Shake and Nod, Yea, Yeah, Yay

Shake and Nod, Yea, Yeah, Yay.

No, I'm not sitting down with my guitar and a notepad. There are some things I can't seem to grasp. Poetry and verse are better left to those more gifted than me.

As a writer, I often challenge myself to find the right word for the right occasion. Sometimes I succeed; other times, I find that I can thoroughly embarrass myself. Maybe not as bad as showing up at the Queen's Ball wearing only a black tie and pink boxers, but close. The truth is, the English language offers so many variations that I can easily trip up if I'm not paying attention: different spellings that can mean the same thing and others that sound the same but don't convey the same meaning at all. Reading another post on the internet (about the use of a Thesaurus and finding the right word) inspired me to pose a couple of word issues I have resolved in my own mind. (Which is good. I don't think I can honestly say I have resolved anything in anyone else's mind lately. No, I'm sure of it. I never have. But I digress...)

Shake vs. Nod

In my readings, and in listening to speeches, I have seen and heard the word shake used interchangeably, to mean both Yes and No. Using the Dictionary-dot-com app on my iPad, I looked up Shake, and here's what I found among the various definitions:

Shake one's head:
1. to indicate disapproval, disagreement, negation, or uncertainty by turning one's head from one side to the other and back (I'm glad they cleared that one up): I asked him if he knew the answer, but he just shook his head.
2. to indicate approval, agreement, affirmation or acceptance by nodding one's head up and down. (emphasis mine)

I find it interesting the second definition includes the word nodding. For me, when I'm writing a character's action I don't use shake interchangeably. If I want my character to indicate approval, I use nod; if disapproval, I use shake.

This is not to suggest there is a right way and a wrong way. It's more of a style decision, I suppose. To be clear for my readers, though, I make the distinction.

Yea, Yeah, Yay

Here is another set of words that I've seen used interchangeably as interjections, as in, "Our quarterback just scored the winning touchdown!" "Yea!" (or "Yeah!" or "Yay!"). Some may think: Really, who cares? I may be anal about it (No, I admit that I am) but I do. I'm not sure they should be used with such a cavalier attitude.

The first of these, Yea, is defined as:

—adverb
1. yes (used in affirmation or assent).
2. indeed: Yea, and he did come.
3. not only this but even: a good, yea, a noble man.

—noun
4. an affirmation; an affirmative reply or vote.
5. a person who votes in the affirmative.

Yea means "Yes" in an old English or Parliamentary sense, and it seems I might find it used while reading a King James passage (Yea, though I walk...) or while watching a group of comedians lampoon the phrase (i.e., Monty Python and the Holy Grail). In my opinion, then, yea should never be used as an interjection unless the setting is right. Are we all in one accord?

The second, Yeah, is defined as:

—adverb, informal
yes

In the context I have seen it, Yeah is more often used as an offhanded, almost dismissive yes, such as a teenager might say when confronted by his mother: "And, Billy, I want that bed made before you get to play any video games today." "Yeah, yeah, yeah." Again, I don't know that I would want to use it for an interjection. It doesn't pack the emotional punch for me.

The final word, Yay, is defined as:

— interjection Informal.
1. (an exclamation used to express joy, excitement, etc.)

— adverb Informal.
2. to the extent, amount, etc., indicated: The doll is about yay high.

Also, yea.

Bingo. The first definition says it all for me. If I want to use a word as an interjection, then maybe the right choice should be Yay!

Again, this is not to suggest there is a right way and a wrong way. It's more of a style decision (for me); and truthfully, I don't always adhere to it. When I find that I've violated my own rule, typically after I have punched in a quick e-mail or response, the same pink boxers show up to remind me just how human I am.

As an aside, while reading up for this post, I realized that yea, yeah, and yay are all adverbs. Isn't there a thought out there, from the likes of King and Twain, that if you see an adverb, kill it? Again, I digress...

These are my two cents. I'm not sure where that expression comes from, but there you are. Feel free to sound off and express your thoughts on these word choices and how you use them. Or maybe there are other word preferences you would like to share.

#FridayFlash - Leftovers

There's more than one way to kill a person. Staring at the empty bowl across the table, the untouched spoon an exclamation point beside it, Hannah knows this. She is just as certain of it as she is that the sun will come up in the morning and go down at night. Experience and repetition has taught her the truth.

