Hoghenhine—A Fishy Proposition

Guest or host—we have all been one or the other or both. When planning either to travel or host travelers, many factors influence the length of the visit.  Are the hosts good cooks? Are the beds comfy? Are the guests charming? Do they arrive bearing gifts, fish perhaps?  Benjamin Franklin offered the frequently-referenced guideline in his witty observation, “Guests, like fish, begin to smell after three days.” The length of time, three days, makes sense in terms of smelly fish as a yardstick for worn out welcomes.

However, imagine becoming legally responsible for guests after a three-day stay! If this situation were the case, many hosts would surely insist on sending their guests away with the smelly fish. Evidently, in the Middle Ages, this far-fetched notion was reality. Recently, the word “hoghenhine” arrived in my inbox in the form of the daily word from the “Oxford English Dictionary,” defined as “A person who has stayed in a household for three nights, and so becomes the legal responsibility of the host; a member of a household; a dependant.” The word derives from the early Middle English aȝen hine (also oȝen hine), and literally means “own servant” or “member of one's own household.”

The “American Heritage Dictionary” does not define the word. Perhaps it became obsolete for a reason.  Imagine waiting until time to send a child to college and then sending said child to stay with grandparents. After three days, the grandparents would be responsible for tuition bills! Of course, the concept of servitude in the word makes becoming a “hoghenhine” less attractive as a way to spice up the wardrobe or get that new car.

The word itself has an animal nature to it, consisting of “hog,” “hen,” and “hine,” which initially reminded me of a hind or deer. Such company would become undesirable in many homes after three days, if not sooner. While pet hogs or hens exist, usually these animals are associated with the barnyard.

In addition, looking at these words as slang, a “self-indulgent, gluttonous, or filthy person” or “one that uses too much of something” is informally known as a hog. In the slang world, “hen” describes an “older woman, especially one who is engaged in conversation with other women.” This type of hen has the reputation for gossip. “Hine” does not have the distasteful associations of “hog” and “hen,” but it is not an overwhelmingly positive word, either. A hine can be “a servant; a farm laborer; a peasant; a hind,” according to “The Free Dictionary.” “The Urban Dictionary,” defines hine as “inconsequential: the inconsequential passing of time. That thing that happens when you intend to have a bath and eat some food then alas it's quarter to midnight and you've.... done... nothing.” Combine the parts and we get a gossipy glutton who wastes time, certainly not the ideal guest in most cases.

Did Benjamin Franklin know the concept of hoghenhine when he penned his fishy admonition?  Regardless, three days is plenty of time for hosting or guesting, unless the fish are really tasty and the guests shower every day.

Re-cur—Get another dog again?

I fell in love with basset hounds when I was in the ninth grade. Waiting outside for the school doors to open, my best friend and I noticed a droopy dog across the street. We became smitten and named it “Harold.” We made up a song about basset hounds to the tune of “Jesus Loves the Little Children”:

Jesus loves the little bassets

All the bassets of the world.

Their long ears and their big feet,

Golly gee, they’re really neat!

Jesus loves the little bassets of the world.

Soon, we noticed “Harold” surrounded by a litter of puppies, so we renamed her “Haroldine.”

My mother was strenuously anti-pet, so I did not adopt my first basset, Noble, until I left home. That basset was stolen from my yard one night. Years later, I adopted my second basset, Beaumont, while in graduate school in Carbondale, Illinois. Beaumont’s story is a sad one which I will leave untold.

When I got a job teaching college in Poultney, Vermont, I adopted Herself the Elf, my soul-mate basset. I spent many happy basset years with Elf. As she grew into a senior basset, I adopted Hermia. Hermia grew, Elf crossed the Rainbow Bridge, and finally Hermia crossed the Rainbow Bridge, as well, in 2007.

Occasionally, people ask me if I am going to get another dog, and I wonder if I get another dog if I will “re-cur,“ once again playing around with prefixes, as I enjoy doing. However, since I am a devoted basset lover, if I get another hound, I will not be “re-curring,” as the “American Heritage Dictionary” defines a cur as “A dog considered to be inferior or undesirable; a mongrel.”

However, the word “recur” as defined in the dictionary basically means a repetition or returning to something. So if I were to get another basset, I would be recurring in a way, returning to being owned by a basset or repeating the experience of living and loving a basset. But as for now, in exploring retirement I have chosen to remain empty-nested of bassets.

Hallux--you have two! Where are they?

When I was in elementary school I rode the bus to school. Our block had many elementary-aged kids living on it, so we spent a lot of time together on the bus and on the street. The younger of us learned many lessons from the older—lessons in life and school-types of lessons. In fact, I did not learn the word “epidermis” in science class; I learned it on the bus from the older kids.

Their teaching method, however, was not one I would recommend. One afternoon on the way home, the older kids taunted us younger ones with “Your epidermis is showing.” We wriggled and pulled on clothing, to no avail. Embarrassed, we made every adjustment we could possibly think of to our book bags and anything else in reach. Finally, as the bus neared our stop, they relented and told us our skin was showing. When it came time to learn about the word “epidermis” in science class, the kids on our block had a rueful advantage.

Recently, I learned another arcane term relating to body parts, this time not from neighborhood bullies but from a crossword puzzle. The clue was “hallux,” and I got the answer by getting enough letters from other clues to verify the word in the dictionary. Instead of manipulating your possible ignorance of the word, like the bullies on the bus, I have written a riddle to see if you can guess the meaning:

I am essential to maintaining your balance. I also provide a canvas for art. To children, I am known for going to market. What am I?

Here are the answers to the clues: I am essential to maintaining your balance. (Think of the digits of a foot.) I also provide a canvas for art. (Think of a cosmetic treatment of the feet and toenails.) To children, I am known for going to market. (Think of “piggies” in a nursery rhyme.) If you have not guessed by now, the “American Heritage Dictionary” on-line provides the answer: hallux: “the innermost or first digit on the hind foot of certain mammals. The human hallux is commonly called the big toe.” When I get a pedicure, I have a design painted on the nail of my halluces. Here’s hoping you do not stub your hallux!

NOTE 1: Frequently, nursery rhymes have hidden meanings which tell stories, such as of the plague or of political abuses. “This Little Piggy” is one of the few that exists simply to entertain children!

NOTE 2: I also learned a second vocabulary word on the school bus, this one from the bus driver—reprieve. We had been acting up and the driver threatened to report us to the school principal. The next day, she informed us she had granted us a “reprieve.” We learned a new word. We must have learned to behave better, too, because I do not remember the driver having to threaten us with unknown vocabulary words again.