Learning from Chaser

Chaser and Dr. Pilley

I used to introduce my Latin students to fundamental grammar by telling them about Chaser, the dog who knew a thousand words. Chaser, I would explain, learned the meaning of verbs such as fetch, paw (as in pawing her toys), and nose (as in poking her toys with her nose). She understood the direct objects of those verbs by correctly fetching, pawing, and nosing her toys, including frisbees and stuffed creatures of all kinds. In addition, she distinguished between common nouns and proper nouns.

That is, if her friend and master, John W. Pilley, a retired psychology professor at Wofford College in South Carolina, told her to fetch a mouse, she would fetch any old cloth mouse, but if he told her to fetch Mickey, she reliably fetched Mickey.

“She could understand syntax,” as the magazine Bark put it. I would tell my newbie Latin students that if Chaser could distinguish verbs and nouns and grasp (literally) a sentence’s direct object, then surely they could, too.

Pilley’s book, Chaser: Unlocking the Genius of the Dog Who Knows a Thousand Words (2013), written with Hilary Hinzman, describes how the diligent professor helped his energetic dog to amass a vocabulary roughly comparable to a four-year-old human child. Chaser also exhibited reasoning skills that most scientists would not have predicted. If Pilley asked her to find an unfamiliar toy with an unfamiliar name, for example, Chaser identified it by the process of elimination.

Pilley and Chaser were featured on 60 Minutes and other news shows. Here, for example, she demonstrates her skills for Anderson Cooper. She was called the smartest dog in the world, and as a border collie, bred to be exquisitely attuned to human speech, Chaser had special gifts. But Pilley always insisted that all dogs have tremendous potential for learning.

Pilley’s book about Chaser is also about him, a sweet, determined, single-minded, disciplined man. A former Presbyterian minister, Pilley seemed to employ the same positive techniques with his psych students at Wofford as he did with his dogs. Long before Chaser, he brought his dogs into the classroom and assigned his students to teach them things. Some of them trained his dog Grindle to answer the phone, which he and his wife Sally had to unteach him at home. His dog Yasha learned “to pretend to jump over an invisible hurdle, balance a book on his back while walking, climb a ladder, and obey commands delivered by walkie-talkie.” Most of the student lessons, Pilley admits, evoke David Letterman’s Stupid Pet Tricks, but in the process of teaching dogs, the students learned about learning.

Professor Pilley died in 2018 at the age of 89. Chaser died a year later, at age fifteen, memorialized with an obit in the New York Times. She taught the world that dogs are smarter than we think.

I bet you’ve learned a thing or two from your cats and dogs. Comment below: Are they smarter than we think?

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Caveat Emptor

Photo by Stefan Rodriguez on Unsplash

My sister reports Latin-related Jeopardy questions (oops, I mean “answers”) to me, the former Latin teacher. She told me that Monday’s show ended with the category “Latin Phrases.” Here’s the clue: “Originally, this 3-word phrase referred to when a doctor or apothecary substituted one medicine for another.”

And here’s a hint. This same three-word Latin phrase was in the news in late 2019 during President Trump’s first impeachment trial. In that case, the phrase was used in its modern, non-medical sense. You’ve probably guessed the correct Jeopardy answer is quid pro quo. (Okay, “What is quid pro quo?) It means “this for that” or “something given in exchange for something else.” The impeachment argument, lest you’ve forgotten, was that Trump tried leveraging US aid to Ukraine in exchange for an investigation into Joe Biden and Biden’s son Hunter.

The situation was unprecedented, but it used quid pro quo in more or less its common modern sense. I give the barista five bucks, and she gives me coffee. It’s a swap, although sometimes the connotations are shadier than my Starbucks transaction, as we saw with the “perfect phone call” between Trump and Zelensky.

In ancient times, the phrase applied in a more literal sense. Physicians or apothecaries (old-time pharmacies) sometimes substituted similar herbs or medications, prescribing this for that, or quid pro quo. The ancient physician Galen (129-216 AD) writes of substituting one herbal remedy for an unavailable one and thereby saving a woman’s life. In a shiftier context, apothecaries sometimes switched medications to save money or by mistake. I had never heard of this earlier usage, common as late as the 16th century, before this week.

