Harris, possessive, declined

So which is it: Harris’ or Harris’s? Neither: it’s τῆς Χάρεως. Or maybe Harro. Or, hmm…

There has been some confusion and consternation lately about the possessive form of the surname of the vice president of the USA, who is also the Democratic candidate for the presidency. Many people, remembering what they were taught in school,* insist it must be Harris’. For the record, if you are adhering to the Associated Press style, that is correct in the singular; if you are adhering to any other major guide (as most people do), the singular possessive is Harris’s. The plural possessive, according to every authority, is Harrises’. But I want to talk about what this paradigm manifests in particular about modern English. And I want to have some fun.

The thing about modern English is that we view proper nouns (names that get capital letters) as internally unassailable. The only alterations they can have are additions of apostrophes and s or es for possessives and plurals and plural possessives. We make jokes, sure, for instance calling the Winklevoss twins “the Winklevii,” but that just manifests the other thing we do: treat plurals as the one signifier for non-English-origin common nouns. We know that the “proper” plural of radius, for instance, is radii. If a word has been borrowed into English, a certain kind of person will make a point of using a plural from the original language: “Oh, no, you don’t mean inukshuks. You mean inukshuit.” (This also leads to silly mistakes like octopi.) And that’s it. We have no concept of any other possible alteration to a noun.

But speakers of many other languages do. It’s common enough among languages to have changes to nouns, not just common nouns but proper nouns, to indicate not just plural and possessive (called “genitive” by linguists and philologists) but also nominative versus accusative (we do this with pronouns: he versus him, for instance) and even dative (indirect object) and ablative (the reverse of dative: taking away rather than giving) – and, in some languages, a lot more. Linguists generally call these various noun forms “inflections” (the noun equivalent of conjugations, which are what verbs do).

For fun, I worked out what the full inflectional paradigm would be for Harris if it were a Latin noun. When speaking of Latin, one typically calls this “declension”; you say this is how Harris is declined, because of the image of going down a list of forms on paper (not because of students saying “I prefer not to,” though that surely has happened). And as it happens, Harris in form looks like a noun of the third declension in Latin. So here’s how that goes (note that I’m listing the cases in the order linguists list them in, which is different from the order students of Latin learned to recite them in school):

nominative singular Harris
accusative singular Harrem
genitive singular Harris
dative singular Harrī
ablative singular Harre

nominative plural Harrēs
accusative plural Harrēs
genitive plural Harrium
dative plural Harribus
ablative plural Harribus

Meaning that instead of Harris’s you would write Harris; instead of Harrises’ you would write Harrium; and, for that matter, instead of to the Harrises you would write Harribus (Latin doesn’t use definite articles as English does). And if Harris is not the subject but the direct object, it’s Harrem. (The vocative form, which you use when addressing the person, is in this case the same as the nominative. Note also that the macrons on ī and ē indicating long vowels are a modern scholarly device; they wrote long and short identically in ancient Rome.)

I posted this on Bluesky (which is a site you can go to now instead of Twitter) and it got some responses, including how it would be in Finnish – due to length limitations on posts, @uimonen.bsky.social provided just most of the singulars:

nominative Harris
genitive Harriksen
accusative (i.e., partitive) Harrista
inessive Harriksessa
illative Harrikseen
elative Harriksesta
adessive Harriksella
allative Harrikselle
ablative Harrikselta
essive Harriksena
translative Harrikseksi
abessive Harriksetta
comitative Harriksineni

A thing to think about here is that whereas the Latin declension is really for humour, the Finnish inflectional paradigm could actually be used by actual speakers today in Finland (though when I look at the Finnish Wikipedia article on her, for instance, the paradigm is different: the genitive is Harrisista, for instance. Why? Well, it’s not a Finnish name, for one thing, and, as we will see, that tends to matter). There are no modern daily speakers of Latin, and most descendants of Latin – French, Italian, Spanish, Portuguese – have declined to keep the declensions. 

