THE WORD GUY
BY ROB KYFF
RELEASE: WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 17, 2007
Historic Rules
Q. We have seen signs that say "Historical Area" as well as "Historic Area." Could you please tell us which one is correct? -- Crowley via e-mail
A. If these signs refer to places that have significance in history, such as Valley Forge or the birthplace of "The Runaway Bride," they should read "Historic Area." That's because "historic" means historically significant as in "historic battle."
"Historical" is a more general term meaning related to history or occurring in history, as in "The historical research tells us people were shorter back then," or "There's a historical correlation between low interest rates and new home starts."
The difference is basically clout. "Historical figures" are any people who lived in the past, while "historic figures" are people who lived in the past AND had great significance.
Q. The man in the commercial says, "Six months ago, this woman was limited by her mobility. Then she got her scooter." I contend he should say, "She was limited by her immobility." Am I right or wrong? Every time I hear him say that, it grates on my last remaining nerve." -- Joyce Haley, Harbor City, Calif.
A. Gee, sorry to hear about the nerve. Hold on to that last one because you don't want to lose your nerve.
You're right. Surely the phrase would be better rendered as "limited by her immobility" or, assuming she's not totally immobile, perhaps "limited in her mobility."
But if you define "mobility" as "the state of one's mobility," a case could be made for "mobility." "Mobility" is one of those words, such as "health," "education" or "ability," that can sometimes refer to the general condition, which may be deficient. For instance, you might say, "She is limited by her health (or education or ability)," meaning she has deficits in these areas.
Q. The first answer in an interview published in today's Boston Globe begins, "Myself and the drummer Ralph Castelli met in 1979." What's with this misuse of "myself," anyway? It seems to be a virus that is slowly but surely spreading throughout the land. -- Larry Rosenblum, Sunnyvale, Calif.
A. People often use "myself" when they're not sure whether to use "I" or "me." Because "myself" should be used either reflexively ("I saved the best piece for myself") or intensively ("I myself never eat cake"), using "myself" for the nominative case "I" or the objective case "me" is a weasel-y way out of making a choice.
I'd rather hear someone use "I" or "me" incorrectly than resort to the wimpy "myself."
RELEASE: WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 10, 2007
TRYING TO CONNECT THE DOTS
Do "polka dots" have anything to do with the dance called the "polka"?
At the risk of being accused of dancing around this issue, my answer is "Yes, and no." I'll try to connect the dots.
Let's go back to the mid-1800s when the lively dance known as the "polka" was sweeping America. (Question: If crazes are always "sweeping" America, why do we have so much litter?) From ballrooms to barns, everyone was doing this infectious two-step, and Lawrence Welk hadn't even been born yet.
During the polka fad, clever marketers started attaching the stylish word "polka" to many products, including hats, jackets and even food items. If a similar phenomenon occurred today, we'd have "hip-hop dots," "hip-hop stripes" and "hip-hop ring tones." Hey, wait a minute. We do have hip-hop ring tones!
Around 1880, a dress fabric appeared with a design that featured colorful circles of uniform size and spacing. Desperate to capitalize on the "polka" madness, the company that devised this new style (probably a "dot" com startup) dubbed these circles "polka dots."
A lot of 19th-century polka dancing took place at energetic parties called "shindigs," a term that first appeared in print during the 1870s. Some word historians get a kick out of suggesting that "shindig" originated with dancers' kicking or digging one another in the shins. But, as the dancer being kicked might say to her partner, "Not so fast!"
Most etymologists trace "shindig" to "shindy," an early 19th-century term for a raucous party. "Shindy" itself is probably derived from the older British word "shinty," which in turn comes from "shinny," an 18th-century British game resembling field hockey.
This game must have been pretty raucous because its name apparently derived from players' calling out to each other, "Shin ye!" which might have meant "Kick them in the shins!" -- the equivalent of our modern-day "Head butt him!"
The origin of another term for a shindig -- "hoedown" -- is equally elusive. This Americanism, which first appeared in print in 1841, refers to a community dancing party typically featuring folk and square dances accompanied by lively fiddle tunes.
Some etymologists suggest it literally means "hoe down" -- a party that occurs when farmers put their hoes down to have fun. But others believe it's derived from the perceived similarity between the motions of dancing and those made while hoeing. And I thought I was a bad dancer!
RELEASE: WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 3, 2007
SUFFIXES ARE TIED UP IN ‘TRAFFIC’
Q. Why is the word “trafficking” spelled with a “k”? Why isn’t it “trafficed”? -- Jan Waldie, Webb City, Mo.
A. We insert the “k” for a sound reason. When we’re adding a traditional English suffix, such as “-ed,” “-er,” “-ing” or “y,” to a root word ending in “c,” we want to keep the “c” sound hard. So we insert a “k” to indicate this.
