: Robert Slaven Subject: [AML] Unsavory Etymologies (was: "Choose the Rock") From: "Bill Willson" > Not too many people know that this word is derived from a perfectly innocent > acronym that became a word simply because it was easier to say it than say > the letters of the notation on the London police blotter that went along > with the offense of - For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge. First they began > writing in the logs- F._._._. then they began pronouncing it like it > sounds, then people began using it to denote the act of soliciting or > procuring the services of prostitutes. Now people who find the word too > offensive use words like frick, freak, frig, etc. It's kind of like darn, > heck, sugar, or Cheese and Rice. On a literary/etymological tangent, may I note that I don't buy the acronym theory of the F-word's origins. Even the venerable OED says its etymology is unknown. However, let me relate some information from a South African friend of mine which may shed light on this nasty word's origins. Remember that English is not only heavily related to German, but also to Dutch. Anyhow, you know the German aeroplane manufacturing company Fokker? (I think it's been swallowed up in mergers since, but any WWI or WWII fan will recognise the name.) Herr Fokker was of Dutch origins. In Dutch, the verb 'fokken' means 'to breed', as in a farmer who breeds livestock. So Herr Fokker presumably came from a family of livestock breeders. In South Africa, they speak Afrikaans. This was originally Dutch back when the first Boer settlers arrived in the 17th century, but it has evolved in the 3-4 centuries since, as languages do. However, in most ways, it's similar enough to Dutch that an Afrikaans speaker and a Dutch speaker could converse and mostly understand each other (like Norwegian and Danish, or Spanish and Portuguese). And, interestingly enough, 'fokken' and its derivatives have made the switch in Afrikaans to mean the same thing our F-word does, rather than its original meaning. Anyhow, that's my candidate for 'most likely origin of the F-word'. > > My point is if you have to think about the meaning of the inappropriate word > long enough to come up with an acceptable euphemism then you've already > tarnished your mind. But that is why we have repentance. I grew up on bad > language. I didn't join the church until I was 17, and by the time I was 5, > I could swear like a drunken sailor. When I was baptized and ordained I had > to give the young men in the priesthood my permission to slug me as hard as > they could on the shoulder every time I uttered an expletive deleted. And > even now 49 years later when I'm alone and something happens that raises my > ire, I might just utter a blue streak. I can relate, unfortunately. I'm getting better at it, though, but in moments of stress I will slip. At least I've learned to control it on the ice; I referee hockey games, and anyone who drops the F-bomb on me gets to have a nice long sit in either the penalty box or the dressing room for his troubles. So I have to be 100% sure that I *never* cuss at the players. Most I'll do is, if required, quote words back to them. "Hey Ref, why'd'ja throw out our guy?" "'Cause he cussed at me." "What'd he say?" "He said '^$#@%$'." "Oh, OK, thanks Ref." The thing I notice most frequently nowadays -- on the ice or off -- is how ingrained and unconscious swearing has become. I can't tell you how many times someone cusses at me on the ice, I give 'em a penalty, and then they say "Hey, I just said ''." I have to tell them "No, what you really said was ''." They honestly don't remember saying it. At all. And they spent 10 minutes shaking their head and thinking I'm some kind of idiot. We now return you to our regularly scheduled programming. Robert ********************************************************************** Robert & Linn-Marie Slaven www.robertslaven.ca ...with Stuart, Rebecca, Mariann, Kristina, Elizabeth, and Robin too 'Man is that he might have joy--not guilt trips.' (Russell M. Nelson) - -- AML-List, a mailing list for the discussion of Mormon literature ------------------------------ End of aml-list-digest V1 #786 ******************************