One expression that keeps making the rounds — usually because someone in print or on television uses it — is “the lion’s share.”
We’ve even used it here, at the Optic, this bastion of correctiquette. Recently we used it to mean the largest part, the greater portion, as in “the chamber got the lion’s share of the funds.” Invariably, some groups and organizations are left grumbling because they only got a mouse’s share.
We kept our grandson, my namesake, for a few days last week, and the visit reminded me of the world around me when I was around his age.
Wanting to please his grandparents, Arthur asks permission to play, say, across the field. Permission granted, just check in every hour. Instead, he checks in every half hour, “just so you won’t worry.”
By contrast, a constant playmate of his simply shows up at our house. She’s no trouble at all — in fact Arthur looks forward to her visits — but her mother, I suspect, makes a dozen calls when night falls to find out whose house she’s been visiting.
It happened again. A victim of my own upbringing, I corrected my wife’s grammar once too often. Those of you who may know her also know how egregious this offense can be (on my part).
You see, I grew up in a family whose father wasn’t given to small talk.
I could get his attention, so it seemed, only by butchering the English or Spanish language. No matter how preoccupied Dad might have been, the slightest slip resulted in a repeat-after-me type lecture.
I’ve made my living through the written and spoken word but would have starved had I depended on communication Saturday night.
Here’s what happened:
My wife and I drove to Denver to pick up our son, arriving on a late-night flight from Denmark. The heavy volume of holiday traffic made it inconvenient for Adam Stan to land in Albuquerque, so Bonnie and I arrived in Denver after a six-hour drive.