Thus, we use “trafficked,” “frolicker,” “mimicking” and “panicky,” not “trafficed,” “frolicer,” “mimicing” and “panicy,” because these words might end up being mispronounced, respectively, as “traff-iced,” “frol-ice-er” (or “frol-iz-er”), “mim-ice-ing” (or “mim-iz-ing”) and “pan-ice-ee” (or “pan-iz-ee”).
But when we add a classical suffix, such as “-ian,” “-ism,” “-ist,” “-ity” and “-ize,” to a root word ending in “c,” we want to keep the “c” sound soft. So we don’t insert a “k.” Thus, we have “clinic/clinician,” “cynic/cynicism,” “public/publicist,” “authentic/authenticity” and “critic/criticize.”
Q. Why do we call beef that has been cured or preserved in brine “corned beef”? -- Evelyn Horne via e-mail
A. You might think the vegetable “corn” had something to do with the name for this delicious deli item, either because the animal that produced the beef was corn fed or because corn was somehow used in processing the beef.
In fact, an old meaning of “corn” is grain or small particle. This meaning survives in the term “corn snow” for granular snow.
Because the brine for preserving beef was made by dissolving coarse grains or “corns” of salt, this beef came to be called “corned beef.”
Q. A former colleague was fond of using longer words than necessary and even making some up. For example, he often used the word “remediation” when “remedy” would have served. Is there such a word? -- Doris St. Onge, Winsted, Conn.
A. I share your suspicion of people who use long, fancy words when a simple one will do. These hot-air balloons include “orientate” for “orient,” “preventative” for “preventive” and “effectuate” for “effect.”
But “remediation,” a word first recorded in 1818, doesn’t always fall into this category. That’s because it means something different from “remedy”: the act or process of remedying something.
So, while it would indeed be pompous to say, “We should find a remediation for this problem” when “remedy for this problem” would do, there’s nothing wrong with saying, “The remediation of this problem will take years.”
Rob Kyff, a teacher and writer in West Hartford, Conn., invites your language sightings. Send your reports of misuse and abuse, as well as examples of good writing, via e-mail to Wordguy@aol.com or by regular mail to Rob Kyff, Creators Syndicate, 5777 W. Century Blvd., Suite 700, Los Angeles, CA 90045.
RELEASE: WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 27, 2006
THE LONG AND SHORT OF “SHORT-LIVED”
Q. I seem to be in the minority when pronouncing “lived” in “short-lived” with a long “i” (as in “alive”) rather than with a short “i” (as in “give”). Which is correct (or preferred)? -- Claire Palmer, East Granby, Conn.
A. The long “i,” as in “alive,” is correct, preferred and historically accurate. That’s because “short-lived” was originally “short-lifed” (pronounced with three syllables—“short-life-ed”). So the long “i” sound preserves the origins of this phrase.
And the same goes for “long-lived,” which is correctly pronounced with a long “i” sound: “long-lyved.”
But, alas, both these pronunciations are likely to be short-lived. When “v” replaced “f” in “short-lifed” and “long-lifed,” creating “short-lived” and “long-lived,” people inevitably began pronouncing “-lived” with a short “i” sound.
In fact, the American Heritage Dictionary reports that 43 percent of its usage panel preferred the short “i” sound, 39 percent preferred the long “i” sound, and 18 percent found both pronunciations equally acceptable. So your perception that you’re in the minority when pronouncing it “short-lyved” is statistically validated.
But, as someone whose last name is pronounced “kife” not “kiff,” I’m sticking with “short-lyved” and “long-lyved.”
Q. I was seriously taken to task by an old friend when I referred to my children as “the kids.” She stated that “kids” are baby goats, which I know and agree with. But the word “children” is defined in the dictionary as being “pre-pubescent,” and my “children” are all in their 50s.—Jane Valmy via e-mail
A. Your friend has got to be kidding. Anyone born later than 1700 who is bothered by the use of “kid” to mean a child needs to spend more time with kids, which would make the connection between the goat kid and the human kid readily apparent.
In fact, “kid” has been used to mean a child since the 1500s. Originally considered “low slang,” the term had become so acceptable by 1841 that no less a figure than the snooty Lord Shaftesbury could write of spending “a few days happily with my wife and kids.”
As for what to call adult children in their 50s, “self-absorbed baby boomers” and “too busy to call” are the top two phrases. “Children” is fine, too, because one meaning of “child” is simply “a son or daughter,” regardless of age.
