Distinctio

Distinctio (dis-tinc’-ti-o): Eliminating ambiguity surrounding a word by explicitly specifying each of its distinct meanings.

Time: a measure of duration, a break from the action. There are probably more meanings, but I can’t think of any right now—I don’t have the time. Time is not on my side. Why? Because I’m talking about thyme, not time. Ha ha!

I collect herbs and grow them in my little back yard garden. It is the size of a door mat, but it provides me with all the flavors and odors I need to keep me satisfied. In summer, it is my bliss. In winter, I look out my kitchen window and cry. But all is not lost. I dry my summer herbs and keep them in socks secured by rubber bands and hang them throughout my house.

Thyme is one of my most potent herbs. Sometimes, I put its sock in the front hall closet to reduce the odor grip it has on my whole home and give its brethren a chance to waft and be detected. Poor lovage barely has a chance—it is almost odorless and it makes me sad. An herb without a smell is like a chimney without smoke. It makes no sense, like a truck without wheels or a bucket with no bottom. I get angry at the lovage and sometimes stomp it into the ground. This may seem crazy, but it is not. It is perfectly justified by “The Law of the Garden.” This is an ancient law that allows stomping on whatever you have planted, for whatever reason, under all circumstances.

I discovered it imprinted on the back of a packet of Foxglove seeds I had purchased in the Edinburgh University bookstore on my most recent trip to Scotland to visit my grant-grandfather Angus Muir. For centuries the Muir’s have lived on the moor—a piece of land preserved for shooting grouse where the family had secretly grown herbs. At times they were harassed by the Laird’s sheriff, yet they were valorized by their fellow peasants, especially when they found out that the Laird was allergic to oregano. They would hang oregano “ornaments” from trees along the road to Edinburgh. If the Laird hit one with his face, it would burst, setting off a near fatal coughing fit. The peasants hiding in the bushes would bet on how long the Laird would choke. This is how “Thyme” got its name—they would bet the herb on the duration of the Laird’s coughing fit. Thyme became time.

Anyway, after I stomped the Lovage, I always felt bad, especially since it was named “Lovage,” suggestive of “love.” I would lovingly wash off the Lovage and make it into a sandwich with mayonnaise, baloney, American cheese, and tomato with lots of salt. That would assuage my guilt and put me back on track.

Today, I planted what may well be the world’s largest herb: a kind of wild banana that can grow 15 meters tall—around 50 feet. I am bound to make my fellow herb aficionados jealous.

My wild banana grew over the summer to 14 feet. Then, I caught Millie Jackson sawing it down with a chain saw. She was unremorseful. She was angry. She was jealous. She said she was sick of me and my “herbbragging” bullshit. I had grabbed the chain saw from her and was considering sawing off her arm or hand. But I couldn’t do it. I had loved her ever since she had joined our herb club. She smelled like Lemon Balm and her hair was dyed the color of chive flowers—a beautiful grayish purple.

I dropped the chain saw. Millie ran to me. We embraced. All was forgiven, or so it seemed. That night, I peed on her herb garden and wrote “Bitch” with a stick in the dirt.

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).

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