Scoliosis is an abnormal lateral curvature of the spine. The spine forms a twisted “S” shape, pulling the body and person to one side.

King Richard III had scoliosis. You can tell from his skeleton. That long-lost skeleton was recently discovered under a parking lot in Leicester, England. He was badly beaten. The excavators identified ten (10) obvious wounds from clubs, swords and daggers.

In the midst of the Battle of Bosworth Field in 1485 A.D., Richard of the House of York rode his white courser directly at his rival, Henry of the House of Tudor. Knocking some formidable opponents off their horses, Richard the King had almost reached Henry the Aspirer for the final test of kingly arms, when . . . Richard’s large horse bogged down in the mud. Unceremoniously and with fatal consequences, King Richard was surrounded, knocked off his horse and suffered the many recorded blows that ended his life and his reign.

Some good friars from a nearby monastery recovered the royal body and hastily interred it beneath Greyfriars Church in Leicester. For the defeated, the burial was rushed. The noble form was not placed in a casket or even covered with a linen shroud. The dark earth covered the King’s broken body.

Through time, the church was itself demolished and a parking lot was established in its place. King Richard’s remains were lost for five centuries to the effects of urban renewal and the age of the motor car. But, the monarch was not lost for good. The University of Leicester confirmed on February 4, 2013 that the skeleton recently discovered beneath that parking lot was, beyond reasonable doubt, that of Richard III.

The King has been found.

William Shakespeare wrote a play entitled “Richard III.” In the play, King Richard has a withered arm not a twisted back. Perhaps the list of the shoulders from the scoliosis caused the playwright to portray the King with a dragging arm. We may never know why the Bard’s portrayal differs from the coroner’s report. We do know that the play has some memorable lines.

The theatrical performance opens around a moody melancholy of words: “Now is the winter of our discontent.” With that, we know tragedy is in the wings. Near the story’s ending, in the midst of the battle after being unhorsed, Richard cries out in Shakespeare’s voice: “A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse!” Who hasn’t heard that one? It was probably in a Super Bowl commercial. Of course, there is no horse.

With Edward dispatched, Henry marries Edward’s niece Princess Elizabeth of the House of York, patches things up between the noble houses and becomes King Henry VII of the all the English lands.

Royalty is difficult and dangerous to follow.

So died Edward III, the last of the line of Plantagenet Kings and the last English King to die in battle. With Richard’s death, some say the Middle Ages ended in England. The dark ages joined him in his ignominious interment and a Renaissance of new ideas broke bright upon English soil.

The struggles of kings and those who aspire to be king are assuredly complicated and long to resolve

Now, there are those who say King Edward III has been slighted by the march of time and should be restored to good sight in the eyes of the many. Edward was certainly unhorsed, rudely treated and promptly forgotten. None would contest that. Still, the circumstances surrounding his reign may argue that the good King was not that even in his treatment of others. Then, others certainly got even with him. He did pay the price. Today is a much newer day than it was back then. Perhaps more telling, there is an untidiness in the present array that argues in favor of a proper English resolution of things.

Since Edward III will soon be in his own royal tomb, as his cousins are in there noble places, perhaps bygones should be bygones. Perhaps, the slate should be wiped clean. Let ballads be written and sung. Allow festivals to be held and money exchanged in the merriment and delight of new memories reviewed and approved. Park cars in the repaired lot and above the now empty space. Encourage visitors to walk in the bright clean air and enjoy the sights of our monarch’s new home. Let commerce commence, pockets jingle and couples dance.

It is the New Age of the King.

They say a good party heals many a wound.