I hope this spat with your friend will be short-lived (which doesn’t, in case you’re wondering, rhyme with “kid”).
Rob Kyff, a teacher and writer in West Hartford, Conn., invites your language sightings. Send your reports of misuse and abuse, as well as examples of good writing, via e-mail to Wordguy@aol.com or by regular mail to Rob Kyff, Creators Syndicate, 5777 W. Century Blvd., Suite 700, Los Angeles, CA 90045.
RELEASE: WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 20, 2006
ALWAYS USE COMMA SENSE
Q. Years (and years!) ago when I learned grammar and usage from the Sisters of Saint Joseph in a Brooklyn, N.Y., grammar school, a series of nouns used a comma to separate the nouns until the last one, where the word “and” was used in place of the comma. For many years now, both the comma and the “and” have been employed, violating the good rule that less is more. For example, in the good old days, a sample sentence might be: “The dog chased the cat, the mouse and the girl.” In today’s usage, the sentence is: “The dog chased the cat, the mouse, and the girl.” Why the second comma? -- Jim Larkin, Cromwell, Conn.
A. As unlikely as it may seem, those Sisters represented the liberal, easy-going attitude toward commas that prevailed for most of the 20th century. Back then, during the “good old days,” as you call them, most experts recommended omitting the comma before the “and” in a series of items.
The reasoning was that “and” indicated the gap between the items, so the comma was redundant. In fact, most newspapers and magazines still follow this relaxed approach, thus saving space and ink.
Ninety-five percent of the time, this makes sense. But sometimes the comma before the “and” in a series of items is necessary to prevent confusion.
When pairs of items are being listed, for instance, the inclusion of an extra comma ensures clarity. For instance, in the sentence, “We like Laurel and Hardy, Brad and Angelina and Penn and Teller,” the lack of a comma after “Angelina” might make you think Brad and Angelina are not together. Wait a minute. Are they still together?
Or say you were writing your order for a meal: “I’ll have the salad, macaroni and cheese and apple pie.” Without a comma you might get a plate of macaroni and slice of cheese.
Now consider this sentence: “The town council discussed education, recreation, and sewer problems.” If you drop the comma before “and,” then “education” and “recreation” become adjectives modifying “problems,” and the sentence means that all three areas had problems, not just the sewers.
So, when there’s no chance of ambiguity, I’d follow the good Sisters and omit the comma before “and.” But if there’s any chance of confusion, wear a belt AND suspenders: Use a comma before “and.”
Rob Kyff, a teacher and writer in West Hartford, Conn., invites your language sightings. Send your reports of misuse and abuse, as well as examples of good writing, via e-mail to Wordguy@aol.com or by regular mail to Rob Kyff, Creators Syndicate, 5777 W. Century Blvd., Suite 700, Los Angeles, CA 90045.
RELEASE: WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 13, 2006
EVEN WORD GUYS GET THE BLUES
I have a confession to make. I’m often flummoxed, flabbergasted and flapdoodled by certain pairs of words that sound alike but mean different things.
So here’s a quick quiz on my most insidious nemeses—perhaps the first time I’ve ever given a quiz that I myself would probably fail. See whether you can select the correct word in each sentence to prove you’ve mastered what I’ve muddled.
1. The (principal, principle) reason we’re suing them is violation of copyright laws.
2. Ned warmed up for his voice recital by exercising his vocal (chords, cords).
3. The injured hiker’s companion tried to (stanch, staunch) the bleeding.
4. Mary (pored over, poured over) the town’s census records looking for her ancestors.
5. Joe somehow managed to (lose, loose) the assignment sheet.
6. By the time they arrived, the field was (teaming, teeming) with spectators and players.
7. Goldilocks kept the tradition alive out of respect for her (forbears, forebears).
8. The careless driver (flouted, flaunted) nearly every rule of the road.
9. When the stock market crashed, all his money went down the (shoot, chute).
10.George had to (wrack, rack) his brain for a solution to the problem.
