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A moose in a lavender skirt (aka kilt) and tam.

Twain’s Innocents Abroad is what sent my major in English from posh to good ol’ USA. I knew, of course, the major literary voices leaned (meaning were wholeheartedly onboard with English and foreign writers).

There was no missing that leaning in the course offerings with far-far more Shakespearian (aka Earl of Oxford) altars and priests than went, say, to anyone homegrown in the USA. Way it was. Soldier on.

When of a minority view, that’s what you are, in a minority. Which was fine by me who didn’t want to be in any literary majority I knew of. Spare me please.

I’d rather be out looking in. I prefer that as less confining than having to agree with a bunch of mouth flapper experts on sonnets or the delineation of metaphors from “The Metamorphosis.” Pea ray id.

I’ve oft times tested that difference between American and British senses of humor, and whew what a job that is. ‘Long with many others, Brits usually laugh when something is outrageously huge. They seem to need enormously colorful (provocative) scenes to release the giggle lever. An’ even (as opposed to an uneven then) then not s’ much, really. Some traditions seem to be too literal and self-convinced. Means boring.

Sadly, from my point o’ view, t’ many ‘Mericans are trying to wear those slippers of moral high ground of the coffee grounds. Compost. But rat hair than try explaining that, I’ll give an example of the sort of thing flies unseen over a Brit noggin in the manner of long-ago Sputnik. Don’t know it’s there an’ don’ see it, either. “Campaigning, Abe Lincoln once asked a woman if she’d lived in the city all her life. She answered in a kindly tone, Not yet.”

A brit will guffaw at a moose in a lavender skirt, but not at the woman’s reply. I wonder why. D’ you?

Back to my premise, local color and American humor might be compared to whole milk vying with the homogenized, processed, skimmed and blandified alternatives. Maybe it’s better. Experts tell us so. But I’m of the opine that all the flavor and character of a food has been sucked out I might as well dine on sawdust.

The wreckage from building a house isn’t your best home and health building material. To me anyway. I knew Brits who were resourceful and imaginative. They worked in foreign service, studied multiple languages, lived under conditions where if they had socks they had to know how to darn them and they, in fact, carried on.

In part, I’m like to be wrong about this but risk it anyways, it’s the Dam Ned homogenizing words that do it. Instead of sense, the word play of the ne’r ending fixers enshrines stupidity. If a womb-bearing person is to define woman I could be one simply with a pickled mouse uterus in my pocket. Not that I would. Probably.

I’ll cut a little closer to home. A few gens rearward Indians were the cowboy nemesis. It was generally understood they weren’t from India. So, then, it was unnecessary to say Feather Indian versus Dot Indian. Native was tried but seemingly rejected as being a blanket large enough to include native born.

How ‘bout aboriginal? Didn’t last long. Indigenous is current and sort of suggests rising from the land as an earth womb (see, I worked that back in) for people. But find the perfect correct term. Please.

I say, h’wever, the old one which includes the fact of European explorers thinking they’d found India is factually correct and ironically appropriate.

It’s fun, sometimes, this damned fixation on terms. So, am I a Chicagoan because I was born there. Nope. They’d not claim me unless I did something major they could use. Not likely.

In any case, being generations removed from The Windy is more the point than breathing Stock Yards air as a toddle. (Some of you may be irate at my attitude. Fine. Be irate. Few years ago an irate someone got on me for disrespectful attitude. OK, I responded, how many prehistoric sites have you recorded or helped conserve? None? Might mean disrespectful me is way-far ahead of you when comes to doing rather than yapping. Woof.)

Not far from my place, the remains of a lakeside shacker cabin once lived in by two bachelors, a term out of favor with language enforcers.

They, Jon and Emil, were loggers or fishermen according to the season until age caught up and SS payments allowed them to hunker in their shack.

Couple times a week one, the other, or both walked the trail from their shack to the store where they bought store bread, onions, bacon, potatoes and beer. Good bet as to what the main purchase was, but vanilla extract was often favored for its fine fit in the pocket of stag pants. (A lot of information there if you know what to look for.)

The bachelor duo, good for odd jobs, were generally liked, so I t’s no surprise that after a longer than usual absence from the store (3.2 bar attached) drew questions.

OK, was eventually decided, someone should go down there and check on those two, in case, you know, something was amiss.

A good plan like that takes quite a few beers to get settled, so buy ‘n bye one of the bar rats takes the hike. Nice day for a walk ending outside a rough-sawn door. Knock.

“Comen in!”

Inside, an odor more pungent than unwashed shacker.

“Whew,” fanning the air, “Anything wrong in here?”

“No-no, we fine. Jon been sick a few day.”

More than sick, the visitor thought, asking

“You sure?”

“Sure I be sure, Been feedin’ ‘im oatmeal ‘n coffee haven’ I?”

And, sure ‘nough, Jon’s lips showed plenty sign of both. But not good signs, not good at all.

So what’s a responsible visitor to do? The truth, obviously.

“Good God, Emil, Jon’s gone! He’s dead!”

Having none of that, Emil stood his ground, “NO-NO, he’s done this b’fore.”

Of course, he hadn’t. First time was only time. People often object to this story as ugly, crude and disrespectful. But that’s only when they expect others to follow and obey the rules inside their heads.