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Delight in Distraction

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Thinking about fires in a fireplace, because we have a fire in our summer cottage on cool mornings when I’m writing, I ask myself whether “hearth” refers only to what the fire rests on or the whole fireplace.

I open the dictionary.  It means the stone under the fire.  But my eye catches the word “hearth-tax.”  In seventeenth century England and Wales, I read, a hearth tax of two shillings a year was levied for each hearth.

Now I want to know:  Is this the original form of the property taxes we pay for our houses?  How much did two shillings buy in the 1600s?  Did people complain about what their tax was paying for and how high it was?

Could I use this in a poem?  And how am I supposed to get back to work?

But I couldn’t write without a dictionary.  Mine is a one volume version of the OED.  When I pause to look up a word – usually for its etymology, its base meaning – I feel fully engaged in my language.

Another Minor Poem for this Time

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This came from the prompt: what is an inanimate object trying to tell you?

Messages

He says the microwave is talking to him.
What’s she saying, Henry?  She says,
“Noli me tangere.  The last person
may have been exposed.”  She says
it’s time to work from home.

We have no microwave at home;
our toaster oven serves us very well.
“Don’t take me for granted,” toaster
protests, “I can only do what I can.”

Does the second line sound familiar?  It’s a quotation from Finian’s Rainbow.  The boy Henry interprets the message of the mute dancer.  A traveling company performed the musical in my high school auditorium in my youth.  Some things stick for a long time, reappearing when least expected.  That’s one of the deep pleasures of writing.