ANSWERS:
1. principal—chief, primary; not “principle”—rule, doctrine, truth 2. cords—strings, ropes; not “chords”—combinations of musical notes 3. stanch—to restrain, stop; not “staunch”—loyal, trustworthy 4. pored—to read or examine intently; not “poured”—to make a liquid flow downward 5. lose—to misplace, part with; not “loose”—unfastened (adjective) or to unfasten, release (verb) 6. teeming—abounding with, in plentiful supply; not “teaming”—joining, cooperating 7. forebears—ancestors; not “forbears”—to refrain from objection, to tolerate 8. flouted—disregarded, treated with contempt; not “flaunted”—to show off, display 9. chute—a tilted channel or passage; not “shoot”—a new stem or branch of a plant, act of firing something, etc. 10. rack—to stretch, torture; not “wrack”—to destroy completely, wreck
Rob Kyff, a teacher and writer in West Hartford, Conn., invites your language sightings. Send your reports of misuse and abuse, as well as examples of good writing, via e-mail to Wordguy@aol.com or by regular mail to Rob Kyff, Creators Syndicate, 5777 W. Century Blvd., Suite 700, Los Angeles, CA 90045.
THE WORD GUY
BY ROB KYFF
RELEASE: WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 6, 2006
THE BIRD IS THE WORD
How did two types of birds become associated with two calm seasons in late autumn to give us two beautiful words: “halcyon” and “gossamer”?
The English call the quiet days of late November “gossamer,” from “gos” (goose) and “somer” (summer), because it’s a mild season when geese are plucked and eaten.
During this lovely and tranquil interlude (OK, not so lovely and tranquil for the geese), small silver cobwebs often drifted through the calm air, and these too became known as “gossamer.” Eventually, “gossamer” came to denote anything light and delicate.
Similarly, the ancients observed that the two-week period near the winter solstice was marked by calm, peaceful days. (This was obviously before the practice of Christmas shopping started.)
They attributed this tranquil respite to the kingfisher, a bird believed to possess the magical ability to calm the wind and water each December so the incubating eggs in its nest along the shore would remain safe and dry.
The Greek word for the kingfisher was “alcyon,” which became “halcyon” in Latin. The kingfisher was associated so closely with these serene days that, in English, “halcyon” came to mean calm, peaceful, happy, as in the “halcyon days” of our childhoods.
Another bird that inspired a word is the crane. Line drawings depicting the diverging branches of a family tree reminded the medieval French of the foot of a crane. So they dubbed these genealogical charts “pied de grue” (foot of the crane). The English adopted “pied de grue” as “pedigree,” which soon branched out to mean one’s ancestral lineage.
The crane also figures in the pedigree of “geranium.” People thought its seedpod resembled a crane’s bill, so they named the plant for the Greek word for crane, “geranos.”
Did you know that there’s a bird baked in your “pie”? The original name for the bird we now call a “magpie” was simply “pie.” These birds were inveterate collectors, and they filled their nests with bits of ribbon, string and paper.
So when housewives started tossing a variety of meats, vegetables and other foods into a stew and then enclosing it in a baked crust, this hodgepodge reminded people of a pie’s nest, and they began calling it a “pie.”
The prefix “mag-“ (a nickname for “Margaret”) was added to the bird’s name around 1600, and we still call someone who collects things—or chatters indiscriminately—a “magpie.”
Rob Kyff, a teacher and writer in West Hartford, Conn., invites your language sightings. Send your reports of misuse and abuse, as well as examples of good writing, via e-mail to Wordguy@aol.com or by regular mail to Rob Kyff, Creators Syndicate, 5777 W. Century Blvd., Suite 700, Los Angeles, CA 90045.
COPYRIGHT 2006 CREATORS SYNDICATE, INC.
THE WORD GUY
BY ROB KYFF
RELEASE: WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 29, 2006
THERE’S NO PLACE LIKE HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS
Who first said, “Christmas comes but once a year”? Charles Dickens? Clement Clarke Moore? Dr. Seuss?
None of the above. As the new Yale Book of Quotations reveals, the English poet Thomas Tusser penned these words in his 1580 work “Five Hundred Pointes of Good Husbandrie.” Understandably exhausted, Tusser died shortly thereafter.
If your language-loving husband has 500 good points—or even only one—consider giving him the Yale Book of Quotations (Yale, $50). Its editor, Fred Shapiro, loves to expose quotational fallacies: Admiral David Farragut never damned any torpedoes, P. T. Barnum probably never said, “There’s a sucker born every minute,” and Paul Revere cried, “The Regulars are coming out,” not “The British are coming!”
For your colleague who advocates the “seamless integration” of “collaborative communications” and “customer-centric alliances,” there’s The Buzzword Dictionary by John Walston (Marion Street Press, $12.95). This candy jar of jargon reveals that “visioning” has replaced “brainstorming,” computer data no longer move, they “migrate,” and employees are now “living assets.”
If your niece is always wondering whether a marshmallow comes from a marsh, give her Word Histories and Mysteries (Houghton Mifflin, $12.95). She’ll discover that marshmallow was originally a medicine made from a plant that does in fact grow in marshes. She’ll also find that “terrier” derives from the Latin “terra” (land) because this dog was a “ground dog” bred to drive game from burrows. (Her next question: Does this make him a “land Rover”?)
