Face Poking Don

Ever since the Germanic chieftain Hengist—or was it his co-chieftain Horsa?—landed on the shores of Celtic Britain in 499 and uttered the first word of Old English, “Hwaet!” English spelling has been the subject of much debate and grief. As an English teacher, I can attest to the creative spelling that some students resort to in their writings. Every reader of this blog—admit it—has a spelling story lurking somewhere in the past. In the old days of writing letters in ink on paper, a certain friend always wrote to me in red in order to discourage me from correcting the spelling, which I never would have done, but even if I had, I customarily graded in green.

To a certain extent, spell check has given relief to legions of frustrated spellers. However, we all know that spill Czech dose knot catch awl eras. (Nor did grammar check flag the preceding clause, by the way.) As computer technology advances, auto-correct has added another facet—sometimes funny, sometimes frustrating—to the challenge of spelling as it anticipates the writer’s thoughts.

For instance, my nickname among family is “Donner,” as in the reindeer. Recently, I dashed off an e-mail only to realize after I had sent it, that auto-correct had signed me off as “Donned.” I am not sure why auto-correct felt compelled to announce that I was clothed, or had donned clothing according to the second usage in the American Heritage Dictionary on-line, as I sent the message. Nor were any of the first usage definitions relevant, as I have not been “Donned” (or labeled as) a Spanish man, a college tutor or professor, a mafia boss, or “an important personage.” (I do know some very nice men named “Don,” though.) Now I pay attention when I sign off, whether I have donned clothing or not.

Recently, I had another amusing episode with auto-correct. I intended to write the word “Facebooker,” as in someone who uses Facebook, in an e-mail. Auto-correct suggested “face poker” for my consideration. Had the Three Stooges or some coder with a sense of humor hacked my auto-correct? How did the word “poker” become a viable suggestion for “booker”? Couldn’t auto-correct intuit that a “face booker” might be someone who schedules appointments at salons for make-overs, and provide that suggestion, instead? Or perhaps a “face booker” might be someone who schedules head shots for models or actors? Had I been writing about playing cards, “poker face” would have made sense. But FACE POKER?!?

Of course, the obvious solution is to disable my auto-correct. However, eye be leave aye well con tin ewe two sim plea take mai chintzes. Besides, thus far, I am still a better smeller—oops, I mean speller—than auto-correct, even if auto-correct has a weird sense of humor.

NOTE: Even though spell check suggested “Facebooked” and “Face booker” as replacements for “Facebooker,” the Merriam-Webster dictionary associated with my version of Word has no definitions for those suggestions, nor does the American Heritage Dictionary. The American Heritage Dictionary on-line could not find a definition for “mai,” suggesting “mai tai,” the rum cocktail, but the Merriam-Webster Dictionary defines “mai” as “a slow Japanese folk or theater dance featuring hand gestures—distinguished from odori.” Again, grammar check did not flag the second sentence of the above paragraph.

GRIN DING

Since the invention of spelling and punctuation, bloopers have provided untold amusement. Recently, I bought a tee shirt which says, “Let’s Eat Grandma!” above a horrified cartoon grandma. The caption below horrified grandma reads, “Let’s Eat, Grandma! PUNCTUATION SAVES LIVES.” An anecdote regarding nuances of spelling “burro” and “burrow” admonishes that those who confuse the two words do not know their ass from a hole in the ground. I still remember from my early days as an English teacher the student who claimed to have a “wench” on the front of his truck. (I will let you insert your own sarcastic comment here about women and hoods.) Even creative hyphenation can provide linguistic amusement.

Around the corner from my house, a man has a business in the back of his house. The sign out front reads “GRIN DING,” with a hole (not a burrow, though) separating the “N” and the “D.” I know that his business entails sharpening tools, but I still enjoy thinking about what exactly a “grin ding” might be. I know that a “wing ding” informally means “a lavish or lively party or celebration,” according to the “American Heritage Dictionary.” Might a “grin ding” be a type of wing ding?

To this end, I looked up “ding” and found familiar meanings, specifically “to ring; clang” and “to dent or nick.” Ringing or clanging a bell might elicit a grin, especially if a dinner bell is being rung. On the other hand, having your car dented or nicked might elicit an upside down grin.

When I looked up “grin” to see what kind of fun I might have with my “grin ding,” my findings quite surprised me. Come to find out, “grin” originally had a more somber meaning than “to smile broadly, often baring the teeth, as in amusement, glee, embarrassment, or other strong emotion” as the “AHD” defines it in current usage. Actually, the origin of the word goes back an Old English word which means “to grimace” or “to mutter.” Until now, I have always associated grinning with harmless fun (unless Jack Nicholson was the one grinning).

This finding sent me scrambling for my “Oxford English Dictionary.” The first definition of “grin” given, a noun usage, reads, “A snare for catching birds or animals, made of cord, hair, wire, or the like, with a running noose.” A subsequent definition as a verb reads, “To catch in a noose; to snare, ensnare; to choke, strangle.” At this point, my broad smile vanished, replaced with an urge to put on a turtle neck shirt. The fourth definition reads, “Of persons or animals: To draw back the lips and display the teeth.” This definition strips all overt emotion from the act of grinning, whether the grinner be human or animal.

Sufficiently horrified at the grim turn of the history of “grin,” I consulted David Crystal and Ben Crystal’s “Shakespeare’s Words: A Glossary & Language Companion.” In Shakespeare’s usage, “grin” means “bare the teeth, grimace, snarl.”

My grin parade got rained on. My enthusiasm for throwing a “grin ding” has dulled. The “Grin” Reaper has stolen my smile. I guess I will just have to grin and bear it.

NOTE: During a break from writing “GRIN DING,” I began reading a profile in the 1 Sept 2014 “New Yorker,” “The Troll Slayer: A Cambridge classicist takes on her sexist detractors,” by Rebecca Mead. I found this passage: “Beard observes that there is not word in Latin for ‘smile,’ and makes the striking suggestion that the Romans simply did not smile in the sense that we understand the social gesture today.” Mead goes on to quote Gregory Hays’ refutation of this claim: “’It may well be that the Romans did not smile, as we do, to indicate greeting or willingness to serve. But the smile of amusement, pleasure, or approval is probably as Roman as gladiators and stuffed dormice.’” Who would have thought that the history of smiling or grinning would be so fraught?