I don’t why I kept it. Tucked between a couple of paper backs was a thin, brown volume. On the front it read ‘Spelling and Vocabulary Work Book’. On the cover I had written my name (twice, for reasons that now elude me), my school and my phone number. It was, perhaps, somewhat optimistic to think that in the event that I misplaced my Spelling and Vocabulary Work Book that a member of the general public might call me as a matter of urgency. Stumbling across something that is little more than a glorified pamphlet is not exactly on par with find their wallet or a child. Not that I ever misplaced it.
I don’t why I kept it. Tucked between a couple of paper backs was a thin, brown volume. On the front it read ‘Spelling and Vocabulary Work Book’. On the cover I had written my name (twice, for reasons that now elude me), my school and my phone number. It was, perhaps, somewhat optimistic to think that in the event that I misplaced my Spelling and Vocabulary Work Book that a member of the general public might call me as a matter of urgency. Stumbling across something that is little more than a glorified pamphlet is not exactly on par with find their wallet or a child. Not that I ever misplaced it.
In case you’re not sufficiently impressed, let me make the point that in the thirty years since I scribbled my name on the front of my measly work book, I left home, went to University and moved houses multiple times (including interstate). Through it all, I’ve dragged this item with me. In that time, I’ve succeeded in misplacing all manner of other far-more useful things including, on occasion, my dignity. But the Spelling and Vocabulary Work Book has, through thick and thin, never been far from my side.
So what is it about this small volume that makes it so special, such that I have kept it near and dear whilst squandering so much else? Moving past the cover, the first page is titled ‘Hints for Spelling’. There follows a short essay with a series of headings. It begins with question that is not such much didactic as it is a philosophical call to arms: ‘Why do we need to spell?’ At the time this question was posed, computers were still novelty items. The makers of the workbook could not have foreseen the inexorable rise of the text message. Doubtless, the authors have since written essays about the deplorable desertion of spelling and grammar or, if they really want to reach the younger generation, simply sent an emoji with a tear running down its yellow cheek to everyone in their address book to show their displeasure.
The next question posed is ‘Who is a “Poor Speller”?’ When I first read this question more than thirty years ago, I was probably prepared to name names. The paragraph that follows contains warnings as to how future employers might interpret the inability to spell. It occurs to me now that they were clearly trying to terrify us into behaving. After inviting the students to turn on each other in a kind of grammatical ‘Lord of the Flies’, the next question is ‘How Can I Help Myself?’ It was, I suspect, always going to come to that.
The workbook goes on to counsel students that they should be keeping a record of pretty much every word they ever come across before ending with the slightly depressing observation: ‘Remember, the dictionary is your best friend at this stage, you should have one with you at all times.’ Sadly, it’s possible that when I was in high school the dictionary was my best friend. Not that I carried one around at all times. The only thing I carried at all times back then was acne.
There are two further pages full of instructions, including how to make an index. Turning the next page, I was confronted by my own teenage handwriting, setting out the words with their definition handily beside them. From the outset, it was clear I was ambitious.
On page one, I had defined words including ‘commodious’, ‘obsequiousness’ and, somewhat ironically, ‘perspicuous’. Clearly, I was intent on dazzling my classmates with a vocabulary as vast as the paddocks that lay beyond the school fence. It’s frightening to think that I weaseled these terms in to every day conversation. I can picture myself; strolling into the Tyabb Milk Bar to pick up a Wiz Fizz and Choc-Orange Big M, startling the shopkeeper by referring to the commodious nature of the surroundings. He might have regarded such a remark as little more than aggrandizement (meaning to make greater – bottom of page one).
Things don’t improve on page two. There you’ll find terms like ‘perturbation’, ‘aphoristic’ and ‘bourgeois’. It’s painful to see them there, clumped together on the page, like three random people trapped in an elevator. I can almost hear myself describing the Under 15s Pie Night of the Tyabb Junior Football Club as ‘bourgeois’. I don’t know how they put up with me. I doubt they thought of me as aphoristic (straight to the point, direct impact). Rather, they probably used a simpler but more infamous word to describe me. I would have deserved it too.
But despite the furious pace at which I began filling out my Spelling and Vocabulary Workbook, mid-way through page three I ran out of steam. Perhaps my attempts to use these words were not as well received as I might have hoped. Despite that, I kept the work book, maybe in the hope that I would one day continue my efforts to build the kind of vocabulary that, like the Chadstone Shopping Centre, can be seen from space. For now, my efforts remain inchoate (underdeveloped – page one). One day, though, I’ll get back to it. Best to keep it on hand.