Idiotic Idioms

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Idioms are not really idiotic, but they don’t make a lot of sense when taken literally. The two words have a common etymology. Idios in Greek means “one’s own, private, unique.” A Greek idiotes was a private person, that is, an uneducated workman or soldier, one who didn’t take part in public affairs like an educated man. You can see how the word came to mean “ignorant,” and developed into our word idiot. An idiom is a word or phrase peculiar to a particular language. English idioms are our own, private, and unique.

I always told my Latin students the following story in order to explain idioms. Our professor in my college French class asked us to write a paragraph in French describing something we had done over the weekend. As he read one student’s effort aloud in front of the class, he stopped short and then began sputtering and laughing over one hapless student’s attempt. When he regained control of himself, the professor explained that the student described a picnic with his family, during which they roasted hot dogs. Hot dogs in French momentarily struck my professor as “dogs in heat” (though the French actually have their own idiom for that). That’s where my professor stopped abruptly until he figured out the English equivalent intended by the student.

Wheelock’s Latin, our text at Cleveland State, introduces idioms with amabo te, literally “I will love you,” which means “please” in Latin. The book’s first example is adapted from the playwright Terence: Da veniam puellae, amabo te, which translates, “Give pardon to the girl, please.” Amabo te implies highly conditional love: Do this for me, and I will love you.

Idioms are vivid and useful, until they become cliches. That’s when we stop noticing how cool they are. “Read between the lines” was at some point startling, but no longer. “He ran off with his tail between his legs” originally created a word picture, but now it’s just trite.

Speaking of tails, Terence provides another of my favorite Latin idioms a few Wheelock chapters later. Auribus teneo lupum in literal English means, “I have a wolf by the ears.” It’s roughly the equivalent of having a tiger by the tail, or being on the horns of a dilemma. Thomas Jefferson once described American slavery as holding a wolf by the ears. He wrote, “We can neither hold him, nor safely let him go. Justice is in one scale, and self-preservation in the other.” Tragic and telling that he saw the dilemma so clearly but never attempted to resolve it.

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Getting at the Heart of Blood Pressure

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Fortunately, when nurses take my husband’s or my blood pressure, they simply say it’s good. When the occasional nurse quotes the actual numbers at us instead, we don’t pay much attention. High blood pressure is not among our health concerns. That’s why we don’t know what the numbers mean.

The subject came up today when we visited the doctor’s office. When the nurse left the room, my husband and I shared our profound mutual blood-pressure ignorance, causing me to look the topic up. If you know all too much about blood pressure, first of all, I’m sorry, and secondly, maybe you should move on to another blog, or skip down to the etymology at the end of this post if your expertise doesn’t extend to etymologies.

The top number in a blood pressure reading indicates the force exerted against your arteries when the heart beats. The bottom number shows the pressure between beats. A normal top number is ideally less than 120, and the bottom should be less than 80. Of course, your blood pressure can also go too low, but that’s a rarer problem. These numbers oversimplify because normal numbers vary by age and gender. as this chart shows.

I’m hoping that by looking this subject up one more time and writing about it here I will henceforth remember the normal numbers and their meaning. It seems like something an adult person should know, which is probably what you’re thinking.

As always, though, the words themselves are the interesting part. The top number is called systolic and the bottom is called diastolic. I knew that much but didn’t know the words’ meanings. The Greek root of systolic means “draw together, contract.” That’s your heart beating. As you might guess, diastolic‘s root means “expand, dilate.” That’s your heart at rest, between beats, the chambers filling up with blood to be pumped out with the next beat.

The English majors and poets among you might know that these terms also apply to versification. A systole is a long syllable artificially shortened (i.e., contracted) in order to fit the meter of a line, and a diastole is a short syllable expanded, like your heart at rest, into a long syllable.

Here’s an example of diastole:

know thee well; a serviceable villain,
— (Shakespeare, King Lear 4.6.251)

The bold type indicates long, or accented, syllables. The “a” in serviceable is a short syllable, as we normally pronounce the word. Shakespeare cheats here by putting it in a spot where he needs a long syllable to fit the iambic rhythm.

I know, I’ve gone too far. You’ve lost interest. Don’t worry about the literary terms. Let your takeaway be that Shakespeare himself wasn’t above cutting corners.