Take care, readers, when you approach the counter at your neighborhood CVS. Note that our word pharmacy, according to the Online Etymology Dictionary, comes from Greek pharmakeia, “a healing or harmful medicine, a healing or poisonous herb; a drug, poisonous potion.”

Yikes.

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Kid Lit

Note to subscribers: You receive my posts in your email. I see your comments on my blog page at my website (www.kathyewing.com/blog). That’s also where my replies to your comments appear. I reply to most of your comments, but you won’t see these replies unless you check in at my website occasionally. Also, the format doesn’t show whom I’m responding to, so sometimes there has appeared a random-seeming “That’s interesting!” from me, with no indication whom I’m calling interesting. From now on, I’m trying to begin my replies with your first name, so you can all see whose comment it’s a response to. This issue has presumably not been keeping you up at night, but I wanted you to know I’m reading your comments and (usually) responding.

Photo by Kimberly Farmer on Unsplash

Someone I know refers to well-loved books and easy reads as “palate cleansers” between more challenging works. Along those lines, I’ve been enjoying some children’s literature in recent days.

My friend Kathie recommended The Midnight Fox (1970) by Betsy Byars after we read the recent memoir Fox & I: An Uncommon Friendship, by Catherine Raven, in our book group. Like Raven in real life, Byars’s young protagonist Tom gets acquainted with a wild black fox on his relatives’ farm. (His fox friendship, I have to say, struck me as more realistic than Raven’s, whose account seemed a little implausible.) The book deals with some darkly serious themes about how we treat animals and nature, but it also has joy and humor. By the end, it reminded me of Charlotte’s Web, which is very high praise.

Now I’m reading local writer Tricia Springstubb’s new book Looking for True. Her two main characters deal with a lot of pain and upheaval in their lives but come together to help (another) canine, a sweet and scraggly dog they call True. It’s full of humor, quirky dialogue, and occasional heartbreak. This book is going to my great-niece for Christmas, but I’m sneaking in a read before relinquishing it to her, as I’ve done (also with Tricia’s books) a few times in the past. Last time, she was excited to see her book was signed by the author! As is this copy!

A children’s series also helped me get through the pandemic lockdown, the Swallows and Amazons stories by Arthur Ransome. My local libraries don’t own all twelve, so I stopped after, I think, the first four. Published in the 1930s, these books follow the adventures of some adventurous young Brits, who spend summers on the coast and sail, and pretend, and get into scrapes of various sorts. I had never heard of them until Robert Gottlieb, a renowned editor, praised them in his memoir Avid Reader.

I recommend all of the above for the young and not-so-young readers on your gift list. What favorite children’s books have you given (or would you give) to school-age kids?

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A Christogram

Photo by Josh Eckstein on Unsplash

I promised a while back to explain why Xmas is not “taking the Christ out of Christmas.” This spelling doesn’t need to be controversial or offensive.

The X may look as though it’s eliminating Christ. People may think that modern, secular, supposedly anti-Christmas folk don’t even want to say or spell Christ. In fact, the X is not eliminating Christ. It means “Christ.”

The Greek alphabet represented “ch” with the letter chi, pronounced kye and shaped like an X, as in fraternity names such as Sigma Chi (ΣΧ). As early as 1021, a scribe used the letter to represent the first syllable of Christmas to save space on expensive parchment. The poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge used it in a letter in 1801, and so did Lord Byron in 1811. It was in common use by the Catholic Church from about the 16th century on.

You may have seen the symbol pictured above, the chi rho, which puts two Greek letters together to represent Christ. The chi, or X, is superimposed on the rho, which looks like our P. These are the first two sounds of Christ. Emperor Constantine popularized the chi rho by waving the image on military banners. (I know. Eeeww.) That was in the 4th century.

