My friend Hanae is a linguist. She spent six years in western Kansas writing a dissertation that her professors in Tokyo still talk about. Its title: "The Grammar of the American Father." Here is the thing about Japanese. We have words that do far too much. "Sumimasen" can mean sorry, thank you, excuse me, and hello. Linguists love words like that. Hanae lived with a farm family outside a town of 1,100 people. Within a month, she realized the father of the house, Del, spoke an entire language built the same way. It was mostly one-syllable words. Each one carried about forty meanings. Nobody had ever written it down. So she did. Here are a few entries. WELL. At the start of a sentence: I am leaving in forty minutes. In the middle of a sentence: bad news is coming. Alone, with both hands slapped on both knees: this party is over. Everybody in America obeys this. Nobody has ever been told. WELP. Something has gone wrong. It cannot be undone. We are not going to talk about our feelings. We are going to get the truck. HOO BOY. Something is about to cost money. Said while looking at an engine, a receipt, or a daughter's prom dress. HUH. The highest praise a father can give a meal. One "huh" means good. Two means he is about to ask your mother to get the recipe from you. Hanae received two "huhs" for her curry. She describes it as the proudest moment of her academic career. WE'LL SEE. No. Except when it means yes. Nobody can tell until Christmas. OH, YOU DON'T WANNA DO THAT. You are about to do it wrong. He is now going to do it for you. It will take three hours. You will learn nothing. You will feel incredibly loved. THE SOUND. The noise an American man makes when he stands up after age forty. It is not pain. It is an announcement. Her chapter on "Well" alone was 61 pages. Her professors in Tokyo were confused. One of them asked her, in a very serious meeting, "Is it really possible for one syllable to carry an entire emotion?" Hanae said she wasn't sure yet. Then she came home. Six years. The whole family drove her to the airport in Wichita. Del didn't hug her. Del doesn't hug. He stood at security with his hands in his pockets. He looked at the floor. Then at the ceiling. Then at her. "Well," he said. And Hanae, after six years of research, understood every meaning at once. Last spring was her final defense, in Tokyo. Five professors. A small, very quiet room. Del had never been on a plane in his life. He was 74. He flew to Tokyo anyway. He described the flight as "a ways." He sat in the back row in his church jacket. He didn't understand a single word of the Japanese. At the end, the oldest professor asked her the same question again. "Can one syllable really carry an entire emotion?" He didn't understand the question. He understood her face. Before she could answer, Del stood up in the back row. Every head turned. He looked at the floor. Then at the ceiling. Then at her. "Well," he said. And he sat back down. Five Japanese professors with a combined 140 years of linguistics looked at each other. They passed her on the spot.