Overflection, aka thinking too much

Recently, I resorted to sorting—actually re-sorting—memorabilia, an activity which caused me to reflect upon prefixes and suffixes, a topic which I mention upon occasion in this blog.  As I remused, regarding how affixes can alter meaning, I wondered if “flect” had ever been a viable root word.  My trusty Oxford English Dictionary tells me “yes.”

“Flect,” now obsolete, began word life as a verb of Latin origin meaning “to bend, turn” in both literal and figurative terms.  “Flect” lived a short life before becoming obsolete as a stand-alone word, but it lives on by combining its lexicographical DNA with certain prefixes.  The words which popped into my mind using “flect” as a root, in addition to “reflect,” include “deflect,” “genuflect,” and “inflect.”

A cousin of “flect,” “flex,” with both words descending from the same Latin word, lives on in modern usage, chiefly in scientific usage.

Regarding the word “reflect,” according to the OED the prefix “re-“ comes from the Latin, “with the general sense of ‘back’ or ‘again.’”  However, originally, “back” was its primary meaning.  The OED includes more information on the prefix “re-“ than you probably thought existed.  Next time you have a few minutes on your hands, check out the “histo-re-.”

Combining “re-“ with “flect,” the OED first lists a number of meanings, from “to turn or direct in a certain course, to divert; to turn away or aside, to deflect,” to the idea of throwing beams off of polished surfaces to “to return, turn back, after striking or falling on a surface.”  Because the idea for this blog began with the meaning of “to turn one’s thoughts (back) on, to fix the mind or attention on or upon a subject; to ponder, meditate on,” I am going have some fun with that usage here, first asking some Philosophical Word Questions (PWQ), and then reflecting upon the other words I identified which use “flect” as a root.

PWQs for “reflect”: since “reflect” for our purposes here means to think back upon, could “foreflect” or “preflect” mean to think about ahead of time?  If someone simply does not think, are they “nonflective”?  Parents, imagine asking your children after they do something thoughtless, “Are you nonflective?”  If someone thinks wrongly or wrongly understands, would they “misflect.”  (Honey, you misflect me!)  If someone thinks about something too much, do they “overflect”?  On the other hand, if someone does not think enough about something, do they “semiflect” or “subflect”?  Looking at a noun usage, if someone refuses to think, are they an “antiflect” or “antiflective”?

“Deflect,” the first additional word I cited using “flect” as a root, means “to turn aside; bend or deviate.  The prefix “de-“ means “do or make the opposite of; reverse; remove; out of (deplane); reduce.”  We can deflect anything from criticism to a foul ball at a baseball game hit into the stands.  PWQ for “deflect”:  can it also mean to straighten out if we are doing the opposite of bending or turning, as in “Let me deflect that unclear question” or “Let me deflect that pile of shoestrings.”

“Genuflect” means “to bend at the knees, sometimes as an indication of worship or respect but sometimes to grovel.”  “Genu-“ here is not a commonly used prefix, but comes from a Latin word referring to the knees.  PWQ for “genuflect”:  if to genuflect is an indication of genuine worship or respect, would “pseudoflect” better reflect the second part of the meaning, to grovel, with its implication of insincerity?

“Inflect” means “to alter (the voice) in tone or pitch; modulate,” with the prefix “in-“ meaning “in, into, within.”  We can inflect our voices to indicate many things from emphasis to innuendo.  As a teacher, it was informative to take a sentence and inflect each word separately.  For example, “There are chickens in the trees” can have all kinds of meanings, depending on which word you emphasize.  PWQ for “inflect”: could “outflect” refer to people who talk too loudly?

On a serious note, the idea of reflection is particularly relevant now at Yom Kippur, reflecting on the year past and thinking ahead to the upcoming year.  

NOTE:  In researching this blog, I learned that the lexicon contains skillions of affixes, with gadskillions of information about the history of these affixes.

Critters and creatures and varmints—oh, my!

Sometimes when I gaze out into the backyard, I see cute rabbits quietly munching on grass, scrunching their cute pink noses, and wiggling their antennae ears.  I think to myself, “What nice critters.”  Sometimes when I gaze out of the kitchen window into the garden and see those same rabbits quietly munching on my garden plants, I raise the window and yell, “Get out of my garden, you varmints!”  Clearly, my personal connotation for the word “critter” involves cute animals, but when those same cute animals offend me in some way, they become “varmints.”  For this blog entry, I decided to investigate the dictionary meanings (denotations) of these words to see how they fit with my own personal conceptions.  Did I ever learn a lot!

