Yearly Archives: 2009

crackerjack

This word has such a nice, crispy, crunchy sound to it – it seems made to be followed by box, but, alas, the candied popcorn and peanut mix named Cracker Jack is now sold in bags. But this word predates the confection, though possibly not by all that much. Its approbative sense of “exceptionally skillful person” or “especially splendid thing” comes from the late 19th century, and seems to derive from a sense of the word cracker, as related to cracking as in cracking good and to crack as in a crack team, a crack shot, and so on, which in turn derives from the version of the noun crack that refers to a thing that’s all it’s cracked up to be, which comes from the sense of the verb crack meaning “boast,” which appears to come from the original sense “make a loud, sharp noise,” which has carried its onomatopoeia from the mists of the distant past. No doubt the similar word corker has had some mutual reinforcement effect with cracker too.

But, ironically, most senses of cracker applied to people are not especially positive. It has since the 18th century been a term of contempt for the “poor white trash” of Georgia and Florida, possibly from corncracker but possibly from the imputed boastfulness of the people of those parts at the time. It has more recently been a term of abuse for white people, a new version of honky. This sense is reputed to come from whip-cracker, i.e., slave-driver, but it could also originally have come from the term of abuse for poor whites of Georgia and Florida, who were least likely of those in their parts to have been slave-owners. Alas, its colloquial origins mean that there is not as much written record as we would like for tracing it. And in any event, if those using it now intend it to refer to a whip-cracker, then it does. But! None of this seems to relate to crackerjack at all directly!

We are left with the jack part, which is prima facie easier to deal with: it’s a generic term for a male, as in I’m all right, Jack, every man jack, swearing-Jack, Jack-o’-lantern, and a really quite large number of others. It’s the quintessential arms-akimbo word, found in such odd phrases as jack squat (another less polite word is more often used rather than squat). There’s far more about it to taste than I could possibly fit in here. Take tomorrow to think about all the echoes jack brings (including other jacks, be they audio, car, jumping, or the children’s game). And all this Jack from the name Jacques, the French equivalent of James (both of them come ultimately from Yakub, more closely represented in English by Jacob), though Jack is in English a nickname for John…!

So crackerjack may sound direct but traces back by a quite anfractuous track. And the mouthfeel is crisp and catchy, but the flavours are more packed than in a carafe of cognac or a flute of Krug. Bite in and savour… this word is an exceptionally splendid thing.

radicchio

This word doesn’t refer to a character from the Commedia dell’Arte, nor to a Pinocchio made from a radish. However, it is related to radish – both words trace back to Latin radix “root”, this one by way of the diminutive radicula. Which in its own turn is not a vampire vegetable, even though radicchio is red, with white veins. This word, when it first hit English, was certainly the province of people who really could not avoid sounding pretentious and/or faddish in matters gastronomic (unless they were Italian). To some ears it may still seem thus. But overtones of radical may help it be a bit more racy, as long as the icchi doesn’t sound too “icky”. The printed word, to look at it, may not call to mind Italian chicory – though it at least ought to call to mind Italian – but it does have a certain neatness about it, with the di and hi like gates or bedposts or perhaps garden stakes, and the little round letters packed in and around filling it up, resembling radishes more than a leafy green, I mean red. But at least the c‘s and the a have the curliness of the plant, and you could, with a bit of focus, take them for leaves and the di and hi as salad tongs…

scud

This word was for a long time a word you would see every so often applied to boats or to clouds in the sky, proceeding briskly under wind power. And then the Gulf War happened, with Saddam Hussein’s Iraq firing Scud missiles. And Wolf Blitzer, reporting on the whole mess, took on the nickname the Scud Stud. The best part of two decades has elapsed, but missiles, launchers, and attacks remain by a long chalk the most common collocations (and one might think of scud as the sound of a missile exploding at some distance). References to clouds even outstrip literal nautical references. But if we can lay aside bellicosity for a moment and consider the taste and echoes of this word, we find it brings quite a lot. The vision of motion it brings is surely affected by its similarity to skid; showers and quantities may figure in the background thanks to scad; the overtones are not so positive when they come from scum and scuzzy; and the sedentariness of cud belies (and perhaps undermines?) the briskness of the motion denoted. A sense of skipping may be brough forth more strongly not just by the common [sk] onset but but the skipping of the tongue in the mouth, tip to dorsum to tip, and the sonic similarity to the sound of a skipping stone. Indeed, “skip (a stone)” is a dialectal sense of scud. And the sound of a boat skipping on the waves surely plays into it as well – in fact, it’s possible that it was the onomatopoeic origin of this word, though it’s not certain. But early references are not invariably nautical; there may be more than a mere echo of scoot in this word. Meanwhile, there is another scud, a plug made of straw. The Oxford English Dictionary tells us this word belongs to the verb scud, which means “plug with straw”; it it tells us that that word belongs to the noun scud, which means “straw plug” – somehow they’ve constructed a circularity of etymology that could keep the reader scudding in a tight loop until the hole is plugged.