But another classical language is spoken today: Greek. Here’s the Classical Greek inflectional paradigm for Χάρις, which is how Harris is rendered in modern Greek and might as well be in the ancient kind as well – I’ve assumed the same third declension as for πόλῐς (polis, ‘city’), and feminine gender (the inflection would be different for a man named Χάρις); note also that it’s normal with Greek to include the definite article, which is used far more even than in English:

nominative singular ἡ Χάρῐς (hē Haris)
accusative singular τὴν Χάρῐν (tḕn Harin)
genitive singular τῆς Χάρεως (tês Hareōs)
dative singular τῇ Χάρει (têi Harei)
vocative singular Χάρῐ (Hari)

nominative dual τὼ Χάρει (tṑ Harei)
accusative dual τὼ Χάρει (tṑ Harei)
genitive dual τοῖν Χάρέοιν (toîn Hareoin)
dative dual τοῖν Χάρέοιν (toîn Hareoin)
vocative dual Χάρει (Harei)

nominative plural αἱ Χάρεις (hai Hareis)
accusative plural τᾱ̀ς Χάρεις (tā̀s Hareis)
genitive plural τῶν Χάρεων (tôn Hareōn)
dative plural ταῖς Χάρεσῐ/ταῖς Χάρεσῐν (taîs Haresi/taîs Haresin)
vocative plural Χάρεις (Hareis)

Yes, that’s right: there’s also the dual – which is nice if you’re referring to the Harrises as a couple (except, of course, Kamala Harris’s husband is Doug Emhoff, so never mind). So the family of Harrises, set in English, would, going by this, be not Harrii or Harroi or whatever but Hareis. And so on.

So does this work in modern Greek? Ah, well, I’m sorry to tell you that, while Modern Greek has declensions (just a little simpler than the classical ones), names from other languages are treated as indeclinable. So when you look at articles about Kamala Harris, it’s always Χάρις. Sorry.

But there are other languages that also decline names. Most, however, decline to do so for foreign names – after all, even if the name looks like a word from their language, they know it’s not. Lithuanian names, for instance, tend to end in -is in the nominative masculine, and replace that for different noun cases; Vytautas Landsbergis, for instance, when he is the indirect object (dative case) rather than the subject of a verb, is Vytautui Landsbergiui. And for “Landsbergis’s” it’s Landsbergo. But Harris isn’t a Lithuanian name, and what’s more, Kamala Harris is not a man and so wouldn’t be inflected according to the masculine paradigm.

On the other hand, Lithuania’s neighbours in Latvia have an answer to that. Latvian makes the nominative of her name Harisa, because Latvian feminine names and in -a as a rule, and because rr isn’t a thing in Latvian (you will also see Herisa, but there’s a stronger case for Harisa). And so if she’s the direct object, she’s Harisu; the indirect object, Harisai; and the possessive for her name is Harisas.

This is all lots of fun, of course, but Harris is, in truth, an English name. But we don’t have to leave England to find a full inflecting paradigm for it. We can just go back in time – Old English had a full system of inflections. The Old English inflections for her name would be:

nom sg Harris
acc sg Harris
gen sg Harrises
dat sg Harrise

nom pl Harrisas
acc pl Harrisas
gen pl Harrisa
dat pl Harrisum

So if you give a book to the Harrises, “þu giefst þa boc þam Harrisum” (for those who don’t know, þ is how we used to write the sound we now write as th). 

That’s not nearly as entertaining as treating the -is as a suffix, alas. But it also has two problems: first, the name Harris only appeared in Middle English, so inflecting it Old English style is as contrived as declining it Latin style; second, in Middle English, the name actually does contain a suffix: Harris is the genitive form of Harry. Names formed from genitives are quite common in English, since the genitive used to be used more broadly: if you lived near the field, you were called Fields; by the brook, Brooks; if you were of the family of Stephen, you were Stephens; and if of the family of Harry, you were Harris. And yes, Harry is a nickname for Henry, but so it goes. Toms and Jacks are also family names.

