The Case of the Wayward Lexicographer
by Curtis L. Brown
This is not a whodunit but a fairy tale. I don’t often tell fairy tales. Not because I hate tales, but
because I am not Peter Pan and I don’t believe in fairies. In leprechauns yes, also in trolls, elves
and other little people. And in lexicographers.
You never heard of lexi-whatchmacallits? Well, allow me to enlighten you. A lexicographer
collects and spells all the words of a language and alphabetizes them into a lexicon. That’s a big
single-language dictionary like Webster’s Dictionary of the English Language. It explains what
each word means, how to pronounce it, and what kind of word it is, for instance, a noun (like
curmudgeons), a verb (like complain), an adjective (like crazy), or an adverb (like constantly).
There you have a whole sentence in four different words: Crazy curmudgeons complain
constantly. It might even pass as a tongue twister. Some words are like actors. They can
change roles. For instance, “object” can be a noun (“an object” is a thing) or a verb (“to object”
means to disapprove or to be against something). A lexicographer must point this out, but he
cannot object to the word “object” having two different functions. He can’t do a thing to stop the
language from adding new words (such as internet, webmaster, and e-mail). Nor can he prevent
all sorts of people from giving a word additional meanings. For instance, a chip in a computer is
different from a poker chip or from the chip off the old block. And a floppy is now a noun (diskette)
in addition to an adjective describing something soft and flexible (like my belly).
Shop talk (professional jargon) and slang (fringe-group and antisocial lingo) can also give an old
word a new meaning which is understood only by a small “in” crowd. In some circles, “bread” can
mean “money”, “ice” can mean “jewelry”, and “dirty” can mean “stingy”. Although lexicographers
can add these uses or abuses, few people carry a big lexicon around to look them up. This may
change soon when a complete encyclopedia will fit on a pocket-size “floppy” and give out
information at the command of my voice.
The next digital revolution may let everyone carry the entire Library of Congress inside a wrist
watch. How a human brain could digest all this information in a human life span is something we
have not yet figured out, but a leprechaun might know.
§§§
Now I come to my tale about Wally the wayward lexicographer. Wally had dedicated his life to
finding and explaining new words for his dictionary printing firm. One day his boss voice-mailed
him a question:
“What does carindegrash mean?”
He e-mailed back: “Is it a noun or what?”
The boss called him on the phone: “How should I know? I don’t even know whether it’s English!”
“Where or when did you see or hear it?” asked Wally.
“Last night, coming home. I heard it just as I opened the front door. It came from the kitchen. The
TV was on. Could have been a daytime soap. Fiffy, my wife, watches these dysfunctional family
dramas.”
“I’ll see what I can find out on the web,” said Wally.
After hours of checking unconventional sources, such as fraternity chatrooms, sex-toy catalogs,
and auction sites, Wally went into a deep funk.
“No luck, boss!” he admitted defeat. “Are you sure you heard ‘carindegrash’, not ‘carintiform’ or
‘carinulate’?”
“What the deuce are those?”
“They are in Webster’s Intentionally Unabridged ...”
“Fiddlesticks.”
“That’s in there, too.”
“I meant baloney... Never mind. I’ll ask Fiffy. Hate to look stupid, though. She’s always oneupping my vocabulary. ‘Ha! A lexicographer who doesn’t know his own lexicon!’ You sure it’s not
something we should include in the next edition?”
“Not unless we find an authority we can quote.”
“Well, o.k. You did your best, Wally. Talk to you tomorrow. Don’t lose sleep over it!”
§§§
Wally did lose sleep. He blamed himself for letting his boss down, and just when he had counted
on a raise to boot. When he finally dozed off, he had a weird dream. About visiting Ireland and
kissing the Book of Kelts. As he opened the heavy tome, a leprechaun jumped out.
“Call the persnickety channel, me lad! They tape all their broadcasts, don’t they?” Wally
checked the TV program guide and, from the crack of dawn, beleaguered the three stations that
had aired soaps the day before, just before supper time when his boss normally would arrive
home in his Lincoln Continental.
Carindewhat? — No, no, no! A loan word on television? Let alone one with more than two
syllables? Impossible!
An e-mail waited for Wally at the office: “I heard it again, and you’ll hate me for this! It wasn’t the
tube. It was Fiffy. She heard me coming in and asked me to ‘Put the car-in-the-g’rage!’ You’ll get
your raise, Wally.”
So now you know why I believe in leprechauns and lexicographers.
§§§
“The Case of the Wayward Lexicographer” was published in The Scene magazine
of November 2002 under the definition of a curmudgeon as
“a wit who considers everyone else a half-wit”.
It was reprinted in “Curmudgeonly Yours” (c2004 MIME Press, Neenah, WI)