“I’m sorry you had to wait so long,” said the nurse at the
doctor’s office when she was taking me back to the exam room 40 minutes after
my appointment time, “but that first patient just couldn't stop talking.”
“I do apologize for
the delay,” the doctor explained with a bemused smile when he joined me, “but
our first patient was quite the raconteur.”
Beside the fact that he actually is a competent physician
who I trust with my medical care, this is why I like this doctor so much. I personally appreciate anyone who uses the
word “raconteur” in everyday
conversation. Beyond just demonstrating
his highly developed vocabulary, isn't calling the talkative patient a
raconteur rather than someone just couldn't stop talking just a more genteel
way to communicate the very same idea? It makes the patient before me sound rakish,
like a “bon vivant” instead of just a troublemaker.
I've decided that I too want to be a raconteur, instead of a
“blabbermouth,” or a “chatterbox,” or “that lady who talks too damn much.” Because words really do matter. Sometimes it’s not what you say, it’s how you
say it. What a lovely, civilized place the world might be if we all just
learned to call each other nicer names.
For instance, Mr. Rip and I know that we are a couple of odd
ducks. Really though, we much prefer the
term “eccentric” to “weird” or “strange.” Mr. Rip wondered if eccentricity was
reserved for rich people rather than every-day folks like us, but I assured him
that I have known many colorful eccentrics from all walks of life.
Over the years, many have accused various family members of
mine of being stubborn (I can’t imagine why).
My father handily rejects this notion, saying “I prefer to think of it
as having the courage of my convictions.”
You know I think Dad is onto something here. It is far preferable to come from a family
that has the courage of its convictions, rather than one that is full of people
who are as stubborn as mules.
My furniture is a fascinating mix of styles and periods, all
different ages and in varying conditions.
Some I brought into the marriage, some were Mr. Rip’s and some were “inherited”
from family members or received as gifts from friends. Anyway, none of it goes together, and yet we
like to delude ourselves that it all somehow blends into a whole that is more
than just its parts. It probably doesn't. My point is that you can call my furniture mismatched, but isn’t eclectic a better way to describe it?
Of course, I don’t necessarily want to be eclectic. I’d give anything to have just one room full
of furniture that matches.