But you can see the problem here: How can you have the genitive of a name that is already in the genitive? Along with which is the fact that it’s Middle English, not Old English. In Middle English, the inflections of Harry would be (with spelling variations):

nom sg Harry
acc sg Harry
gen sg Harris
dat sg Harre

nom pl Harres
acc pl Harres
gen pl Harre/Harrene
dat pl Harre/Harres

But that just means that if there’s a Harry and another Harry and they jointly have something, then it’s Harre thing or Harrene thing. If it’s the thing of the family of Harry, you can’t really do a double genitive unless you treat the first one as just part of the name: Harrisis in the singular and Harrise or Harrisene in the plural. 

It does remind us of one key fact, though: the genitive (possessive) in English didn’t have an apostrophe until just a few centuries ago, when the apostrophe was added on the basis of the mistaken supposition that the possessive was a contraction (imagining “Harry’s book” as short for “Harry his book”). That’s right: this detail that confuses so many people, and that provokes the ire of a certain set, is founded on nothing other than a historically baseless reinterpretation.

Mind you, a Latin inflectional paradigm that gives us Harrium librī for “the Harrises’ books” is also a historically baseless reinterpretation. But at least we know that. And it’s fun, and no one is getting upset.

* First: High-school teachers are not subject matter experts. Not even high-school English teachers. Not even the ones who “beat it into you.” Second, many people do not accurately remember what their teachers tried to teach them.

 Which is truly over the top, because even if it were Winklevus it would just be Winklevi – the -ii ending is only for plurals of -ius nouns – and it’s not, it’s not even Winklevos, which would pluralize to Winklevoi. But, yes, the point is it’s a joke, so it goes to the lengths of caricature.

ochre

When, in the 1500s, Western Europeans came to what we now call Newfoundland, they saw the people who were already living there and called them “Red Indians,” because those people – the Beothuk – painted themselves and their dwellings with red ochre every spring.

The red ochre was made from the soil there. So, as the Beothuk were the autochthonous people of Newfoundland, and as autochthonous comes from Greek αὐτόχθων autókhthōn meaning ‘from the land itself’, you could say that they were covering themselves in the earth that was their mother. Of course, we know that the Beothuk came from other peoples on the North American continent, and they in turn came from others in other places, and so on. But they were sustained by that red soil, and it became part of them too; there are many shades of “autochthonous.”

But that is not the only potential lexical perplexity here. If you are familiar with the many names of art pigments, you may not think of ochre as red at all. And you would be perfectly reasonable in that.

Ochre, as you will find if you look in Wiktionary, is “a somewhat dark yellow orangish colour” – they show you RGB #E3A857  ; if you look in Wikipedia, it declares it to be RGB #CC7722  . Either way, it is no redder than French’s mustard. It does look like a certain kind of earth, but not the kind of earth that produced the ruddy pigments used not just by the Beothuk but, subsequently, by European-descended people throughout Newfoundland to paint – among other things – fishing stages (mainlanders call them fishing sheds or boat houses or such like). 

The resolution of this is that ochre is a family of pigments, all containing ferric oxide and the various other things that make up dirt, and typically bound together with oil (from fish or seals or whatever else you may find). There is red ochre, purple ochre, brown ochre, sienna, and umber – yes, umber is of the ochre family (would you have bet on that? what’s the ochre-umber on that, do you think?). But the ochre that is “ochre ochre” is yellow ochre.

That’s not just from commonality or history of use; it’s from etymology too. Although we may be tempted to think that ochre comes from some chthonic word to do with earth – or perhaps, since it sounds like “oaker,” from something that grows in the earth (not okra, though) – it comes, in fact, from ὠχρός ōkhrós ‘pale’.

Which, I suppose, when I compare it with umber, and sienna, and red ochre, it is. But when I compare it with my own skin, which is around the colour of the skin of the Western Europeans who called the Beothuk “Red Indians,” it occurs to me that yellow ochre is not nearly as pale. But yellow ochre also a bit too yellow, as if jaundiced. Not necessarily a healthy colour for a person.