“Varmint” is the less complex word to examine, so I will start with it.  Because both words are slang or dialect words, I started with my dictionaries of slang and then moved of course, to the Oxford English Dictionary and the American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language.  Chambers Slang Dictionary treats “varmint” (or “varment”) very briefly, supplying two entries.  The first meaning of the first entry is familiar:  “any animal destructive of game” (in my case, vegetation). The second meaning of the first entry is actually complimentary and new to me:  “an amateur sportsman who has the skill of a professional.”  The second entry defines “varmint” as “shrewd, knowing” and “fashionable, ‘swell,’ dashing.”  Who knew that a smarty pants (see 22 May 2013) could be termed a “varmint”!  (NOTE:  Sadly, The Random House Historical Dictionary of American Slang project ended with the H-O volume.)

The OED also has two entries for “varmint,” both marked as slang or dialect.  The first entry is the more familiar “vermin; an animal of a noxious or objectionable kind.”  Of course, it makes sense that “varmint” is a variant of “vermin,” “animals of a noxious or objectionable kind.”  I am amused by the second definition, “an objectionable or troublesome person or persons; a mischievous boy (my bold) or child.”  Sorry guys, I copied it as I found it!  The second entry follows that of the second entry from Chambers regarding the amateur sportsman.  The next entry here, however, is more formal: “knowing, clever, cunning.”  The American Heritage definition of “varmint” is to the point:  “one that is considered undesirable, obnoxious, or troublesome.”  So much for compliments!

While my usage of "varmint" was appropriate, my usage of "critter" was not. Chambers treats “critter” quite briefly with a meaning that is new to me, whiskey, making no mention of any animal meaning of "critter."  “Critter” is a dialectical variation of the word “creature,” which also surprised me initially but made sense once I thought about it.  The Random House Historical Dictionary of American Slang in its first entry for “critter” gives “liquor, especially whiskey.” (Critter can make you fuddled.  See 12 August 2013.)  The second entry defines “critter” as an animal, especially a horse.”  The third entry defines “critter” as “a person, especially a man.” (My bold.)  While the RHHDAS is objective in calling a man a “critter,” the first entry for “critter” in the OED defines “critter” in “jocular” usage as “an ox or cow; a horse; a chicken” and in disparaging usage “a person.”  At least the OED is gender neutral with this insult.

The American Heritage dictionary in its first entry for “critter” goes back to its original meaning of “a living creature.”  The second entry gives “a domestic animal, especially a cow, horse, or mule.”  A “Word History” note gives some interesting background to “critter.”  At one time around America, the word “bull” was not appropriate for “polite” company, and so people developed many euphemisms to avoid saying the offensive word.  (That’s no bull!)  In the Northeast, people commonly used “critter” for this purpose.  The “Note” notes that back in Shakespeare’s time (Early Modern English, NOT Old English), the word “creature” would have been pronounced very much like the word “critter” and so “critter” developed a life of its own.

Originally, “creature” meant “anything created; a created being, animate or inanimate; a product of creative action; a creation.”  In submeaning c of this definition, the OED cites 1 Timothy 4:4, “every creature of God is good.”  (Submeaning d gives the humourous meaning of “creature” as “intoxicating liquor, especially whiskey.”)  In The Book of Margery Kempe, when Margery refers to herself as a “creature,” she is not being self-effacing but referring to herself as a child of God.

The OED (as usual) offers some fun forms of the word “creature,” including creaturedom, “the realm of creatures”; creaturehood or creatureship, “the condition of a creature”; and creaturize, “to make into a creature, to invest with creaturehood”.  (Obviously, Frankenstein engaged in creaturizing.)

Through all of this research, I learned that the term “critter” as I use it for yard rabbits, deer, squirrels, chipmunks, and raccoons is not quite appropriate, as “critter” more appropriately refers to domesticated farm animals.  My usage of “varmint,” though is apt.  I also learned to be careful tippling critter as I may become fuddled.  Finally, I learned that “varmint” can be a compliment.

Be-Booked--Don't forget to bring a chicken!

At the end of June, I took a side trip from exploring words in Be-Worded to exploring books in Be-Booked. (See “Be-Booked—Beyond Katrina” 30 June 2013.) In this blog entry, I will make another foray into the land of Be-Booked.

From the time I learned to read, I have been a voracious reader.  Somewhere in the clutter of my home, I have a certificate from 2^nd grade testifying that I read an enormous number of books during that school year.  I hold dear that proud car trip home from the public library during which I read all of the books I had checked out—a reading rite of passage, graduating from children’s literature to young adult literature.  During a spat with my best friend Charlene during high school, she accused me of using too many big words (because I read all of the time).