Everyone has a right to her or his feelings and may continue to be offended by Xmas. Bear in mind, however, the term’s long, respectable history. It’s worth explaining to someone who’s offended, but then maybe stop arguing about a letter. As one of my sources points out, we probably should just follow the holiday’s namesake and turn the other XIK.

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Hummus, ATK Style

I like watching America’s Test Kitchen videos on PBS or YouTube. Sometimes the recipes are too fussy, with lots of steps I can’t be bothered with. But when Becky, one of the chefs, tells me to do something, I’m willing to try it, because she’s so cheerful and sincere and the dishes usually turn out well.

Her extra smooth hummus is an example. You have to boil the canned chickpeas for 20 minutes with a little baking soda in the water and then skim off the skins. When you process them, you add lemon juice and garlic and water and tahini in stages.

I can make pretty good hummus by dumping all the ingredients into the food processor at one time, no boiling required. But this hummus was extra good, I thought, and extra smooth, and worth the trouble. I had no pita bread but laid out some veggies and regular bread to accompany the hummus. Tonight I finished off the leftover hummus.

Here’s a hint about finding America’s Test Kitchen recipes. If you don’t want to subscribe to ATK, you can usually find their recipe filched by another YouTuber or website. When the recipe is featured in a YouTube video, of course, you can get it directly. Watch here to see Becky prepare the hummus and cut her vegetables into oh-so-attractive wedges.

What’s your favorite hummus? Canned beans or dried?

To review: Monday posts are about food, Wednesday posts are about language and word history, and Friday/weekend posts concern books or reading. Monday Meals, Wednesday Words, Weekend Editions. Subscribe and share!

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Truth or Consequences?

Photo by Nitish Kadam on Unsplash

How true to life should a memoir be? Is bending the facts or changing chronology allowed? How about just making stuff up?

Many of us remember the controversy arising from James Frey’s 2003 memoir A Million Little Pieces, which, after being celebrated and Oprah-fied, was found to contain exaggerations and outright fabrications. The Smoking Gun titled its Frey expose A Million Little Lies. Oprah, the media, and the publishing industry excoriated Frey, and he was cancelled. (For a while. He’s since published more than ten books.)

Other purported memoirs, stacked among the non-fiction, also tamper with the literal truth. An acquaintance of mine swore off Henry David Thoreau and Walden when she learned that Thoreau’s mother is rumored to have done his laundry during his supposedly solitary sojourn in the woods. Fiction writer Judy Blume admitted she invented parts of her 2002 memoir Breaking Clean. Bob Dylan is notorious for making stuff up about his past, including much of his memoir Chronicles.

When should we care, and how much?

About thirty years ago, I heard writer Annie Dillard address an Oberlin English class. Dillard’s 1974 memoir, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, is one of my favorite books. It recounts her sojourn, a la Thoreau, living alone for a year near Tinker Creek in Virginia. Her book explores nature, spirituality, good and evil, and the search for meaning.

The earnest Oberlin students peppered Dillard with literalistic questions. What was it like living alone? Weren’t you afraid? Did you get very lonely? How did you acquire food and other necessities? After a while, the author shocked her audience by saying, “You know, I was high most of the time I was writing that book.”

She went on to refer to the work as “a document,” something crafted, a creation, a work of art. “It’s not me,” she said. “It’s something I made.” She was telling them it wasn’t true. I could feel the confusion and disillusionment in the room, because I, in part, shared it. But I was intrigued, and I have always remembered that word “document” and the gesture that accompanied it, as though she was holding something in her hands.

In fact, Dillard wrote half of the book from her home, a regular house, with her then-husband, Richard Dillard, and the other half in the Hollins College Library. She spent many hours at Tinker Creek and kept a lengthy journal about her walks there, but she now describes herself as a suburban housewife during the writing. The book begins and ends with her cat, an “old fighting tom,” jumping through her window onto her chest, leaving bloody pawprints. This was a story she heard from someone else.