Nor, as I find, was it a colour esteemed by the Greeks, at least when used to describe people. Aristophanes, in The Clouds, used χροιὰν ὠχράν khroiàn ōkhránpallid complexion” as a sign of moral weakness; Euripides, in The Bacchae, used turning pale as a sign of fright: οὐδ᾽ ὠχρός, οὐδ᾽ ἤλλαξεν οἰνωπὸν γένυν oud’ ōkhrós, oud’ ḗllaxen oinōpòn génun “he did not turn pale or change the wine-dark complexion of his cheek”; and Plutarch, in his life of Julius Caesar, quoted Caesar as saying οὐ πάνυ τούτους δέδοικα τοὺς παχεῖς καί κομήτας, μᾶλλον δὲ τοὺς ὠχροὺς καί λεπτοὺς ἐκείνους ou panú toútous dédoika toùs pakheĩs kaí komḗtas, mãllon dè toùs ōkhroùs kaí leptoùs ekeínous “I am not much in fear of these fat, long-haired fellows, but rather of those pale, thin ones” (by which he meant Brutus and Cassius).

Those yellow-bellies! Perhaps it’s that dirty people do dirty deeds? But the pigment is named for its colour, not the colour for its source. And ochre is called many things in many places; it’s been used since before the beginning of recorded history all around the world, anywhere there is soil with iron ores in it that can be made into a paint. It is common in cave paintings from up to 75,000 years ago. It is, truly, as old as dirt.

And we, whatever colour we may be said to be – red or pale or any other – will return to dirt as well, as we always have, and as the Beothuk, all of them, eventually did due to starvation, pestilence, and murder. Who can say for certain that the ochre we dab onto the stages of our lives and the walls of our histories does not contain bits of our distant ancestors and distant ancient cousins? And just as we come in many colours, so does ochre – indeed, ochre comes in colours we don’t: after all, the Beothuk weren’t actually red. Look at the portrait of the last known Beothuk, Shanawdithit, who died of tuberculosis in 1829: her skin was a medium light brown. 

But just as the blood that runs through the veins of every one of us is red from the iron in it, so does all ochre gain colour from the iron in it. And so, when the Europeans saw the red ochre on the Beothuk and thought it was different from their own pale colour, it was doubly ironic.

Pronunciation tip: Turkish medalists at the 2024 Paris Olympics

There’s time for one more Olympic-themed pronunciation tip, and I’ve never done one on Turkish before, so here you go. There are nine medalists from Turkey (Türkiye), so I’ll give you general tips on pronouncing Turkish and then tell you how to say their names: Şevval İlayda Tarhan, Yusuf Dikeç, Hatice Akbaş, Buse Naz Çakıroğlu, Esra Yıldız Kahraman, Buse Tosun Çavuşoğlu, Mete Gazoz, Ulaş Berkim Tümer, and Abdullah Yıldırmış.

Pronunciation tip: Brazilians at the 2024 Olympics

The Brazilian women’s gymnastics team has been doing well at the Paris Olympics, and so I thought it would be nice to do a pronunciation tip about how their names are pronounced by Brazilians, and why. I’ve even added a couple of other Brazilian medalists from these games just to round out the information.

(The beverage is a peach caipirinha, by the way.)

Pronunciation tip: 2024 Latvian Olympic team

In all my Olympic-themed pronunciation tips over the years, one country I haven’t gotten to yet is Latvia. Why would I do Latvia? Well, I have a Latvian connection through my wife’s family. Also, why not? Anyway, if you’ve ever been wondering about how to say Latvian names, today’s your lucky day.

Pronunciation tip: Paris Olympic venues

It’s time for the Olympics again, which means it’s time for lots of names that aren’t English! They’re in Paris this time, which means all the venue names are in French. Many English speakers are confident that they know how to pronounce French. Some of them are right. For the curious, here are the ways these places are pronounced – using fairly standard metropolitan French. And, of course, in English.

umber

In the dark cellar you see a shadowy figure. It can’t be the plumber; it’s someone humble and unencumbered, not lumbering but slumbering, numb and number, numbering one. Ah, yes, now, no monkey business: it’s a monk, a simple Franciscan friar. He was hard to make out at first because of his simple robe dyed the colour of dirt.