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Next Time Won’t You Sing with Me

An abecedarium is an alphabet book, which we more commonly call an ABC book. The origin of the word, dating from the 17th century, is obvious from its spelling. It’s pronounced like the first three letters of the alphabet–ay, bee, see–followed by dairy-um. The slightly earlier, related word abecedarian refers to a person learning the alphabet, or, more broadly, anyone learning anything, i.e., a novice.

Because my twin grandchildren would be abecedarians, I created an abecedarium for them during the time my daughter was pregnant. It’s sewn from off-white canvas. Each letter is appliquéed to a page, along with an appropriate word. A is for, you guessed it, apple, and so on.

Because my sewing skills are primitive (you might call me a sewing abecedarian), this project saw me through many months of the COVID lockdown, from 2020 through much of 2021. As I worked, another safely solitary project glommed on to the first; I began chronicling what I was doing and what I was thinking. I was imagining those prenatal twins, gestating in New York City, while I was cutting out letters and troubleshooting sewing machine snafus in my Cleveland bedroom, and wrote them an adult book for the future, when they’ve fully mastered the alphabet.

The result, A Grandmother’s ABC, should be appearing in a few months. It’s in the last stages of preparation. This post is a heads-up. I’ll be sharing more about it in the weeks ahead.

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Sea Monsters on the Brain

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The hippocampus that’s not in your brain.

Everybody knows that medical terms, including names for parts of the body, are frequently borrowed from ancient Greek and Latin. Often, the terms derive from what the body part looks like. The tibia, or shin bone, comes from the Latin word for “flute,” for example.

The hippocampus, tucked into the middle of your brain, helps move short-term memories to long-term storage and aids in controlling emotion. In 1587, when Giulio Cesare Aranzi discovered and named this little item, he had no idea of its purpose and so named it based on its shape.

The hippocampus looks like a seahorse. (Here’s a great photograph to illustrate.) Hippo, as you might know, was a Greek horse. (Hippopotamuses are water horses.) The –campus ending meant “sea monster.” The Romans borrowed this word from the Greeks, which gave it the Latinate –us ending and plural (hippocampi).

Maybe you think seahorses are too cute for the “monster” moniker. I’ve always found them to be creepy, as well as cute.

(Thanks, Michael Whitely, for the idea.)

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Embarrassment of Riches

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As I’ve said before, sometimes people ask me how I choose what I’m reading. The easiest answer is to mention my book groups, which choose about eighteen titles a year for me. (One group meets every month, and one every other month.)

I’ve now read Ann Patchett’s essay collection These Precious Days three times. One book group chose it a few months ago. The other selected it for this month, and I finished rereading today. The first time was when it came out in 2021, because I read everything Ann Patchett produces as soon as I can. It’s a testament to her writing that These Precious Days gets better with each rereading.

My “It’s a testament” sentence above reminds me of “To the Doghouse,” an essay concerning Ann’s love for Snoopy and “Peanuts.” Once, she writes, a “smart, zealous, young copy editor” at the Atlantic told Ann to cut out the “it” at the beginning of a sentence, which Ann defines as a “syntactic expletive that has no meaning.” The “it” is a place filler, in other words.

Ann wonders if the editor would have counseled Dickens to find another opening sentence for A Tale of Two Cities (“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times”). The editor concedes that he would. And, she asks, would Snoopy have been allowed to write, “It was a dark and stormy night”?

“Not if he was writing for the Atlantic,” the young man replies.

The book is full of wisdom and grief and insight, but is also replete with amusing and witty passages like this.

After finishing These Precious Days, I stopped at the library to collect the books I have requested, some of which, I should say, I might not finish reading. I came home with a stack of five, recalling, as I always do, leaving the North Canton library as a kid with my sister and mom, happily weighed down with books.

Here’s how I chose the titles. Ann Patchett writes a whole essay recommending Kate DiCamillo, a children’s writer. I have heretofore read only Because of Winn-Dixie. Now I have Raymie Nightingale and The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane to look forward to.

I believe a YouTuber–either the Minimal Mom or Joshua Becker–recommended The 5 AM Club by Robin Sharma, a self-helpy kind of book that may or may not help my self develop the habit of rising earlier in the morning.

Reader and friend Fran suggested I read Why Fish Don’t Exist, by Lulu Miller, an NPR science reporter. This memoir, subtitled A Story of Loss, Love, and the Hidden Order of Life, sounds like it’s in my, ahem, wheelhouse.

The last volume is called Shortcomings, a graphic novel by Adrian Tomine. I don’t read graphic novels as a rule. As I checked this book out, I struggled to remember why I had reserved it. I often have this problem, especially if I’ve waited a long time for the book to arrive at my neighborhood branch.

