On leaving Denver

It's not hard to be sentimental about the place that gave me everything — everything! — for the last three years, and if that sounds dramatic, it's because it is.


Now, I'm not leaving to move back to Pennsylvania, and I'm not leaving because I've been run out of town (although what a story that'd make for the Wild West). I have wonderful reasons to be peacing out of the Front Range.


Fate (and by "fate" I mean "Pagosa Springs Elementary") offered my other half a teaching job; he took it. Even if it weren't an area he liked, he'd have had to take it. (It's the economy, stupid.) But everything came up Aaron, and he got a grade he likes in an area he likes where he already has a house with a wife whose work is portable.


And so we're going.


Pagosa Springs, Colorado, has a population of about 1,800. ...My high school was bigger than that.

It is, without a doubt, a big change for me: I grew up in the suburbs, went to college with 40,000 other undergrads, and moved to a city. I've never lived in a place without other family members. My neighborhood roads were always paved. I've never lived hours and hours from Target (or something of the sort).


Change doesn't have to be a bad thing. 


My beagle will have much more room to play, inside and out. I'll never have to worry about a parking space. Aaron and I will finally have all of our collective stuff in one place. We'll have a hot springs pass and a greenhouse — and perhaps some chicks. I'll edit on the deck, with a view of Pagosa Peak.


Oh, and some other big changes include, y'know, marriage. Work. And very soon my name (legally, finally).


I've never considered anyone else in my relocations, in my job choices, in my finances. (Well, OK, I consider the dog in my finances, but she doesn't have access to my bank accounts.) We're doing this together.  I'm excited to do it together.


But excitement for our future doesn't change how I feel about my adoptive city.


Fewer than 10 days after graduation, I arrived at my cousins' house. Moving here meant spending more time with people I care so, so much about — and being broken in to Colorado culture gently by people who care so, so much about me, too. I doubt I would have moved here if it weren't for Heather and Mark. They gave me the guts to work hard to get out to Colorado. You can bet I'll be paying it forward.


And those little girls? I learned about parenting. I re-learned how to have fun with my imagination instead of a tailgate. I reveled in hugs and laughter.


Two weeks after arriving, I got my first post-college job! How's that for turnaround? (Economy, schmeconomy.)

I found the Penn State alumni bar — and found friends. This gave me a safe, close, happy place to get in some gridiron goodness and to feel at home. (On fall Saturdays, anyway: Pat's is a Philly bar otherwise, and we all know how quickly I'd probably die in such a place.)

I got my own place. I got a beagle puppy. I got 14ers. I got to see my (sometimes surprisingly victorious) visiting Pirates, Steelers, and Penguins.


The PSU alumni bar later gave me one of the best things ever: Aaron. If you know the story, you know it's a good one. If you don't know the story, the very short version is that we met there. May [the deity of your choosing] forever smile on Penn State football and that bar.

I got snowshoes. I got new, better jobs. I got an engagement ring. I got more nearby family, as Aunt Lisa and Uncle Ed moved westward, and I tacked on a brother-in-law.

I love this place.

I don't know where I'm going to make new friends when we move. I'm certain there's not a Penn State alumni bar anywhere near Pagosa Springs — Colorado Springs might be the closest, and it's at least four hours away. 


I don't know where our "nearest" Target is (as if there were multiple from which to choose). I think there's a Wal-Mart in Durango.

I don't know how my little Neon is going to handle the back roads in the winter. Maybe he'll need all-season tires?

I don't know when I'll next see everyone I care about in the Front Range. The phone will have to do for now.


The I-don't-knows don't scare me. They're just new projects that I am lucky enough to tackle with my other half.


One more I-don't-know: I don't know how to fully express what Denver — and Colorado as a whole — has meant to me.

And on that note, take me home, country roads. We leave on Saturday.

On "peruse" and context clues

Ordinarily, I believe Merriam-Webster can do no wrong. M-W makes me want to be a lexicographer. And the contradicting definitions of peruse are no fault of M-W, per se — after all, you are not much good at compiling meanings if you ignore the ones you don't like.



