I’m an old, retired English teacher. Emphasis on “‘retired.”

I make lots of grammar errors and I will never correct anyone else — although I do flinch visibly when I hear “Me and my mom seen that movie.” I understand that a language like English, to live and be useful around the world, must be organic.

I am trying to adapt to: “The police apprehended a suspect, but they are not releasing their name.” Clearly, the police want to avoid revealing the suspect’s gender as well.

The last time I audited a class at Willamette, I was asked to place a placard on my desk listing my preferred pronouns. Apparently, some students are offended by gendered pronouns and prefer to be referred to by genderless ones. By that, they mean using plural pronouns in singular ways, not wanting to be referenced as “him” or “her,” but neutrally as “they.” I spoke up. I do tend to do that. I contended that if speaking to me, the only pronoun you need is “you.” If you are going to talk about me, please don’t! Moreover, English has a neuter pronoun. It. Ironically, I may call someone “they,” but not “it.” No one wants to be referred to as “it.”

Then there is the use of the reflexive pronoun “myself,” because one doesn’t know whether the nominative or objective case is needed. “Should you have any questions, email Tom, Dick, Harry, or myself.”

For many years I have taught English to foreign speakers. I love my mother tongue, and I want my students to love it too. Nevertheless, I find myself constantly apologizing for it. It is only randomly phonetic, inconsistent, the spelling is absurd, and in conversation, we do not say what we mean. Properly, for past tense, we should say, for example, “I did,” and for future tense, “I will.” But no! Instead we say, “I used to; I’m going to.” Actually, what we say is “I’m gonna, and I usta.” And that’s the way my adult English learners want to sound: Like us! I do flinch when I write ”I’m gonna” on the board.

They also want to know how to use common idioms. Think: “It’s on me. It’s my treat.”

My personal favorite is: “We’ve got this.” It’s what someone says to you when you are going through a hard time and he or she comes beside you, puts a hand on your shoulder, and says, “We’ve got this.” It means so much more than just those words. Your concerns are immediately reduced because they are shared.

Recently, in the parking lot after class, the faithful Subaru wouldn’t start. I have Triple A on speed dial, but Seferino and Moises had the hood up and jumper cables in place before I could work my way through the AAA menu. They were speaking to each other in their mother tongue, but turned to me and said, “We’ve got this.” Wow. Just wow. On several levels.

Being able to communicate clearly and succinctly is so much more important than grammar. I’m trying to learn not to flinch.

As I’ve mentioned here before, I am no longer a person of traditional faith, but I cherish some of the traditions I have practiced since I was a little girl. I love church on Sunday mornings, although these days I watch it online. I love the hymns and sing all of them. I love seeing that community of people. Almost every Sunday morning, something happens there that blesses me.

Many things have changed about church since I was a little girl and I am no longer a member of the denomination of my childhood. Still, I was blessed by many of the things I learned there.

Now, it breaks my heart that many congregations in that denomination are voting to “disaffiliate” in opposition to updating gender regulations. “Open doors, open hearts, open minds,” their mission statement, just rubs some of them the wrong way these days.

The denomination I joined in college and the parish in my old neighborhood is the one I watch on Sunday mornings. I print out the service leaflet here at home. At the top of it is the following:

“WELCOME!
As followers of Christ, we strive to be an inclusive and affirming congregation. Everyone is welcome to participate fully in our community life, regardless of race or ethnicity, national origin, citizenship, age, political views, education, physical ability, economic or employment situation, relationship status, gender expression, sexual orientation, or any other markers of identity people sometimes use to create division. All are invited to receive Holy Communion. As St. Paul wrote in the Letter to the Romans, “Nothing can separate us from the love of God.” Well wow. Just wow.
,
I’m pretty sure Jesus did not exclude anyone. To exclude means to be exclusive. Makes me think of a Gentile country club or a gated community. The Gospel this morning was the story of Jesus and the Samaritan woman at the well.