Grandpa Jim

The Might Mites of Dust

The house dust mite is “a cosmopolitan guest in human habitation.” “Cosmopolitan” means it can be found everywhere that human beings habitat (live or abide) — around the world and then some, probably even on the orbiting space station. “Guest” does not mean the mite was invited – it means it lives with us (we share the same space and both are guests in our own homes). It might more properly be termed an “unwanted guest,” one that does not easily leave. As one, it is a small little critter, only 0.4 millimeters (0.016 inches) in length, and it can be just barely seen on the bed sheets . . . in normal light. It loves mattresses and pillows, because they are so cushy and warm and comforting, and because those mattresses and pillows are full of the little dusts we leave behind and dust mites love to eat. Once it settles in, it’s not leaving – unless you heat that pillow to 60 degrees C (140 degrees F) or freeze that mattress to 0 degrees C (32 degrees F). It is reported that a two-year old pillow may be composed of up to ten percent dust mites and their dust – although some dust-mite scientists dispute that all those little mighty mites really add significantly to the weight of mattresses and pillows. It is true that alone a mite might not be too much, but banded together, it might truly be said, in a loud and echoing voice, that they are the “Mighty Mites of Dust.”

Monkeys and Chimpanzees in Go-Go Land

Both monkeys and chimpanzees are primates and simians. From a taxonomic viewpoint, human beings are also classified as primates and simians. Monkeys usually have tails. Chimps and humans do not – at least that is noticeable. The chimpanzee is an ape; the monkey is not. There are more apes than just chimpanzees. Gibbons, orangutans and gorillas are also apes.  Humans are not apes, although some human males have been reported to act like apes. In the phylogeny of living (extant) primates, chimpanzees and the other apes are more closely related to humans (at least male humans) than monkeys. This should not come as a surprise to some.  Monkeys, chimpanzees and humans can all climb trees. Monkeys and chimpanzees do it well. Humans do not. Monkeys, chimpanzees and humans can be trained to drive go-carts. It is apparently a matter of opinion who does this better. Monkeys and chimpanzees do not generally use computer software programs. When malfunctioning, software programs cause humans (males at least) to jump up and down, grab and shake things, beat their chests, and utter loud screeches and other unintelligible and incoherent sounds. When this occurs, it has been suggested (by whom we cannot say) that monkeys and chimpanzees in go-go land behave better than humans in software gone-gone land.

To Affect an Effect or Effect an Effect — That is the Question

The sun affects (has an impact on) my skin. The effect of (that which results from) too much sun on my skin is a sunburn. The sun effected (brought about) a change in my skin that hurts. Ouch! Now, you see why using affect, effect and effect can be so painful. Affect is typically used as a verb, meaning to have an impact on something or someone, to influence. Effect is mostly used as a noun to represent that which is created by some cause, the result or consequence. For every cause, there is an effect. But, effect can also be used as a verb, meaning to bring about, to cause or achieve – this is a bit tricky when compared to the verb affect. Let’s see how it works. The software going bad affects a human male. This cause (software going bad) has the effect of said human male acting like a monkey or chimpanzee in go-go land (or worse). We can then say the bad software effected the change (and not a desirable one) in our human male. And, that is how affect (verb), effect (noun) and effect (verb) can work on someone who becomes too attached to their computer. Now, why don’t you try it on a dust mite making a home in your favorite pillow.

Effect a calm demeanor, you may affect others with the effects of your actions.

Now then, that’s clear as mud, I think.

Cheers,

Grandpa Jim

“The Internet is falling! The Internet is falling!” Chicken Little yells, feathers flying, laptop clutched tightly to his breast, as the young fowl runs to the local avian geek barn for help. “It’s the EMP,” the scaredy-cat capon moans as he collapses in a heap at the feet of the wide-eyed-black-glassed-tape-nosed nerds.

Beaks drop, glasses droop and pocket protectors sag as the frightened flock of gallus gallus domesticus realize their worst fear is pulsing toward them and their precious. The electron-soaked waves of digitalized data that wash back and forth sightless before their eyes, to be captured and burst forth onto their beloved wire-laced and chip-linked screens, those sinous curves of serpentine knowledge are endangered by the nameless nightmare. The beloved Internet, their precious, is about to fall to the dreaded EMP.

Screeching, clucking and crowing, they run mindless in all directions, bumping into each other, cock-a-doodle-dooing “Where can we go? Where can we go?”

There may be no escape for them and for us.

If the EMP, be true and truly here.

An EMP is an electromagnetic pulse. It is an intense burst of electromagnetic energy caused by an abrupt, rapid acceleration of charged electrons.

