Puddles and Beau Traps

Hello,

After a few lovely warm and sunny days here, we’ve got a rather rainy Monday in progress today. It reminded me that I’ve half of “Words Weather Gave Us” written, including the chapter about rain words. So here, to hopefully cheer you up on this damp day, is an extract about puddles and their sinister cousins – beau traps.

Puddle & Beau Traps

{extract from “Words Weather Gave Us” copyright Grace Tierney 2024}

A puddle, which has been with us since the early 1300s, is defined as a small pool of dirty water. Puddle-jumping enthusiasts will point out that they’re also perfect entertainment locations for small children and life-loving adults, especially when approached with suitable footwear.

In line with the idea of making lemonade when faced with an excess of lemons, wet countries should adopt puddle-stomping as a national sport. Free, accessible to all, energetic. It could be the next big thing at the Olympics. Synchronised jumping for a team event perhaps?

The word came about as a diminutive of pudd (ditch) in Old English and is related to the charming German word pudeln (to splash in water). Originally puddle was used for pools and ponds as well which explains puddle-duck (a domesticated duck) which we’ve had since the 1800s. Beatrix Potter published her book “Jemima Puddle-Duck” in 1908.

The stealth version of the puddle is the beau trap. My home city, Dublin, has plenty of these. A beau trap is early 19th century slang for a paving stone which is loose enough for rainwater to gather underneath. Dublin city dwellers will know water gathers under some of the large Georgian stone footpaths (sidewalks for my US friends) and unless you avoid those slabs or hit them in the exact right spot it “tips up and pumps half a litre of rainwater up your trouser” (as Terry Pratchett points out in “A Slip of the Keyboard”).  This rainwater is always a murky grey shade and invariably ice-cold.

Douglas Adams once created an alternative word for this, the affpuddle.

Why is it called a beau trap? The elegant young men of the 1800s (also known as beaus) wore those tight white stockings to show off their well turned ankles and calves. A sinister pool of city rainwater was a terrible trap for those beaus.

Until next time happy reading, writing, and wordfooling,

Grace (@Wordfoolery)

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Are You Seeing Things? Pareidolia is the Word

Hello,

This week’s word is pareidolia (pronunciation here, para-dole-e-ah). I’ve no idea where I picked it up but it was in my Very Long List of Words to Investigate and caught my eye today.

Let’s define it first before getting into the word history. Pareidolia is the tendency to see a pattern or image of something that does not exist and is part of the reason why you won’t find any wallpaper in my home. The rest of the reason is that scraping off old wallpaper formed too much of my childhood. I decided long ago that painting a wall is simpler in the long run.

Growing up in the 1970s and 1980s every house was emblazoned with wallpaper everywhere. Some patterns were delightful, but others were frankly eye-watering and if you had a good imagination then seeing patterns within the patterns, usually when you should be dropping off to sleep, was a regular issue. The same thing arises when you spot shapes in the clouds, the man in the moon, or create a scene from stains on a table. Human beings have a gift when it comes to patterns and pareidolia is part of that skill.

Can you see the pig in the rock?

Pareidolia arrived in English fairly recently, in 1962, but the idea has been around for centuries. We borrowed it from the German word Paredolie which had been used in scientific papers there since the mid 1800s. The word was formed from two Greek words and a German ending –

1. para (beside, alongside, instead of) which you see in paramedic, for example
2. eidolon (image, form, shape)
3. -ie (German suffix)

The concept of paredolia, if not the word, was widely known to artists during the Renaissance period. Giuseppe Arcimboldo painted human portraits using collections of fruits and vegetables to form the likeness, for example. Leonardo da Vinci wrote “if you look at any walls spotted with various stains or with a mixture of different kinds of stones, if you are about to invent some scene you will be able to see in it a resemblance to various different landscapes adorned with mountains, rivers, rocks, trees, plains, wide valleys, and various groups of hills.”

Da Vinci would have loved wallpaper, but Oscar Wilde is on my side of the debate. His reported last words, uttered on the 30th of November 1900 in Paris, were “This wallpaper and I are fighting a duel to the death. Either it goes or I do.”

Until next time happy reading, writing, and wordfooling,

Grace (@Wordfoolery)

p.s. Want more Wordfoolery? Subscribe to the monthly newsletter “Wordfoolery Whispers”. Sign up to avoid missing out! Don’t forget to click on the confirmation email, which might hide in your spam folder.