With a little online sleuthing at home, I figured it out. I recently saw a Newshour interview with Randall Park (to Northeast Ohioans, by the way, the name of a very large, now defunct shopping mall), who starred in the sitcom Fresh Off the Boat and, by the way, had a brief but funny role on The Office as a temporary replacement for Jim. Park has now directed the film Shortcomings, based on the graphic novel. That PBS interview inspired me to request the book.

Now I have five books to read, to add to those already waiting for me. Just as when I was a child, I sat in the library parking lot for a while, opening each book to look at the authors’ pictures and read the opening paragraphs.

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What’s Your Bailiwick?

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We took a couple of weeks hiatus because our website was down. My friend Pete resuscitated us by updating some things (and I played hooky for a couple of extra days), and now we’re back and pretending it’s Wednesday, the day we talk about words and etymologies. (Thanks, Pete.)

The word bailiwick raised some questions in a recent conversation. When I wanted to verify the definitions of lunar eclipse and solar eclipse, Jewel, my beloved friend and esteemed editor, informed me that science was not her bailiwick. Perhaps it was in her wheelhouse, I suggested. When I asked what a bailiwick was, anyway, Jewel quipped that it must be a wheelhouse. Sadly for me, eclipses were in neither her bailiwick nor her wheelhouse. Lucky for me, the Lissemores came to the rescue, science being in their wheelhouse.

In my book about Father Dan Begin, I asserted that writing an entire book was not in his wheelhouse, an expression which provoked opposite reactions. One reader liked the expression but had never heard it before. Another reader recommended cutting it because it’s a cliché. What was a writer to do? Unfamiliar or too familiar?

Cliché or not, wheelhouse is one of those metaphors that most of us use without thinking. A wheelhouse is not a home for wheels, but denotes the part of a boat that shelters the person at the wheel. Pilothouse is another word for this space. The pilot, or steerer, is not concerned with the rigging and the stern and the gunwale. They are not in his wheelhouse. The wheelhouse is his or her bailiwick, in other words.

Bailiwick is a bailiff’s special domain. Wic-, an Anglo-Saxon suffix, means “village.” A bailiwick is the geographical area where a bailiff–an employee of a British sheriff–can make arrests and generally throw his or her weight around. Today’s court bailiffs have a smaller sphere of influence and may not even be aware that they have a bailiwick.

I would have surmised that bailiff derives from Anglo-Saxon, but I would have been mistaken. In Latin, a baiulus is a porter, and the verb baiulo means to carry a burden. A British bailiff’s job was frequently to deliver writs and summons, carrying those documentary burdens to and fro within his bailiwick.

Both wheelhouse and bailiwick describe your sphere, your area of expertise, what we might today commonly term your “comfort zone.” Comment below: What is yours? And which term do you prefer?

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Viva la Etymology

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I just learned about a restaurant whose mission includes “conviviality,” in addition to good food and service. Naturally, the Latin root word came to mind.

Vivere is Latin for “to live.” Think of some other -viv- words, and chances are that most of them will connect to life and liveliness. Vivacity, vivacious, vivid, vivify, the musical notation vivace, and viviparous (bearing live young, as opposed to eggs), are members of the family.

The prefix con- derives from the Latin preposition cum, meaning “with.” When you’re convivial, you’re “living with.” You’re lively along with someone. No doubt the restaurant hopes there will be lots of customers for you to be convivial with.

An exceptionally lively fellow diner might be named Vivian!

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Happy Birthday Cake

My twin grandchildren turn two today, and I got to make the cake for their party yesterday. They don’t eat sweets often, so they were pretty excited. The recipe seems like a good fit for a Monday Meals blog post today.

A little controversy preceded the choice of cake. Among the adults, that is, not the twins. My husband and son are particularly fond of Best Chocolate Cake from Betty Crocker’s Cookbook. It’s their perennial request for their birthdays. A few weeks ago, I baked one for my daughter’s birthday, and the babies (as I’m still wont to call them) enjoyed having some. My husband and son were convinced that if I didn’t bake this favorite for the little ones that the little ones would be disappointed. (Whose actual disappointment were they worried about?)

I replied that if you’ve tasted cake only a few times in your whole life, there’s no way you’re going to be “disappointed” in whatever cake you’re given. I fixated on carrot cake, another specialty of mine that I don’t get to prepare often, since Betty Crocker’s chocolate cake has elbowed everything else out.

