Modifier Madge

Madge and Mike knew of each other as kids but never really spoke. They were too busy learning their family trades. Mike learned how a single armchair could change the feeling of a room. Madge learned how a wall wasn't just a wall. It could be a calm, blue wall. It could be a wall with cheerful, yellow stripes. Each choice added a layer of character. It made things more exact.

When they both arrived at the GrammarForge academy at twenty-one, the academy master, Clause, saw the connection instantly. He put their offices side-by-side. He assigned them to teach classes together. "You two come from the same kind of family," he'd said, his eyes twinkling. "You will recognize each other's vocabulary. The students will learn the decoration-pair as a unit."

At first, they were shy. But the shyness didn't last. They started talking over lunch, discovering they both thought about the world in layers of detail. By the end of that first year, they were friends. Seventeen years later, they still were. Good, solid friends who shared an office, ate lunch together, and visited each other’s families for the holidays.

Their parents had even called a truce. The four of them now had dinner together once a season. They never talked about whose window displays used to be better. The rivalry was a ghost, replaced by a quiet, comfortable friendship.

In her classroom, Madge began every term the same way. On her desk sat a small wooden ball, smooth and white, about the size of a tennis ball. She would place it in the center of her desk. "This is a ball," she’d say to the new students. "It is a ball. It does what a ball does."

Then she’d uncap a bright red paint-pen. With a steady hand, she’d press the tip to the wood, leaving a single, perfect circle of red.

"Now," she’d say, holding it up for the class to see. "It is a ball with red. Or, to be more exact, it’s a red ball. The word red is an adjective. It modifies, or decorates, the noun ball."

She’d turn to the board and write: The ball. Then, underneath it: The red ball.

"The ball is still a ball," she’d explain. "Its ball-ness hasn't changed. But it’s become more specific. The word red tells us what kind of ball it is."

She’d add another word to the sentence on the board. The big red ball. "Big tells us what size," she’d say. The big bouncy red ball. "Bouncy tells us its texture, what kind of ball it is again."

She’d pause, letting them take it in. "The noun is just acquiring layers. We're getting a clearer picture in our heads."

Then she’d add one last part. The big bouncy red ball that the dog chased. "This last bit," she’d say with a smile, "that the dog chased... that’s a whole other story. It’s a special clause that acts like an adjective. It answers the question which one? Clause-Chief Carla will tell you all about those. For now, just see how it helps us point to exactly the ball we mean."