Great-full

That’s what Jonah says. He sniffs you and then half-giggles, “You smell great-full.”

And that’s how I’ve been feeling lately, except I would probably spell it “grateful”, because I mean it in the gratus (Latin) sense. Funny thing about the word “grateful”—in particular, it’s formation in the English language. Most adjectives ending with the suffix “-ful” begin as nouns. Beauty (n) becomes beautiful (adj). Regret (n) becomes regretful. But the word grate (a now obsolete word that means pleasing, agreeable or thankful) is an adjective. When you add “-ful” you essentially are turning an adjective into an, uh, adjective. Who says you can’t have too much of a good thing?

According to the etymologist Earnest Weekley, grateful is a “most unusual formation,” a true anomaly. The Word Detective adds that the formation of the word grateful is “just more evidence that English (or any language) is a quirky, juryrigged patchwork, not a kit where the pieces fit neatly together, and even the most common words often have strange stories.”

I know I probably don’t need to say it, but this is a wonderful way to describe Jonah. He is his own strange patchwork of quirkiness. Take the way he’s started to periodically cup his hand over his nose to breathe in a few big whiffs. When asked why he does this, he responds, “It makes me feel comfortable.” This morning he could not talk about anything but Inspector Gadget (believe me, I tried to redirect the conversation a half dozen times). He insisted he wants to get into a car wreck (which was the catalyst that turned John Brown into Inspector Gadget) so that a doctor could “cut me open and take out all my guts and put in the steel so that I can be the real Inspector Gadget!” I tried to impress upon J the pain that this would involve, but he was undeterred. I even went as far to (try and) burst his bubble by saying that Inspector Gadget isn’t actually real. J thought about this for a moment, then roundly dismissed my blasphemous statement.

I read a handful of blogs by moms of autistic children (most of them are in the Blogroll column to the right). They remind me we’re not alone. They also teach me a good bit about Jonah, helping me understand his sometimes strange behavior. John and I concur that J’s currently inhabiting a kind of golden age. He’s curious, and almost completely unselfconscious. He’s often quite helpful. He’s hilarious and affectionate and daring. Maybe he’ll stay this way. Most likely he’ll change. Who can say? I try not to compare his difficulties with those of other autistics, but a little bit of juxtaposition can’t be helped. His struggles are not severe or terribly debilitating. That said, they are real, and I try not to discount them or chalk them up to simply bad behavior. Set J up next to a “typical” kid and the differences can be stark.

But the people who love him (and there are many) love him pretty much exactly the way he is and do their best to meet him there. May it always be.

The Beautiful Ones

es, it’s been a long time coming, but I promised a Beautiful Words list, and here it is. To see where this got started, read What Makes a Word Funny. With the exception of the first example (and maybe also imbroglio), it’s interesting how the sound of these words correspond to their meaning in terms of beauty. A kind of literary onomatopoeia—though many also have a sinister edge. I’ve included a short list at the end of J, J and G’s favorite words of the moment, such as they are. And for the record, I borrowed heavily from Douglas Harper’s Online Etymological Dictionary, lest you think I spent weeks researching.

1. eviscerate: to disembowel. c.1600 (figurative); 1620s (literal), from Latin evisceratus, from ex– “out” + viscera “internal organs.” Sometimes used in the 17c. in figurative sense of “to bring out the deepest secrets of.” I suppose the bringing out of deep secrets could have a certain beauty about it, depending on the context. 

2. lorelei: 1843, from German, name of a rock in the River Rhine near Koblenz, Germany. In legend, a lovely woman sat atop it and sang while combing her long blond hair, distracting sailors so their ships foundered on the rock and they drowned. The second element of the name probably is Rhenish dialect lei “cliff, rock;” the first element is perhaps from Middle High German lüren “to lie in wait.”

3. imbroglio: 1750, from Italian imbroglio, from imbrogliare “confuse, tangle,” from in- “into, in, on, upon” + brogliare “embroil,” probably from Middle French brouiller “confuse.”

4. lithe: Old English liðe “soft, mild, gentle, meek,” from Proto-Germanic linthja-, from Proto-Indo-European root lent– “flexible” (cf. Latin lentus “flexible, pliant, slow,” Sanskrit. lithi). In Middle English, used of the weather. Current sense of “easily flexible” is from c.1300. I love how it’s tied into weather. I’m imagining a 12th century weather report…”Untídgewidere dægþerlic. Wearm ond liðe.” [Translation: “Unseasonable weather today. Warm and lithe.” Okay, that’s actually Old English because I couldn’t find a Middle English translator.]

5. lilt: 1510s, “to lift up” (the voice), probably from late 14c. West Midlands dialect lulten “to sound an alarm,” of unknown origin. Possible relatives include Norwegian lilla “to sing” and Low German lul “pipe.” It is possible that the whole loose group is imitative. Sense of “sing in a light manner” is first recorded 1786.