That is why Franciscans’ robes are brown: not so much because “you are dust, and to dust you shall return” but because they literally do – or anyway they did – return to dust and dirt to sleep, and if their robes were going to be the shade of dirt anyway, they might as well make them that way. But there are many kinds of brown. What kind of brown are they? There is no official prescribed brown for all Franciscans, but since Saint Francis was from Assisi, in Umbria, I’m going to say they can be thought of as umber.

Ah, umber! That dark shadowy brown. According to Wiktionary it is RGB #635147  , but a colour that is old as dirt cannot be confined to one number. And umber is old as dirt, both figuratively – it’s one of the oldest pigments known – and literally: it’s made from natural earth. It’s a mixture of iron oxide and manganese oxide. It can be gotten from the ground in many places, but one of them is Umbria, which may be where the word umber comes from. The name Umbria comes from the people who lived there before the Romans took over: the Umbri. (There is no certainty as to the origin of their name.)

Or perhaps the word umber comes from Latin umbra, ‘shadow’ (which you may recognize from umbrella, ‘little shadow’). That seems reasonable, as the colour is dark and has been used by painters for shadows and similar sombre subjects, especially in the warmer tones. Not everyone likes umber; Edward Norgate, a contemporary of Shakespeare, cast some shade on it as “a foul and greasy color.” But Leonardo da Vinci, Rembrandt, Caravaggio, and Vermeer would have taken umbrage at that – they all used umber.

There are other versions of umber, too. Raw umber, taken directly from the Umbrian dirt, is more yellowish; burnt umber, made by heating raw umber, is more reddish. And in turn, while the Franciscans have not given their name to any colour, there is one subset of them, named for the hoods on their robes, who have become a byword on the basis of the colour of their habits. We call these hooded monks Capuchin, but in Italian that’s Cappuccino. Which is somewhat lighter than umber – and better tasting too.

chartreuse

How would you describe the colour chartreuse?

I mean without saying “It’s the colour of Chartreuse.” Come on. Not that many people have a bottle of it at home. Let’s see – how does Wikipedia describe it?

Chartreuse (US: /ʃɑːrˈtruːz, -ˈtruːs/, UK: /-ˈtrɜːz/, French: [ʃaʁtʁøz]), also known as yellow-green or greenish yellow, is a color between yellow and green.

Oh, come on. If you were trying to convey the essence of it to someone, what would you say? “Like a highlighter that retired to the south of France to write novels” perhaps? If it were a person, you could say that it’s the exact opposite of, um, any of the kickboxers in Kings of Combat (or, for that matter, the colour scheme on their promo posters). If it were algae, well, Wikipedia is here to help you with the “In nature” section of its “Chartreuse (color)” article:

Yellow-green algae, also called Xanthophytes, are a class of algae in the Heterokontophyta division. Most live in fresh water, but some are found in marine and soil habitats. They vary from single-celled flagellates to simple colonial and filamentous forms. Unlike other heterokonts, the plastids of yellow-green algae do not contain fucoxanthin, which is why they have a lighter color.

Uh, thanks? That won’t help you describe the colour to someone. I guess you could buy them a bottle, if you can find one – the supply train is becoming as ineluctable as the recipe, which, supposedly, is known to only three people at a time, all of them monks of a notoriously solitary, peaceful, and taciturn order (they mix the 130 herbs in the monastery and send them to the distillery in big bags). 

But then a bottle of which kind? You see, there’s more than one kind. Generally speaking, there are two, green and yellow, but there are other varieties too, such as the MOF kind I have a bottle of, which is yellowish but not a reference yellow. (To be clear, the yellow of yellow Chartreuse is called chartreuse yellow. The green of green Chartreuse is called chartreuse.)