The theory is that when the EMP hits the wires, components and compotes of our machines, the electrical surge will overpower every protector, will bypass every plug and will blast uncaringly with the raw force of its small-particled energy into the nooks and crannies of every computer, hand-held and cell. The gourmet viands of the wired and wireless domains of our modern lands will be in the instant scrambled. In ever hand, at every station and on every table, there will be only toast.

Bon appétit, while you can.

In theory, the escaped impingement of excited electrons will drive us from our tables of reflective repast back to the books, scrolls and parchments of our patriarchal past.

Society, as we know it, will be too confused to do anything but sit back, stare amazed and start to laugh.

To that uproarious end, some think only nuclear explosives could be the cause.

That, it could not and never happen here and now.

The scare is said to be an old-wives tale on an Internet that encourages those wives to talk, a joke made upon ourselves that could never blossom to fruition. The Internet is too large and too widely dispersed. Even if some were effected, the rest would recover and repair. It’s just a joke.

We attended a humorous farce of a play yesterday afternoon. The actors were moving so fast and talking so quickly that the audience was forced to fall into unbridled laughter as a most pleasant palliative of first resort. Faced with the witty insanities of the emergently complicated interpersonal situations and the apparent impossibilities of any filial, spousal or culinary resolutions, laughter was the only course. It made little sense to do else. The information received was so great and so absurd that the theatrical performance teetered on the brink of disaster and was intensely funny.

The assault of mixed and moving signals must have affected the synapses of our minds in some strange and unforeseen manner. In the hall outside afterward, we talked of EMP. It was after the end of the insanity of words that the insanity of electrons gone wild popped easily to our heads. After the guffawed hilarity of a house collapsed in laughter, we could somehow see the hem-hawed reality of a way of life fallen to disorder.

Order and disorder were perhaps the linchpins connecting our thoughts.

Great disorder may be funny and entertaining, but it is difficult to put right. The confusion was too great. We did not understand the play in the end.

Great order may be just as entertaining and funny, and it may in its way be just as difficult to put right. The potential for confusion may be too great. We do not understand how the Internet could end and can only watch as it does.

If you put all your eggs in one basket, does it matter how big that basket is?

If you put all those funny words in one play, can you really put that play back together again?

If you put all those word bytes onto one Internet, can you really put that Internet back together again?

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the king’s horses and all the king’s men
Couldn’t put Humpty together again.

The lesson, I think, is this: In too much order resides the disorder of the jabberwocky of EMP.

To protect the order of information and prevent the fall of an overloaded Mr. Dumpty, perhaps we should try not to put any more weight on that wall. And, in that, net another approach to the Internet. Place the worrisome and tipsy Humpty on a diet and move on down the line. It may be just as entertaining and effective, and we’ll be much less worried about scrambling our only egg.

We may find that there are other ways to laugh.

“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?

Come to my arms, my beamish boy!

O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”

He chortled in his joy.”

Enjoy the play,

Grandpa Jim

The Donut

My favorite is blueberry cake. This morning, I had an early meeting. It started at “o-dark-thirty,” which is a Texas-Cajun way of saying it was dark outside and 30 minutes after some hour, but, who cared, it was early. One of the good things about this early-every-Thursday-morning meeting is that we rotate bringing the donuts. These are about the only donuts I get (being health conscious and weight watching – many of you may know the drill). So, I will never stop attending this meeting and the meeting itself can never stop being held. It may be an eternal meeting, the first ever in the history of mankind, because it is a “Donut” meeting and who could, or would want to, stop such a thing. Today, I brought a dozen blueberry cake, three plain cake, three chocolate-chocolate cake, a mix of six other cakes (chocolate nut, vanilla nut, vanilla icing, maple icing, strawberry icing and powdered sugar) and a dozen plain glaze freshly sugar-coated out of the fryer. You do not forget such things. They are the stuff sweet dreams are made of. . . .

Where’d it come from?

The donut, I mean.

Marco Polo?

No.

Today, I am not using the Internet. Scandalous behavior, I know, but I was up early and I need to shock myself — “re-book” myself in my still extant library without a computer. Today, I a using a book, to wit: “Panati’s Extraordinary Origins of Everyday Things.” It is quite a witty tome and worth the reference.

