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epitome of incomprehensibility
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Apropos of kerry's "chairs" and raze's "Windsor", some semiconnected musings:
Grandpa's family came from Napinka, Manitoba, and before that from the Scottish lowlands. His wife was from British Columbia and she had grandparents from the Scottish highlands. She was the red hair connection, the reputed perfectionist, dead before I was born. A psychiatric nurse who gave up her job to raise kids, she berated the oldest (Mom) for not measuring up to her standards, which caused a bit of a chain reaction. You'd think she'd take a higher road, having been trained in how minds work and all.
I'll tak the high road and you tak the low...something something...bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond... (wrong lake; the highland side of the family lived near Loch Inver).
Anyway, Mom's parents raised her in the East: Pointe-Claire, a Montreal suburb. Mom, when she got married, took a very small hop from there to Dorval.
I don't know whether I'll just make a hop to Montreal or go further. Or zigzag. I've half a mind to stay on this island, like raze wrote in "Windsor" (yes, yes, I know Windsor isn't an island - unless it IS and you Windsorites have been keeping it a secret) or go somewhere exotic with the teacher-philosopher. Ontario or Scandinavia (!), he's speculated. It depends on jobs, projects.
Lazy me, I'm easier with the former; less paperwork, more familiar. Plus, if we're in Sweden or Norway, people might assume from my first name that I speak their language. More chances to teach English, though? People wanting to learn it for business? Or how about studying linguistics further? Would it be harder to get writing published in English?
Too many questions. Let's stick to the important ones: In the metaphor, why is the high road the better one?
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