It’s not the isolated bag that somehow gets dislodged from a moving pickup or a Wal-Mart bag that shoots out the window when Missy cranks the handle.

No, instead, what a residential area in Camp Luna inherited Tuesday morning, compliments of some anonymous donor over the Memorial Day weekend was more than a dozen bags of trash, garbage, organic stuff, important records, school reports, sensitive material from hospitals and welfare agencies, a partially used prescription, a copy of a speeding ticket and several dozen empty DVD cases.

My wife, who likes to take early-morning walks, came across piles of huge bags on the pavement near our house. Most likely, the benefactor simply lowered the tailgate, shoving everything out.

Going through people’s garbage is not our idea of good times, but in order to learn whom we should thank for this windfall, we sifted through enough discarded material to get a profile — and fill a pickup. Continue reading →

Sometimes it’s easy to identify with Gen. Halftrack, the forlorn company commander in the Beetle Bailey comic strip, who laments never receiving mail from the Pentagon.

On occasion, I receive no feedback to items in Work of Art. But last week, there was an avalanche. A number of people e-mailed with comments about the alumni/ alumnus matter and solved a dozen common expressions which had been put into high-falutin’ language.

All the responses came via e-mail, except for Betty Quick, who was quick to hand-deliver some of her own creations, listed below.

These are the people who wrote: Continue reading →

When Gilbert Sanchez was president of Highlands University, his office routinely presented some attractive lapel pins to employees who had also graduated from there. That included a large number of us.

When I received mine, I asked Sanchez whether I needed to share it with another, my wife maybe. “Why?”  “Well, the pin has the word ‘alumni.’”

So? “Well, alumni means more than one,” I answered. It’s those pesky words of Latin or Greek origin that confuse us English, non-Latin, non-Greek speakers. Those words, with their inflectional endings require us to say “gymnasia” for more than one gymnasium, or — better yet — a gym. Period.

It’s easier to say “cactuses” than “cacti.” And, on the subject of strange endings, the city of Emporia, Kan., means just a bunch of large stores. And Des Moines means “some monks.” But that’s French; let’s stick to Latin and Greek. Even in the august academic setting of Highlands University, we still hear people asking, “What is the criteria?” As we (should) know, “criteria” is plural, and it should be “criterion,” unless we wish to recast the sentence and ask, “What are the criteria?” Continue reading →

“The reason I stopped you is that I noticed your license plate is lacking a comma between the word ‘Go’ and ‘Cowboys.’ Please exit the vehicle and provide proof you are in this country legally.”

“Well, I, er, intended to insert that comma today, sir.”

The dialogue was part of my dream, or rather, obsession now that I realize what a difference a plate makes — 24 little dollars. But that license plate, an official Highlands University prestige tag, has become a preoccupation and an attention-getter.

Briefly, I argue that the purple-and-white plate I recently got ought to read, “Go (comma) Cowboys.” In the case of a noun of direct address, anything else would indicate the difference between, say, “I’m eating turkey” and “I’m eating, turkey.” Continue reading →

“Six degrees of separation” is a concept that tries to show that everybody is connected to everybody else by just six steps.

The observation, of about 1994 vintage, is also called “Six degrees of Kevin Bacon,” the “Footloose” actor who’s been in just about every other movie. The task, when it became a game, would be to show a connection between any actor and Bacon.

Perhaps the other actor had a small part in a movie whose hairdresser was the third cousin to the chauffeur who transported the oldest aunt of Sandra Bullock to a cafe for a date with Kevin Bacon.

Non-actors as well try to connect with one another in the fewest steps possible. The practice is also called the Small World Syndrome. It’s fun.

Though these attempts occurred long before the Bacon hit the skillet, I’ve experienced similar coincidences that have made me wonder how, of all the people in the world, all the cities in the world, all the times in the world, I’d meet up with people I knew.

Let me explain: Continue reading →

As a way of giving back to Highlands University, my alma mater, I decided to pick up a newly minted license plate that bears the letters “HU,” with the message, “Go Cowboys” on an attractive white-on-purple field.

The plates became available this week at the local motor vehicle office, for a slightly higher fee than regular plates, Highlands receiving part of those fees. The trip to the MVD, while time-consuming, went surprisingly smoothly, considering it was also time to renew my driver’s license, which expires next month, after eight years.

The plate contains five digits, with a couple of zeroes tossed in. Theoretically, the number of digits would allow 99,999 plates to be sold without duplication or running out. My number, if you ignore a couple of zeroes, comes quite close to my current weight. But that’s a topic for a later column. Continue reading →

An enjoyable aspect of writing a column is talking to and learning from people. Often, as I once did with the term “church key,” I ask people younger than I (and that includes the masses) what certain words mean to them.

Usually, they can divine the meaning but seldom can explain why. For example, my three grandchildren, ages 7 through 14, know the expression to “sound like a broken record,” but they aren’t able to explain that a broken record skips, and the needle (“whatever that is, grandpa”) gets stuck in the groove (whatever groove is) and keeps repeating.

Those of us alive in the pre-CD and I-Pod generation probably still use the term. When the husband accuses the wife of sounding like a broken record, it’s because of her incessancy in reminding him to take out the trash. But when the wife applies the expression to her mate, it’s because he is emphasizing a point, not being repetitious at all. Continue reading →

Back in the olden days, before Storrie Lake became a state park and when entry was free, I once took a couple of neighbor-acquaintances swimming. I call them acquaintances because they were not exactly my friends.

Without getting into the semantics of what a friend is, let me explain that they were simply young men my age whom I saw regularly but who weren’t part of my circle.

I had a car, in a manner of speaking; they didn’t. In the early ‘60s, when the Optic had a genuine weekend paper with a tabloid Sunday supplement, “Omnibus,” I’d leave work at midnight. On my way home one time, the acquaintances, Henry and Don, flagged me down as they were stepping out of one of several bars on East Lincoln, a block from my work. Continue reading →

“Don’t forget ‘truchas,’” Joseph P. Santillanes yelled at me as I parked on Douglas and he crossed the street.

Was the personable candidate for San Miguel County Sheriff inviting me to have trout with him at Charlie’s Restaurant or at Dick’s?

Hardly. Santillanes was reminding me that in my frequent attacks in my columns on words we use around here I’d omitted “truchas.”

“Why don’t you write about truchas?” he asked.

It’s true: I’ve written entire columns on words like “like,” “so,” “whatever” and “sapo” but never “truchas.”

Let me explain: Continue reading →

The construction that made Grand Avenue a true four-lane highway took place in the early ‘50s. Traffic got routed through Railroad Avenue and even New Mexico Avenue during the several months that improvements took place.

This month, a $4.4 million project began on the same stretch of road. The news of the project has sparked memories about the major job some 60 years ago.

Before the ‘50s project, the pavement covered only two lanes, the rest being dirt and gravel, and even the slightest sprinkle of rain managed to get cars stuck. Continue reading →