On page 415, Panati states that the doughnut (known by me as simply “donut”) originated in 16^th century Holland (perhaps the confectionery creation of an ancestral chef to the noble line of Queen Bea). Among the Dutch, the treat was known as an olykoek, or “oil cake,” because of its high oil content (being fried in oil, as it still is). The cake was made with sweetened dough (hence the “dough” or “do” in donut) and was in its original inception about the size of walnut (hence the “nut” in donut). The Pilgrims had stopped in Holland on their way to America. Well, it appears those Pilgrims developed an almost unnatural fondness for the little oily cakes (but not the name). They tossed a couple hundred dozen on board the ship for the trip (a little known bit of sea-faring culinary trivia), and, on arrival in New England — at the Rock named with their name, those industrious travelers promptly set up shop and renamed the New World cake the “doughnut.”

The donut was born — almost.

It was still just a little cake.

Enter, Hanson Gregory. . . .

Hanson lived in New England and eventually became a sea captain. But, in his formative years, sitting in the kitchen watching his mother — he, in his youth (as many of us do – or did) – he had his best idea ever. His mother was rolling out the dough and cutting out the cake shapes for a big batch of doughnuts. Young Hanson thought and remembered the soggy centers in last week’s cakes. When Mom turned her back, he reached over and poked holes in those round cake cut-outs. Spinning about, his mother was about to reprimand the young thinker, when she saw the magic of his invention. She tossed the punctured cakes and the holes into the fryer together. They were . . . wonderful, more uniform in texture and without that icky soggy center. The holes were good too. She hugged her brilliant son as they both sat down to a mid-morning munch of fresh doughnuts and donut holes.

At that, young Hanson Gregory invented the distinctively empty modern donut shape (which is the shape of the “o” in “donut”), and he invented the donut hole (which is also the shape of the “o” in “donut” and oh so tasty.)

A final note. . . .

Our book reports the following: “Today Hanson Gregory’s contribution . . . is remembered in his hometown of Rockport, Maine, by a bronze plaque, suggesting that in America, fame can be achieved even for inventing nothing.”

I like that.

Could you pass another donut over here?

And, a donut hole, if there’s one left.

They’re so light and tasty.

It’s almost like eating noting at all.

I wonder who invented them.

Now, you know that, too.

Good munching,

Grandpa Jim

“Take your hands off him. He’s mine.” The newly married young lady grabs her husband’s staff and threatens the flirtatious female offender. “Can’t you see this staff? Flash those eyelashes once more at my guy and you’ll regret you did.” As the young wife brandishes the staff in the air, the other lady turns and runs away – to find a more eligible, and less attached, object for her affections.

Back in those old times, in the Middle East, Greece, Turkey and there-about, young couples didn’t always exchange rings with their marriage vows. Instead, the guy got a staff and the gal kept her eyes peeled. The staff was the sign of marital status. So, when you saw a fellow coming down the street with a staff, you knew he was attached.

Our young couple has been married for a time. He’s walking down a road in ancient Greece, staff in hand, whistling a popular tune from the forum, when an old wife pops up in front of him, stopping the young man in his tracks.

The elderly lady has her hands hidden behind her back.

“Pick a hand,” the grandmother croaks.

Taken back, the young married man does not know what is going on.

The older woman pokes her nose at him.

“Pick a hand — now,” she intones.

With the staff, he touches the lady’s left elbow.

Out pops the arm, with a white lily in the woman’s fist.

“Boy. It’s going to be a boy.” The doddering female dances a jig and spins around. Her other hand holds a rose. “If you’d picked the red rose, it’d be a girl,” she sings, “but you got the lily and now it’s a boy — sure as a ring-a-ring-sing.”

The sense of shock dissipates from the young man’s face. He realizes what he’s just learned, turns and runs for home.

You can imagine his young wife’s face when she learns the news. Or . . . did she send the older wife on the errand to surprise the new father-to-be.

Now, that’s an old wive’s tale that’s worth repeating.

