Relish

"Cayenne, marjoram, cinnamon."

The names of lost and fabulous cities through which storms of spice bloomed up and dusted away.

He tossed the cloves that had traveled from some dark continent where once they had spilled on milk marble, jack-stones for children with licorice hands.

And looking at once single label on a jar, he felt himself gone round the calendar to that private day this summer when he had looked at the circling world and found himself at its center.

The word on the jar was RELISH.

And he was glad he had decided to live.

RELISH!  What a special name for the minced pickle sweetly crushed in its white-capped jar.  The man who had named it, what a man he must have been. Roaring, stamping around, he must have tromped the joys of the world and jammed them in this jar and writ in a big hand, shouting, RELISH!  For its very sound meant rolling in sweet fields with roistering chestnut mares, mouths bearded with grass, plunging your head fathoms deep in trough water so the sea poured cavernously through your head.  RELISH!

He put out his hand.  And here was SAVORY. . . .

"Savory. . . that's a swell word.  And Basil and Betel.  Capsicum.  Curry.  All great.  But Relish, now, Relish with a capital R.  No argument, that's the best."


--from Dandelion Wine, in honor of Ray Bradbury, who taught me the marvel and pleasure of words well used.