To her right, young Janey stares into the evening meal and grumbles like she always does.

"Ah c'mon, Mom. Leftover stew again?"

"It's Monday night," Hannah says.

After a weekend of meals, it always comes down to this. Monday night is leftover night. Sometimes it's as simple as re-heating the uneaten Sunday tuna fish casserole or the remaining slices of Saturday night movie pizza; other times, like tonight, she can actually take what's left—the browned-up beef that served as nacho meat and the salvaged roast beef, potatoes and carrots—add some water and broth, maybe another can of mixed vegetables, and a few spices to create something new. Not particularly appetizing, of course; but the food was still palatable. Besides, if they didn't eat it up by Monday, the weekend food would eventually find its way into the trash or disposal, and that was a poor use of money. Especially in this economy. Waste not, want not, as her mother would often say. Mother had always been fond of her sayings. Like a rolling stone gathers no moss. Or you made your bed, now lie in it.

Janey spoons a mouthful of stew and grimaces as if it were a dose of cough syrup. Eventually she takes the food. Her face relaxes as she realizes it's not as bad as the mind can imagine, and then spoons another mouthful while reaching for a sleeve of crackers. A smirk pulls at the corner of Hannah's lips.

"Where's dad?" Janey asks.

The smirk disappears as Hannah stares across the table at the empty bowl, the empty chair. She can feel the tears welling up in her eyes, so she looks away.

"He's working late again," she answers.

It wasn't always this way. Dan used to come home on time. He used to laugh and tell how his day went, how the people and the office were driving him crazy. Now, however, almost every night is a repeat of Leftover Monday, and the only time they really see him is on the weekends, which, with the evening movies and the Saturday and Sunday afternoon sports, isn't really seeing him at all.

"Eat up," Hannah tells Janey. "It's a school night. After you do the dishes, you still need to take a bath."

Janey grumbles about that, too. Life is just not fair. Hannah slowly nods her head, closes her eyes. Janey's understanding of fair and unfair is limited. To a little ten-year-old, doing dishes and folding laundry and making one's own bed is unfair. Enduring an episode of Downton Abbey, while they could be watching The Suite Life of Zack and Cody, is also unfair. And if that isn't enough, being forced to take a bath every night, washing her hair and cleaning behind the ears, is asking way too much. But she doesn't know yet that unfairness comes in many different forms. For instance, it can be an unborn baby boy or an unplanned procedure that places a period on the future. It can come in the silence and things unspoken, trailing behind in the wake of laughter. It can be the unknown fragrance that lingers in the fabric of a marriage on the rocks, and in the bitter hint of resentment that loneliness leaves behind.

There's no point in sharing these things with Janey, though, so Hannah doesn't. It's important enough to keep the illusions alive. Maybe they will come true.

Hannah watches as Janey finishes her bowl and takes it to the sink. Her little girl then walks down the hallway toward the bathroom. It isn't the order Hannah had intended—she remembers that it was supposed to be dishes first, then the bath—but she lets it go. She will do the dishes tonight. With all of life's unfairness, real or potential, maybe in this one thing she can show the grace her daughter deserves.

Hearing the bathroom door click, Hannah glances one more time at the empty bowl. She will leave it on the table like she has before, and knows she'll find there in the morning just as clean as it is now. It's not how things are supposed to be, at least not how she thought they would turn out. It's just the way it is.

She grabs a spoonful of her own Monday night meal, and starts in.

#FridayFlash - The Bad Neighbor

Pulling into the driveway, Johnny groaned. He cursed without moving his lips, and then closed his eyes. Couldn't he have one day without the freak?

In his own driveway, Johnny's neighbor, Phil, sat in a folding chair next to a smoker grill. He held a blue can of Stroh's in one hand and a magazine in the other. Probably the latest edition of Field and Stream, Johnny guessed. In addition to the ever-present mirrored sunglasses, Phil's eclectic wardrobe today consisted of denim cutoffs, a camo tee-shirt, the sleeves conveniently torn out, and a crinkled cowboy hat that would give Kenney Chesney a wet dream; and as if the goon's attire couldn't be any creepier, he also wore a pair of camel colored ropers.

"Way to go, Phil," Johnny muttered, careful to keep his lips from moving. "That about takes the cake."