It happened to Joseph. The circumstances were a bit different – more miraculous. He was walking down a street in Nazareth. No, an old wife did not jump out and confront him. He lifted his staff and saw something at the top. Something was happening, something was budding. Sure enough, a white lily bloomed right there on the street on the top of his staff.

Well, that young Joseph turned right around and ran just as fast for home and Mary to tell her the good news. He knew what that lily meant. It was a boy.

I wonder if she knew?

Next time you see a statue or picture of Joseph, take a closer look. You may see a staff. And, I’ll bet you’ll find a lily close by.

Now, you know why,

Pretty amazing,

Grandpa Jim

Her official title is Her Majesty Beatrix, by the Grace of God, Queen of the Netherlands, Princess of Orange-Nassau, etc. etc. etc. It can go on for quite a bit, the additional titles of a noble line that goes back many years and to many places. The queen herself signs official documents with only “Beatrix.” In common parlance, she is The Queen or Her Majesty. Many of her subjects call her simply “Bea.”

Officially, Queen Bea will “abdicate” on April 30, 2013. “Resign” is altogether too Western and corporate a word for such an act by such a personage — certainly not noble enough a term for a queen. A queen is what Bea is and has been for 33 years. By all reports, it is a job she has done quite well. The local paper reported this morning that “the queen’s abdication . . . is sure to bring out an outpouring of sentimental . . . feelings among the Dutch, most of whom adore her.” I read those words to mean the people of the Netherlands care very much for their queen. To be loved by those around you is a very great compliment to anyone. I think for Her Majesty Beatrix there can be no greater compliment than to be loved by her people.

Bea will pass the crown to her eldest son, Crown Prince Willem-Alexander. The son is 45, a trained pilot and an expert in water management. For a country with a long and shifting relationship to the watery realms it borders and has, to some extent, appropriated, water management is an appropriate occupation for the crown prince. I can see him now flying his plane, hand outstretched and waving to the people below, on his way to fix the next leak in the dike. Like the little Dutch boy of legend, perhaps he, like his mother, will, in time, hold an endearing place in the hearts of his subjects. I like it that when he first introduced himself to his wife, Princess Maxima, he used only “Alexander,” though prince he was and king soon will be.

For us in the west, there is little of titled royalty in our midst. As I say that, I cannot help but think that for Her Majesty Beatrix there is more of royalty in herself than in any of the titles that trail her name. Perhaps the queen is not in the crown, but in the one who wears the crown. She wore it well and taught us that royalty in its lineage clean must that surmount to be truly queen.

To Bea, well done and thank you,

Grandpa Jim

I have been off for a few days.

Last Friday was a funeral down in the country near Uncle Joe’s farm. The lady was a first cousin and an avid polka dancer. I first met her and her husband at the National Polka Festival in Ennis, Texas, a couple years back. After that, I always looked forward to seeing her bright smile on the dance floor as she and her best friend polkaed, waltzed, two-stepped and twirled across the polished wood sprinkled with corn starch and racing children underfoot. Polka dancing is a family affair.

So, no blog on Friday. Sorry.

Then, over the weekend I took a walk on the trail with Ms. Mary. On our return, we noticed my back was twisted to the right. Sure enough, I was in spasm. That old sciatica had acted up. It’s been about ten years since I had an episode. The sciatic nerve is the largest and longest nerve in our bodies. Starting out from the lower back, it begins about as thick as a person’s thumb. It travels out from the spinal cord, between a couple lower vertebrae, and down the leg to the foot, branching and thinning as it goes. This is the main phone line to your leg and foot. The problem is that where it travels between those vertebrae on its exit from the spinal cord, the space is tight, not much room between your bony backbone and the gelatinous disk between your vertebrae that keeps the space open. That disk can become compressed (say, by lifting something the wrong way). When this happens, the verterbral bones move closer and can touch the sciatic nerve, abrading its surface. Oh, Wowee!! That sure can hurt, sending shooting pains down the leg. To prevent the pain from and damage to the nerve, when the nerve detects the irritation beginning, it signals up the spinal cord to the brain to pull and tighten the back muscles to open the passage wider, if they can. That’s the muscular spasm, a pulling and tightening by your back muscles to pull the bone away from the nerve to protect the nerve and you. When this happens, it’s best to lie flat and rest and give your body some time to straighten things out. Your doctor can help with what to do and take to relax and repair things. To prevent these spasmodic episodes of lower back pain (sciatica), I do straightening exercises for my spinal cord every morning, I squat down and lift things with my legs rather than bending over and lifting with my back (must have forgotten this one), I get up and walk around when I am sitting long at the computer, I exercise (walk and lift light weights – I’ll wait a while to start these again), and I try to sit with both feet on the floor (crossing the legs is rough on that sciatic nerve). Sciatica is very common – about 40% of the entire world’s population will experience some form of sciatica in their lifetimes. The good news is sciatica is treatable by rest and a visit to the Doc, and it is preventable by changing a few things you do and getting some regular exercise.

