By Peggy McManus March 2025
Dad taught himself to read when he was four, but you may already know that. After all, he was quite proud of this accomplishment and mentioned it every chance he got.
“You know, I taught myself to read when I was just four years old,” Dad told me for the umpteenth time.
“Yeah, you’ve mentioned that before,” I said. “Let’ see… As the story goes, you picked up some basic phonetics by hanging out in the one-room school house where your mom taught. Then, because of your exceptional IQ and self discipline, you managed to sound out a whole book about trains all by yourself.”
“Yup, that’s exactly what happened,” Dad said, undeterred by my sarcastic tone. “After that, I read everything I could get my hands on.”
“And yet you were still held back in the first grade,” I said. “Fascinating.”
You see, I’ve always wondered if Dad’s early reading feat was as magnificent as he would have us believe. The thing is, no one was around to correct him if he sounded out a word wrong and I suspect some of those early misprounciations worked their way into his permanent vocabulary. Mispronouncing words may be acceptable when you’re a four-year-old, but it isn’t when you’re a college professor.
Granted, most of Dad’s unusual pronunciations were quirky and amusing, like his rather exotic pronunciation of the word “depot”. He said “dePō”, with the accent on “Pō” and a short “e” instead of a long “e” sound. No doubt this mispronunciation stemmed from that initial book Dad read. After all, any train book worth its salt will have a depot in it.
There was one ocassion I remember specifically, when Dad’s early attempt at phonetics came back to haunt him. It involved a young woman named Miss. P. Jones. She was enrolled in the journalism program that Dad co-chaired at Eastern Washington University and was, therefore, required to take several of his classes. Dad quickly recognized that Miss Jones was an exceptional writer and he knew she could easily answer any question he threw her way.
“Pen-A-Lope, please explain the pyramid style of writing,” Dad said in class one day.
No response.
“Okay then, anyone else care to explain?” Dad asked.
Jones's hand shot up.
“Alright, Pen-A-Lope,” Dad said, looking confused. “Go ahead and explain the pyramid writing style for the class.”
Silence…
Later that night, Dad recounted the incident for Mom.
”… Lucky for her, the fire alarm went off and saved her from any further embarrassment,” Dad said. “But it’s weird how Pen-A-Lope ignores me whenever I call on her. I guess she isn’t comfortable speaking in front of other students.”
“Lots of people hate public speaking,” Mom said. “You can’t fault her for that. She sure has an unusual name, though. I wonder if it’s Irish.”
On the last day of class, Dad met up with his fellow journalism professors to celebrate the end of yet another term.
“Boy, that Penelope Jones was a fireball,” said Dick Hoover, the other co-chair of the journalism department.
“She sure is an excellent writer,” said the newest and youngest professor, Bill Stimpson. “She’s going to make a great journalist.”
“Hmmm, I don’t think I had her in any of my classes,” Dad mused.
“Of course you did,” Hoover replied. “She was your top student!”
“No, my top student was definitely Pen-A-Lope,” Dad said.
“Her name is Penelope,” Stimpson laughed. “Please don’t tell me you've been calling her Pen-A-Lope all year!”
“I thought that was her name!” Dad cried. “I guess that explains why she never answered when I called on her.”
“Well, that’s what happens when a four-year-old teaches himself to read,” Hoover said with a smirk.
Our mom was even worse when it came to pronunciation. For example, she insisted on adding an “R” to the word, “wash” and, of course, to “Washington.” She also changed the short “A” sound to a long “O” sound.
“Did you wōrsh your hands, Piggly?” She asked me before each meal.
I thought saying “wōrsh” was unsophisticated and worked diligently to train myself to say “wash” and “Washington” correctly. But I think Mom may have been slightly offended by my insistence that she was saying it wrong.
“That’s how we all said it in the small "Wōrshington" town I grew up in,” she reasoned. “That’s all I can tell you.”
“Well, it’s not correct,” I said. “But yes, I did wash my hands.”