But then, say you get a bottle of green Chartreuse and pour a glass of it: is that really the chartreuse of, say, a vase or a scarf or an office divider? No it is not. For one thing, definitions vary widely; look at Wiktionary, for instance, and you will see the HTML chartreuse as RGB #7FFF00   and the much dimmer Pantone “bright chartreuse” as RGB #B0BC4A  . But whatever you take it as, the real thing will always seem lighter. It’s pellucid, after all, unlike the recipe, the definition of the colour, and, for that matter, the origin of the word Chartreuse.

It’s not that they don’t know where the liqueur got its name. It’s made by the monks of Grande Chartreuse Monastery (or, now, by their hired distillers). They are monks of the Ordre des Chartreux – or, in English, the Carthusians. Their monastery is in the Chartreuse Mountains, north of Grenoble. (Are the mountains Chartreuse in colour? Parts of them, sure; they’re covered in vegetation, after all. See for yourself. But the colour is named after the liqueur.)

So are the mountains named after the monastic order? No, the converse. Bruno of Cologne started the order in the Chartreuse Mountains in 1084, at the site of the current monastery. The English name Carthusians is based on a Latinization of the place name: Ordo Cartusiensis. Their monasteries are called chartreuses in French, but in English they are called charterhouses. Why? Because English speakers looked at chartreuse and said “um, charter-house.” I’m not kidding.

The French novelist Marie-Henri Beyle, who went by the Scandinavian-sounding pen name Stendhal, wrote a book in 1839 called La Chartreuse de Parme, which in English is The Charterhouse of Parma. And, fittingly, it does not take place in a charterhouse. In fact, the only time one is even mentioned is on the last page – the protagonist ends up there. Also, no one in the book drinks Chartreuse.

They could have, to be sure; it had been available since the 1600s. But if they had, it wouldn’t be the green Chartreuse we know now; that was first made in 1840. So was the yellow kind. The original Chartreuse was stronger (at 69% ABV! Green Chartreuse is 55% ABV, and a little goes a long way in a cocktail; yellow Chartreuse is 43%, but doesn’t taste like it, so watch out) and was a slightly deeper version of the green, more 1910-era than 2010-era, décor-wise. Also, in case it matters to you, the monks haven’t been continuously in the monastery since 1084; they were expelled more than once (generally to Spain) and returned thereafter, most recently after World War II. The buildings of the monastery don’t date all the way back to the origins either – avalanches have guaranteed that.

Ah, yes, avalanches. From the mountains. The Chartreuse Mountains. So how did they get their name? From a village in them, Saint-Pierre-de-Chartreuse. And how did it get its name? It is an ancient Gaulish name (Chartreuse, I mean, not Saint-Pierre); it may trace to the tribe of the Caturiges, who also gave their name to the nearby town of Chorges. 

And what does Caturiges mean? It traces to Celtic roots catu- ‘combat’ and riges ‘kings’. So, yes, you may have guessed it: Kings of Combat.

burgundy

Today I’m tasting burgundy. You may notice that I haven’t capitalized the word. No need to be high-and-mighty; my current theme is colours, and the name of the colour is lower-cased. Not that I can limit myself to the colour with this word, naturally, but it is a good place for me to start, because it was the colour that was my introduction to burgundy – specifically, the burgundy Oldsmobile Delta 88 two-door sedan that my parents bought in the mid-1970s. 

It’s been even more personal than that for me, too; in my early 20s, for a time I dyed my hair burgundy. I know this would not have met the approval of Lola in Kinky Boots, whose disdain for the colour was quotable: “Please, God, tell me I have not inspired something burgundy. …Red is the colour of sex! Burgundy is the colour of hot water bottles!” But I have had many agreeable experiences with the colour, though most of them when it was in a glass.

About that, by the way. When I look at the official RGB version of the colour burgundy, #800020  , it seems rather darker and duller than the wines of Burgundy. But when I look at photos of Burgundy wine in a glass, I have to admit it’s pretty spot on. It’s just that red Burgundy wines, being made from Pinot Noir grapes, are more translucent; in many lighting conditions they fairly shine and glow, and so they seem lighter.