Your cutting-edge cousin will be down with Paul Dickson’s newly updated edition of Slang: The Topical Dictionary of Americanisms (Walker & Company, $24.95). Its nitro chapter on hip-hop lingo reveals that “cake” means money, “crunk” is a blend of “crazy” and “drunk,” “kicks” are shoes, and “nitro” means very good.
Your high-tech, must-have-it uncle will enjoy High Definition: An A to Z Guide to Personal Technology (Houghton Mifflin, $14.95). He’ll find that a “candy bar” is a rectangular cell phone with no hinge, slider or swivel, an “evil twin attack” is setting up a fraudulent wireless access point near an authentic one, and to “Zapruder” is to analyze a video, frame by frame, to discover hidden details.
And your aunt who loves to fire off old-fashioned words will find new ammunition in Erin McKean’s Totally Weird and Wonderful Words (Oxford, $14.95). She’ll savor “couthie” (warm and friendly), “jiffle” (to fidget or shuffle) and “sleck” (soft mud or ooze).
May all these books bring “ooze” and “ahs”!
HISTORY WRITERS MAKE BIG SPLASH
RELEASE: WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 2006
Some of today’s best writing comes from historians and biographers. They splash the reader in the face with the feel of the past, sometimes almost literally.
Consider the opening sentence of “Mayflower: A Story of Courage, Community and War” (Viking, $29.95), Nathaniel Philbrick’s vivid account of the Pilgrims and 17th-century New England:
“For sixty-five days, the Mayflower had blundered her way through storms and headwinds, her bottom a shaggy pelt of seaweed and barnacles, her leaky decks spewing salt water onto her passengers’ devoted heads.”
Here Philbrick exemplifies two of a writer’s most powerful tools: detail and contrast. That shaggy pelt evokes the resilience of a buffalo in a Dakota blizzard, while the tempest above deck clashes with the serene spirituality of the devout passengers below.
Historian Hampton Sides deploys these literary techniques equally effectively in this description of mountain men during the early 1800s from “Blood and Thunder: An Epic of the American West” (Doubleday, $26.95):
“As the forerunners of Western civilization, creeping up the river valleys and across the mountain passes, the trappers brought smallpox and typhoid, they brought guns and whiskey and venereal disease, they brought the puzzlement of money and the gleam of steel. And on their liquored breath they whispered the coming of an unimaginable force, of a gathering shadow on the eastern horizon, gorging itself on the continent as it pressed steadily this way.”
This vivid passage hinges on the sharp contrast between the virgin landscape and the devouring beast of white civilization. Sides’ phrasing deftly conveys the perspective of the wary Indians: “puzzlement of money,” “gleam of steel,” “gathering shadow on the eastern horizon.”
Similarly, in a recent article for The New Yorker, historian Jill Lepore turns Noah Webster’s momentous intellectual achievement—the completion of his great dictionary—into a charming, human event:
“Seventy thousand entries and a quarter century later, in 1825, he wrote his last definition, much to the relief of his wife and seven children and, toward the end, the grandchildren who stomped up and down the stairs while he toiled away, A to Z, in a study whose walls had been packed with sand to keep out the noise of even their whispers.”
Weary lexicographer, stomping kids, walls packed with sand. Hmmm … hadn’t thought of trying that.
RELEASE: WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 15, 2006
PAY HOMAGE TO DIFFERENCE BETWEEN ‘SHONE’ AND ‘SHINED’
Q. Which of the following is correct? “He shone … or he shined his flashlight into the dark closet, looking for the source of the creepy noise.”—Art Wright, Storrs, Conn.
A. Neither is correct because the best thing to do when you hear a creepy noise coming out of a dark closet isn’t to shine a light in there, but to run out of the house as fast as you can, screaming at the top of your lungs.
In fact, the confusing past and past participle tenses of “shine”—“shone” and “shined”—have caused many people to run away screaming.
Use “shone” when you mean “emit light” or “excel, distinguish oneself,” as in “The sun shone for hours,” and “Mary shone in history class.”
Use “shined” when you mean “polished” or “directed a beam of light,” as in “Tom shined his shoes,” or “The guard shined the searchlight on the fleeing prisoner.”
It’s worth noting that the Brits use “shone” for the latter meaning, as in “Lord Blunderspout shone his torch (Britspeak for flashlight) at the crumpets in the cupboard.”
