We all know a few of them. Personally…….. or we just trip across them on Facebook once in a while.
They are the Grammar Police.
These folks go on a weekly rant. Why can you not differentiate between THEIR and THEY’RE? You are an adult now! Why don’t you know the difference?
This grammar guard puts up lessons on Facebook. This person has 1,000 online friends. Their rant gets two thumbs up and one frowning face.
They should take the hint. But, no. Grammar Police never take the hint. They give you a few days off and then they start it all over again.
I have seen it all on Facebook. A high school friend I haven’t seen in 45 years loses her mother. She writes her own tear jerking obituary on her Facebook page. Instead of saying “I’m so sorry for your loss.” someone actually writes “You may want to proofread this and edit. I’m sure your mother wouldn’t be proud of your spelling or punctuation.”
Really? Really? We all have pet peeves. But, get a grip!
I had a friend in grammar school. Oh, we weren’t bosom buddies. We didn’t start out as kindred spirits. She was a stray and I felt sorry for her.
She was a Grammar Corrector.
This is why she had no friends.
I invited her over to play after school. She asked lots of questions. Would my mother be home? Could her mother please have my phone number? Her mother would have to check mine out before allowing her over to play. Would snacks be involved? Would she be staying for dinner?
Wow! Lots of questions. I answered them all.
Our mothers spoke over the phone. My mother made the little girl’s mother feel at ease. We would play. We would eat dinner and then we would walk the little girl home.
Mom mentioned the phone call over our fish sticks and tartar sauce that night.
“Does your little friend speak with an accent?” she asked. It seems the mother had a very thick accent. My mother thought it was Polish or maybe Russian.
“No. She doesn’t have an accent.” I responded. “She has no friends. I feel sorry for her.”
“Kids pick on someone that’s different. She has no accent………..does she dress funny? Does she smell funny? Does she bring strange things in her lunch box? ” Mom grilled me.
“No. None of those things. Kids don’t like her because she corrects them all of the time.” I told her.
“Like?” my mother wanted to know.
“Like………….she hates contractions. She thinks they’re lazy or something. She hates contractions.” I stated as I grabbed some french fries before they got cold.
I squirted some ketchup onto my plate. The ketchup bottle gave out a great big fart. I laughed in reply.
My mother smiled with me as she took the ketchup bottle away and gave it a good upside down shake.
“Contractions……………….” my mother murmured. She looked just a little confused.
“You are is you’re. We have is we’ve. She will is she’ll.” I explained.
“Oh, contractions………….” my mother pondered. I’m thinking my mother knew all her contractions. She had just forgotten what they were called.
“This little girl hates contractions………….well, I guess there is a first time for everything.” she told me.
“She wins all the spelling bees. And, then she kind of gloats. She doesn’t say much……..but when someone makes a mistake she gets this smirk on her face. I think she’s nice but even I want to smack her. ” I explained through a mouthful of coleslaw.
“Well…………..you are a collector, Darlene. A collector of dolls. And, doll furniture. Picture books. I think you’re also going to be a collector of strays.” my mother said as she started to pile dishes into the sink.
I sat on the curb with the little girl the next day during recess. No one wanted her to play kickball with them. Or, four squares. Or, the game of jacks going on in the corner. This was because she had pontificated during story hour. She had spoken up and told the class that Peter Rabbit was nothing but a thief. Farmer McGregor should have wrung his neck and eaten him for dinner. And, she had pointed out two punctuation mistakes in the book we had all read from.
“Stupid little know-it-all.” a freckled faced boy had hissed from behind her.
“So, I will accompany you home after school.” she announced as we sat on the curb. “Will your mother offer us a snack after we make use of the rest room?”
“Sure, I guess so.” I replied.
“Fruit would be best.” she said as she nodded her head up and down.
“We always have apples and oranges.” I assured her. “Daddy went to the grocery store yesterday. I think we might have strawberries, too.”
“Your father purchases food at the store. Is that not strange for an American father?” she wanted to know.
“Maybe?” I answered. “My mother doesn’t drive. Sometimes they go together and sometimes he goes alone. Sometimes I walk to the store with my mother.”
“Hmmmm.” is all I got for a response.
“And, what do you have planned for a recreation?” the little girl asked.
Recreation? Really? Um, um, um…………………..
“I figured we’ll………..I corrected myself………….I figure we will play in my doll house.” I answered.
