And now a Leap Year linguistic treat, topped with a dollop of dreamy whipped cream.
Neither you nor I may ever write anything like the flight of fancy now coming your way, but we can all delight in its creativity.
When I was a schoolboy, with the help of inspired teachers, I discovered a love for words and sentences. My ear was always ready for a new sensation. One came my way on Jack Paar's late-night TV show, delivered by a fellow of rare wit, a fresh face named Orson Bean.
Bean — writer/comedian/actor/director/educator and one of the freest spirits anywhere — died on Feb. 7, after being hit by two cars as he tried to cross a street in Los Angeles. He was 91.
He was a delicious communicator, so confident in delighting his audience that he felt free to show how much he was enjoying himself.
Here's a close paraphrase of what he said that night on TV; it's so vivid to me that it has never left my mind.
"Close your eyes. Picture deepest, darkest equatorial Africa.
"The noonday sun beats down on the jungle, blistering the trees. Shafts of light pierce chinks in the canopy, and tiny flecks of dust flutter lazily in the sunbeams and sink silently into the gloom of a black lagoon.