Q. Have you noticed that politicians, media folk and regular people now pronounce “homage” as if it rhymes with the French “fromage” (i.e. “oh-MAHJ”)? I always thought it was “AHM-ij.” What’s your opinion? -- Anonymous, Watertown, N.Y.
A. My opinion is that media folk (like me!) are regular people, too, but I agree with you about politicians.
Interestingly, neither of the pronunciations you mention—“oh-MAHJ” nor “AHM-ij”—is favored by most dictionaries. They want you to pronounce the “h” (HAHM-ij). One notable exception is Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate, which recommends the “h”-less “AHM-ij.”
Pronunciation guru Charles Elster notes that, since 1999, this “h”-less “AHM-ij” has exploded in popularity. He writes, “It is now rampant in broadcasting, and regrettably so in havens for the better-educated like National Public Radio.”
What’s fascinating is that Elster doesn’t even mention the “oh-MAHJ” (rhymes with “fromage”) pronunciation you cite, though he does notice the similar Frenchification of “reportage” to “rep-or-TAHZH” and “equipage” to “ek-wi-PAHZH.”
To my ear, the “oh-MAHJ” of the Chardonnay and brie set sounds affected. Pay homage to tradition and pronounce it “HAHM-ij.” But, if you must drop the “h,” at least make it “AHM-ij,” never the pretentious “oh-MAHJ.”
THE WORD GUY
BY ROB KYFF
RELEASE: WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 8, 2006
HOMING IN ON “HONING IN”
“Because you already know the story of Cinderella,” wrote Amy Krouse Rosenthal in a review of a new children’s book, “I’m going to home in on the particulars here.”
That prompted a reader to write me, “I think it should be ‘hone,’ as in sharpen.”
Ah-ha! We’ve caught a usage in transition, one of those rare, ephemeral moments when the verbal wind shifts.
By all traditional standards, Ms. Rosenthal was correct to use “home in on.” This phrase first emerged during the 1800s as a reference to homing pigeons that return to their roost by “homing in” on it.
During the 1920s, the phrase got a big boost from the new technologies of radio and aviation, as pilots “homed in” on a signal from an airport or base. During the 1950s, the phrase was repopularized by missiles designed to “home in” on their targets.
Soon “home in on” had become a general phrase for identifying a target, narrowing the focus or centering attention on something. Today, we home in on everything: social problems, terrorists, diseases and, in our real-estate obsessed society, home itself.
But, before we head for “home,” it’s important to acknowledge my reader’s concern. She may just be what sociologists call an “early adopter,” someone who’s the first to use a new technology or, in this case, a new usage.
For, indeed, a case can be made for “hone in on.” “Hone,” after all, originally meant to sharpen a metal blade on a whetstone, to gradually grind the metal to produce the keenest edge possible. Eventually, “hone” took on the metaphoric meaning of perfecting something or making it more intense, e.g. honing your skills.
Given the close association between “honing” or sharpening something and “homing” or zeroing in on something, it’s easy to see how the two senses have come to overlap.
The American Heritage Dictionary, for instance, includes this definition and sample sentence for the phrase “hone in on”—“To move or advance toward a target or goal. The missiles honed in on the military installation.” Sounds a lot like “home in on” to me.
So while some usage experts huff and puff about the “misuse” of “hone in on” for “home in on,” we average folks have proclaimed the nakedness of the emperor. In some contexts, the two phrases are so similar in meaning that they’re virtually interchangeable.
RELEASE: WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 1, 2006
HERE’S THE DISH ON “DITCHWATER”
A colleague surreptitiously slipped me a note during a recent faculty meeting. It read, “Is it ‘Dull as ditchwater’ or ‘Dull as dishwater’?”
Just why my fellow teacher would be thinking about dullness during a faculty meeting, I have absolutely no idea. But he did raise a fascinating question.
With some help from the websites Diacritiques (serendipity.lascribe.net) and The Word Detective (www.word-detective.com), let’s navigate these muddy waters.
The original expression was almost certainly “dull as ditchwater,” which first appeared in print during the 1700s. It referred to the brown, dirty and most likely contaminated water that sat in ditches along streets and alleys. But, as the practice of dishwashing became more common, so did the term “dishwater,” and people began to mishear “ditchwater” as “dishwater.”
Today “dull as dishwater” is the more common expression for anything boring, dingy or commonplace. For what it’s worth, “dull as dishwater” yields three times as many hits on Google as “dull as ditchwater” does.
In fact, modern technology has taken the phrase a step further. An opera critic for The New York Times recently referred to “Saint-Saens’ dull-as-dishwasher first act.” Whether this was a mental slip or whether the first act sounded like a throbbing dishwasher isn’t clear.
