Sleepy Sands and Pink Vacations

Whilst gamboling through the leafy glades of Roy Blount, Jr.'s, "Alphabet Juice" a while back, I came upon an entry for "familese," which the author defines as the private language of kith and kin, those made-up words and odd expressions that have to be explained to newcomers. There's always a story attached.

Blount was not the first to mine this rich vein of language. Paul Dickson's "Family Words" (Marion Street Press, 2007) is a compendium of such, all contributed by honest-to-God families. To use one example, the book is a real giggler. (Technically, a "giggler" is an antonym of a poker face and comes about when a player is dealt a very good hand of cards. It is so called because two little girls being taught to play gin rummy couldn't keep the luck of the draw to themselves.)

Another family is the source of the No-thank-you helping, a.k.a. the obligatory five green peas or teaspoon of squash one must eat to qualify for dessert.

Coming as I do from a clan that enjoys a brisk game of cards, loves to eat, and loves to talk, I did not have to rummage too deeply through my pantry of familial phrases to find these:

Roast beast, which usage in our house predated "How The Grinch Stole Christmas," was a special meal. When watching the grocery budget, we made do with creamed chipped beast, sometimes accompanied with a side of grin bims. A company dinner might be Beef Strongenough, served with trees (broccoli) or Popeye (spinach), both named to hoodwink diners under the age of five.

Monday leftovers might Chicken a la Queen in deference to the Askew household's 3-to-1 gender ratio or pasquetti. If the girls didn't like the menu, they could always fix themselves a sangvich.

(Among my younger daughter's in-laws, said sangvich might well be a cheeser---the Kimmerle variant of grilled cheese---served with kepitch. By the way, when preparing cheesers, you must remember to pick up and switch, that is, flip 'em with a spatula.)

It's not surprising that so many family words relate to family meals---like the gofer seat, where the occupant has to go for things left in the kitchen. Nor is it astonishing that so much in-house code comes from close physical proximity. My husband liked to tell the story of his family's car trip to California in the days before interstate highways, when the roadside amenities were often marked simply EAT-BEER-GAS, leading Pete's father to remark that if you indulged in the first two, you'd have the third as a natural consequence.

Nonchalance in matters physical may be an Askew family trait. "Keep your seat, Pidge" is credited to Fred I. Askew, Pete's grandfather, who reportedly barged into a bathroom occupied by one of his daughters-in-law. (Given the aforementioned predominance of females at our house, Pete often had occasion to use it himself.) Some decades later, upon committing a faux pas at a family dinner, Stacey commented blandly, "Sorry for farting," and continued with her meal.

In my extended Massachusetts family, youngsters were customarily asked before setting out in the car, "Do you have to make a tinkle?" (My British-born college roommate called it "spending a penny.") The "tinkle" usage rang hollow, so to speak, when we summered in the Berkshires at a camp with no indoor plumbing... just overnight conveniences called thunder mugs.

The toilet euphemisms Chez Askew even extend to the cats' facilities, where cleaning the litter box is known as panning for gold.

We were not, I hasten to add, totally scatological. When I was growing up in Holyoke, it was common at family gatherings for little ones on their way to bed to be taken into the living room or wherever the grownups were gathered and told to give everyone a love. "Don't I get a love?" asks Auntie Mary. "Now you have to give me two."

The same youngster in the morning might be told she had sleepy sands in the corners of her eyes, where The Sandman had left his mark.

My sister Connie invented the term pink vacation when she was three years old and sometimes left for a night or so with one grandmother or the other. She had a pair of pink pajamas that she often packed for her trips, so in family lore a pink vacation came to mean a short, pleasant trip.

Once you know its origins, family shorthand really cuts through the verbiage. When Pete and I were first going together, I happened to remark on a Sunday drive that the ramshackle house coming up on our right was a real Monster Rally. It was a Victorian in dire need of repair that looked amazingly like the residence of Gomez and Morticia Addams which had been prominently featured on the cover of a cartoon collection by Charles Addams entitled---you guessed it---"Monster Rally."Ever after, it came to mean a big, rambling house of a certain vintage and state of decrepitude.

I hope this recital has stirred you to recall your own family language, and I hope you will share your words with me---and with Paul Dickson, who is soliciting contributions for Family Words Redux or Part II. You can either mail them to Dickson at P.O. Box 280, Garrett Park, MD 20896 or e-mail them to pauldicksonbooks.com.

In the meantime, I wish you many sleepy sands, lots of pink vacations, and your full share of gigglers.