RHD

“Hey LE,” my father-in-law says to me this past weekend, “I have something for you.”

My FIL is never predictable. This something could be anything, or it could be nothing. But I’m game. I’m in a good mood because the girls are all having fun, and there aren’t any cares floating around my world.

“What is it?”

“Come here.” He wanders over to his car and I follow. Fishing out his keys he pops open the trunk and withdraws a massive book among the folded beach chairs, coolers, and tents inside. “Careful,” he advises as he hands it over.

He gives me a 1966 Random House Dictionary of the English Language. It measures 9.5 x 12 x 3.5 inches – 399 cubic inches of etymological goodness. A 32-page assortium of prefaces followed by 2,059 pages of definitions. A primer on languages, weights and measures, and foreign alphabets spread upon the inside covers. The whole thing weighs about 11 pounds.

I, am touched. Truly touched.

Once upon a time I had a similar weighty tome. Grandma asks me, way back when, what I needed going off to school. By this I mean college. I tell her I could use a good dictionary. Desiring only the best for her eldest grandson, she buys me a similar behemoth. Too heavy and too unweildy for practical use, it never makes the trip to my dorm room, spending a few years in a darkened storage room. Later, on my own, I found it and spent many an hour perusing it.

It’s the writer in me, I guess. The word nerd. The crossword puzzler. The linguist who can’t be bothered to memorize a foreign language.

Anyway, I have the 1966 Random House at my side as I type this. The inside of the dust jacket looks something like the Shroud of Turin and appears as fragile as tissue paper. I remove this and note a sturdy, denim-texture pattern on the cover.

I flip through it and towards the back are about a hundred pages of miscellanea. There’s a list of Presidents of the United States up to LBJ. There’s the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution. Even the Charter of the United Nations. Geographical data on countries and states and a full-fledged global atlas taking up 64 pages. There’s even a map of the Moon!

Okay, I realize that of the 17 people who will read this, 15 have already grew bored and clicked away. But you remaining 2 must share my love of the printed word. We delight as elite autodidactory adepts of the ancient art of wordsmithery.

And, of course, should I come across anything odd, enlightening, chin-scratching, eerie, delightful, or plain ol’ riveting – yes, I can associate the word “riveting” with the word “dictionary” – I’ll be sure to let you know.

Back to regularly scheduled programming tomorrow.

Weirdity note: of the 209 “consultants” listed on pages ix to xiii, my eyes zeroed in on Dr. Edward U. Condon. Dr. Condon, those of you in the know with note, is the man responsible for the “whitewash” of Project Blue Book, the Air Force investigation and study of the UFO phenomenon from 1947 or so until 1969. This is the sort of synchronicity only a Mulder or an LE could possibly note ...