A similar dilemma arises with “guy wire” and “guide wire.” Which is it?
While some thin wires used in medical procedures are called “guide wires,” the correct term for a long wire or cable that secures structures such as towers and antennas is “guy wire.”
The “guy” in “guy wire” probably derives from the Dutch word “gei,” which meant a rope fastened to a sail. That explains why “guy” originated as a nautical term in English, referring to chains or ropes that hoisted cargo aboard ships or to wires that secured masts, spars and funnels.
(To me, one of the most frightening scenes in the movie “Titanic” is the sudden snapping of the guy wires tethered to the smokestacks as the ship starts to break apart. Sheesh.)
Eventually, “guy” extended beyond the nautical sense to any rope or cable serving as a brace or support.
The other “guy” in English, meaning a fellow or person, derives from Guy Fawkes, who tried to blow up Parliament in 1605. Thanks to the many crude effigies made of him, “guy” became a general term for any run-of-the-mill, dull-as-dishwater fellow.
RELEASE: WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 25, 2006
READERS KEEP ME ABREAST OF BLOOPERS
From near and far, come bloopers bizarre. Can you spot the errors?
1. [The Mariners Hotel has a] “newly opened brassiere.” No wonder men flocked there! (Spotted by Chris Ryan, New York City)
2. “Skewered pieces of meat, usually chicken or other foul, which are marinated…” I hope not too foul. (Carl Winters, Clearwater, Fla.)
3. “Sewing seeds is like making wishes.” But awfully hard to do. (Scott Barton, Bennington, Vt.)
4. “At one point the Czechs had been called for nine offside infarctions.” Talk about a hearty attack! (Paul Haberern, via e-mail)
5. “Michael J. Adams and Brian G. Keener Sr. locked in a hardy embrace.” The Hardy Boys? (Chris Geiger, Irwin, Pa.)
6. “I teach my children about history, and they learn about the four fathers in school.” Washington, Adams, Jefferson and Franklin? (Lois Tindall, Trenton, N.J.)
7. “All of Hartford must play a roll in making Hartford a better and safer place.” Especially the bakers. (Janice Williams, Hartford, Conn.)
8. “The couple will renew their vowels at 4 p.m.” O, I love U? (Susan Worthington, Lexington, Mo.)
9. “We will have a bond fire later in the evening.” And maybe we’ll burn some stocks, too! (Bill Hassoldt, via e-mail)
10.“His father was a tool and dye inspector.” That blue is too dark! (Frank Fronczek, Baton Rouge, La.)
11.“There were marital pressures, both personal and financial, before May 17, but the incident only exasperated them.” (Doris Frost, Berlin, Conn.)
12. “Stepherson has cautioned players and parents about the pratfalls of pursuing basketball stardom.” Well, you can get knocked on your keister. (Miriam Neiman, Newington, Conn.)
13. “[The singer] interspersed his songs with antidotes, quips and asides.” Music doth cure all. (Mark Lander, Old Lyme, Conn.)
14. “Head towards the middle to stand among the skeletal remains of tree trunks, some of which contain blue herring nests.” Flying fish? (Mrs. Robert Cerwonka, Potsdam, N.Y.)
15. “A fault has developed in the air conditioning. This is being investigated. Please bare with me in the meantime.” Well, that’s one way of keeping cool. (Andrew, via e-mail)
16. “He’s a real trooper.” Smokey Bear hat, uniform, badge. (Brock Putnam, Litchfield, Conn.)
CORRECTIONS:
1. brasserie 2. fowl 3. sowing 4. infractions 5. hearty 6. forefathers 7. role 8. vows 9. bonfire 10. tool and die 11. exacerbated 12. pitfalls 13. anecdotes 14. blue heron 15. bear with me 16. trouper
THE WORD GUY
BY ROB KYFF
RELEASE: WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 18, 2006
IT’S TIME TO PLAY GUESS THE WORD ORIGIN!