crestfallen

The sound of this word seems to bear out its sense nicely enough: a crisp first half followed by a floppy, soft second half. Yes, the second half has two syllables to the first’s one, but since in English we set our rhythm to be roughly even between stressed syllables, you will find it takes about equal time to say each part of this compound. The long-shortshort rhythm can also give a sense of an arc through the air followed by a tumble on the ground. The shapes contrast, too, but more ironically: the curved and floppy ones are nearer the start, and the taller and straighter ones towards the back. As to its echoes, you may be forgiven for thinking first of teeth, since Crest is so commonly seen on toothpaste tubes. But skiers may think of dropping off cornices, and rock climbers of tumbling from ridges. Crest is cognate with French crête, “ridge,” after all. But ridges are not the original crests! Crest comes from Italian cresta from Latin crista, “tuft” or “plume,” and that is what it first meant in English too: the sort of crests you see on certain birds, for instance. So this word is for the birds? Some say so (picturing, for instance, a dejected rooster, also called a drooping co— oh, right, internet filters), but horses may be the mane thing (there, I’ve made the main/mane pun the one obligatory time in my life and can now leave it to its main domain, hair salons). A horse that is crestfallen is one whose crest – the topline of the neck, on which the mane grows – flops to the side rather than staying upright. Such a horse is not in a good and happy way. Nor is anyone else whose normally perky upper parts are hangling sadly (picture a centurion with head hanging low: the plume of feathers on his helmet is also called a crest). And so this word has a tone that is inevitably almost lachrymose and bespeaks dejection ever so trenchantly, perhaps as of a boy whose prizewinning jack-o’-lantern has been dropped – it is, after all, a song by The Smashing Pumpkins too.

curiouser

This word, a bit of a linguistic curio, always travels in tandem, like Thomson and Thompson or Tweedledee and Tweedledum: curiouser and curiouser. Why? Because it’s always used in reference to a specific literary usage: Alice, in Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll (Charles Dodgson). Why does she say it? “She was so much surprised, that for the moment she quite forgot how to speak good English.” Why was she so surprised? She was opening out “like the largest telescope that ever was.” It was an unanticipated effect of eating a very small cake.

How very odd. But it’s just as odd to see the comparative suffix er on such a long word. It’s as though a short word had telescoped out (that takes the cake). Or perhaps her English was getting spuriouser and spuriouser.

But actually, although we now as a rule restrict use of this er to adjectives of one or two syllables, and without suffixes other than y or ly, the er is human and humans have er-ed at greater length without being disingenuous: beautifuller used to be acceptable, and eminenter. But the acceptable stems are now shorter and otherwise restricteder. Just as well, with a half dozen er suffixes to choose from (there’s the one on singer, the one on flicker and flutter, the one on disclaimer – from an infinitive – and a couple of others).

As to the stem in this case, curious, it is a rather curious word, and not just because it can be applied to the object that inspires curiosity; it comes from Latin curiosus “careful, assiduous, inquisitive” and has meant quite a few things in its time: painstaking, fastidious, clever, skillful, naughty… And curious goes with an assortment of other words, notably George (while curiosity for its part killed the cat), whereas curiouser goes with another of itself… and Alice.

eleemosynary

This word may look like a bad typo for elementary, but I beg you to be charitable. It’s true that the elee beginning is very odd to the English eye, and a “long e” in the syllable before the stressed syllable is certainly a rara avis. But it’s the mo that is stressed, and indeed in eleemosynary matters the important thing is always to give mo’. One might hope that this word’s prodigality of form will encourage prodigality of giving, and that the e‘s will inspire one to give with ease. Look on the y‘s as receptacles (they do resemble toll baskets, but that’s a different thing) into which to put the coins (o and e‘s). How did this word get its shape? Blame the Greeks: eleémosuné, “compassionateness,” is a derived form of eleos, “compassion.” The Romans borrowed that to eleemosyna (and that third e is long in the Latin, too!). It made its way through the grinding wheels of assorted western European languages, arriving in English by AD 1000 as ælmyssan and making its way, even further shaved down, to Modern English as alms. This economical four-letter word – a third of the letters and a sixth of the syllables found in eleemosynary – may seem to be in straitened circumstances through giving so much to charity, perhaps. But munificence sometimes calls for grandiloquence; largesse may demand largeness; and 17th-century writers, wanting an adjectival form relating to alms, felt that a return to the Latin would be, if not structurally elegant, then at least genteel. Nowadays, however, ostentation is not the mode, and if in eleemosynary you may find meals for others, it is good form to share the letters, even if you are left with nary a one for yourself.