One book that I still hold dear to me--and the only one I still possess from my childhood—is Eleanor Cameron’s The Wonderful Flight to the Mushroom Planet.  My parents bought it as part of one of many Scholastic Book orders in my 6^th grade year—1968. The cover price is 50 cents. I have kept the brittle book in a plastic zipper baggie for many years now.

Originally copyrighted in 1954, the book presents a stereotypical family where Dad, a medical doctor, goes to work and Mom keeps house.  Young David, an only child, discovers an ad in the newspaper one bored night:  “Wanted: A small spaceship about eight feet long, built by a boy, or by two boys, between the ages of eight and eleven.”  The ad gives further details regarding specs and contact information.  Of course, young David is immediately enthralled.  Dad takes an adamantly skeptical attitude while Mom gently encourages young David to follow his dream.

David enlists the help of his best friend, Chuck.  They make contact with Mr. Bass, who needs a spaceship and boys to fly to his home planet, the Mushroom Planet, and save his people, the Mushroom People, from some strange plague which is killing their race.  At the last moment before David and Chuck blast off, Mr. Bass informs them that it is imperative that they take a mascot.  The frantic boys grab Mrs. Pennyfeather, a hapless hen.  I will not reveal the finer details, but Mrs. Pennyfeather comes through in true chicken form and saves the Mushroom People without sacrificing her chicken self to a deep fat fryer.

This book represents imagination and hopes and dreams and making the best with what you have at hand.  I will end this blog entry with the literary lesson:  Wherever you go in life, do not forget to bring a chicken.

Bronck's cheer

Back in the winter, on one of our Sunday drives, Richard and I headed south on route 9W.  About 20 miles south of Albany in Coxsackie, we passed a sign for the Bronck House and Museum, which was closed for the season.  I made a mental note that this destination would be good for a “Meme Day,” when I have my two grandsons for the day, in the summer.  That day happened this past Friday.

When I told 8-year-old Charley that we were going to the Bronck House, he made a connection between the Bronck family and the Bronx.  At first, I was skeptical, but as it turns out, his guess is correct.  According to “The Bronx in Brief” on the Bronx County Historical Society web site, the Swedish sailor Jonas Bronck and his wife, Teuntje Joriaens were the first European settlers at what became “New Amsterdam,” and later New York City, in 1639.  Sadly, Jonas died leaving no heirs, only a settlement, which ultimately became the Bronx due to vagaries of spelling.  But his name also gave rise to the ignominious Bronx cheer.

Bronck’s younger, poorer cousin, Pieter, and his wife Hilletje Jans, however, carried the Bronck name farther north, settling in the mid-1650’s at Beverwijck, now known as Albany.  In the 1663 the couple made their way down to Coxsackie, building what is now the oldest surviving house in Upstate New York.

As I considered this interesting but mundane historical information, I wondered why the infamous Bronx cheer originated in the Bronx.  The Bronx has developed a reputation as a hard-scrabble place.  Between 1900 and 1930 the population of Jonas Bronck’s namesake grew from 201,000 to 1,265,000—quite the dramatic increase.  In addition, at the turn of the 20^th century, the Bronx was a population destination for Italian immigrants.  The Chambers Slang Dictionary supplies two definitions for “Bronx cheer.”  As a noun, a Bronx cheer comes from “the uncouth manners of the Bronx, New York” and means “a loud, derisive noise, imitative of a fart.”  As a verb, a Bronx cheer means “to make a loud derisive noise, as if breaking wind.”

In my researches, I found three possible theories of origin for the Bronx cheer, which first appeared in 1929.  According to Michael Rudeen on examiner.com, the Henry Holt Encyclopedia of Word and Phrase Origins offers that perhaps the word comes from the Spanish “branca,” meaning a rude shout.  (I also found “branca” as an Italian word, meaning “branch,” as in branch of medicine or “grip” or “clutches.”)  A second theory holds that the Bronx shout originated in the National Theatre in the Bronx with unhappy patrons of the theatre.  Finally, probably the most widely accepted theory holds that the Bronx cheer originated with unhappy baseball fans in Yankee Stadium.

Regardless, I found it fascinating that Upstate New York has its own little slice of “the Bronx” 20 miles south near Coxsackie.  I also wonder what the Swedish sailor Jonas Bronck, father of the Bronx, would think if he knew the rude association with his family name.