Calling Pilgrim a “memoir” is inaccurate. (1987’s An American Childhood is a memoir.) It’s a meditation on “mystery, death, beauty, (and) violence,” as the back cover of my paperback says. Did Annie Dillard have a responsibility to tell readers that her book wasn’t “true”? Should she and others who fictionalize nonfiction be held to account like James Frey? How angry or disappointed are you when you learn that dollops of fiction have been mixed into your nonfiction book?

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Calendar Musings

Julius Caesar
Photo by Ilona Frey on Unsplash

Last Wednesday you were left in suspense as to the etymology of dichalcogenides, a chemical something or other into which molecules can be intercalated, or (in the interest of saving syllables) added. Let’s dispatch dichalcogenides before moving on to other matters.

Dichalcogenides (a word I have copied and pasted rather than typed three times) illustrates the value of breaking a word down into its various components in order to understand it. If you focus on the syllable -gen-, you find the Greek and Latin word meaning “birth” or “origin,” as in genesis, genes, pathogen (giving birth to illness), and so on. Moving backwards to chalco-, we find the Greek root khalkos, meaning “copper” or, more generally, “ore.” You probably recognize di- as a prefix meaning “two,” as in dichotomy.

A group of elements in the periodic table (oxygen and sulphur, for example) are referred to as “chalcogens,” because they’re frequently derived from copper ores; they’re “born from ores.” A dichalcogenide contains two atoms of one of those elements. Di + chalco + genides.

You’ll have to consult your favorite chemistry professor if you’d like to delve into this further.

As to the calendar, where all of this started last week, you’ll note that the month we’re about to enter, December, is a misnomer, because decem means “ten,” and December is the twelfth month. You may have heard that Julius Caesar added two months in the middle of the year, July and August, thus throwing off the numbering system. That’s not quite right.

The early Romans began the year with March, celebrating Mars, the god of war. April may have come from the Latin verb meaning “open,” as in the opening of spring buds. May took its name from Maia, a goddess who represented nurturing and growth, and Juno, queen of the gods, gave her name to June. Starting with July, the months were named for numbers. July was Quintilis (5), August was Sextilis (6), and September, October, November and December were named for the numbers 7-10. Caesar renamed Quintilis after himself when he, and his sidekick, the mathematician Sosigenes, revised the calendar. Julius’s successor, Augustus Caesar, renamed Sextilis after himself. Later emperors tried to memorialize themselves as well, but the new names, such as Neronius, did not stick.

According to tradition, the Roman king Numa Pompilius in 713 BCE replaced March as the first month of the year with January, named after Janus, the god of beginnings and doorways. He also added February, giving us a twelve-month calendar but neglecting to correct the names of the last four months.

To correct the error, September, October, November, and December would have to become November, December, Undecimber, and Duodecimber. What do you think? Should we do it?

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The Real Pie Day

Thanksgiving pies, 2022

We had two family dinners on Thanksgiving, neither of them at my house. My contribution consisted of pies: a pecan pie and a pumpkin pie.

Making pecan pie comes naturally. My mom didn’t often bake, but when she did, pecan pie was one of her go-tos. She always said that it was simple to make but impressive in its presentation. It seems fancier than it is, in other words.

Pumpkin pie is pretty simple to prepare as well, especially when you rely on canned pumpkin. I’ve started from scratch by cooking the actual pumpkin once or twice, and it’s worth doing for the experience, but the end result is not noticeably better for all the trouble and mess, at least to me.

Holiday pies and other baked goods are omnipresent on Instagram and Facebook pages, but I’ve resisted posting my creations this year, except to accompany this post. Some years ago, when my generation began joining Facebook in order to keep up with their college-age or twenty-something children, such posts became a meme. Early on, I posted a photo of the pies I’d made for Christmas, and my daughter commented something like, “Facebook used to be for us to share social events and parties. Now it’s for our mothers’ pie pictures.” Which I thought was funny.

By this time, my generation has pretty much taken over Facebook. Not only pie pictures, but memes about the good old days. Remember when Hershey bars cost five cents? Remember record players? Remember Jello salads? Who still has an eight-track tape player? I may post the occasional pie photo, but I resist answering or reposting those nostalgia questions. Just reading them makes me feel old.

