Today's doggone sham, er, shame: spelling Society's slovenly approach to language spells d-i-s-a-s-t-e-r

I try not to write about spelling. The topic is just a little tooclose to home for me. It's too personal, too emotional. So many of mylife's triumphs and defeats are spelling- related.

I remember spending hours bonding with my father in the seventhgrade as he quizzed me for the regional spelling bee. I remembergarbling the word "corolla," settling for second place and vowing tounofficially boycott Toyota forever.

I remember landing a job here at the paper thanks to my mastery ofwords such as "accommodate." And enough years have passed that I cannow confess to the lowest moment of my career: misspelling"stupefied" in a headline. My god, the shame.

Maybe if I'd grown up athletic, or if I'd had a dog, I wouldn't beso obsessed with spelling. But any kid who loves reading knows thefeeling. Hoarding words. Memorizing the artful arrangements ofconsonant blends. Searching for Latin roots, trying to decipher themeaning. All in secret. Until the day the family sits down for dinnerand you manage to slip the word "solipsistic" in to a request to passthe mashed potatoes.

That's a great day.

Still, I always suspected that I took spelling a mite seriously.Until I read about Louisa Moats.

Moats, an author and a researcher with the National Institute ofChild Health and Human Development, appeared in People to championold-fashioned spelling skills. "She's a national treasure," LynneCheney says.

Moats says things such as: "Get a good dictionary, make friendswith it, and take it to bed."

I wonder if Moats had a dog.

Schools have been teaching the "whole language" approach, whichprizes comprehension over exact spelling. The discovery of dyslexiahas proved that not everyone has the ability to spell. And ever sincePrince put on tight purple pants and released the single "I Would Die4 U," spelling purists have wished he would. Today the titles of popsongs routinely resemble license plates.

It all spells trouble for me and Moats.

The other day on the train, I sat behind a young girl and threeadults. The girl, writing in a notebook, asked, "Do you spell tragedyt-r-a-d-g-e-d-y?" There followed a long silence.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to stop the train. I wanted to adoptthe little girl. What chance did she have, growing up in such anunhealthy atmosphere, with such unworthy parents?

Finally, the girl's mother said, "I think there's just one 'd.' "

I unclenched my fists, took a breath, and quietly chanted until mystop: "'I' before 'e' except after 'c...' "