September 23, 2014--Garlic, Chives, Lavender, and Mace

Sometimes we get into silly conversations. Almost always initiated by me. All right, always.

"Why is it," I asked while we were driving to town, "that 'parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme' sounds so perfect? I mean, why does 'garlic, chives, lavender, and mace' sound so awful? They're herbs too. Is it just because of what we're used to?"

"How about keeping your eyes on the road," Rona said, already annoyed.

"I mean, my list of herbs has the same number of syllables. Both 'rosemary' and 'lavender' have three. So--"

"You're making the case that they're equal because they both have three syllables?"

"Why not?"

"Among other things 'rosemary' is nicely ambiguous because it's also the name of a women. All lavender is famous for is its scent. Nice, but not the same, poetically, or in meaning as 'rosemary.' And don't forget that the song is about one's 'true love.' A woman."

"OK, here's a better one--what's wrong with substituting 'chives' for 'sage'"?

"Again, you're missing the poetic point. 'Sage,' too is more than the name of an herb but also means a wise person. A sage. Yet more ambiguity which is often a test of a well-chosen lyric." Rona smiled toward me triumphantly.

"Also, I suppose, since chives are a form of onion it's not that romantic. Onion-breath and all."

"Now you're talking," Rona said, folding her arms definitively across her chest.

"All right. You've written some good songs. See if you can come up with alternative herbs that work as well as the ones in the ballad. Again, I know half the problem is hearing Simon and Garfunkel in your head and so the lyrics as they are sound inevitable and perfect."

"That's not the whole story," Rona said, "Yes, we hear them in our heads even when trying to just recite the lyrics. As you're doing. But your argument that it's all about syllables, that all words with the same number are musically equivalent, is just so literal minded. I mean . . ."

"Come on. Be fair. That's not what I'm saying. I also know from poetry and something about musical lyrics. I know there can be beauty inherent in the sound of a single word--like 'rosemary.' As a stand-alone word it's mellifluous, which means it has musicality, etymologically, it's 'flowing honey.'"

I heard Rona grunt but I continued, "All those long vowel sounds. So for whoever wrote Scarborough Fair it was a great choice for any number of reasons. And I will grant you, while I'm at it, that 'mace' is not a good substitute for 'thyme,' whose smooth sound is so much nicer than the hard 'mace.' With 'mace,' of course, having a second meaning--as in 'mace' the weapon."

"This is getting a little heavy-duty for me," Rona said weakly, "It's such a beautiful morning. Maybe we should look at the trees which are just beginning to change color. At that maple, for example."

It was a beautiful morning and the maples were just in the early stages of turning red so we rode in silence.

"You know," Rona said, breaking the mood, as if to herself, "'Marjoram' could work. Like 'rosemary,' it's three syllables and includes a version of a woman's name. And," she paused, "I like fennel--two syllables--which could be almost as good as 'parsley.' Actually, maybe better. So--"

Picking up on this, I joined in, "Maybe, then, 'fennel, mint, marjoram, and thyme.' How's that? Keep the 'thyme.' Though I'm not sure about the 'mint-marjoram' alliteration. It's a bit of a mouthful."

Rona snorted, "Keep driving."