The Holy History of Precarious

Hello.

This week’s word is precarious, a word with a surprisingly holy history.

With my sense of balance, crossing these would be precarious indeed

My own most frequent use of precarious is related to either hiking or stacking. There are times on a trail when you need to cross a set of stepping stones and even if none of them are unsteady, or precarious, I will inevitably land in the water. It’s my only super-power and one which my hiking friends enjoy with much mirth.

As for a stack of books or papers, well, I blithely disregard the precarious nature of those too, with predictable results.

So when I found the following entry in “Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase and Fable”, it caught my attention – “From Latin precarius, obtained by prayer. Is applied to what depends on our prayers or requests. A precarious tenure is one that depends solely on the will of the owner to concede to our prayer, hence uncertain and not to be depended on”.

The example relating to legal tenure is apt. Apparently precarious joined the English dictionary as a legal word in the 1640s. It meant that something was “held through the favor of another” – something like a paid job, an estate, or permission to inhabit a home, for example.

Brewer was correct, it comes from Latin precarius (gained by asking or praying) thanks to the Latin word prex (prayer) and ultimately from the Proto Indo European root word – prek (to ask). Prek also gives us words like prayer, prithee, and deprecate.

By the end of the 1600s the idea of being dependent on the goodwill of another led precarious to gain a second meaning of something being risky (like me on those stepping stones) or uncertain. Samuel Johnson didn’t approve, saying precarious “is used for uncertain in all its senses; but it only means uncertain, as dependent on others”.

Like many a language fan in his time and since, Johnson was unable to stand against the tide of general usage and now precarious is much more likely to be used of a risky situation than in the specific legal sense.

Until next time happy reading, writing, and wordfooling,

Grace (@Wordfoolery)

p.s. Want more Wordfoolery? Subscribe to the monthly newsletter “Wordfoolery Whispers”. Sign up to avoid missing out! Don’t forget to click on the confirmation email, which might hide in your spam folder.

Oh Those Convivial Romans

Hello,

I’m reading “The Wordhord” by Hana Videen at the moment and given that it’s about Old English words, I really shouldn’t be writing about a Roman word in English, but she mentioned convivial in passing and it reminded me that I like the word but hadn’t explored its roots.

Convivial (meaning relating to a feast) has been with us since the 1660s and I suppose we’ve always needed words about parties, as Hana was talking about ge-bēor-scripe – which translates literally as a beer-ship, but is more like a formal meal taken in company, and not always with beer.

She explained that the Last Supper was a ge-bēor-scripe, as was the Pharoah’s birthday celebration according to Old English translators of the Bible and I can only imagine those events had very different vibes from a round of beers, or cocktails, in the pub.

But what about the convivial Romans? Did they break bread with a dozen close friends, toast with mead like the Vikings, or party like an Egyptian?

Convivial arrived in English from Latin convivialis (relating to a feast) thanks to convivium (a feast) and convivere (to carouse together or to live together). They are all formed by joining com (together) which we also find in words like community and vivere (to live) which French speakers will recognise as linked to vivre (to live). By the time the word reached the 1700s the idea of feasting wasn’t compulsory to its meaning. You could say somebody was convivial if they were sociable.

There were a few related words too. We still have convivially and conviviality, although they’re not used much now.

One I had never heard of was convive. It dates to the 1600s again and is the term for a boon companion, a convivial person. It has the same roots in Latin where it was a conviva – a guest or table-companion. By the 1850s it was still in English and was a term for a woman who lives in the same house with a number of others. I’d love to know the context of that. Was it a group of female-workers sharing lodgings? A matriarchal family group? We don’t have many records of women living without a male presence in that time period and I’m intrigued that it was common enough to have its own word. Can any of you shed any light on convive?

Until next time happy reading, writing, and wordfooling,

Grace (@Wordfoolery)

p.s. Want more Wordfoolery? Subscribe to the monthly newsletter “Wordfoolery Whispers”. There’s a new issue going out this week so sign up to avoid missing out!Don’t forget to click on the confirmation email, which might hide in your spam folder.

Hasty Angels and the Word History of Precipitation

Hello,

It’s a wet Monday here. The forecast is for rain all day long. The puddles are forming in my garden and my walking shoes are glaring at me, daring me to test their water-proof-ness.