As he pulled farther up into the driveway, an image flashed through Johnny's mind: Randy Quaid, dressed in a ladies' bathrobe, standing next to a rusted-out RV, a black water hose in hand, and announcing to the world that the "...shitter's full." Johnny couldn't help but smile as he hit the brakes and pushed the gear shift into Park. He reached up, pressed a button on the garage door opener remote, and then switched off the engine.

Phil looked up as Johnny stepped out of his silver beamer.

"Howdy neighbor." Phil gestured toward the smoker grill. "I got some good barbecue going here. Want some?"

Not if my life depended on it, Johnny thought.

"No thanks. I think my wife and I are going out to eat."

Johnny grabbed his brief case and closed the car door. He pressed the key fob button. The headlights blinked, the alarm system chirped, and Johnny walked at a near trot toward the open mouth of the garage, hoping to God that Phil wouldn't say anything else. His prayer was answered.

Johnny placed his briefcase on the counter and called for his wife.

"Celine?"

He found her in the living room, her face blank, her eyes vacant.

Ah nuts, Johnny thought. What did Phil do now?

In the world of bad neighbors, Phil was was the worst. Johnny was certain of it. He had talked to others, both at his church and at the office, and no one had ever heard of such a philistine. His attire aside, Phil was the type of person who bored into your skin. He spent his weekends and evenings working on engines. Not just any type of engine, either, it seemed; he worked on the loudest and smokiest ones he could find. He liked to race cars, he said one night, apologizing for the noise that rattled the dishes in Johnny's cupboard. If that wasn't enough, the music had to be even louder, the bass deep enough it pulsed through the walls of Johnny's house. He apologized for that, too—repeatedly, his breath reeking so bad of stale beer and cigarettes Johnny hated to raise the issue.

The noise around Phil's place was a constant. From the lawn mowing at odd hours to the almost weekly parties with friends and multiple lady partners (which Johnny could never understand, given Phil's breath), there never seemed to be an end to the raucous.

It wasn't that Johnny hated Phil. At least he didn't think of it as hate. The Good Book warned against hating anyone. Still, there was no sin (so far as Johnny could find) in severely disliking your neighbor. Really, did God actually expect you to sit down and share a meal with a camo-cut-off-boot-wearing freak, who probably only used the Lord's name in the most inappropriate ways?

Johnny crouched down and stared into his Celine's face.

"Honey? What is it?"

Tears filled her eyes.

"That dog finally got to Winston."

Johnny shook his head. Impossible.

Phil's dog, a Rottweiler, was the worst of their problems. The animal barked at all hours and constantly squatted in Johnny's front yard (and apparently in some of the other neighbor's yards, too). Then, there were the holes dug under the fence line, the beast trying to get at Johnny's Chihuahua, Winston, the poor thing terrified to go outside. Of course, Johnny had to fill in the holes. Phil never did.

The solution came with the latest news report of tainted dog treats. Johnny quickly purchased a bag of treats, not caring which kind. Then he soaked them in anti-freeze. (Phil did work on cars, didn't he? It was possible he'd been careless.) Instead of filling one of the holes with dirt, he filled it with the treats. A few days later, the neighborhood quieted down.

Johnny hoped that God wouldn't charge it against him. If He did, then it was something Johnny would have to live with. Surely there were plenty other good works to offset a bad one. Besides, if Johnny hadn't acted, Winston might have been severely maimed. Or worse.

Johnny touched Celine's hand. He never told her what he did.

"Phil's dog is not going to hurt Winston," He said. "Ever."

"Then where is he?"

"Who?"

"Winston. I've called and called and called, but he won't come, and I can't find him."

Johnny frowned. He stood up and searched the house. He walked to the back door and called out, but found it as Celine said. Winston was nowhere to be found. He stepped out the garage door and onto the driveway. He called out again.

"You loose your dog?"

Johnny turned and looked at Phil.

"So it seems. You haven't seen him, have you?"

Phil shook his head.

"I'm sure he'll turn up eventually. My experience, they always do."

Phil stood up and opened the lid to the grill. Smoke billowed out. Inside, on the rack, Johnny saw something that wasn't recognizable. Was it a chicken, maybe?

Phil turned and looked at him.

"You sure you don't want some barbecue?"