Is the Pope a zucchini-head?!?

Why might I pose such an outrageous question?  While perusing The American Heritage Dictionary, 4^th edition (edition number actually does matter, like size in some circumstances), imagine my fascination when I found a picture of a Catholic bishop with the word “zucchetto” underneath.  In this case, “zucchetto” refers to the skull cap which the bishop was wearing.  Of course, I immediately wondered if “zucchetto” and “zucchini” were related, and indeed they are! Both “zucchetto” and “zucchini” are variants of the Italian word, “zucca” which means “gourd.”  In addition, zucchetto has a connection to the head, hence the skull cap.

The color of a zucchetto reflects the rank of the clergy sporting it, with lower ranks wearing black zucchettos, cardinals wearing red, and the Pope wearing white.  (Alas, no green zucchettos.)  Back in the olden days, when priests first committed to celibacy, the crowns of their heads were shaved, creating bald spots called tonsures.  The zucchetto kept the priests’ tonsured heads warm.

The word “zucchetto” opens up the possibilities of a lot of bad jokes and linguistic fun, as not only the Pope, but all Catholic clergy wear a skull cap that ultimately bears relation to a gourd that is one of the most prolific garden squashes.  During the summer garden season, zucchini becomes a god of the gourds.

 

As zucchettos are quite similar in appearance to yarmulkes, I wondered if a link exists between the two words.  However, in this case, similarities end with the shape of the skull caps.  “Yarmulke” is Yiddish with no clear word history.  Some tentative connections have been made, however, to a Turkish word meaning “rain gear” (yagmur, if you care to know).  Other connections have also been made to a medieval Latin word meaning, “cowl, hood.”  The function is also different, as a yarmulke originated and continues as a show of respect.

A Spanish proverb reads, “More things grow in the garden than the gardener sows.”  In this instance, the dictionary has provided a garden of delights regarding certain religious head coverings.  I will let you make your own decisions regarding the Pope and his zucchetto.

Vulgar activities!

            Vulgar—you have seen this word in the heading and you keep reading because you expect to find something titillating.  However, if you are looking for lewdness in this entry, read no further!  For many centuries, the word “vulgar” more commonly meant “common,” of the common people or of the common language.  By that meaning, when we engage in the commonplace, we engage in “vulgar” activities.

            Back in the time when English began rearing its head as a language, between the 5^th and 8^th centuries, the vast majority of people were commoners, as opposed to the very few who were of the clergy or nobility.  The language used for religion and law was “high,” but everything else was common.  “Common” did not necessarily mean “lewd,” but uneducated or lacking good manners.  In this context, Eliza Doolittle would be considered “vulgar” until Henry Higgins teaches her to speak and act in a manner appropriate to an upperclass citizen.

            Even though in modern English, we associate “vulgar” with its more off-color connotation, the meaning of “commonplace” still hangs around its edges.  Therefore, the next time you go out to shop for groceries or to engage in other commonplace activites, and someone asks what you are doing, you can validly reply, “I am engaging in vulgar activities!”  (Also, when you engage in the “vulgar” activity of posting about your activities on Facebook or Twitter, you can note that you are being vulgar.)

NOTE:  The American Heritage Dictionary includes a usage note on the changes in the meaning of “vulgar.” 

OVERHEARD while subbing in a 10^th grade English class in which students were drafting editorials:  One student complained bitterly to his editing partner that even though he was taught never to start a sentence with “and,” “so,” or “but,” that now it is acceptable.  He was outraged at this change in grammar rules!

“Furnace” and “fornicate”: vulgar activities

Note 1:  Originally (14th century) "vulgar" meant "common."  Over the centuries, the meaning slipped to "lewd." (More on "vulgar" in a blog soon.)  In this entry, we have a "vulgar" or common furnace linked to a "vulgar" or lewd activity, fornication.

Note 2:  Recently, I subbed in an English 12 elective.  While the students whiled away their time doing whatever, I whiled away mine doing a crossword puzzle.  When I got up to retrieve a dictionary to look up a word, a student asked, "You're not going to read that dictionary, are you?"  I replied not at that time, but I did enjoy reading the dictionary upon occasion.  This exchange caught the attention of the other students, so I gave them a brief version of the blog entry "Words, words, words" and of this blog entry.  They paid attention and even seemed interested!

            Growing up in South Louisiana, I found coping with furnaces a foreign activity when I moved to Upstate New York.  After moving from Baton Rouge at age 26, I lived in Carbondale, Illinois, for 5 years before heading Upstate.  At that time, my concept of furnaces was so vague that when I applied for renters’ insurance in Carbondale and the agent asked about the type of furnace in my house, I naively replied, “I don’t have a furnace.  The house has hot water heat.”  The agent exercised monumental self control in keeping a poker face and wrote down the appropriate information about my furnace.  However, I am sure that at the next insurance agent social she enjoyed sharing this amusing anecdote.

            Upstate, however, I was introduced to the fuel oil furnace.  My neighbors helpfully instructed me as to the details of ordering fuel oil.  As winter settled in, the fuel oil level was always at the back of my mind, and I hoped that just as a watched pot never boils, a watched fuel oil gauge never lowers.  Those who live in colder climes know that strategy does not work.

