That the English language is so often non-phonetic has been a source of endless frustration for school children and adults alike. When trying to spell a word, we are usually well-advised to “sound it out.” This advice is invariably accompanied by the warning that there are exceptions. Exceptions such as the “ph” in the word “phonetic,” which sounds like the “f” in “fill,” which sounds like the “gh” in “enough” but not like the “gh” in “ghost.” The hole mess mite drive one krazy.

Beyond spelling, our language challenges us with words that have dual or multiple meanings. Take “cleave,” which can mean “stick to.” Ivy can cleave to a fallen log. “Cleave” can also mean “to split.” Thus a logger might cleave the log that the ivy is cleaving to. However, while the logger might use an axe for his cleaving, a butcher is more likely to use a cleaver. “Cleavage” is a biological term related to cell division. Among non-biologists, the word is more commonly used to refer to another sort of division. Then there is the Cleaver family of 1950s-60s TV fame.

I have a vague memory of learning about “existentialism” in a college literature class. We read Albert Camus’ “The Stranger” as a representative existentialist novel. I may have at one time had a clearer understanding of the concept than I do currently. I must have, since I received a passing grade in the course. Due to lack of attention, my knowledge of existentialism, similar to my knowledge of algebraic equations, has more than waned.

About 10 years or so ago, the word “existential” began emerging in popular parlance. But the new usage clearly had no reference to Albert Camus or John Paul Sartre (usually deemed to be “the father of existentialism”). In truth, it was more often attached to Donald Trump and was usually followed by the words “threat to our democracy.” Meaning, I take it, that he was/is not only a wrong headed political figure but a threat to the very existence of our democracy.

In recent times “existential threats” have proliferated to the point where a threat not labeled “existential” is hardly worth worrying about. People are shot daily in Rochester. Some murdered. Apparently, this does not rise to the level of an “existential” threat, or I, at least, have not heard it so described. Yet the situation surely poses a very real threat to the existence of inner city residents. Maybe their perilous situation should be added to the list, perhaps somewhere between Trump and climate change. If asked, inner city residents might place it higher.

“Equity” is a word that has taken on a new life in the last few years. When I was younger and reading water meters in Rochester, “equity” was remote from my cold hard cash world. The term conjured up visions of people who dealt in stocks, bonds, and more abstract investments. People who didn’t drink Standard Ale and seek their fortunes via three-team parlays. When my wife and I purchased our house, I learned that we had arrived — we too had equity.

The word “equity,” as I said previously, has been revived in another sense. It seems that with “equality” — the racial, ethnic, and gender varieties — having been pretty much endorsed by the overwhelming majority of Americans, a vital opportunity for divisiveness stood to lose ground. Since civil divisiveness seems to sustain a number of restless souls in our society, an allied, but not quite definable, concept needed to be introduced and added to the binary positions dividing left from right, Democrats from Republicans, well-meaning idealists from closet bigots. The beauty of an undefinable societal goal such as equity is that one can never be certain of its attainment. Its elasticity of meaning ensures endless conflict.

An extended exploration of “equity” as a cultural concept is much more than I intend at the moment. Rather I’ll reflect for a bit on equity as it relates to the home my wife and I purchased in 1976. As years of home ownership rolled on, the idea of “equity” attached to that ownership seemed less inviting. An inexorable series of new assessments, and concomitant increased property tax bills, were supposedly made more palatable by the fact of increased equity. At times this frustrated me in that the increased equity never helped to pay the increased taxes.

The recent devastating fires in California, and also in Ovid, suggest how fragile and perhaps even illusory, some forms of equity are. Flames, it seems, have no regard for assessed value. When a family’s house is reduced to ashes, with photographs and other pieces of memories left as nothing but the stuff of tears, no one steps forward to make good on the equity the owners theoretically have been accruing, and paying taxes on, through the years. The thought occurs that when thousands of properties and lives have been devastated by wind and fire, municipalities and school systems will be forced, finally, to devise more realistic methods for funding their services.

On a less somber note, I was hoping to include a discussion of salt in this essay. SALT as in Strategic Arms Limitation Treaty and SALT as in State And Local Taxes. But the editor is still mourning the sad ending to his beloved Vikings’ season, and he may be in no mood for an overly long piece of writing. And I do want to keep the peace.

Longtime Canandaigua resident Joe Nacca taught English at Finger Lakes Community College for 30 years.

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