Can context clues save us here? I think the answer is "maybe."

I perused the library's Colorado history offerings.

Straight up, there is nothing in this sentence to help us.

Searching for just the right references for my paper, I perused the library's Colorado history offerings.

This version does suggest close attention. And this next one?

With four hours to kill until Aaron would be ready to walk home with me, I perused the library's Colorado history offerings.

Certainly, the phrasing above leads readers to believe peruse is meant as a leisurely look-through.

So, as your English teachers suggested for years that you use the text surrounding a troublesome word to help you ascertain its meaning for yourself, you can help everyone else "get you" by wording your sentences carefully and arming your readers and listeners with tools of understanding.

On "comprise" vs. "compose"

You'll inevitably find incorrect usage of comprise-compose in any kind of medium, but you'll also find the pairing in every style guide's list of troublesome words.

Comprise sounds a little more formal, doesn't it? In fact, it's just a one-word way to say "is made up of."

The exam comprises seven questions.

The bill, comprising legitimate regulations and obvious riders, was popular in the House.

The formula is this: [The whole] comprises [the parts]. Avoid using "of," and avoid putting the parts first.

Compose, however, does have several meanings. Mostly, we mean it as to create/put together, but it can also mean to settle and even to reduce to a minimum. If you mean it in the first way, the "composed of" construction is valid.

The exam is composed of seven questions.

She composed some of her best stories at 4 a.m.

His hands were shaking, but he composed himself and approached his boss.

They tried to compose their differences to make the holidays less awkward for the children.

Apparently, it's American to be wrong about this, but the Brits know their English. Don't be a stupid American.

On the many and varied uses of "I"

"Witzig, what are you thinking?" your mind plagues you. The title is tongue-in-cheek; I promise.

I is used for one purpose only: It is the subject. Nothing is ever given to I. You don't go anywhere with I. And, certainly, nothing is I's. I is not an object of a preposition, a direct object, an indirect object, or a possessive form.

Saying You should come with she and I isn't formal; it's wrong. You should come with her and me is the sentiment (and the syntax) you seek.

We should all be thanking our lucky stars that we don't have to sit here and try to go through nominative, genitive, dative, accusative, and ablative cases as we compose our thoughts. (Who doesn't love a good declension, though? I know my sisters and fellow former Latin students do.)

Instead, if I need to pause, I can think of it this way: If I am doing something or feeling some way, I will use I, the nominative case, the subject. If something is being done for me, toward me, with me, to me, etc., I will use me, the objective case. If something belongs to me, I will use my or mine.

Myself is used as a reflexive pronoun or an intensifier. However, it is never the subject: Aaron and myself went to the store. Nope. I don't see myself going to the grocery store today. Yep. And it's never solely the object: You can give your fantasy football money to myself is incorrect. I myself will contact the commish displays the intensive property of myself. Hint: Double up! If you don't hear yourself using another matching first-person form in your sentence, it's not right. Don't be afraid to use me!

Beatles fans, I Me Mine has nothing to do with declensions.

On Witz & Wams

I'm sorry, Internet.

I was going to have another grammar post for you on Monday, but what I thought was Date Night turned into Engagement Night. I trust you will forgive me for the delay in posting and for the non-grammar topic that follows. (The banner at the top there does say I might talk sports 'n' love sometimes.)

On Saturdays, Aaron and I wear our white and blue, shriek as Penn State runs it up the middle on third-and-long, and roar heartily when our defense pounces. On Sundays, he dons his Cunningham shirt and I my Polamalu jersey. The dog is smart enough not to choose sides — given her name, though, I think we know her leanings — and we constantly check our fantasy teams' stats.

My name is Monica Witzig, and my fiancé is an Eagles fan.

And we tag-team dinner. And we read in bed. And we scream-laugh at Archer. And we put whiskey in our tea. And we find General Sherman look-alikes at baseball games. And we go hiking. And we sing to Metallica in the car. And it's perfect.

On abbreviations, initialisms, and acronyms

Abbreviation, initialism, and acronym are frequently used interchangeably, but the terms are not identical in meaning and function.