6. ravel: 1580s, “to untangle, unwind,” also “to become tangled or confused,” from Dutch ravelen “to tangle, fray, unweave,” from rafel “frayed thread.” The seemingly contradictory senses of this word (ravel and unravel are both synonyms and antonyms) are reconciled by its roots in weaving and sewing: as threads become unwoven, they get tangled. I like the way this ties in to imbroglio, pun intended.

7. ratatouille: 877, from French, first element uncertain, second element evidently touiller “to stir up.”

8. quintessential: c.1600, from quintessence, early 15c., in ancient and medieval philosophy, “pure essence, substance of which the heavenly bodies are composed,” lit. “fifth essence,” from Middle French quinte essence (14c.), from Medieval Latin quinta essentia. Loan-translation of Greek pempte ousia, the “ether” added by Aristotle to the four known elements (water, earth, fire, air) and said to permeate all things. Its extraction was one of the chief goals of alchemy. Sense of “purest essence” (of a situation, character, etc.) is first recorded 1580s.

9. wherewithal: “means by which,” 1530s, from where [Old English hwær, hwar, from Proto-Germanic khwar, from Proto-Indo-European qwo– (see who) + withal [“in addition,” late 14c., from Middle English with alle (c.1200), superseding Old English mid ealle “wholly”]. Okay, if you’re still tracking, an alternate definition states, “the means needed for a particular purpose,” which encompasses the where and the whole and the who. Kind of great.

10. nuance: 1781, from French nuance “slight difference, shade of color,” from nuer “to shade,” from nue “cloud,” from Gallo-Romance nuba, from Latin nubes “cloud;” related to obnubere “to veil,” from Proto-Indo-European sneudh– “fog” (cf. Avestan snaoda “clouds,” Welsh nudd “fog,” Greek nython, in Hesychius “dark, dusky”). Nuance is one of those words that demonstrates how something as tangible as weather can root meaning.

11. translucent: 1590s, from Latin translucentem, present participle of translucere “to shine through,” from trans– “through” + lucere “to shine.”

12. turtle: 1) reptile, c.1600, “marine tortoise,” from French tortue “turtle, tortoise,” of unknown origin. The English word is perhaps a sailors’ mauling of the French one; 2) “turtledove,” Old English turtle, dissimilation of Latin turtur “turtledove,” a reduplicated form imitative of the bird’s call. Graceful, harmonious and affectionate to its mate, hence a term of endearment in Middle English. I want to revive this one.

13. ephemeral: 1560s; Originally of diseases and lifespans; extended sense of “transitory” is from 1630s. From ephemera, late 14c., originally a medical term, from Medieval Latin ephemera (febris) “(fever) lasting a day,” from Greek ephemeros “lasting only one day, short-lived.” Sense extended 17c. to short-lived insects and flowers; general sense of “thing of transitory existence” is first attested 1751. Compare to Greek ephemeroi “men,” literal “creatures of a day.” I can’t help but think of Psalm 103: “As for man, his days are like grass; as a flower of the field, so he flourishes. When the wind has passed over it, it is no more, and its place acknowledges it no longer” (NAS, v. 15-16).

14. murmur: late 14c., “expression of discontent by grumbling,” from Old French murmure (12c.), noun of action from murmurer, from Latin murmurare, from murmur (n.) “a hum, muttering, rushing.” Meaning “softly spoken words” is from 1670s.

15. filament: 1590s, from Modern Latin filamentum, from Late Latin filare “to spin, draw out in a long line,” from Latin filum “thread.”

Gabriel’s favorite word (I asked, he answered):

outside: from out [Old English ut, from Proto-Indo-European root ud– “up, up away” (from various languages meaning “up, out,” “higher, upper, later, northern,” “all the way to, without interruption”)] + side [Old English side “flanks of a person, the long part or aspect of anything,” from Proto-Germanic sithas “long” (“long, broad, spacious” or “long, hanging down”)]. This may be my favorite word on the list for the way it says something essential about Gabriel. All the way to, without interruption—higher, upper, later—up, out—long, broad, spacious.

John’s favorite word (which is just to say a word he thinks is lovely):

bioluminescence: bio [from Greek bio-, comb. form of bios “one’s life, course or way of living, lifetime,” from Proto-Indo-European root gweie– “to live”] + luminsence [related to luminous, early 15 century, “full of light,” from Latin luminosus “shining, full of light,” from lumen (luminis) “light,” related to lucere “to shine”]. Luminescence first used in 1884. Prof. E. Wiedmann made a study of fluorescence and phosphorescence phenomena. He proposed the general name luminescence for evolutions of light which do not depend on the temperature of the substance concerned. [“Photographic News,” 1888]

Jonah’s favorite word (J substituted favorite thing for favorite word):

Charlie & Lola: Charlie, form of Charles, Germanic meaning “free man,” English meaning “man,” French meaning “free man.” Lola, form of Delores, Spanish meaning “sorrows,” Sanskrit meaning “moving to and fro.” Okay, maybe (as usual) Jonah knew exactly what he was talking about, though it seemed otherwise. Like Gabriel, his choice sums up his person: free man moving to and fro. I’ll leave the sorrows for another day… 

What makes a word funny

Three words that currently make Gabriel bust a gut (besides anything his brother says or does): coffee, booby, crap.

