The Cold Solace of Spelling Words (Correctly)
How a book lover and book non-lover connected over an icy road and a shared passion for words
I. Harbinger
As a harsh winter storm tore its way across Texas, and parental figures came from every direction to try to discourage any road trips, I somehow found myself sitting in the backseat of an old, beige Saturn sedan whose destination was almost 300 miles away. My husband relaxed in the passenger’s seat, happy and comfortable, while our friend — let’s call him Harry — drove us deeper and deeper into the Pit of Doom.
I’m exaggerating a little bit, but the fact is that we were driving toward a city covered in ice and I was the only one who seemed interested in heeding the warnings that kept coming (likely, this is the reason all of those parental figures had sent messages to me, instead of one of them; I am the reasonable one). The point: I was already on edge, bracing for potential danger. So when the car suddenly swerved to avoid a semi on our left, and I looked up from my Kindle to see Harry fiddling with a stack of CDs he’d pulled down from the case on his visor, I was not impressed.
I took a deep breath and looked back down to my ebook (coincidentally, a story involving lots of snow and icy roads), but was quickly distracted by the words now streaming through the car’s speakers.
Filet mignon. Altruistic. Manipulable. Rubberstamp.
“What is this?” my husband asked. Apparently, Harry had been the announcer for a district spelling competition/exam last year, and this was the announcer’s practice disc (or something like that). At his explanation, I was filled with excitement, quickly setting my Kindle aside so I could listen to what came next. As each new word filtered through the speakers, we considered it, perhaps made some small commentary, and sometimes paused to listen to Harry’s stories about his experience announcing the words for the competition.
II. A Challenge
(One thing I love about traveling with Harry is that he and I are both word nerds. Though he and my husband spend much of their time discussing other things — lost in their own little world — the word nerd talk is all for me. I have to admit, I feel a special thrill being able to share this interest with him. He’s a state champion at Scrabble, and it feels to good to know that he recognizes the skill in me, too.)
Eremite, the woman announced in her clear, strong voice. I gasped and gestured to my husband with excitement. “Hey! We know that word because of Gene Wolfe!” He nodded with approval while Harry dismissed it, turning the volume up so we could hear what was next.
When the word Naugahyde was announced, again I sat up with a shock of recognition. “Yeah, this one’s actually really hard,” Harry explained, raising a finger into the air.
“I just read that one in a book somewhere,” I interrupted, trying to remember where I’d seen it. I recognized it because it had made an impact; the word’s spelling had surprised me when I saw it on the page a few days before. At the mention of “read it in a book,” however, Harry’s eyes seemed to glaze over. We’d discussed reading, briefly, in the past. Apparently he doesn’t read. Ever. At all. This revelation confused me, because I’d thought that reading books would surely come naturally to someone so engrossed in words, strategy, and video games. (Apparently, I was wrong. And also a bit disappointed, I have to admit.)
By the time it was over — all 70 words, plus a set of 20 tie-breakers — I’d had a revelation. “Play it again!” I requested. “And this time I’m going to take the exam and see how I do! Is there any scrap paper back here?” (There was scrap paper everywhere back there.) As my husband let out a groan of boredom, Harry giggled with glee, and I sat up in my seat, pen poised above the back side of an expired temporary parking permit, waiting to test (or maybe prove) my spellings skills.
I was reasonably confident about my results, but Harry wouldn’t have a chance to grade my exam until a while later. I was still reeling from my little nerdy high when we approached a bridge and suddenly the car spun out. The unexpected (to some of us) (not me) ice on the road sent us spinning in a wide circle, and Harry guided the car to a stop on the shoulder facing the direction we had just come from. Another car sat close by, stuck in the mud further down the ditch (the same thing had happened to her).
III. The Pit of Doom
After checking the tires and taking a couple of deep breaths, thankful to be relatively unscathed, we hurried back into the car and carefully made our way back onto the road. The next couple of hours were spent in a bit of nervous concentration, each one of us eager to have the trip done with. The landscape became more and more ice-covered the further we traveled. The road we were on was riddled with bridges and there was little civilization in sight. (At one point, Harry told me I was free to “load up on the I-told-you-so’s”; but really I just wanted to make it to our destination in one piece.)
People who live in places where this kind of weather is a regular occurrence tend to scoff at me for having any complaints about it. Yes, I know. It sucks to have to put up with all that snow and ice for months every year. The difference, though, is that these people are accustomed to it and much better equipped to deal with it. Here in Texas, the problem is twofold: 1) people do not know how to drive in icy conditions, and 2) the cities are not prepared for winter storms.
