Back to St. Mumbles
This marks the end of yet another season (the 12th? 13th?) of TODAY'S WORD ON JOURNALISM. It’s been another good run, mostly: As Papa Hemingway would have said (did, in fact): “I have tried simply to write the best I can; sometimes I have good luck and write better than I can.”
That’s not been so hard in my case, since the WORDmeister’s job is simply to crib and collect the words of others—all better than I. One of those better writers—I forget who just at the moment—said an essential element of good writing is knowing when to quit. So I’m taking that advice.
Longtime WORD subscribers know what happens next: Every May, more or less at this time, classes end at Utah State, the students and faculty flee, and those nice but firm young men from St. Mumbles Home for the Terminally Verbose come and take the WORD away to the sanitarium for the summer. No one minds, really. It gets a bit quieter in cyberspace, and the WORD himself needs the time and space for a little reflective conjugation and electroshock.
For myself, this epitaph (or epithet), which I’ve used before. But I am pooped and I need the rest, if only until August . . . when the WORD will escape St. Mumbles and I will rise again.
Under the sod and under the trees
Lies the body of Edward Pease.
He is not here, there's only the pod:
Pease shelled out and went to God.
—From an 1880s gravestone on Nantucket Island, Mass. (lightly edited)
Have a wonderful, restful summer.