Instead of sloshing through puddles, I’ll take a look at the word history of precipitation. My first association with the word is as an alternative term for rain, but of course it covers all types of atmospheric moisture deposited on the earth’s surface including snow, dew, frost, hail, etc.

This idea of precipitation being a form of water falling from the sky dates to the 1600s but the word itself is older. It joined English in the late 1400s and was originally spelled as precipitacioun. I love those old spellings, don’t you?

It arrived with two meanings. One was the casting down of rebellious angels from heaven. Lucifer was precipitated from heaven, for example. The other was used in alchemy where precipitation was the separation of a solid from a solution. My eldest is now studying chemistry at university and he would know all about that. I hope he does this in a slow careful manner rather than with undue haste.

Precipitation was borrowed into English from Old French and before that came from Latin praecipitationem (falling headlong or being hasty) from praeceps (steep, headlong, headfirst). Praeceps is formed by joining prae (before) with caput (head). Put the two together and you definitely get the idea of going head-first with some degree of speed, as an angel might when falling from a great height.

Until next time happy reading, writing, and wordfooling,

Grace (@Wordfoolery)

p.s. Want more Wordfoolery? Subscribe to the monthly newsletter “Wordfoolery Whispers”. Don’t forget to click on the confirmation email, which might hide in your spam folder.

The Multinational Word History of April, and Easter

Hello and Happy April Fool’s Day!

Naturally on a blog called Wordfoolery I celebrate this day as a special one for fools, especially word fools. I thought I take a look at the word April this year and discovered its roots have grown into several different countries and languages.

Happy April Fool’s Day from my mini Wordfoolery doll

Month names have various roots and have changed over time with thanks to Roman emperors, French revolutions, and dictators of all sorts but April joined the English dictionary with a little help from a Greek goddess and replaced one named for an Anglo-Saxon goddess. Either way it seems appropriate that April, or Avril, are still used as names for girls today.

April became the name of the fourth month in the English calendar around 1300, but it was originally spelled aueril. This was borrowed from Old French Avril which is still the name used in modern French. Although April was briefly called Germinal (strictly speaking this ran from 21 March to 21 April) in honour of seed germination. Those month name changes didn’t stick, but personally I liked they way they linked the months to what was happening in nature.

The French month of Avril was borrowed from Latin Aprilis. Aprilis was the second month in the ancient Roman calendar which started in March. This is how we end up with December (dec meaning ten) being the tenth month rather than the twelfth. Don’t worry about it, it will make your brain melt.

Back to April. The roots of Aprilis are murky. One theory is that it’s drawn from Apru, the Etruscan version of the Greek goddess Aphrodite. It’s not surprising that in a time when people lived in close proximity to nature that springtime, when species mate and plants rebound into life, the name of this perfect spring month would be connected to a goddess of love and fertility. Old folk etymology (note – this means it may be fake) link Aprilis to the Latin word aperire (to open) again linking to buds opening on trees and other fertile ideas.

Aprilis could simply be named “the following” or “next”, in relation to its position following the first month (March) in the Roman calendar as we had apero and the root word apo meaning “away” or “off”. These roots also give us aparah (second) in Sanskrit and afar (after) in Gothic. It is impossible to know for sure. April is either named after “next month” or after the Greek goddess of love in a nod towards spring fertility. I know which story I would choose.

It can be fun to look back and see what word April replaced in the English language. In this case the Old English name for the month was Eastermonað and this was named for a fertility goddess too. As you might guess the month was named Easter month. Although the date of Easter moves thanks to the phases of the moon, it is nearly always celebrated in April. The last March-time Easter was in 1997 and the next one will be in 2059 so don’t hold your breath.

Easter itself, in English, was named for the goddess Eostre. Her name comes from Proto Germanic austron (dawn) this is because aust (east) faced towards the rising sun. She was worshipped by the Angol-Saxons in pre-Christian times and with the coming of the new faith her name was used for the feast of Easter in much the same way Roman Saturnalia was transformed into Christmas. It’s worth noting that most other languages around English use some form of Latin’s Pascha for this feast which presumably links to Passover in the Jewish tradition and the timing of the the Easter story. Easter is called Pâcques in French, Cásca in Irish, Pascua in Spanish, Pasg in Welsh, and Pasen in Dutch. The only language I checked which has a similar East > Eostre > Easter linkage is Germany where it’s called Ostern (Ost means East in German) and lo and behold the Anglo-Saxons originated in Northern Germany.