So not only were the roads bad, they were extra bad because there was nothing and no one to help mitigate the damage. The people driving didn’t know how best to handle things, and so we saw several accidents, spinouts, wipeouts, stalled cars, etc. Every bridge (and we crossed many) was a test of endurance (for the car), patience (for the driver), and courage (for all involved). It was scary and uncomfortable and I questioned, many times, why I had agreed to this road trip at all.
After crawling along below 30 mph, we finally made it to our destination and quite gratefully set our feet back onto the (slippery) ground. I spent much of the following 48 hours carefully treading down and across icy pathways, reading books (somehow everything I picked up to read ended up involving dangerous winter weather; what the heck), and trying to keep warm. It’s surprisingly difficult to absorb the heat from a hearth unless you’re seated directly in front of it. At least, that was the case with that hotel lobby.
Oh, the things I do for the man I love.
IV. A Small Victory
As we rode (this time in a friend’s much more ice-driving-capable SUV) toward an IHOP late the following night, Harry looked over my answer sheet, commenting here and there. He marveled at my ability to spell certain terms correctly (leptospirosis), asked for clarification on a couple of letters (I told you my handwriting is awful), and laughed at a couple of my attempts at unfamiliar words.
“Kelley, you were trying way too hard on Dobro.” I had figured as much, but since I hadn’t recognized the word, and there were several other French terms on the list, I decided to go with dobreaux. “You basically spelled it the way I would expect someone who’s a really good speller to do it, if they were unfamiliar with the word.” So, a compliment was in there, even though I had gotten it wrong.
In the end, I’d missed ten words, two of which I would have gotten correctly if I hadn’t second-guessed myself and changed my original answers.
“Guess how many the winner of this exam got wrong,” Harry said. “Nine. So you would have gotten second place.”
“Or I could have gotten FIRST place if I hadn’t doubted myself!” I exclaimed, taking my paper back from him and looking over his markups.
“That’s really good; I’m impressed because all the people who take these exams study word lists for months beforehand, and you didn’t study at all.” Harry is used to the idea of studying word lists. He does it regularly — and has for years — so he can be the best at Scrabble. I’ve tried this technique, but ultimately found it boring and only moderately helpful.
“That’s because I read books!” I bounced, raising my finger into the air. “Reading has helped me build my vocabulary a lot over the years.”
I was beaming — proud of my success, warmed by the approval I’d received from a mentor. The vindication I felt at proving the merit of my favorite hobby sent a tingle through me, even as I could see the sparkle fading from his eyes.
V. Kaleidoscope
I spent the rest of the weekend devouring VICIOUS, lost in a marvelous world of clever words and intriguing ideas, then moving on to the next book on my list. My husband, Harry, and the rest of our group did their thing (you know, MAGIC) and I waited patiently by the fire.
On the drive back home, late Sunday night, my husband started asking Harry and me about our ability to visualize words and numbers in our minds. What followed was a conversation that I probably appreciated much more than they did.
“I’ve always been really good at memorizing lists,” explained Harry. “It’s just a talent I have. I’ve been entering spelling competitions since second grade. I memorized my multiplication tables in a week.” The latter task was supposed to have been completed by the end of the school year. It became clear that Harry’s love of lists was more about the remembrance of them.
(Oh, I love lists, too. But I prefer to make them and then cross things off of them. I don’t care about remembering every single item on them.)
“For me,” I said, leaning forward from the backseat, “it’s more about the experience of words. I love diction. I love cadence. I love alliteration. I love experiencing combinations of words that are put together in beautiful ways.”
I was slightly breathless, wistful, trying to impart my love of words and books and reading in a way he would understand. But I could tell, once again, that I’d lost him. He was shaking his head, and I giggled a bit as he said, “It’s not like that for me at all.”
VI. Acceptance
I realized then that he would probably never understand, and I was okay with that. I had finally found some reasoning for his lack of excitement about books, and I was satisfied. So I huddled in the backseat, reading my Kindle by way of cell-phone illumination, as the guys went on to other topics I wasn’t as interested in.
I may never understand the way they like to challenge themselves in sometimes torturous ways for their hobbies (at one point, Harry explained that he’s not interested in most things unless they involve some sort of competition; I am not like this), and they may never understand the great joy that fills me when I read a good story or a beautiful turn of phrase.
But what I love is that we all come to recognize and accept each other, all in our different ways.
I’ve learned not to care so much about being seen as the “tag-along wife who’s over there reading a book instead of playing Magic,” and it feels good. Sharing a car ride, a hotel room, and a weekend with four guys who may not understand me? It still felt good, because despite our differences, I was a part of the group — not some tag-along they had to carry with them everywhere. Our little family, looking out for each other.
We may all have different paths we prefer to take, but when each of these paths converge into such a companionable center — filled with mutual respect and excitement — it makes me all warm and happy inside.
This story was originally posted as “Alone on the Tundra of Recognition” at Oh, the Books!
