The Toll
Free Camel called again today. I ignored
it, as usual.
Of course, it's
not really a camel (I don't think.) It's
the result of the stilted robot voice with which my telephone announces
callers. While I can usually figure out the name with little effort, it took a
glance at the display to realize that my automated phone attendant was
announcing an unidentified 1-800 number. A "toll-free caller".
As such
callers tend to be telemarketers, political survey-takers, and such, I tend to conclude
that we have nothing intelligent to discuss and ignore the call.
I think I'm
safe in that conclusion, but there have been times in life when my conclusions
have landed me in hot water. At the very
least, they have made me the butt of a self-inflicted joke. Let me invite you to join in and laugh with
me at the latest.
It all
started because my nephew is getting married on Saturday and wants to read a special
poem to his lovely bride. He asked me to
check his translation of the poem; flattered (and pleased that I have some
skills to offer the younger generation), I quickly agreed.
Late last night I sat down to review his translation.
The English and the Spanish were interspersed; all I had to do was make
sure each translated line matched the original meaning. The poem had a comfortable, familiar feel but I didn't let that distract me. Armed with my most critical eye, it seemed that some conjugations were a little off. To be fair, Spanish verbs are more complex
than English ones.
I adjusted
the Spanish text to better match the English.
I reworked a few lines of the Spanish to improve the flow. I adjusted the meter in a place or two. And finally, I was content. The poem was good (I even made a suggestion for
changing one of the English lines.) After
an hour or two of editing work, it seemed nothing more should be done.
Feeling
rather pleased with myself, I went to bed.
It wasn't
until tonight that my nephew gently let me know that I had once more jumped to
a conclusion. The Spanish was not the translation: it was the
original.
In fact, I
had just spent two hours editing a poem by the incomparable Argentine poet and songwriter, Facundo Cabral.
No wonder it seemed so comfortable, so known. For those
of you unfamiliar with the great Cabral, it was as if I had dared to tweak the
immortal words of Robert Frost.
After
laughing long and hard at myself, I emailed the groom and promised to redo my
review. It almost seemed I could hear my
father laughing with me. When I was a
little girl and jumped to conclusions (which was often), Dad would tell me a
little story:
"Do you
remember the story about August?" Dad would ask.
"No",
I always answered, because I wanted him to tell it again.
"Well,
once there was little boy named August, and he was always jumping to conclusions. One day, August jumped to a mule's
conclusion... and the next day was the first of September."
Life lessons
from my pun-loving dad who wanted me to know that conclusions often have a price.
In the
process, he helped me learn to laugh at my own propensities. So tonight I will
spend more time reviewing the English
translation of the poem and leave Facundo's work unsullied by my meddling. Tomorrow or the next day, I'm sure I'll
laugh again at my absurdities. And some day, I may even learn that jumping
to conclusions takes a toll.
Until then,
I have it on good authority that camels are toll-free.
