Lingo

The other day I had occasion to look up the spelling of the word "gumption." I found myself typing this word without any concrete memory of ever having seen it in print before. It was a word that came to me from my mother, who not surprisingly, had plenty of it. But it also occurred to me that I was finally of an age myself where using that word instead of a more hip, happening synonym like "assertiveness," or "shrewdness." I was using my parental dialect. In a very similar vein, I was reminding myself in the midst of all the trouble and strife surrounding public education lately not to get my dobber down. After a few hours of this phrase running through my head, I felt compelled to call my mother and ask her what the etymology of that particular phrase was. She told me that a dobber was used in fishing, and that it probably meant that you shouldn't let your float sink. If this phrase was meant to cheer one along, it seemed like a salient point was missing: if your dobber does happen to go down, it generally means that there is a fish on the end of your line, which is a good thing. So it turns out that maybe having one's dobber down is not as bad as previously experienced, and it could mean that reward is waiting just around the corner. Or at the end of the line. Any parent who is moderately self-aware finds themselves at some point wondering how they could possibly have made the sounds that came tumbling out of their mouths. Sheer repetition of certain phrases such as, "pick up your shoes," or "is your homework done" causes large portions of the speech center to atrophy, and new vocabulary is brought in to help fill some of the gaps. Words like gumption and dobber, and the arcane "assatime." I grew up being comforted by this consoling sing-song mash-up of "that's the time." It soothed shattered nerves and skinned knees. It took away the pain of hurt feelings and broken hearts. My mother used it on bawling kids and whimpering dogs. I didn't know what it meant, and upon reflection, I still don't think I understand, but it certainly helped ease the misery of growing up. When I first held my son in my lap and smoothed his hair while he sobbed into my chest over a broken toy, I heard that incantation come quietly into the room. It was me, speaking the words of my ancestors, using the magic that I had learned as a child. To my son's credit, he didn't look up to ask what mysterious spell I must be casting on him, and soon he was resting comfortably as we rocked slowly back and forth. I wouldn't let that kid's dobber get down. He's got too much gumption.