In case you’re curious the association of eggs with Easter started early (pace eggs in 1610s) but the Easter Bunny turned up in 1904. Rabbits, or more probably hares which are particularly visible at this time of year, were associated with the goddess Eostre.

Now you know the story of April and Easter. Happy April Fool’s Day and (slightly belated) Happy Easter!

Until next time happy reading, writing, and wordfooling,

Grace (@Wordfoolery)

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The Surprisingly Un-Scottish History of Scot-free

Hello,

Have you ever thought about the origins of getting off scot-free? I came across it in my reading this week (“Humble Pie and Cold Turkey” by Caroline Taggart, if you’re curious) and it set me on the distinctly non-Scottish trail of the expression.

A witty Scottish police box (updated as a coffee hut)

Scot-free dates to Old English and was originally spelled scotfreo. It meant you were exempt from a royal tax and was compounded from scot (royal tax) and freo (free).

The definition of scot as a royal tax caught my eye. Having visited Edinburgh recently I was pretty certain scot referred to somebody resident in Scotland. No, apparently a scot is from late Old English and refers to municipal taxes, royal taxes, or fees due to a feudal lord.

The word scot in this sense came from skot in Old Norse (contribution) so our friends the Vikings had a hand in this one. The Old Norse verb skjota had two meanings – one around the idea of shooting and throwing and the second about transferring to another or paying. It’s the later meaning that we’re looking at this time. Skot is also related to Old English sceotan (to pay), Dutch schot, and German Schoß (tax) so this word has plenty of Northern European roots. You can also find escot (payment) in Old French which comes from Latin scotum.

It appears that scot, or variants, was widely known throughout Europe at the time as meaning some type of payment. In the 1100s in English you might find yourself at a scot-ale. In this case ale meant a festival. Specifically a scot-ale was a festival (probably with compulsory attendance) held by the lord of the manor and the scot was a feudal tax payable to him for the party. You might have to pay others too. Rome-scot was a church tax payable to the Pope and soul-scot was a payment on behalf of the deceased.

With time the idea of scot-free arose, if you got away scot-free you avoided paying the tax. From the 1600s it expanded to getting away without any consequences.

Until next time happy reading, writing, and wordfooling,

Grace (@Wordfoolery)

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A Hairy History of Disheveled

Hello,

After the elegant history of vogue last week I’m taking a different angle with the hairy history of disheveled (or dishevelled if you prefer) this week.

Disheveled, having a messy personal appearance, appeared in English in the early 1400s but back then it was all about the hair. Manners may maketh the man according to Eton and other colleges, but the hairdressers in those days would disagree.

A disheveled Wordfoolery in 2018

Let’s hold up the mirror to disheveled’s roots first. Its original meaning in English was to be without dressed hair. There was also another adjective at the same time – dischevele – which meant bare-headed. Both came from Old French deschevele (bare headed or shaven headed). That came from the verb descheveler (to disarrange the hair). That formed from des (apart) and chevel (hair). Chevel originated in Latin capillus (hair), the same root that gives us capillary, but that’s a word for another day.

The meaning of disheveled was entirely about hair for quite some time. It described hair that was hanging loose, or having a neglected appearance. This was an era when letting your hair down only happened in the privacy of your own home, hence its association with relaxation. Women, after girlhood, wore their hair up and usually under a cap of some variety. Even the men paid attention to the dressing of their hair. Sailors were so keen to keep their hair tied back that they’d apply tar to their plaits, giving them the nickname of “tars”.

Disheveled gained the modern meaning of a messy or untidy appearance from around 1600 and now most of us wouldn’t even think of it being exclusive to hair. Plus some more recent hairstyles are deliberately disheveled. I doubt they would have liked the idea of “bed-head” back in the 1400s.

Until next time happy reading, writing, and wordfooling,

Grace (@Wordfoolery)

p.s. Want more Wordfoolery? Subscribe to the monthly newsletter “Wordfoolery Whispers”. Don’t forget to click on the confirmation email, which might hide in your spam folder.