If you abbreviate something, you shorten it. We see this most often in addresses: 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue becomes 1600 Pennsylvania Ave. Your old basketball coach, who was an admiral in the Navy, is Adm. Lippert. You probably abbreviate Latin terms every day, with et cetera used as etc. Abbreviation can refer to any shortened form, so initialisms and acronyms are also abbreviations.

Where it can get hairy is in distinguishing initialisms from acronyms, but this is because most people were never taught the difference. When you use a letter from each word of a lengthy organization or term (Young Men's Christian Association, chief executive officer) and actually pronounce each as a separate letter (YMCA, CEO), you have an initialism. An acronym is the word resulting from combining the letters of the abbreviation: NASA. Sometimes, these acronyms become so commonly accepted that they are recognized as words, e.g. scuba.

Stephanie McMillan's cartoon displays "The Initialism Of Wretchedness." (And don't call it an acronym!)

On "verbal" vs. "oral"

We see this everywhere, most especially in job descriptions: "We seek someone with excellent written and verbal communication skills."

What the employer really wants, though, is someone who can both write and speak well: "someone with excellent written and oral communication skills."

The difference between verbal and oral is this: Verbal involves words, as opposed to actions, photos, substance, etc.; oral involves the mouth, speaking.

[If you want to talk about the noun "verbal," we can do that some other time when we're diagramming sentences. In the meantime, you keep your gerunds to yourselves.]



Remember, on your SATs, that you were graded separately on the math and verbal sections. The math was, well, numbers — and the verbal was reading, writing, vocabulary: words. I'd be willing to put money on it that you didn't talk during your exam. This section was aptly named. Good on ya, SAT.

Anything to do with words is inherently verbal, but if you specifically reference speaking, make sure you recognize that it is oral. That said, saying someone is funny is an instance of verbal, but laughing is not —although laughing could be considered an oral response. Have I confused you yet? Laughing didn't involve words, written or oral, so it was not verbal. It is almost one of those "a square is a rectangle, but a rectangle is not a square" situations: "You're so funny!" is verbal because it's words, but if you send that as a text to Dad instead of saying it to Dad, it is only verbal and not oral.

[Thanks, Towson, for the image.]

On "feel bad" vs. "feel badly"

Thanks to a well-publicized grammatical mistake by the head of the U.S. Department of Education, I've been fielding quite a few inquiries about "feel bad" versus "feel badly."

I understand the penchant for "feel badly." It sounds formal, making sure you use the -ly adverb. It's wrong, though.

It comes down to if feel is a linking verb or an action verb in your use of it.

I feel badly.

This use is an action verb, requiring an adverb, literally meaning there is something wrong with your sense of touch. You are having trouble putting your fingers on someone. A little awkward, I know.

I feel bad.

This is what you probably mean. Feel here is a linking verb, requiring an adjective. This is about your state of mind, your emotions. Something upsets you. Maybe you feel sorry for the schoolchildren in Texas. (Yes, this is what Arne Duncan meant.)

"Grammar, schmammar," Duncan said, but you all know better.

As an aside to journos out there, should this misstep by Duncan have been such a focal point of articles? Did reporters have to use that quote? What about letting the public notice it in the oft-accompanying video instead? Isn't the substance of his remarks more important than one grammatical gaffe?

On shared space

We don't live separately anymore. It's not even "two of us in my place" anymore. Goodbye, bachelorette pad. Hello, truly shared space.

I think it's really coming along. In fact, I think it's really looking good. My assessment of looking good, though, involves being thrilled with the IKEA, REI, and Urban Outfitters got drunk together and forgot to clean up vibe.

It's amazing what a simple rearrangement (the kitchen table is actually in the kitchen!) and a summers-off-teacher-boyfriend (stuff's built by the time I'm home from the lab!) can do for a place. And, yes, those exclamation points were totally necessary.