So, I haven’t been writing for a few days. Sorry.

I love to write.

I am finishing the background reading and will begin writing a book. The plan is to publish each chapter here, on Uncle Joe Stories. I am hoping to have the first chapter for you to read sometime next month, February 2013. Keep your fingers crossed.

So, I may be writing fewer blog posts in order to work on the book. Sorry.

Keep stopping by — as always, a lot is happening,

Grandpa Jim

“Alacrity” is defined as a “brisk and cheerful readiness, an excited willingness and eagerness to proceed.”

In a sentence, it might appear as follows: “With fulsome delight and focused demeanor, the alacrity of the investigator to accomplish the client’s desires was both admirable to observe and rewarding to the outcome of the case.”

“Please proceed with alacrity, Watson.” Sherlock Holmes announces to his friend. “The game is afoot. Do you have your revolver?”

If there ever was one with alacrity in pursuit of a dangerous criminal, who was also perspicacious and sagacious in his approach and analysis, it was that detective with the Inverness cape coat, deerstalker hat and poised magnifying glass.

“Perspicacious” means “to be observant and perceptive.” A synonym (another word in the same family of meaning) to perspicacious is sagacious. “Sagacious” means to be “smart and judicious.” Perspicacious and sagacious go hand in hand.

It takes a perspicacious individual to see the facts surrounding a mysterious occurrence (observant) and to identify the relationships of those facts to the unwinding of the riddle (perceptive), but it requires a sagacious individual of heightened intelligence to sort those facts and perceptions (smart), an individual who also possesses the gift of wisdom to select the right course of action (judicious), to devise the trap to capture the perpetrator before the evil act is done.

However, an individual can be both perspicacious and sagacious and still allow the villain to escape. To catch a crook, when the time comes to act, the pursuer must do so with alacrity. Certainly, a good detective must be both perspicacious and sagacious, but a great detective acts with alacrity when the time for action has arrived — when the game is afoot.

Would we all be as perspicacious and sagacious in our evaluation of that which matters most to us as Detective Holmes, and, when the time comes to take action on whatever our plan may be, may we act with the alacrity of the quick-paced Sherlock having on our face a wiry smile and in our mind a confident determination.

A good mind without alacrity can write a good report, but it will never be quick enough to catch the crook, enjoy the chase and win the case.

Be ready to act and don’t delay when the time is right and act you must,

Grandpa Jim

They just don’t come no better than a bear (mammal), who can bear (carry) much on its bare (no clothes) back. “And me I just bear up to my bewildered best, and there’s some folks even seen the bear in me.” Thank you, Steven Fromholtz, and the July 23, 2012 blog post on homophones, homonyms and heterographs. Just type “Bear, Bear, Bare” into the search box above and you’ll have plenty to reacquaint yourself with bears, Steven and the h-term words.

By way of a quick review, homophones are words that sound the same, have different meanings and can be spelled the same or differently. If they are spelled exactly the same (bear for animal and bear for carry), they are homonyms. If they are spelled differently (bear for a growly mammal and bare for where are my clothes?), they are heterographs.

That all seems straightforward enough, if somewhat confusing and hard to remember. But, what do you call a group of words that sounds like another separate word of different meaning?

