Bobdule !new! -

It first appeared on a Tuesday. Mrs. Gimbel, the baker, was kneading her sourdough when she stopped, flour on her nose, and said to no one in particular: “This dough needs to bobdule a little longer.” Her apprentice blinked. “Bobdule?” “Yes,” said Mrs. Gimbel, as if it were the most obvious word in the world. “You know. Bobdule. Before the second rise.”

They realized that bobdule wasn’t a word that had been invented. It was a word that had been waiting —for a town that needed a name for the gentle, imperfect, sideways motion of life. The pause between notes. The wobble of a spinning top before it finds its balance. The way a story doesn’t end, but simply bobdules into the next telling. bobdule

And things always turned out better.

The mayor declared an emergency town meeting. Citizens filled the parish hall, stomping rain from their boots. “This word,” the mayor announced, “has no definition. And yet we all know what it means. Can anyone explain?” It first appeared on a Tuesday

By Wednesday, the word had spread. Mr. Hix, the clockmaker, told a customer that his antique pendulum would “bobdule more smoothly after a drop of oil.” The postman, delivering letters, muttered that his satchel strap needed to bobdule across his shoulder. Children on the playground started playing a game called Bobdule-Ball, though none could agree on the rules. It seemed to involve wobbling and humming at the same time. “Bobdule

The town librarian, a sensible woman named Edna Quirk, grew concerned. She pulled out the colossal Oxford English Dictionary (Volume B, folio edition). She searched. She found “bob” (to move up and down), “bobber” (a float on a fishing line), and “bobstay” (a rope on a ship). But bobdule was nowhere. She checked the etymology supplements. Nothing. She even called the linguistics department at the distant city university. The professor there laughed. “Bobdule isn’t a word,” he said.

And yet, everyone in Puddling Parva kept using it.