Tell us about your Thanksgiving. How was the company? More important, how was the food?

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Thanks

W. S. Merwin – 1927-2019

Listen
with the night falling we are saying thank you
we are stopping on the bridges to bow from the railings
we are running out of the glass rooms
with our mouths full of food to look at the sky
and say thank you
we are standing by the water thanking it
standing by the windows looking out
in our directions

back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging
after funerals we are saying thank you
after the news of the dead
whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you

over telephones we are saying thank you
in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators
remembering wars and the police at the door
and the beatings on stairs we are saying thank you
in the banks we are saying thank you
in the faces of the officials and the rich
and of all who will never change
we go on saying thank you thank you

with the animals dying around us
our lost feelings we are saying thank you
with the forests falling faster than the minutes
of our lives we are saying thank you
with the words going out like cells of a brain
with the cities growing over us
we are saying thank you faster and faster
with nobody listening we are saying thank you
we are saying thank you and waving
dark though it is

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Kalends, Calendars, and Intercalation

Our word calendar comes from the Latin word kalendae, or kalends, which named the first day of the month. (For a while, Latin used k instead of c before the letter a. Try not to pay attention to this right now. We have more serious obstacles ahead.) Those wacky Romans didn’t number the days of the month consecutively as we do, 1 to 30 or 31, but instead named three days of the month, based on phases of the moon, and counted the days backwards from those dates. Hence, the last day of November was not November 30 but the day before the kalends of December, or, pridie Kal. Dec. November 29 was the third* day before the kalends of December, or, ante diem III Kal. Dec.

Today, Wednesday, November 23, is ante diem IX Kal. Dec., the ninth day before the Kalends of December.

Are you still with me?

In this tripartite division of the month, the Nones fell about a week after the Kalends. Then came the Ides, which Julius Caesar’s assassination made famous (“Beware the Ides of March!”) It landed about the middle of the month.

There’s plenty more to say about this demented timekeeping, but you’ve probably had enough. If you want to know more, look here.

From my recent reading, I learned yet another derivative from kalendae. To intercalate is to insert a day into a calendar. You can see the connection to calendar, plus the prefix inter, meaning “between.”  The Romans used to intercalate days in February to adjust the calendar, which would get out of whack every few years. After Julius Caesar’s calendar modifications in 46 BCE, we have only one intercalation, February 29, every four years. We still rely on the Julian calendar.

Once again, the scientists among you are probably way ahead of me. A scientist, in fact, set me on the path to this convoluted post. Catherine Raven, a biologist, uses the word intercalation in her memoir Fox & I: An Uncommon Friendship, but in a different sense. In its non-calendar sense, intercalation can relate to inserting new elements or layers into a substance or system. In chemistry, a “guest molecule,” as it’s courteously called, can be introduced, or intercalated, into a compound. An editor can intercalate new chapters in an old book. In geology, layers of sediment are sometimes said to be intercalated.

Huh, I thought, when I had progressed about halfway down this rabbit hole. Kalends must have more to it than the first day of the month. I had never investigated the etymology of kalends. Turns out kalends derives from the Latin verb calare, “to announce.” Roman priests, observing the new moon, solemnly announced the kalends of every month from the Capitol. The original kalends were the announcement itself.

Announcing a day (calare) gave rise to kalends, the first of the month, which gave rise to calendar, which gave rise to intercalating (inserting days into a month), which gave rise to a more general intercalating (inserting something into something), such as intercalated discs in cardiac muscle or, you know, the intercalation of copper atoms into transition metal dichalcogenides.

So let me know. For next Wednesday, choose whether we should:

  1. Take a deeper dive into the Roman calendar;
  2. Examine the etymology of dichalcogenides;
  3. Find out why it’s not really insulting to write Xmas instead of Christmas;
  4. All or none of the above.

*Why the III (three)? The first day of the month was regarded as “1.” The day before that was #2, the pridie. The day before that was #3. I know, right?

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