My streams of thought meet here
I have an anthology of haiku on my bedside table for when I need something relaxing to help me fall asleep. Often, though, some snatch of phrase inspires me and I grab my pencil. So here are a couple of my written-by-lamplight verses:
boys on bikes
chugging up a hill
ironman dreams
beach towels
scattered along the sand
islands in the sun
his work boots
sport flowers on the step
soft slipper days
I’m not sure there’s another language where the I is pronounced like we English pronounce ours. (Though we must make allowances for the Cockney OY.) There are some dialects that pronounce AYE like our I, but I don’t know of any other language where it stands alone.
However, most of our words that start with I come from Latin, carried across the English Cannel by Roman soldiers, or coming into English via the French adaptation of a Latin word.
Even our simple word INK comes from the French encre, adapted from the Latin encaustum, meaning burned in. The Romans in turn borrowed it from the Greek word encaustos, which is where we get our word CAUSTIC
Actually, many of our IMPORTANT, INTERESTING, INFORMATIVE, and INTRIGUING words start with an I. Im- heads off a number, Imm- some more, and In- starts off a host of words.
Some of these are combos, while others maybe once were, but have become detached from their roots:
We have INERT, but no ERT; INVITE but no VITE.
INVOKE still shows its roots; the –voke comes from vocation.
INVESTIGATE comes from In + vestige, or trace. So you’re looking for traces of the facts when you investigate something.
Awhile back I started reading a book about the history of Europe from the fall of the Roman Empire, through the Middle Ages, up until the Enlightenment. It was heavy slogging but one thing was clear: the history of Europe has been a long stream of invasion and bloody conquest.
Constant waves of invaders came from the east, the steppes, the Ural mountains: the Franks, the Goths, the Gauls, the Vandals, and a host of others. A lot of these had their turn sacking poor Rome, and then moved on to various other conquests, including the British Isles. Plus there was the era when a good part of Europe was overrun by Muslim armies. Land grab, power grab: this is the history of mankind.
The news this past year has been disturbing to many of us, and leads us to wonder if INSIDIOUS INVADERS are at work behind the scenes. Not wielding swords and charging forth, but playing from the shadows, slinging ink and using social media, hacking, spying. Fueling discord, attacking authority, wishing to bring down the society we have now and replace it with something “better.” But who is really behind the turmoil and mud-slinging we’re seeing today? People may not be such willing puppets if they could see who’s really pulling the strings.
I believe it would be a good thing for us all to read George Orwell’s book, Animal Farm, and refresh our minds as to the possible consequences of “throwing off the yoke of oppression and bringing in a new social order.” If we lose our guiding star in these chaotic times, some power will step in and take control – and they may not be so nice to live under, either.
And now for one of the most misunderstood letters in the English language…
Accused of being HIGH-BROW or even HAUGHTY, the use of an H is at least controversial. Some groups of English speakers do an automatic delete, and for sure the French do. We can’t blame the use of H and TH on the Norman invaders. Lately I heard a Cockney speaker explaining that if you want to sound like them, “Get rid of the H’s. Don’t need ’em.” Ditto with the TH’s. “Oo needs an H? Ged along royt wew wivoud ’em, we can.”
The other linguistic foible is to stick them in where they don’t belong. “H’Irvin h’Armstrong was here today. He wanted to h’ask you h’if you’d gotten his message?”
But H is here to stay, because we need to HALF– so many things, and because it starts out so many short everyday words we can’t do without:
HURT + HEAL
HOLD + HURL
HELP + HINDER
HIM + HER
Doing some research on the origins of our letter H, I discovered that our H words are mostly Germanic in origin, that their roots go back to a common Indo-European language, and they mostly began with a k or kh sound.
Here, Who, How < kho
Hind (deer) < Kemi
Hip < kheup
Heart < kadia or kerd
Hearth < kherthaz
Help < kelp
The Japanese are fond of their H, giving us words like HONCHO and HAIKU, and who knows how many more if the current linguistic melange continues.
Dorothy Sayers, in her book, THE FIVE RED HERRINGS, waxed merry with various accents and dropped or added aitches in a realistic way. The book was published in 1931 and she died in 1957, so I’m hoping I’ll be okay reprinting this bit.
Investigating the suspicious death of Mr Campbell, Inspector Macpherson called on Mr. Gowan. When the haughty English butler opened the door, the Inspector asked to speak to the gentleman.
“Mr Gowan is h’out. He’s gone to London.”
In his Broad Scots accent, the inspector explains…
“I will tell ye, wi’oot circumlocution, that there is mair than a suspeecion that the puir gentleman was murdered.”
“So I h’understand.”
“Your name is Halcock, is’t no?”
The butler corrected him. “H’alcock,” he said, reprovingly.
“H, a, double l?”
“There is no h’aitch in the name, young man. H’ay is the first letter, and there is h’only one h’ell.”
Then the Inspector goes on to question Hammond, Mr Gowan’s chauffeur, described as a small, perky man, mongrel in speech, but betraying a strong streak of the fundamental cockney.
“Did ye drive Mr. Gowan onywhere on Monday last?”
“Drove ‘im ter Dumfries. Mr. Alcock comes down when I was ‘avin’ me supper, and says Mr. Gowan wanted the saloon round at 8 o’clock ter tike ‘im ter Dumfries. And I says, ‘Right-oh!’ I says, ‘an’ I can pick up them there pitchers at the same time.’ That’s what I says and that’s what I done.”