To be clear, my interest in carrot cake has nothing to do with health and wellness. I wasn’t thinking carrot cake would be good for the kidders. I like it, I like making it, we haven’t had it for quite a while, and my son-in-law is especially fond of carrot cake. So that’s what I made.

This recipe came from a home-ec teacher at Lake High School in Hartville, where I taught forty years ago. It’s easy, although I’ve complicated it a tiny bit. There are also similar versions online, like this one. The shortcut is that you use baby food carrots instead of grating actual carrots.

3 of these 4-ounce containers

Ruth Kardos’s Carrot Cake

Grease and flour 9 X 13 inch pan. Preheat oven to 300 degrees.

Sift or whisk together:              Beat together:

2 cups flour                         4 eggs
2 teaspoons soda                     2 cups sugar
2 teaspoons cinnamon                 1 cup vegetable oil
1/2 teaspoon salt                    12 ounces baby-food or junior 
                                        carrots
Add liquid ingredients on right to dry ingredients on left and beat thoroughly. (Add 1 cup walnuts and 3/4 cup raisins if you like. I never do.) Pour batter into pan. Bake about 50 minutes in 300 degree oven. Let cool before frosting.

My revision is to add an actual grated carrot or two to the batter. I like seeing actual strands of carrot in the cake, and it adds to the texture and moisture. The salt is also my addition to the recipe.

For the frosting, beat together one pound of confectioners sugar (sifted if it’s lumpy), a quarter cup (one half stick) of softened butter, two teaspoons vanilla, and one package (eight ounces) softened cream cheese until smooth. Schmear all over the top of the cooled cake.

The target audience seemed to enjoy the “happy birthday cake.” Daddy’s quiches plus Mommy’s scones plus Grandma’s cake provided energy to play with the new toys, like this raceway from Uncle Doug:

What’s the best cake at your house?

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Imagining a Father

(Readers–I revised this post a little, not realizing that it would have to re-post and re-publish. Sorry you’re receiving this slightly changed version of this in your email.)

Imagination is the beginning of creation. George Bernard Shaw

As I continue to think about Women Talking, the novel by Miriam Toews (rhymes with saves) and the movie directed by Sarah Polley, I read reviews and watch interviews on YouTube. I’ve also checked out some of Toews’s previous books.

Swing Low: A Life (2000) is classified as non-fiction, though it’s unclassifiable. It’s a memoir created by Miriam but narrated (fictionally) by her father Mel. He was a gifted teacher and a quiet, cautious Mennonite man. In 1998, he walked out of the hospital where he was being treated for depression and killed himself. Miriam was 34. The book records his thoughts, imagined by Miriam, during his last hospitalization.

Mel’s voice in Swing Low is earnest, sometimes funny, and self-deprecating to a fault. Miriam seems able to feel, and make us feel, the grief and illusions of his sadness. He could infuriate his nurses, his wife Elvira, and his attentive daughters, but Miriam seems able to transplant herself into her father’s tormented mind.

As I read, I recall that the elders of the Mennonite community termed the sexual violence in their midst “the result of wild female imagination.” Toews slyly steals the phrase to describe her own Women Talking as “an act of female imagination.” That phrase also describes Swing Low, a book unlike anything else I’ve ever read.

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March 1, 2023

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March, or Martius, was the Romans’ first month of the year for a long time. Mars received this honor because he was the father of Rome’s founders, Romulus and Remus. (Their mother was Rhea Silvia, a Vestal Virgin raped by Mars, the god of war.) March became the third month of the year in about 153 BCE.

Our month March, with its warlike connotations, is related to martial, as in martial law, when the military patrol the streets. The Romans named the fourth planet from the sun Mars presumably because of its blood-red color.

I have always thought that march, as in a parade and as in what the ants do one by one and two by two*, also derived from Mars. I thought that parades and marches (also march music) have a military origin. You know, soldiers marching along in close order, on their way to war, or, we would hope, on their way back to their barracks.

Thanks to you and our Wednesday Word, I looked up “to march” and learned that marcher is an old French word of uncertain parentage meaning “to walk.” No military connection. Yet more misinformation I have passed on to students over the years.

*This morning, I watched some very militaristic marching ants with my grandchildren in this YouTube video many, many times. If you’ve forgotten that song, it’s actually pretty mesmerizing. Let me know what you think.

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