When my son was either in Kindergarten or first grade, his teacher told him to put on his rain coat. He asked, “Do you mean my slicker?”  His teacher explained to him that “slicker” was an old-fashioned word for rain coat.

I once referred to a meal my husband particularly likes as a “larder” meal. He said, “huh?” I said, “You know. Made from food I keep in the larder.” He had no idea what I meant. (A larder is a room or large cupboard for storing food.)

I recently used the word “wench” in my current work in progress. My critique partners suggested I change the word because it was more historical and the story I’m writing is set in the near future. But I like the word wench. And it means exactly what I wanted to convey in the passage. But my crit partners were right: the word is imprisoned by its past.

English is a marvelous language, fluid and adaptable. We add new words every year. But I sometimes wish we didn’t stop using many of the older ones.

A couple of years ago, I spent weeks shoveling out my office.

Over the past 18 months or so, the mess  has been creeping back.

Guess what I’m going to do today?

My particular branch of the county library system “serves the city’s most ethnically and racially diverse population.” According to the website: “The library’s basement houses an English Language Literacy Lab for those interested in learning or improving their English language skills. We also have immigration, ESOL and citizenship resources in various formats for the adult learner.”

The people who work at the library are endlessly patient and helpful to everyone.

A few weeks ago, I popped in on my lunch hour to pick up a book I’d placed on hold. The man in front of me was clearly an immigrant. Once he received his brand new library card, he asked, “How much?” and pointed to a rack of DVDs.

“You can take out up to ten at a time,” the library employee said.

“No, no,” he replied. “How much? Money?”

“Oh, no money. You can borrow them for free.”

“All?”

“Yes, all. Books, movies, music…you can borrow everything for free.”

The look of utter amazement on this man’s face is something I will never forget.

And he reminded how blessed I am to live in a place where my tax dollars allow me to have the world at my fingertips through my local library.

Whoever designated May 3 as National Garden Meditation Day never lived in upstate New York.

Oh, I have a bank of tulips next to the driveway. 

And there were random clusters of grape hyacinths dotting the lawn where the squirrels replanted the bulbs. (TV Stevie mowed over these.) 

But Buddha rests beneath the dead blossoms of last year’s hydrangea.

And the rest is a mess.

I’ll be fine by Memorial Day.