Let me give you an example.

“This beach, this island, the hotel, the pool, the restaurant, the parrots, the butterflies and you,” the husband says, on his knees, to his wife, both of whom are on their second honeymoon. “It’s all just too much. Thank you for transporting me to paradise.”

A “paradise” is a place of extreme beauty, delight and happiness.

Nathan Detroit (Frank Sinatra) wants to keep playing craps (a dice game) in the 1955 musical “Guys and Dolls.” Nathan’s friend, Sky Masterson (Marlon Brando), knows it’s time for Nathan to stop – the dice are cold and Nathan will lose his money. So, Sky proposes a bold bet: He, Sky, will roll the dice – if he loses, he will pay each of the other gamblers $1,000 – if he wins, they will all attend a prayer meeting at the local Mission. Sky bends down, shakes those dice and let’s ’em roll. The next scene is the front of the Mission. A line of gamblers is waiting to be let in. Sky won. He saved his friend Nathan from a cold pair of dice.

A “pair of dice,” which is often pronounced “pair a’ dice,” refers to two small cubes with each side having from one to six numbered spots. The dice are thrown in gambling games such as craps. Dice are also called “die.”

A big roll and a big win with a “pair a’ dice” could lead to a feeling of “paradise,” or it could lead, with the help of Marlon Brando, to a seat on a hard Mission bench and a sermon on the evils of a pair a’ dice and the odds of reaching paradise with those die in your hands.

The word “paradise” and the phrase “pair a’ dice” sound exactly the same to me, but they have different, if not opposite, meanings. They are like homophone words that are also heterographs, but one is a word and other is a phrase, and I cannot find a term for a word and phrase that sound the same and have different meanings.

Let us make up a new word.

Latin for a “phrase” or “group of words” is “coetus verba,” with “coetus” meaning “group” and “verba” meaning words. The suffix “onym” means word, and the prefix “hetero” means “different.” So, a different group of words for one word can be written “heterocoetusverbaonym.” That’s pretty long. Let’s shorten it to “heteroverbonym.” I like that.

A “heteroverbonym” is a group of words that sounds like a single word of different meaning.

The phrase “pair a’ dice” is a heteroverbonym to the word “paradise.”

Another heteroverbonym is “out a’ tea” for the word “oddity.” The English might say those have the same meaning.

And, here’s one by the Beatles: the phrase “can’t buy me love” (from the song “Can’t Buy Me Love”) comes out “puppy love” when sung by John and Paul. See the “Puppy Love” blog post of January 13, 2013 to hear this one. Wait a second – that’s two groups of words with the same sound and different meanings. Puppy lovers may say they have the same meaning. Nevertheless, we need a word for this group-to-group situation.

Let’s invent another word: heterocoetusverbym.

A “heterocoetusverbym” is a group of words that sounds like another group of words with a different meaning. We can thank the Boys from Liverpool for this one.

Keep your ears tuned to the next heteroverbonym or heterocoetusverbym as it sounds and waves its way to you on the avenues and airways of aural amusement and applause.

Good listening and distinguishing,

Grandpa Jim

Sherlock Holmes had been dead almost eight years when he was discovered near the Baskerville estate in the bleak Dartmoor highlands. Hidden beneath the black tor and  camped in the neolitic ruins of an ancient home, he continued the investigation of the late Baron’s fallen body and, near the spot of the crime, “the footprints of a gigantic hound”.

The world’s first consulting detective, the coldly cerebral and daringly deductive Sherlock Holmes, was first spied in 1887 in the company of his friend and narrator, Dr. John H. Watson. Their first adventure was a longish short story entitled by the publishers “A Study in Scarlet.” A 28-year-old storytelling physician by the name of Arthur Ignatius Conan Doyle had glimpsed the antics of the brilliant Holmes and the bumbling Watson. Conan Doyle proceeded to place the two on paper to the endearment of a growing and devoted audience of fans. Through the second Holmes story, “The Sign of Four,” published in 1890, and twelve more episodes of incisive intrigue and reasoned revelation, released between 1891 and 1892 and compiled in “The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes,” Dr. Doyle chronicled the growing success of the secretive sleuth and his steady sidekick.

