I attended a funeral yesterday. As far as funerals go, it was quite nice. The church was well filled. There were people of all ages. The pews displayed an array of colors, postures, ages, and backgrounds. People spoke, people laughed. We sang some obligatory hymns and belted out The Battle Hymn of The Republic upon the man’s departure from the building. And the last 24-hours has found me with chance encounters with other attendees all echoing the same sentiment; wasn’t it a lovely send off!
Each speaker told a story of how their grammar had been corrected by The Judge, their employer, their colleague, their Dad. Why, even during his last heart attack he corrected the nurse’s usage of lay and lie.
Every time I see my Dad I get my grammar corrected. Teenage me still rolls her eyes and says “Daaaaaad, just let me tell my story!” Tell it right. “Just listen for a change!” I can’t, it’s hurting my ears. (I frequently relive the time my friends and I were going to the beach and Dad said “No teenage daughter of mine is going to lay on the beach…there will be no laying on the beach!”. I don’t know if I was more horrified by the correction or the fact that nobody understood what the heck he was talking about.)
I’m making a pledge this Father’s Day. The next time Dad corrects my grammar I will simply say “Thank you”. Not “Dude, seriously, I’m 50. You can stop.” Just “thank you”. Maybe silently would be better, but I’m not so sure anymore. Of course, it’s not completely lost on me that perhaps a better gift would be to clean up my act (grammatically speaking).
Nah. Out loud is so much better than silence.