I am a dedicated mumbler. It could be because I am the youngest of eight and my seven older siblings, so smart and sharp of wit and tongue, that I decided my tongue would be slow and soft at the edges.

When I was living in Spain one of my sisters came to visit. After twenty-four hours in Madrid with me she leaned against the hardwood bar, and stabbed a chunk of Spanish tortilla with a toothpick. Tortilla in her mouth, she jabbed the toothpick at me and said,

“You know, you have finally found your place: No one sleeps here, they eat standing up, and everyone mumbles.”

The young-speak of Madrid in the 1980s was a hand-gallop over dropped syllables and compressed sounds. Breathless and fun, it was perfect for a young woman looking to find her voice.

The problem was that my slow tongue had trouble snapping out the Spanish syllables. I needed help but was too embarrassed to ask.

One rainy day I stopped a taxi. The taxi driver asked if I was American and then started asking me about the political system. I started in with the two party system, “Republicanos” y “Democatas”. Innocent enough except I could not for love or money get the word, “Demócrata” out of my mouth.

The taxi driver asked what was wrong, why couldn’t I pronounce “Demócrata”?

I tried. He pulled over to the side of Genova Street and stopped the meter.

“Señorita, you are here to learn Spanish. Now, say, ‘Demócrata’.”

I squirmed the way I do when I am trying to get out of doing something that is hard for me.

“Demo-crayta.”

“No. Demócrata.  A ver, repeat, “demó”

“Demó….”

“crata.”

“crata”

“Now put it all together: ‘Demócrata’.”

“Demócrata!”

“That’s it! Now say it three times correctly and I will get you to where you are going.”

“Demócrata. Demócrata. Demócrata.”

The taxi driver started the car, re-started the meter, and off we went – every once in a while he was like Kato from the Pink Panther, stopping mid-sentence to have me say, “Demócrata.”
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I would answer. By the time I got the Institute where I studied I had exactly one word that I did not mumble but said solidly and with pride. To this day when I stumble with my mumble, I say “Demócrata” to practice, and then repeat the next word that has barricaded my tongue. Once I get it, I repeat it three times in a row and I thank my patient teacher.

Funny how extremes have so much in common. This morning my weather app said it felt like 3 degrees out. The sun was muffled behind smooth gray sky. The air sparkled with cold.

After walking half a block I could feel a slight burn on my cheeks. I imagined them looking like frozen raspberry popsicles. A block later my thick layer of Chapstick was a stiff layer on my lips. Any moisture became ice. Bundled and layered, I walked on, prepared for the cold.

When my young dog turned and looked at me, I took my glove off and I plucked a dog treat from a bag in my pocket, reinforcing her  good behavior. As I put my glove back on, my hand burned from the cold. I knew it is time to get the dogs home.

When the summer heat is upon us, I wake early so my dogs can get their walk in without suffering. The sun hazily muffled; the air shimmering. Hot.

In minimal clothes, I feel my cheeks burn from the heat, a red that spreads down my neck.  Any sweat drying as we go. My lips salty when I lick them. We walk on, my dogs and I, their tongues long and pink. My old dog eyes me when we reach a corner. She has had enough and we turn for home.

“It’s too cold to go outside!” or, “It’s too hot!”
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In life there is always going to be “too much this, “or “too much that.” Staying away is a sure way to miss out, so with any extreme it is best to use, balm, chapstick, and a healthy dose of common sense.