As an added note, the question arises of how the Bronx cheer became known as a “raspberry.”  Supposedly, that term came from Cockney rhyming slang, in which “raspberry tart” rhymes with “fart.”

Re-un-be-fuddled

As the summer vacation season winds down, we have had many different people of various ages coming, staying, and going both at home in Delmar and at the cottage at Schroon Lake.  A certain amount of befuddlement—confusion or perplexity—has ensued.  However, in the social interactions with friends and family, a certain amount of fuddling—drinking or tippling—has followed.

In a previous blog, I wrote about how affixes—prefixes or suffixes—can change the meaning of a root word.  Sometimes, we are so familiar with the root word and its prefix that we do not realize that the root word is really a word in itself.  (See “Be clement or make like a tree!” on 18 May 2013.)

Most of us know the word “befuddle” as defined above.  Few of us probably know the word “fuddle,” which the American Heritage College Dictionary defines as meaning, “to put into a state of confusion; befuddle,” but also meaning, “to make drunk” or “to drink; tipple.”  The Oxford English Dictionary, however, focuses on definitions of “fuddle” relating to drinking and intoxication.  Evidently, sober confusion, or fuddlement, is a somewhat modern meaning for the word.

The OED lists some fun phrases (fun frases or phun phrases) for “fuddle.”  When people go out drinking, they are “on the fuddle.”  Perhaps, imbibers at a Phish concert would be phuddling!  After while on the fuddle, if one is not careful, perhaps one will “fuddle one’s cap or nose,” meaning get drunk.

A few interesting tidbits I picked up while attempting to become unbefuddled include the word “fud,” which means “the backside or buttocks.”  Perhaps, the Gawain poet might have edited out a line such as, “After fuddling fairly he fell on his fud” from Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.

Also, a “fudder” is “a tun of wine.”  In preparing for a festive occasion, one might purchase a fudder for fuddling.

I will end with some Public Service Announcements to clear up any befuddlement which might have occurred while reading this blog entry.  Please fuddle responsibly.  Do not drive while fuddled.  If you are on the fuddle, make sure to have a designated unfuddler.  Hopefully, none of this information will drive you to fuddle.  Now I am going to get up off my fud and go take a swim!  No, I think I will kayak.  No, wait, I think I will take a hike.  Oh, I am so befuddled!

Let's go a-suppering!

Returning from a three-day family reunion at Percy Quin State Park in southern Mississippi has given me pause to cogitate upon the important aspects of life, specifically food and the social aspect of sharing food.  My father at supper—our evening meal (as opposed to dinner, the afternoon meal)--used to cause my mother great agitation when musing upon the next day’s menu before we had completely enjoyed the current supper. These days, we tend to eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner, but what has happened to supper?  I pulled out my trusty OED to investigate the distinctions between lunch and dinner as the afternoon meal, as opposed to dinner and supper as the evening meal.

As mentioned above, growing up in the South, we ate dinner at midday and supper at night.  The OED defines “dinner” as “the chief meal of the day,” eaten by most at midday, with examples going back to the 13^th century.  As centuries passed, the “professional and fashionable classes” began to eat “dinner in the evening.”  “Dinner” took on the additional meaning of a “formally arranged meal of various courses” or a public meal to honor someone.  This past Sunday, the Baptist church we attended at the reunion kicked off their Revival with “dinner on the grounds,” a potluck meal served after the morning service.  However, when my husband retired this past December, his colleagues feted him with a “retirement dinner,” formally arranged and held at night at a local restaurant.

The OED defines “supper” as “the last meal of the day” and also as “such a meal made the occasion of a social or festive gathering.” (The word comes from the Old French souper.)  However, in recent years, I do not recall hearing of occasions such as a “retirement supper.”  Please feel free to weigh in with recent instances of festive occasion suppers!  The first example which the OED gives comes from the 13^th century and references the “passion of our Lord.”  The second definition for “supper” which the OED gives specifically refers to “the Last Supper,” the last meal of Jesus which also involved the establishment of the Eucharist.  “Supper,” therefore, has Christian connotations to it.

So how does lunch fit into the terminology?  “Lunch” is actually a shortened version of “luncheon,” which originated as referring to a snack of sorts between “breakfast and mid-day dinner.”  The word “lunch” in its early usage was considered “vulgar.”  (See my blog dated 24 March 2013.)  It is also considered a “light meal at any time of day.”

Given all of this information, I still prefer to eat dinner at midday and supper at night.  The OED does define “suppering” as “the providing or eating of supper; the entertainment of guests at supper,” so I will end this blog entry with this wish:  Sweet suppering!