Not on the pocket-book, though. Burgundy wines are among the highest and mightiest; the most expensive wines in the world are Burgundy – prices run well into the five figures for a bottle and leave even the top Bordeaux wines in the dust. Part of this is that the grapes they’re made with, Pinot Noir, are hard to work with; they grow in tight pine-cone-shaped clusters (hence the name) and are as thin-skinned as some of their most ardent partisans. Part of it is that Burgundy isn’t all that large a growing region, and it’s the farthest north of any major red wine region in the world. Part of it, certainly, is that the best Burgundy wines are indeed extremely good (though they’re not everyone’s favourite; I for one fancy the Bordeaux style more). And part of it is marketing – a campaign that has been going on for most of a millennium, since Philip II the Bold, Duke of Burgundy, declared that only Pinot Noir grapes could be used to make red wine in his lands. Gamay was banished to Beaujolais. There’s nothing like message discipline, eh? The fact that the Dukes of Burgundy were among the highest and mightiest in France certainly helped.

Of course, Pinot Noir grapes had been in the region since time immemorial. Which is more than you can say for the name Burgundy. Oh, it’s not that Burgundy is the English version and Bourgogne the French; in point of fact, the French is farther from the original. In Latin it was Burgundia, but that came from an older Burgundi, which traces back to the Proto-Indo-European *bʰérǵʰonts, which meant ‘high, mighty’. This Burgundi was the name of a Germanic tribe.

Germanic? In the heart of France? Yes, indeed. France has plenty of Germanic and Celtic historical influence. But, although modern Bourgogne has its high points, the Burgundi didn’t get their name from that. Nor did they get their name from the even higher Massif Central of France, further south, where they were before they moved north into the area that now has their name (they also had land as far south as the coast). They only moved there in the 400s, in fact, after having been resettled there from the middle Rhine region, around Alsace.

The middle Rhine region? That’s not very high at all. But wait. Were they from there originally? It’s harder to trace before that, but it’s thought they (or, you know, the core part of their ancestors; people do intermarry over time with others in the area) may have come from the valley of the Vistula – the river that runs through Kraków and Warsaw. In Poland. Which would not explain how they came to have a high-and-mighty Germanic name. But there’s one more dot to connect.

Well, maybe. There is a place called Bornholm that has in the past been ruled by Norway and Sweden but now belongs to Denmark, and its name historically was Burgundaholmr. The Burgundians might – might – have originally come by way of there, possibly from even farther north. Or it could just be coincidence. After all, the Burgunda part can be taken to refer to a high rock, which Bornholm does have. And the holmr means ‘island’. 

Yes, Bornholm is an island in the Baltic Sea. It is one of the most eco-friendly places in the world; its power is mostly generated from wind and sun and by other eco-friendly means, and their rate of recycling is very high. They don’t grow grapes there, however. And their flag has no burgundy in it… though it does have red, lots of red. But you can get some Burgundy there. Go to Kadeau, their Michelin-starred restaurant; it has a mighty list of them – of course, the prices are rather high.

periwinkle

Ah, the old curiosity shop on the corner, with its owner, who looks a little like Henry Winkler, and its near-infinite assortment of finds. Look around the store. What shall you pick up today? Perhaps that pretty flower vase with a painting of Persian sprites? Or this weird little winch? Or a set of picks for escargots? No, something less practical… You peer into a corner and spy a pair of tightly laced periwinkle winkle-pickers. You raise an eyebrow; you glance at the shopkeeper and he winks at you. You’re not sure how to take it. He nods to a sign on the wall that says “Sometimes words have two meanings.” Sense spirals in on itself like a snail. Are you convinced?

Let’s unpack these periwinkle winkle-pickers. The trick is that periwinkle isn’t really a word that has two (or more) meanings; it’s two quite different words that just happen to have become identical in form.