emphatic

There is much to be seen in this word – fittingly, since its Greek parts are em from en “in, within” and phatos from the phan root relating to seeing and showing (plus the adjectival ic). Is this an epiphany for you? We certainly seem to think of emphasis as something one may hear as soon as see – words most commonly found near emphatic include statement, answer, and voice, but nothing explicitly visual. And there is such a lung thrust in the saying of the word: the oomph of emph, the fat puff of air in phat… say, is this one phat word? The hemp it’s hiding may boost its cred. But it really does seem to me haptic – you feel the gut thrust, the air blast that takes your hat and tousles your attic. Its letters can provide many minutes of diversion for the anagrammatically inclined, but if the urge strikes me I patch it over and remember the camp I am in: this is not word blenderizing. And when the parts are together in order, you get a word that is said with two bookending syllables and a big, pushy, open one in the middle, as if to illustrate. If you don’t think it looks like much, you can double underline it. Or put it in all caps – will all those long straight lines and angles be EMPHATIC enough for you?

cicatrix

This is not a word for a female keeper of cicadas. And although, with its buxom matching c‘s and cross-tied x at the end (and two posts of i‘s to tie the outsides of the word to), this word may seem suited to a dominatrix (it has such a nice whip-crack to it, too, with its [s-k-tr-ks] bouncing the tongue back and forth), it is a word of another stripe: perhaps a stripe left by the dominatrix’s whip, perhaps a claw mark from the cat in its midst. Whatever it is, x marks the spot – where the stitches went in. If you’re sick o’ tricks, I don’t mean to give you a scare; I just mean to give you a scar. And a Latin one at that, the spelling unchanged (though in classical Latin the c‘s were pronounced [k]). The more modern mutated version is cicatrice, taken from the French; we can use it too, though the x has been excised and the curly ending stitched on in a trice.

demure

A demure demoiselle might demur, but with a little bit of the kitten at heart: mu, making its moue with “mew.” This French-born word’s mode is modesty, but it could be a decoy by the coy: it may seem like a wall (mur), but it meets your lips with the murmur of a ripe blackberry (mûre mûre). It is indeed “ripe” that it comes from – meaning “mature” and thus “mellow, staid.” So first it meant calm, and then it meant sober and staid, but once the medieval era gave way to the Renaissance, the reticence was made a veil and this word began to wink: the gravity was guised levity, or at the very least a restraint not quite natural. At first the term was used as readily for men as for women, but now it has become an attribute of the blushing sex: the words most likely to be near it are woman, little, her, very, and she. Feminine modesty may no longer be the cultural norm, but modest misses still have their fans – the ones held in front of their faces, beyond which you may see the lashes that await you.

hearth

A word for where the heart meets the earth: the place on the floor above which the fire burns. Although the sound of the word might seem to have a cold breath about it, no one seems to notice, for it can also be the sound of a breath blowing to help the tinder to ignite or the embers to glow, and the word just carries an air of homey, old-fashoned warmth around with it from sense and context. And don’t the h and h look like the ends of a fire grate? Such an essential word didn’t have to be borrowed, of course; it’s always been in English, since before there was English to be in, and the only spelling change was from o to a (and the final th was ð). The pronunciation has shifted a wee bit more. In Scottish and northern English dialects, this word still rhymes with earth (both of which, in the mists of time, had a vowel sound more like what we say in air now), but elsewhere it’s supposed to be said like heart with a fricative rather than a stop at the end (but many people who have not heard it will say it to rhyme with earth on seeing it, I’ve found). Since modern homes have no need of a hearth per se – though some still have one – hearth is seen mainly in historical works, metaphors and clichés now. Home is where the hearth is – hearth and home is a common coupling, and The Cricket on the Hearth is the name of a Christmas story by Charles Dickens. But hearths still get modern literal mention; you will find from collocations that a stone hearth is most often spoken of, and sometimes a brick hearth. Whatever the material, though, when you hear the word, it’s as warming as an Irish coffee on a winter night.