Interestingly, my sisters adopted Mom’s “small town” pronunciation, and I’ve often overheard them ask their children if they’d remembered to "wōrsh" their hands. Mom would be proud.
She also said “orange” in a way that I can’t even spell out. Here’s my best attempt: “ō-rēnch.”
“If you’re good, maybe Santa will put an “ō-rēnch” in your stocking,” Mom might say, hoping to entice my friends and me to stay out of her way.
“What’s an ‘ō-rēnch’?” my friends would inevitably inquire.
“Don’t ask,” I’d say, shaking my head.
Probably the mispronunciation of Mom's that I found most bothersome was “ValentiMes”. Somehow, she managed to sound charming when she said it, but it did not hold any charm whatsoever when I did. Still, I liked that there was a special day to look forward to in the dead of winter and enjoyed receiving the small love-themed gifts that Mom always had for my sisters and me.
“Remember, you’ll always be my ValentiMe,” she’d say sweetly.
Now that she’s gone, I miss that. But every February 14th, I make a point of looking toward the heavens and wishing Mom a happy ValentiMe’s Day.
The other day I was reminiscing with my sister, Kelly, about our family’s strange way of pronouncing various words. She was driving me to a surgical center to lose yet another body part (see my January blog). This time I was having a lens replaced in my eye since my own was fogged over by cataracts. After a few minutes, the subject changed to health concerns, which of course, is a popular topic among us Baby Boomers.
“I was worried I might have to postpone my surgery today,” I said, “since my ‘lymphnoids’ were swollen all week.”
“You mean ‘lymph nodes’?” Kelly laughed. “Talk about Mom and Dad mispronouncing things.”
“Seriously?” I said, somewhat shocked. “I’ve called them ‘lymphnoids’ my whole life!”
“Well, don’t feel too bad,” Kelly said. “I mispronounce a lot of words. Milk is “malc”, library is “lieberry”, and don’t even get me started on how I say ambulance.”
“Ha, those are some bad ones,” I laughed. "But I was married with two kids when I finally learned that "Deer X-I-N-G" meant "Deer Crossing". I always called it a "Deer Zing."
"Yeah, I don't think I can beat that one," Kelly said, shaking her head. "I wonder what other words we’ve been mispronouncing all these years.
Suddenly, a street sign came into my cataract-clouded view. “Desmet and Indiana,” it read.
“Oh, take the next right onto 'Dez-met,'” I said.
“It’s pronounced, ‘DeSmitt, ’” Kelly replied.
Pat's Quote of the Month
"Lacking any instruction, I had to make my way as best I could through trial and error. The problem was, I couldn't tell which was the trial and which was the error."
McManus Recipe of the Month
May the luck o' the Irish be with you always! We celebrate our Irish heritage on St. Patrick's Day with boiled corned beef and cabbage, baby red potatoes, and of course, warm soda bread. Mom made it from scratch and we loved eating it fresh from the oven, slathered in butter. It's actually pretty easy to make. So why not pour yourself a pint and bake a couple loaves of Bun's Soda Bread for your St. Paddy's Day gathering.
Pat's Yarns
At the first inkling of spring, Dad pulled out the boat and got out on the water. In his later years, he owned a Lund fishing boat and repeatedly assured us that it was unsinkable and could handle the unpredictable weather that Lake Pend Oreille was known for, especially in early spring. Of course he didn't always have such a reliable craft. In fact, many of them were downright hazardous. Take the Barrel Canoe for instance...
Vintage Bun
Obviously, Dad's early adventures with sketchy watercraft traumatized Bun, too. Read "Spring Madness" and see what we mean.
Peggy,
I love reading your stories as they bring back memories of childhood antics camping with your family and all those personalities involved. Your mom had a great laugh and was always so good to me. . I remember vividly when I think Kelly had a fried egg for breakfast that was cooked over easy and your dad was appalled! Have I got this right? I am fortunate to have spent so much time with you and your sibs. A great foundation for life. Thank you McManus family!
You certainly have your dad's way of writing. That was one of the funniest things I've read all year. Thank you, Miss McManus. Thank you.