As I understand Cockney, this would have sounded like, ” ‘At’s Royt. Drove ‘im ter Dumfries. Mr. Alcock comes down when Oy was ‘avin’ me suppah and says Mr. Gowan wanted the saloon round at oyt o’clock… ‘at’s wha’ Oy says and ‘at’s wha I dun.”
(The WordPress Spell-checker doesn’t like this colloquial post. There are red lines everywhere!)
Looking for inspiration, I rambled through my STORY files this afternoon and found this mini-fiction scene written ten years ago, in March of 2011. It was my response to my writing group’s challenge of that month: to use the words BROOM, FRIDGE, ALMOND and DOUGHNUT.
And I see Fandango’s One-Word Challenge today is IMPROMPTU, so here goes…
Spring fever attacked me full force that morning when my little girl begged me to come out and play. She said she’d baked a cake and we could have tea. Who could resist? I threw my “TO DO” list on the counter for “LATER” and gave myself to the sunshine, the little girl inside, and the little girl outside.
When I arrived at the playhouse she was sculpting her “Tea cake” that looked like a huge mud doughnut. Using her sweater sleeve as a broom, my gracious hostess swept off one of the chairs so I could sit down. I donated two elderly chipped mugs and a plate of real cookies to the celebration.
“I wish I had some nice sprinkles for the icing,” she sighed as she shredded some grass blades and tossed them on the cake. I had to agree: the green shreds weren’t very aesthetic.
“I have an idea,” I said, taking her hand and leading her to our flowering almond shrub. “Just a few,” I said, “for this really special cake.” How many times had I told her she mustn’t pick these blossoms because we wanted to see them blooming on the tree? They made lovely sprinkles.
She poured imaginary tea into the cups, then took a pitcher of “cream” from the cardboard box fridge and added some to the tea. “Would you like sugar, too?” she asked, handing me a bowl of ice melt granules.
“Yes, I’d love some.”
She gave me her biggest smile. “Mom, you should come for tea every day.”
I think of what older ladies have often told me: “Children grow up so fast; enjoy them while you can.”
“Well, maybe I should look over my To-Do list and see if I can fit a tea party in once a week,” I agreed. “If you’ll help me pick up the toys after supper every day.”
Her eyes sparkled as she accepted the challenge. We had a lovely tea party — one I’ll remember a lot longer than the folded laundry, the cleaned cutlery drawer and the emptied dishwasher that I did manage to do in spite of taking time out to play.
Have you noticed that today’s letter,
leads us to many virtuous words? GRACE, GOLDEN, GENUINE, GENEROUS, GLORIOUS. And GREATEST of all is…
Our children have a little table grace that goes:
“God is great and God is good
and we thank Him for our food
By His hand must all be fed.
Give us, Lord, our daily bread.”
Amen
There are those who maintain that God is a generic and not-so-reverent term; that God is referred to as JAWEH or Jehovah in the Bible. I have no problem with those names, but it’s not worth a big debate in my books, since we’d be challenged to give the exact original pronunciation. In French the word Lord is translated as L’Eternal, as in the Eternal One, which is also a beautiful term of address. I’m thinking that our Father in Heaven is more concerned that we do call on Him in reverence, rather than by what name.
Speaking of linguistics, it’s hard to know just why the letter G has gotten doubled in some words — STRAGGLE SNUGGLE, WIGGLE, GIGGLE, GOGGLE, HAGGLE, etc. — when it appears next to an L. The pronunciation isn’t affected at all, but that’s English for you.
Of course there are other not-so-great words that start with G, like GARBAGE, GHASTLY, GRIM, GRUMPY and GROUCHY, but I won’t get into those. I’ll rather go on about the Family Tree.
Earliest records of the name are circa 1600 in the Shaftsbury and Wiltshire counties in England. Obviously originating before Standard Rules of SPELLING and due to the English pea-soup-fog over “OW + OUGH” , the name has morphed many times through the years. Here are some of our long-lost cousins:
Goodnow, Goodenow, Goodynow, Goodynowe
Goodno, Goodeno, Goodyno
Perhaps someone’s even been recorded as Goodnoh, Goodynoh, or Goodenoh
Goodenough, Goodnough, possibly even Goodynough
I shall end my ramble with this verse by Edgar Guest, entitled
Life is but growth, at first in strength and size, until at last is physical prime attained. But there's a growth that's never wholly gained: an inner struggle always to be wise, to see things earthly with clearer eye; braver to be when flesh is sorely pained; a growth in spirit, constant and ingrained which all the scars and hurts of life defy. Bodies grow old and furrowed with the years and show the marks of all that lies behind but souls that have experienced much growth, kind, and gather understanding from their tears. Wiser in life, with tenderness they view, as did the Master, much that mortals do. From his book, Collected Verse of Edgar A Guest Published 1934 by the Reilly & Lee Company
I wonder if this verse was Mr Guest’s answer to Rudyard Kipling’s famous verse, IF? Read IF here.
by Edgar Guest
To do your little bit of toil,
to play life’s game with head erect;
to stoop to nothing that would soil
your honor or your self-respect;
to win what gold and fame you can,
but first of all to be a man.
To know the bitter and the sweet,
the sunshine and the days of rain;
to meet both victory and defeat,
nor boast too loudly nor complain;
to face whatever fates befall
and be a man throughout it all.
To seek success in honest strife
but not to value it so much
that, winning it, you go through life
stained by dishonor’s scarlet touch.
What goal or dream you choose, pursue,
but be a man whatever you do!
From his book, Collected Verse of Edgar A Guest
© 1934 by The Reilly & Lee Company