Almost every time I “watch” church, something touches me deeply. Today it was this:

Click on it a couple of times to enlarge it. The woman circled has been worshiping at St. Paul’s this year, now that she lives in the neighborhood. I believe she grew up in the Catholic church, seeing as how she knows when to kneel and cross herself. She has been rejected by that church and has been an Episcopalian for some years now. The two men standing at the back are her bodyguards. Welcome Governor.

Jiggity Jig.

Every day of my childhood when my mother pulled the car into our dirt driveway, she recited the last line of that silly nursery rhyme: “Home again, home again, jiggty jig.” And then I did it too. Through forty years of family life. Going to and from work and hauling children and dogs to and from everything. Always. Until, at last, there was no one in the car with me except the crazy, special-needs labradoodle. Ultimately, I just said, “jiggity jig,” to her and she woke up from her nap, knowing we were home.

Last fall, I moved to a retirement community. A really fine one. The residents like to say they live at “the manor.” The marketers refer to the small, separate apartments as “villas.” The ten-story apartment building is called “the tower.” The dining room is called, “The Magnolia.” It really is a very nice place, but I was initially put off by all the grand nomenclature. Ever the rebel, after the FOR SALE sign went up in front of my house, when asked, I simply I said I was moving to the old folks’ home.

Little by little, I began to do just that. I had an estate sale and got rid of two-thirds of everything. I took cuttings of all my beloved garden plants in hopes they would root. I learned a heart-breaking new word: downsizing.

Miraculously, at just the right moment, just before the house sold and I would have had to make an interim move, my name come to the top of the waiting list at the old folks home and I was given the opportunity to move into a tiny “villa.” It would not have been my first choice, but it suited my budget and the timing was right. I signed all the papers, paid the fees, had my doctor certify that I could live independently, passed the mental agility quiz ( I did draw a blank when trying to come up with “Donald Trump.” I’m not sure why.)

My house was paid for. I loved it. Deeply. I especially loved the grove of coast redwoods I had planted twenty-five years before. I loved watching all ages of neighbors take and return books from the Little Free Library I had put up in the front yard.

But the house was huge. Year after year I was hiring more and more people to do the things I had always done myself: yard work, cleaning, climbing up on ladders to wash the upstairs windows, raking leaves, cleaning out the gutters, treating the moss on the roof. “Paid for” is a term that is slightly misleading.

Every day for two weeks, the labradoodle and I drove across town twice bringing Subaru-loads of stuff to the villa. I focused on being very methodical, carefully measuring and drawing schemes of where things would go. Being very diligent and business-like staved off sobbing. More or less.

I began to meet some of my new neighbors. Such nice, happy, friendly people, smiling and telling me how much I was going to like it here. I had been properly brought up and knew how to act nice, happy, friendly, smiling. However, at that point, it was pretty much an act. Introverted me begin to ask myself how I was going to do this. All these jolly old folks were clearly Stepford Old Folks.

The staff had been properly brought up too. Someone along the line had schooled them on how to treat us, but it all seemed so natural and authentic. They were infinitely patient, kind, friendly, and helpful. They all seemed happy to be working here. Were they the Stepford Staff?

Then, surprise, surprise, I began to really like these old folks who were now my neighbors and the staff who seemed to be able to answer all my questions and respond to my requests. So smart. So interesting. So welcoming.

And I began to love my new place. I mean really. If I were to win the lottery, which is unlikely given that I don’t even know how to buy a ticket, I don’t think I’d even move to a bigger place on campus. Well, maybe I’m getting a little carried away here.

So, before long, things began to come together. The Subaru stopped automatically heading toward my old place and began to home in on our new route.

And that’s the thing. I have always contended that the words “house” and “home” are not synonyms. You can buy and sell a house. Home is where you head at the end of the day.

Jiggity jig.

I half-way agree with this. I actually think “closure” is an absurd word. We are allowed to own our grief while still moving on. On the other hand, at the same time, in some cases, we can say “good riddance!” The challenge is deciding which is which.