Tag: Childcraft

Hot Cockalorum

One of the pleasures of adulthood is looking back and savoring certain childhood memories. Trying to figure out why they were so much fun at the time can be a joyful sentimental journey.

I practically lived inside the covers of my World Book encyclopedia and companion Childcraft books when I was a little girl. I remember they were bought from a traveling door-to-door salesman. I believe their purchase caused some consternation in the household as Dad accused Mom of buying something “impulsive and unnecessary.”

As irony would have it, when Dad died, I retrieved the World Book encyclopedia from his house, not Mom’s. Who knows what happened there. Divorce collateral damage.

For my part, I am glad Mom bought them. The story below I first discovered in Childcraft. The nonsense of it and the twisting around of words in my head and mouth were delicious to play with and read out loud. It was the same sort of rolling around of words in your brain as you might do in your mouth with a caramel toffee candy or dessert confection.

This tiny tale was no doubt partially responsible for igniting my love of words. For reasons unknown, I hung on to “hot cockalorum” over the years.

Do not expect common sense here. It is a silly story. But I am still impressed now, as I was back then, by how quick and clever that young servant girl had to be to remember all the crazy words the old man taught her just hours before.

Girls – including servant girls – rock.

Master of All Masters

https://sacred-texts.com/neu/eng/eft/eft43.htm

“A girl once went to the fair to hire herself for servant. At last, a funny-looking old gentleman engaged her, and took her home to his house. When she got there, he told her that he had something to teach her, for that in his house he had his own names for things.

He said to her: ‘What will you call me?’

‘Master or mister, or whatever you please, sir,’ says she.

He said: ‘You must call me “master of all masters”. And what would you call this?’ pointing to his bed.

‘Bed or couch, or whatever you please, sir.’

‘No, that’s my “barnacle”. And what do you call these?’ said he, pointing to his pantaloons.

‘Breeches or trousers, or whatever you please, sir.’

‘You must call them “squibs and crackers”. And what would you call her?’ pointing to the cat.

‘Cat or kit, or whatever you please, sir.’

‘You must call her “white-faced simminy”.

And this now,’ showing the fire, ‘what would you call this?’

‘Fire or flame, or whatever you please, sir.’

‘You must call it ‘hot cockalorum”, and what this?’ he went on, pointing to the water.

‘Water or wet, or whatever you please, sir.’

‘No, “pondalorum” is its name. And what do you call all this?’ asked he, as he pointed to the house.

‘House or cottage, or whatever you please, sir.’

‘You must call it “high topper mountain”.’

That very night the servant woke her master up in a fright and said: ‘Master of all masters, get out of your barnacle and put on your squibs and crackers. For white-faced simminy has got a spark of hot cockalorum on its tail, and unless you get some pondalorum high topper mountain will be all on hot cockalorum’ . . . That’s all.

On Giving Up and Fading Away

The pull to give up is an all too frequent hazard on the writing path. As we get older, the drive to advocate for ourselves can diminish. Our wish to fight against injustice in our own personal world or the world at large or to tell our own story can fade. What does it matter anyway? Who am I to write a book? Let’s get crystal clear that the process of writing a book is deeply personal and generally isolated. In truth, isolation – whether we buy into this or not – is actually how we live our lives. And that is not necessarily a bad thing. It is realistic. “We’re born alone, we live alone, we die alone. Only through our love and friendship can we create the illusion for the moment that we’re not alone.” – Orson Welles. No matter how well someone knows you, they cannot know all of you. They cannot know who you were at that moment, what your options were, the constraints of your situation, or the limited choices you had. I often hear in response to stories of domestic violence: “I would never stand for that treatment. I would head out the door the moment someone raised a hand to me and never come back. Why didn’t you just walk away?” Always delivered with a look of disbelief and faint disgust, a wrinkled nose, and a raised eyebrow. Oh yeah? Only other survivors or sufferers of domestic violence can credibly relate. Rape survivors often get the same reaction and experience when disclosing their pain to others. Most women conclude disclosure isn’t worth the risk. You take risks whenever you share anecdotes about your life with other people – both the hilarious and the horrific. And by hilarious and horrific, I mean both the anecdotes and the people you share them with. You cleverly couch and cover up your experience by sharing insights you gained from your pain and your healing. You refer to the “ah-ha” moments that changed your life. Because while it is a nice and tidy platitude, no one else can ever really walk a mile in your moccasins. For example, you have been bombarded by advertisements against smoking all your life, but then witness a beloved relative – perhaps a parent – succumb to cancer. That brings it up close and personal. Everyone can relate to sadness and loss but no one can feel exactly about that particular incident what you felt. They could not have seen what you saw, heard, smelled, or thought at the time. So why not give up on this impossible task from the get-go or even bother to set off on this fool’s errand? Face it. What you have to say likely doesn’t mean anything in “the grand scheme of things.” So here’s why I won’t give up. Because I am the only me there is. Because books and the words within them saved my life. From an early age – about three years old – I learned to read and write. It made Grade One a boring cakewalk. As the adults around me were doing daily crazy, I crept up into my little “book nook” in the space above my bedroom closet wearing my thin cotton nightie. I had a stack of books beside me then just as I do today. Different books, mind you. The authors back then became my close-ish, personal friends. Back in the day, it was anything written by the Grimms Brothers with their dark implications about life’s dangers in their “fairy tales.” The wonders of the Childcraft encyclopedia took me everywhere and sowed the seeds for lifelong eclectic learning. Aesop’s Fables afforded me lessons in morality and cause and effect that I wasn’t getting from my parents at home. Crazy adults, remember? Mom made sure local author Desmond Pacey’s The Cow with the Musical Moo was always on display in the house where visitors – especially Professor Pacey himself – could clearly see it. At some point, “doing the best they could with what they knew at the time” doesn’t quite cut it. There is much they chose not to know. They have long been forgiven but the scars are immutable. Scars can certainly be softened over time but not erased. It’s similar to forgiving rapists who were – you know – just looking for love in the only way they knew how. “Boys will be boys after all,” they say. And the dumbfounded women they’ve terrorized sink inward and deeper until they are in danger of completely fading away. Until one day they are no longer there. Fuck that!