The rumors are true: We do now have a futon, a TV, and a food processor, in addition to some other exciting acquisitions that include a table for the fish tank, a desk and chair, a bureau, a wheeled kitchen island, and bunches of extension cords someone so skillfully hid around the apartment. It all seems so basic, right? How did we not have these things before?

It was pretty easy to clear my laptop off the dining table when it was time to eat. I don't really watch TV, so MLB.tv on my computer on the coffee table was perfect. One couch was all I needed. The problem, really, was pesto. I got tired of using a hammer to make it. (You all really, really hope I'm kidding about that. I'm not.)

Yes, and because of the dedicated pesto hammer, Aaron and the rest of his stuff moved in, and now I have a TV. That may not quite be the precise cause-and-effect, but it makes for a good story, anyway.

A couple months after taking the plunge and living in sin, we've actually made our little Cap Hill apartment downright homey.

On homophones and homonyms, "Cousin Monica's Words"

There is a game I play with my niece Madeline. She calls it "Cousin Monica's Words."

(Madeline and her younger sister Ava are my cousin Heather's children. I have about 20 years on them, so for ease of introductions they are always "my nieces," but the official title the two of them have given me is Cousin Monica.)

We have been talking about homophones and homonyms. Madeline laughs that "so silly!" laugh when I tell her people mix up two, to, and too, among others. She comes up with lists on her own of words that sound the same but are spelled differently (homophones) and words that are spelled the same but have different meanings (homonyms). If a soon-to-be-8-year-old can do it, so can the rest of us.

I think it's pretty clear that a second-grader will come up with sun and son; eye, I, and aye!; bear (the animal) and bear (to support); and bud (the flower) and bud (the friend). What she might not come up with for another couple of years follows.

• discreet/discrete: Discreet means careful, circumspect, maybe even "under the table." Discrete means separate, distinct. A good way to distinguish is that the E's in discrete are separate. Too cutesy? Perhaps, but it might help your writing.

• pour/pore: Pour is to cause to run. Pore is a tiny hole. But you pore over your books, gazing intently.

• premier/premiere: This one gets messy. Premier means first or most important, and a premier is a head of government, like a prime minister. A premiere is a first showing, and to premiere is to give a first performance of something.

Are there any common misspellings/mistakes you see because of homonyms and homophones? Any really funny ones I should tell my nieces?

Hyphenation Illustration

Among the concepts I find myself explaining most to my writers are comma splices and hyphenation. (Don't get me wrong; fixing the errors and then educating authors is like crack.) I could go on an angry rant about comma splices, so it's much safer to briefly examine hyphenation. Compound nouns and compound modifiers can be sticky, and that's OK. That's why you have proofreaders/copy editors; we have to know these things (or, at the very least, we have to know how to look them up).

Let's illustrate puppy cuddler and puppy-cuddler. What's the difference, where's the confusion, and why?



A puppy cuddler is a cuddler who is a puppy. Puppy modifies cuddler. A puppy-cuddler is one who cuddles puppies. As you can see in the photo above, I am the puppy-cuddler, and Monongahela is the puppy cuddler.

As another example, is a "high school student" a student on drugs, or is it a sophomore? How can we clear this up? (With a friendly hyphenation of "high-school," of course!)

I think Strunk, White, and I would have been buds. (Prescriptivist power! ...No?)

On that note, one of my favorite reference books is The Elements of Style (illustrated). Instead of being stuffy and outdated, it provides a great review of typical English grammar and edification that should be embraced by anyone who writes. (And this one has pictures! And a foreword by baseball writer Roger Angell.)

On 14er no. 1

I hiked Pikes Peak two months ago and am finally posting about it. (I hiked Mount Bierstadt two days ago and will post about that soon.)



I was up at 3 a.m. on Saturday, June 19, to finish organizing, picked up a friend between 4 and 4:15, and made it to Manitou Springs around 5:40. The parking lot at the trailhead (near the cog RR, for those who are even remotely familiar) was full, and Sara and I had to head back down the hill to find a place to park. [Editor's note: Fun fact, East Coasters: Sara's from Erie, Pennsylvania!] Then, of course, we had to take a little hike just to get back up to the trailhead. It was just barely 6 a.m. when we started up Barr Trail (the trail to the summit is 13 miles, FYI). Monongahela was bursting with excitement—so many new sights and smells and people... I was glad for her energy, as she seemed confused when we left the apartment at an obscure hour.