Of that success, Arthur Ignatius Conan Doyle became jealous.

The observing physician with the quick pen confided that it was he who had first brought the stories to popular attention, and he, Arthur Conan Doyle, never thought much of the condescending Holmes. The detective was always showing off and acting so smart. What did Holmes know? Arthur Conan Doyle was just as smart — just you wait and see. Conan Doyle wrote his mother that he was thinking of doing to Sherlock Holmes what the insufferable detective deserved.

“The game is afoot,” and the criminal perpetrator is none other than the author himself.

In December of 1893, Arthur Conan Doyle killed Sherlock Holmes.

It was at the top of Reichenbach Falls in Switzerland, in the story entitled “The Final Problem.” Holmes is struggling with his archenemy, the master criminal Professor Moriarty, whom he has tracked down and trapped. Justice is about to be done . . . evil defeated. The determined detective is prevailing. When . . . someone rushes from the dark at the two grappling figures and pushes them both over the precipice to the sharp rocks and crashing waters below.

The public outcry was deafening.

How could you!!!

Conan Doyle sat back, counted his money and threw the letters from the Holmesian fans into the trash.

Eight years passed. Our scrivener physician had written many other books and stories. They and he had been somewhat successful. Still, the public was clamoring for more Holmes and Watson.

“What is it about those two?” Conan Doyle thought to himself. “Oh well, a little extra cash won’t hurt. There is that ‘real creeper.’ I never shared the story with anyone. Let me remember . . . it occurred back in 1889, four years before Holmes fell from the falls. I see it now. Holmes was asked to advise on the ‘curse of the Baskervilles.’ What a tale that is. As I recall, there was ‘a great, black beast, shaped like a hound, yet larger than any mortal eye ever rested upon,’ with ‘blazing eyes and dripping jaws.’ That is a good one. It’ll get the public off my back and I’ll make a bundle while I’m at it.”

And so, in August of 1901, the first installment of “The Hound of the Baskervilles” was published.

The public and the King loved it.

A year later in 1902, Conan Doyle was knighted “Sir” Arthur Conan Doyle by King Edward. After the ceremony, pulling the now middle-aged and rounding physician aside, the King winked and encouraged his newly dubbed vassal to investigate what really had happened back in 1893 at Reichenbach Falls. Was the chronicler certain the secretive Holmes had not survived and was avoiding the public gaze?

Did the King know something the man of letters did not?

When the King asks, it is best for a new knight to go on the quest.

The new Sir Arthur recalled that, in the excitement, he had not walked to the edge of the cliff and looked down to see what had happened to the detective.

A year later, in 1903, in the new story “The Adventure of the Empty House,” the knighted investigator revealed, to the King, the Nation and the World, that Sherlock Holmes had, in fact, survived the fall at Reichenbach Falls.

The slippery sleuth was back in business with the trusty doctor at his side.

True to his words, Conan Doyle followed with three more collections of stories and another novel, “The Valley of Fear,” all featuring Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. Unfortunately, a rift had developed between the writer and his leading character. The new post-fall works had lost something. Perhaps, the reclusive Holmes was not as willing to share with his watcher, the writer. Attempted murder is a serious matter, and it may cool even a close relationship. Miffed by his death and literary exile, the more entertaining episodes of unraveled fact in subsequent stories may have been kept by the detective for a more worthy observer. Such is the reader’s loss when a writer and his protagonist part ways.

We can be thankful that before the rift became severe, “The Hound of the Baskervilles” was resurrected and published intact. The work has been called “the most famous mystery novel in literary history” — a tribute that echoes true and far in both sound and sight. The story on the moors of Dartmoor has been filmed twenty times and more. It loses nothing in the retelling and gains much in the rereading. If you haven’t, please consider a read. You will not be disappointed with your new acquaintances. And, if you have, consider another. Old friends are the best and can be even more surprising when revisited.

Some would say that a good story never really ends, despite the odds.

I wonder how Professor Moriarty feels after his fall?

Stay tuned for more,

Grandpa Jim