The Italian Word History of Zany

Hello,

I finally finished reading the 1213 pages of “Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase and Fable” this week and I’m so glad I did. I’ve been at it for more than a year. No, I didn’t only read one book during that time, I also read about 65 other books. I took my time with this one, jotting down notes, grouping words into possible future blog posts, mystery words for my radio slot, and of course ideas and inspirations for future Wordfoolery books.

Gathering candidate words for the blog and for the books is a long job. It takes me at least three years to gather the words before I even consider writing the book – which is why I usually work on word lists for several topics at the same time. I can already tell that this particular dictionary will be a rich source for me. I’ve used it as a reference on blog posts during the year, as you may have noticed.

Anyhow, I made it to the letter Z, my favourite letter in the alphabet, and found zany there. I hope you enjoy its history.

Zany, as you probably know, is defined as “amusingly unconventional and idiosyncratic”. You might describe a friend’s sense of humour or sense of style as being zany. You might enjoy a zany sit-com on the television. It’s a word the Italians gave us. Not the Romans, the Italians, the Venetians to be precise.

Zany entered English in the late 1500s to mean a “comic performer”. It came from French zani, and before that from Italian zanni (a zany or a clown). The word zanni was originally a name, Zanni. In the Venetian dialect of Italian this was their word for Gianni, which is the shortened or pet form of Giovanni (John). The closest equivalent in English would be Jack as the pet form of John.

Zanni was a standard character in the Commedia dell’Arte. I’m not an expert on this particular form of theatre (maybe check out this article instead) but it was popular from the 1500s in Italy and also across Europe. It had an influence on “Punch and Judy” shows and pantomime in the British Isles. It was comedy-focused and used standard characters, improvisation, and masks.

Zanni was played as a clever servant and trickster. He mimicked the other characters and probably dates back to the 1300s. Two facts I loved – apparently the longer the nose on his mask, the more foolish he was and he was always hungry.

The idea of a zany being a foolish person with wild movements and ideas gives us the modern meaning of zany humour and style.

Until next time happy reading, writing, and wordfooling,

Grace (@Wordfoolery)

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The Puzzling History of the Dissectologists

Hello,

Did you know you can add a word to the dictionary? No, I don’t mean by using your pen to scribble it in the margins. I can’t condone such vandalism. You can submit a word for consideration by the lexicographers. All the major dictionaries are open to this notion. For example, you’ll find the lowdown on submitting a word to the Collins Dictionary here. You create an account, submit the word for consideration and they track usage and conduct research before possibly adding it to online and finally print editions of their book.

This week’s word, dissectologist, is such a thing. I found it in “Body of Truth” by Marie Cassidy, the former Irish State Pathologist who has taken up crime-writing in her retirement from autopsies. I imagine anybody who enjoys dissections would be charmed by the word, but it has nothing to do with cutting up bodies, thankfully.

Dissectologist was submitted to Collins Dictionary for consideration in 2022 and it’s currently being “monitored for evidence of usage” so I reckon we all have a chance to help this one into the dictionary. Tempted? Use it online, use it in print. Have some fun with it. Marie Cassidy is using it, let’s join her. The woman is handy with a scalpel, let’s not annoy her.

What is a dissectologist? It’s not somebody in a science lab or autopsy suite.

It’s a jigsaw puzzle enthusiast.

The Bard’s London, a literary jigsaw I completed recently

Dissectologist comes from the original name of jigsaw puzzles in the late 1700s. They were called dissected maps. They were wooden maps which could be broken up into sections to teach geography to students. Over time other pictures were used and the jigsaw we know today evolved.

The verb dissect entered English around 1600 to describe the action of cutting into pieces. It came from Latin dissectus where dis means apart and secare is the verb to cut. When it arrived in English it was all about science – cutting up plants or animals to study their structure and to diagnose diseases. The more figurative idea of dissecting an argument point by point arose a few decades later.

The jigsaw-loving dissectologists founded the wonderfully named Benevolent Confraternity of Dissectologists (BCD for short) in 1985 to celebrate their hobby and its history. The CBD are based in the UK but have members worldwide. I can only imagine how excited they will be if dissectologist gets the official dictionary stamp of approval one day.

Until next time happy reading, writing, and wordfooling,

Grace (@Wordfoolery)

p.s. Want more Wordfoolery? Subscribe to the monthly newsletter “Wordfoolery Whispers”. Don’t forget to click on the confirmation email, which might hide in your spam folder.