It took us almost five hours to get to Barr Camp at the seven-mile mark. Sara needed frequent stops and wasn't feeling fabulous. Barr Camp is a nice place for a break: You're already halfway up the mountain, and there are cabins, bathrooms, creeks, and a store to buy Gatorade, snacks, etc. I told Sara we should just head back down when she was feeling OK; it's stupid to risk your health (life?) and try to keep going. It would have been an especially bad idea because we were told the second half takes an hour longer than the first half... Sara insisted that I continue, that she was happy to stay at camp and nap and read and write and just wait for my return and my stories. (There is excellent reception on the face of the mountain, so in a few hours she'd be able to text me easily and find out exactly where I was.) I took her up on it, and Little Mon and I tackled The Mountain.

We made absurdly good time to the 10-mile mark (a mere 90 minutes), at tree line, and I thought it was crazy that this second half was projected to take me six hours. Monongahela particularly enjoyed all the other hikers loving on her and complimenting her, and, boy, was she my rock! Encouraging her with "Good girl! Great job! We'll pause in about 15 minutes. ... 14 minutes. ..." was only half for her. I needed to tell myself I could do it. Cue the Wayne's World line: "It will be mine. Oh, yes, it will be mine!" She'd crawl into my lap when we sat for water breaks, but the second I stood back up she was jumping around, eager to continue.

I think it's important to note the kind of people I ran into on my ascent. Many recognized me from camp and asked where Sara was. I explained, and they said they'd check on her when they made it back and would tell her how and where I was. How solicitous and thoughtful. Got a lot of "Yeah, Penn State!" remarks (I wore a PSU football shirt, and, well, you saw Monongahela sporting her colors) and had a chat about Nebraska with a group from Wisconsin. They encouraged me on my way up: "You're seriously so close," and I was glad to be that person for others on my way down.

A mile from the top, Monongahela and I spotted many pikas and marmots. I told her if she caught one she could eat it. No harm in motivating her, right? (She was on a five-foot leash, folks, so it wasn't going to happen unless one was stupid enough to get close to her.) I only had to carry her once on the way up, and I'm not even sure it counted. She didn't have the footing to jump across a stream, so I jumped into it to lift her from one side to the other, and shortly thereafter she kept walking. I did manage to get her muddy pawprints all over me, and I considered them my trophy. Can't be a good hike if I'm not dirty.

The last mile was the hardest physical thing I've ever done, no doubt. I was excited but aching. When would it end? I hated switchbacks on my way up so, so much. I was also functioning on very little sleep after going out Friday night. I know, readers; I know. Don't tell my grandmothers. But I still did the second half in just four hours, so...

At the top, we took in the view, and I snapped pictures galore. The people who took the cog RR up (or drove!) probably laughed at us, because their legs weren't going to fall off, but I got the glory, suckers. Tourists loved petting my little girl and were amazed at what she did. "She's my little mountain dog," I replied. I'm sure I was beaming.

It took me about two hours to get back down to Barr Camp, and I hugged the snot out of Sara. I didn't want to get caught in the dark for too long on our way down, so after a brief rest we started the descent of Lower Barr Trail. Here's where Little Mon showed she was tired. She "quit" twice, but it was cute: She'd just stop and lie down, once propping her head up on a rock and just staring at me. My own legs felt like Jell-O, but what's 18 more pounds? She's only a baby, and I would be lying if I didn't say I was completely satisfied with a sleeping puppy in my arms for the last mile of the 26.

When we made it back to my car (about 9:15 p.m.), I found a note tucked under my windshield wipers. It was from a hiker I talked to about Sara on his way down! He had asked about her at camp and wished us a safe return. I was really touched—and only a little confused as to how he knew it was my car. (He'd gone to grad school at Penn State and spent some time in Pittsburgh as well. My car is marked with a PSU plate frame and a small Steelers emblem.)

