Unexcused Absences

I harbor a secret love of obscure words.  What’s not to love about my Latin teacher from way back, who when we were flip or insolent didn’t accuse us of being bad, but instead said we were impudent?  Similarly, I think columnist George Will is a national treasure, not only for his political views, but for his absolute mastery of English.

Last night I was reading the February issue of Wired magazine (sort of an Atlantic Monthly for the geek crowd) when I came across, on page 91, a word I had not seen or heard in over 15 years; “defenestrate.”  This morning at breakfast, I was perusing an old Calvin & Hobbes anthology, and there the word was again!  In a comic strip!  Unbelievable!  No sightings for 15+ years and then two within twelve hours!  This coincidence had to be memorialized, somehow.

The idea came to me a few moments later; I would attempt to use “defenestrate” in a sentence sometime before sundown.  And not by cheating, with a weak effort by saying to someone, “hey, I just used the word defenestrate in a sentence!”  My rule was I could not make up some bizzare narrative to relate to someone either.  This would have to be a proper, not forced, usage.

As the day passed, it became less and less likely I could rise to my challenge.  This is not an easy word to drop into everyday conversation.  After all, it’s not that often that people throw things out windows these days.  Most commercial buildings have sealed windows, and most windows at home are covered with screens, so I can’t even remember the last time I threw anything out a window, much less described the activity to someone.  I was doomed to fall short of my quest.

In the afternoon I showed up at the starting shack for the ski races at our local hill, Bryce Resort (I’m in Virginia at the moment).  The local junior racing team can at times be rather boisterous, gathering in the start shack and becoming quite outspoken in their support for their fellow racers, to the point that the starter (my Dad) can’t hear himself think.  He sits behind a large plate window, so he’s protected from the wind, but can still see the race course.  When I arrived, I saw that the big window had been shattered and was completely gone; there was a gaping hole where the window had been.  I found out later someone had been attempting to chip away a crust of ice with a ski pole, and the whole thing let go.

Soon after, I was talking with Dad when the light bulb went off.  I turned to him and said, “I guess with the glass in the start shack broken you can now defenestrate any of the more vocal junior racers!”  Dad (also a lover of the obscure word) paused, smiled, and then said, “yes, I can!”

I had done it!  Linguistic mission accomplished! I had used “defenestrate” in an unforced, natural sentence, before sundown. At which point I told Dad this story.