“We will play WITH your doll house.” said the little girl.
“No, we will play IN my doll house.” I corrected her.
She wasn’t used to being corrected. I mean, even our teacher seemed a little terrified of this Little Miss Perfect.
She turned on the curb and stared into my eyes.
“I understand American children are a little lax with their grammar. I also understand that you do not like to be corrected. You would prefer to make mistakes. But, how do you learn that way? How can you improve? I go home every night and write what I have learned on the black board we have in our kitchen. My parents improve their English with my lessons. By the time I get out of high school…………………I think my parents will no longer have accents. ” she proclaimed proudly.
“Now, let us start again, my friend. We will go to your house and play WITH your doll house.” she said slowly as she looked deeply into my eyes.
I got a big grin on my face. She wasn’t wrong. I wasn’t wrong. Her mistake was thinking my doll house was a thing. How was she to know that my doll house was an actual place.
The two of us walked home after school. She exclaimed at all the little Cape Cod houses that lined my neighborhood streets. They were all the same but a little different. She found them to be charming. She noticed all the little things. Some windows contained lace curtains. Some had shutters. All the front doors were painted different colors.
She stood in front of my little house. It was white with black shutters. The dormer windows upstairs had half shutters with lace valances at the top. The front door stood open to welcome us. Petunias and geraniums stood at attention in pots on the steps. My gold cat sat in the sunny doorway and washed her paws.
The little girl grasped my hand.
“This is your home?” she asked.
“Yes.” I said as the grasp became a little too tight. I saw unshed tears in her eyes.
“Someday. This is what my father will achieve.” she told me with a smile.
We entered my house on Columbus Street through the front door. My mother greeted us. She had quite a snack prepared and set out on the kitchen table. Just to let you know…………I never used the front door. I was used to grabbing an apple or a few crackers out of the cupboard as a snack after school.
My mother was the perfect hostess. She treated the little girl like a visiting princess. I also noticed my mother did not once use a contraction. The little girl was charmed by the attention coming from the beautiful red headed woman that was my mother.
The little girl also noticed my mother’s accent. My mother was born and raised in Worcester, Massachusetts. My mother did not pronounce R’s. My name was Dah-leen when my mother said it. My mother did not say park the car. She said paaak the caaaa.
“You do not have the same accent as your daughter! How can this be?” asked the little girl.
My mother smiled sweetly at the girl.
“I come from a place called Massachusetts. It is only a few hours away by car. But, people from Massachusetts have a different accent than people from Connecticut. People from the southern states do not sound like people from the northern states. This is a very big country, honey. And, all accents are welcome.” my mother said as she cleared the table.
“Now, why don’t you go and play in the doll house.” my mother said as she filled the sink up with soapy water.
The little girl bit her lip. She stopped herself from correcting my mother.
She got up and headed down the hallway to where she thought my room was.
I stopped her.
“The doll house is out this way.” I told her.
I opened the kitchen door and took her hand as we went down the cement stairs to the patio. She seemed a little confused.
We went towards the annex attached to the garage.
I opened the door to my doll house and she followed me in.
Her mouth fell open. She perused the 8 x 12 foot room full of my dolls. I noticed my mother had been out there cleaning and shining. The old lace curtains covered glowing windows. The counter tops made out of leftover linoleum gleamed. My kitchen equipment stood to attention with miniature pots and pans shining. My family of dolls were all dressed in their best and lined up on the sofa. The chest of drawers that Daddy had built for me had the drawers opened up like stairs. All my doll clothing was neatly folded and the smell of Downy fabric softener painted the air.
“We were to play with your doll house. Where are we?” gasped the little girl.
“We are IN my doll house.” I answered gently.
She turned and looked at me. She got very quiet. Things clicked into place.
“You have a house full of dolls. You knew I thought we were to play with a miniature house with miniature furnishings and people. You did not correct me.” she said pensively.
“I preferred to surprise you.” I said with a big grin.
She thought about it for a moment with a stoic look upon her face.
She picked up a baby doll and sniffed deeply. She stroked it’s face and landed a kiss upon it’s rubber cheek.
She placed the doll back in her high chair. She adjusted the blankets around the twins sleeping in the crib.
“I love surprises.” she said as she searched through the dollhouse with a big grin upon her face.
growinguponcolumbusstreet 