We stopped at a McDonald's off I-25, and it might be the best fast food has ever tasted. Once back to my apartment, I dropped my backpack on the floor and flopped onto my bed, not even bothering to get the dirt out from under my nails and not even attempting to get my puppy in her crate. No, she slept with me, her body up against mine and her head on me. I'm not convinced either of us moved at all during the night. We were exhausted.

You can check out our escapades here.

Monongahela was still visibly tired Sunday morning, as I honest-to-God couldn't get her to do anything before 9:30, and would follow me around only to find new spots to nap. If I was in this corner to take things out of my pack, then she was sleeping on a pair of my shorts two feet away. If I was in the kitchen cleaning our water bottles, then she was snoozing on my feet. I have no doubt she spent the afternoon napping on the couch while I went to the Brewers/Rockies game.

I spent 15 hours on that mountain. Hell of a first 14er. ...And I'm hooked.

Reconciliation

Cold,
calculating,
copy-editing,
corporate.

Bases loaded,
bat splintered,
beer spilled,
cheering, seething, feeling.

Mountain-climbing,
puppy-cuddling,
cookie-baking,
content.

Reactor

One wall features your obituary.
I didn’t need to tell them your story.

The last name you built follows me,
from Westinghouse
to the Skipjack series,
all the way to Penn State.

"This is Cerenkov radiation," they told me.
The great blue flash illuminated the pool,
the water that hugged the rods.

I got to witness the pulse-excited heartbeat
of the reactor as it woke up that morning.
I see why this fascinated you.

"Do you want to see your grandfather's last log?"
She asked me.
Your handwriting always was a little tough.

“So help me God, I’ll be back!”
Your scribbles boomed.
Intimidating, but I know you were teasing.
I’m sure your voice carried around the reactor, too.

I bet you’d sit around in your blue pajamas here if you could.

I’m sorry I’m not an engineer.
I am a nuclear meltdown.

------------------------------------------------

Written fall 2008 but always on my brain.

Go learn something! "A is for Atom"

The Editor's Remarks

If at first you don't succeed,
you probably work here instead of ESPN.

What the world needs now is
human interest stories.

When life hands you lemons,
keep them on file in case you need them later.

Then they all lived happily ever
after they finished the layout in Quark.

-----------------------------------
I probably have a couple more hiding. ...Maybe I should write new stuff, too.

Minor League

You don't use crisp, clean, white baseballs
for batting practice.

The groupies have probably never even left
the time zone.

But you get a walk-up song,
and no one throws a six-dollar Iron City at you.

They love you,
because you're not in it for the money.

----------------------------------
And the old poems continue to finally see the light of day—er, screen.

Just Friends

We are almost twenty-two, and
you're no longer my lanky best friend
or my protective "big brother."

Your lean body eases through the fence, and
your feet sink into the snow.
Your hand reaches back, seeking mine.

The lights at Oakwood Park have long since gone to bed,
as we should have.

Thudding hard through our t-shirts,
our sweatshirts,
our coats,

I can feel your heart.
Or maybe it’s mine.

Your lips tickle my neck.
It was the only time you kissed me.

Your girlfriend wouldn’t have liked that.

But we're just friends.
-----------------------

...I think I'll post a few more as the days progress. These are old (but original), circa fall 2008.

A Quick Capture

I am a sister; I defend and love.
I am a daughter; I misbehave just enough to make my folks laugh.
I am a granddaughter; I travel, charm, hug, and laugh.
I am a girl friend; I bake cookies and roughhouse.

I am a libertarian; I like my money and my freedoms.
I am a Mac-user; I pretend to be elitist.

I am a photographer; I see the world through my camera lens.
I am a journalist; I ask too many questions.
I am a copy editor; I cringe because of poor syntax.

I am a sports fan; I live and die (and cry) with my teams.
I am an athlete; I sweat for fun.

I am a bibliophile; I never stop reading.

I am a tailgater; I drink before noon.
I am a college student; I make bad decisions and attempt to chart my life.