The first word – the one that has been in English since Old English times – was at first pervince or pervincle; it came from Late Latin pervinca, from Classical Latin pervica, which is apparently per- ‘thoroughly’ and a form of vincio ‘I bind, I conquer’ (as seen in convince and in “veni vidi vici” too). The Latin form also seems to be shortened from vicapervica, which has an incantatory quality to it, and it is likely also related to pervicus ‘stubborn’. This pervinca was – and in Italian still is – the name for a low-lying flowering plant (a few kinds thereof, of the genus Vinca) with long trailing stems that tend to take root wherever they touch the ground: they are thoroughly bound, and thus stubborn (pervicacious).

Which does not matter when it comes to the usual point of reference for this word. It is the plant’s flowers that are focal: they have five petals and are a light purplish blue with a white centre. This light purplish blue, which in RGB terms is standardized as the very tidy #CCCCFF  , is called periwinkle for this reason.

But, because the world is full of complications and wonders, there is also another flowering plant called periwinkle – it was thought to be of the same general kind, but it turns out it is not. It also has five-petalled flowers; they have been cultivated in various colours. The genus is now named Catharanthus. Its most widespread species, Catharanthus roseus, was formerly called Vinca rosea, and it is from this old name that alkaloids produced from it are called vinca alkaloids; two drugs that are used to treat cancer are vinblastine and vincristine, which clung to the vin- though the plant has been uprooted from it. Thus they are related to the colour periwinkle – etymologically but not in any other way.

And then there is the other periwinkle. We’re not completely sure, but it seems that it started with Latin pina, from Greek πίνη (pínē), variant of πίννα (pínna), ‘mussel’, plus Old English wincel ‘corner, bend’ from an Old Germanic root referring to turning or bending. It names a kind of sea snail (‘bendy mussel’, I guess), similar in size to a periwinkle flower but otherwise with nothing in common. Somehow pinewinkel, which could easily have been pennywinkle (as indeed it was, but only in regional variants), became periwinkle. The fact that it evolved to the periwinkle form around the same time as the flower name did, in the early 1500s, suggests some cross-influence or mutual influence. Yes, one is a snail (and not a bluish-purple one either) and the other is a flower, but that doesn’t defeat the mutual lexical attraction – the “sounds familiar” effect. And anyway, periwinkle is a rather winsome word form, if you ask me.

But the little snails turned a corner, so to speak, and left off the peri- in common use: as often as not, now, they’re just called winkles. Which adds a wrinkle, especially if you go shopping for them, because this same root became Dutch winkel, which first meant ‘corner’ but, by metonymy, became a name for a corner store (or a storage corner), and so now Dutch winkel means ‘store, shop’ (and periwinkle seems like it could mean ‘around the store’ – or, if you wish, ‘shop for Persian fairies’). Meanwhile, German Winkel still means ‘angle, corner, nook’. The name Winkler comes from someone who was a shopkeeper, or who lived on a corner. And there are some other words in English that are also related more distantly, from the root meaning ‘bend, turn’: winch, wink, and wince.

Winkles, as you may know, are edible (when cooked), and in Scotland and Ireland you can buy them by the bag; when you get a bag of them, you get a little pin for picking out the winkles from the depths of their shells. The Latin name for them, Littorina littorea, gives a clue that they are found along the seashore – they can be caught in a drag net, but they can also be picked by hand at low tide.

And do you, when picking winkles from the seashore, wear winkle-pickers? Hmm, no, don’t take it so littorally. One ought not to use such fancy shoes for perambulating the damp strand. The point of winkle-pickers is the toe: that is, the toe is long and pointed, and so, wittily, the name suggests you could use it as a winkle-pick, to pick winkles out of their shells. They got this waggish name somewhere around the 1950s, when their popularity peaked with the Teddy Boys.

And so your periwinkle winkle-pickers are a colour named after a flower named for how its stem takes root, and a style of boot named after a device for eating little sea snails. Will you buy them? Where could you wear them? But you are not impervious to their pervicacious charms; you have grown fond of them already, and they sit there saying “pick me!” So, with the slightest rueful wince of convincement, you do.