            And so, on one of the coldest days of the winter, the fuel oil tank ran dry.  As I shivered waiting for the fuel oil delivery person to deliver me from the cold, I pondered exactly what a furnace is.  The American Heritage Dictionary is a solid source of word history questions when the Oxford English Dictionary is not at hand, so I consulted my copy of the 3^rd edition.

I found that primarily a furnace is defined as an enclosure in which heat is generated.  I found that “furnace” entered English in the Middle English time period (1100-1500) and comes from an Old French word which comes from a Latin word which means “oven.”  The dictionary then referred me to the appendix and the Indo-European root of “furnace.”

            In the Appendix, I found that “furnace” is related to “fornicate.”  On the surface, it made sense to me.  Both generate heat, of sorts.  So I looked up “fornicate” and found that my guess at the common link was all wrong.  “Fornicate comes from a Latin word which means “arch, vault” or “vaulted brick oven.”  As it turns out, prostitutes used to turn their tricks, or fornicate, in a vaulted cellar or similar vaulted room.  The common link here is the idea of an arched room or enclosure, not of heat, although heat of different types is generated in both instances.

            Sadly, the heat generated exploring this question was not adequate to warm my study sufficiently.  Gladly, the fuel oil was delivered promptly.  Sadly, while I learned an entertaining etymological lesson about fornication, this day was not the last one that I let my fuel oil tank run dry.

Burglars in the Belfry--or Teachers

As a veteran English teacher, I was recently embarrassed to realize that I had misspelled the word “burglar” in an e-mail to a friend who also teaches English.  While I realized that my friend would be forgiving, I decided to have a little linguistic fun with my goof.

            In an effort to justify my misstep, I looked to the etymology of “burglar,” which I had spelled b-u-r-g-l-e-r, hoping that an earlier incarnation of the word was spelled similarly to my misspelling.  Regarding the etymology of “burglar,” much to my delight, I found that in its Anglo-Norman incarnation, the word was spelled as I had misspelled it, “burgler.”  In sending this etymological justification to my friend, I noted that if one changes the “r” to “n” in “burglar” spelled correctly, one gets “bunglar” spelled incorrectly, of course! 

Additionally, I found that the word is related to “burg,” which in medieval times was a fortified town, so it makes sense that a burglar burgles burgs.  The “-lar” probably came from a Latin form of the word, but I decided to see if the suffix “-lar” has an independent meaning.  While I did not find  “‑lar” as a suffix, I did find a Latin word, “Lar,” which is “a tutelary deity or spirit of an ancient Roman household”—in effect, a teacher.  It occurred to me that if one puts “burg,” meaning town, and “Lar,” meaning teacher, together, one can redefine a burglar as someone who teaches in towns.

However, my fun did not stop at that point.  I also found out that the Indo-European root of “burglar” means "high," evidently referring to the fortified part of burg.  Of the many derivatives, including “iceberg,” from the Middle Dutch bergh or hill, and “barrow” from the Old English beorg or hill, my favorite is “belfry,” from Old French

berfroi meaning “tower,” and from the German berg‑frij, meaning high place of safety.

By analogy, if teachers can be considered burglars, that is people who teach in towns, can our classrooms be considered belfries of learning?  Could we then consider our students as bats in our belfries?  And does academia as the “Ivory Tower” become the "Ivory Belfry"?

My spelling error proved informative and fun.  Next time I am asked my occupation, I will reply proudly that I am a burglar!

Note:  I originally wrote this piece around 2005.

Words

            Hamlet utters, “Words, words, words,” as a comment on how meaningless verbal communication can be.  Juliet similarly questions, “What’s in a name?  That which we call a rose/ By any other word would smell as sweet.”  Words, with all their different meanings, are infinitely fascinating—and dangerous.

            So what is in a word? The entry for “word” in the 20-volume grandparent of the English dictionary, the Oxford English Dictionary, consumes seven pages with 29 listings for its first entry and four for its second.  A word is not to be taken lightly, as some entries indicate.  “Word” is associated with the Ten Commandments, called the “Ten Words” as far back as John Wyclif’s Bible in the 14^th century.

            The origin of “word” goes all the way back to the Indo-European roots of English thousands of years ago and even farther back to Sanskrit.  Not surprisingly, “word” has been a basic component of vocabulary since language evolved.

            As an element of speech, the OED defines “word” as “a combination of vocal sounds, or one such sound, used in language to express an idea.”  Words are powerful.  Words bind people to promises.  Words are permanent.  Once uttered, words cannot be recalled, like faulty merchandise.  In Sonnet 34, Shakespeare reflects, “The offender’s sorrow lends but weak relief/ To him that bears the strong offences’s cross.” All of the words of apology in the world cannot erase the harm done by hurtful words.

            If you have a dictionary, take five or ten minutes to familiarize yourself with how to read it closely.  It is not as simple as you might think.  Then pick a word, perhaps at random, and look up and read everything you find about that word in your dictionary.  I guarantee that reading a dictionary can be as absorbing as reading a novel.

Note:  I began this essay before the internet and e-dictionaries became so pervasive.  While I prefer paper dictionaries, I imagine that “reading” a dictionary on-line can be just as interesting as reading a paper one.