Gabriel’s riotous enjoyment of said words made me start thinking about the body of such words (etymology is one of my ongoing fascinations—in fact, when I began writing book reviews for Eighth Day Books, my co-worker / friend / boss Warren Farha had to gently remind me that I need not include a word origin in every blurb I wrote).

Upon searching out lists of inherently funny words, I found that at least one of G’s words made it onto every list: booby (1590s, from Sp. bobo “stupid person, slow bird,” probably from L. balbus “stammering.”) My own short list follows, complete with (minimal) commentary and corresponding origins. Because word origins involve history, and history is inherently complicated and messy (though incredibly interesting), some of the entries are rather long. Enjoy! Or if word origins aren’t your thing, ignore them altogether.

1. Flummox: 1837, origin uncertain, probably from some forgotten British dialect. Candidates cluster in Herefordshire, Gloucestershire, southern Cheshire and also in Sheffield. “The formation seems to be onomatopoeic, expressive of the notion of throwing down roughly and untidily.” So says the Oxford English Dictionary. Never let it be said that the OED editors lacked imagination.

2. Canoodle: “to indulge in caresses and fondling endearments” [OED], U.S. slang, of uncertain origin. The earliest known source is 1859, British, identifying the word as American.

3. Doozy: also doozie, 1903 (adj.), 1916 (n.), perhaps an alteration of daisy, or from popular Italian actress Eleonora Duse (1859-1924). In either case, reinforced by Duesenberg, the expensive, classy make of automobile from the 1920s-30s. This word is a favorite in the Jantz household. Particularly by my father, Gary, and grandfather, Leon, especially when used to describe a particularly bad storm.

4. Kerfuffle: “row, disturbance,” c.1930, first in Canadian English, ultimately from Scot. curfuffle, 1813, first used by Scottish writers, from a dialect word of Scotland based on fuffle “to throw into disorder;” first element probably as in kersplash.

5. Mollycoddle: 1833, originally a noun, “one who coddles himself,” from Molly (pet name formation from Mary), used contemptuously from 1754 for “a milksop, an effeminate man” + coddle, c.1600, “boil gently,” probably from caudle “warm drink for invalids” (c.1300), from Anglo-Fr. caudel (c.1300), ultimately from L. calidium “warm drink, warm wine and water,” from calidus “hot,” from calere “be warm” (see calorie). Verb meaning “treat tenderly” first recorded 1815 (in Jane Austen’s Emma). No offense meant toward my two lovely nieces, Molly Sue (currently loves the word “popcorn”) and Molly Anabelle (enamored with “meow”).

6. Rambunctious: 1830, probably altered (by influence of ram) from rumbustious, 1778, an arbitrary formation (perhaps suggested by rum (adj.) and boisterous, robustious, bumptious, etc.) from robustious.

7. Vomitory: 1595–1605; from L. vomitōrius, of or pertaining to vomiting, also an opening through which something is ejected or discharged. A vomitorium is an opening, as in a stadium or theater, permitting large numbers of people to enter or leave.

8. Skedaddle: “to run away,” 1861, American Civil War military slang, of unknown origin, perhaps connected to earlier use in northern England dialect with a meaning “to spill.” Liberman says it “has no connection with any word of Greek, Irish, or Swedish, and it is not a blend.” He calls it instead an “enlargement of dial. scaddle ‘scare, frighten.'” No idea who Liberman is, but I’m sure he knows what he’s talking about.

9. Rigmarole: 1736, “a long, rambling discourse,” from an altered, Kentish colloquial survival of ragman roll “long list or catalogue” (1520s), in Middle English a long roll of verses descriptive of personal characters, used in a medieval game of chance called Rageman, perhaps from Anglo-Fr. Ragemon le bon “Ragemon the good,” which was the heading on one set of the verses, referring to a character by that name. Sense transferred to “foolish activity or commotion” c.1955, but known orally from 1930s.

10. Pratfall: 1939, from prat “buttock” + fall (v.). Yeah, it means to fall on your butt.

11. Ornery: 1816, Amer.Eng. dialectal contraction of ordinary. “Commonplace,” hence “of poor quality, coarse, ugly.” By c.1860 the sense had evolved to “mean, cantankerous.” This is a funny one. What original meant ordinary has come to mean mischievous in a rather extraordinary way.

12. Logorrhea. 1902, from logos (word) + ending from diarrhea. Essentially meaning loquaciousness or talkativeness. More coarsely put, someone with diarrhea of the mouth.

That’s a fun one to end on. But I guess it brings us full circle to G’s love of the word crap. Stay tuned for a list of beautiful words in coming weeks.