Does a quarantine have anything to do with a quarry? You’ll find out as you seek the correct derivation of each of these words:
1. precocious (exhibiting mature qualities at an early age): a. variant of “precious” b. compression of “pre-conscious” c. from a Latin term meaning “to cook beforehand” d. from a Greek term meaning “annoying”
2. bugle (horn): a. from the Latin “buculus” (young steer) b. from “boogle” (to startle) c. a shortening of “beautiful” d. a blend of “beautiful” and “gull”
3. savage (wild, untamed): a. from “Saxon,” a Germanic tribe b. from “savanna” (a tropical grassland) c. a variant of “ravage” d. from the Latin “silva” (forest)
4. quarantine (imposed isolation): a. period of non-contact after a quarrel b. from “quarantine,” a four-masted ship for sick sailors c. from the Latin “quadraginta” (forty) d. from “quarry,” a rocky pit where ill people were often confined
5. cantaloupe (muskmelon): a. from Cantalopo, a stock character in commedia dell’arte who threw fruit at a fleeing daughter as he yelled, “Cantelope!” b. from Cantalupo, a papal villa in Italy c. from the Caribbean island of Guadeloupe d. from George Cantaloupe, who first cultivated the fruit
6. junket (trip by a public official at taxpayers’ expense): a. from “junk,” a Chinese ship b. from “Junkers,” Prussian aristocrats c. from the notion that such trips are “junky,” that is, illegitimate d. from “juncus,” the Latin word for rush or reed
ANSWERS:
1. c—“Precocious” derives from the Latin prefix “prae-“ (before) and “coquere” (to cook). A child who is precocious is “cooked early.”
2. a—“Buculus,” the same word that gave us “bucolic” (place where steers live), entered French as “bugle” (ox). The first instruments made from the horns of an ox were called “bugle-horns.”
3. d—Wild animals and people were named for the forests where they lived. The Latin “silva” became “sauvage” in Middle French and “savage” in English.
4. c—Originally, a ship suspected of carrying a dangerous disease was kept in isolation for 40 days.
5. b—Cantaloupes, originally from northern India, were first grown successfully in Europe at Cantalupo, the Pope’s country estate near Rome.
6. d—Baskets woven from rushes or reeds were called “junkets,” so this term was also applied to the sweet desserts carried in them. Soon “junkets” was extended to the parties and picnics to which desserts were taken and then to the extravagant expeditions of government officials.
THE WORD GUY
BY ROB KYFF
RELEASE: WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 11, 2006
DON’T GIVE AWAY THE ENDING
All’s well that ends well, but some words don’t end well at all.
Re”ed”ucation: I was drawing water from a cafeteria beverage machine the other day, when I noticed this label over the dispenser: “Filter Water.”
Did I really want to drink water taken from the inside of a filter? Eeeewww!
The use of “Filter Water” for “Filtered Water” is yet another example of what grammarians call the “clipped participle”—the dropping of “ed” or “d” at the end of verbs used as adjectives, as in “oversize load” for “oversized load,” “fine-tooth comb” for “fine-toothed comb,” “high-back chair” for “high-backed chair” and “charter plane” for “chartered plane.”
For some reason, terms for food and drink seem particularly susceptible to such clipping: “ice tea,” “toss salad,” “skim milk,” “cream cheese,” “filter water.” The dropping of the “d” sound in spoken English is understandable, and sometimes it becomes acceptable even in written English. “Ice cream,” for instance, was originally “iced cream.”
Progress is progress, but sometimes I wish English were more like football, where clipping is illegal and tight ends can be secured by good “D.”
The “ness” monster: Why are so many people adding the suffix “ness” to words that already have perfectly good noun forms? They use “clearness” for “clarity,” “famousness” for “fame” and “originalness” for “originality.”
Ken Twombly of Middlefield, Conn., has recently spotted some monstrous nessies: “the courageousness of our soldiers” (courage); “the zealousness of the protestors” (zeal); “my heart is filled with hopefulness” (hope).
True, the “ness” suffix sometimes denotes a key distinction. “Sensibleness,” for instance, means rationality, while “sensibility” implies emotional receptivity. “Considerateness” means thoughtfulness of others’ feelings, while “consideration” is a more general term for continuous and careful thought. And, yes, we sometimes add “ness” to nouns for a playful effect: “familyness,” “accidentalness,” “Al Goreness.”
But why concoct a long freight train of a word, with “ness” as the caboose, when all we need is a powerful locomotive noun (“wittiness” for “wit,” “hilariousness” for “hilarity”)? I blame it on the widespread but mistaken assumption that a longer word is always better than a shorter one. Call it polysyllabicness.
RELEASE: WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 4, 2006
THERE ALWAYS SEEM TO BE QUESTIONS
Q. Here's our latest quandary; it regards the following quotation attributed to Abraham Lincoln: "No matter how much cats fight, there always seem(s) to be plenty of kittens." My husband thought it should be "seems," but "seem" sounds OK to me, but I don't know why. I find it quoted on the Internet both ways, which doesn't help matters! -- Sharon Hauser, San Jose, Calif.
A. Screeching grammarians -- and even some husbands and wives -- might fight like cats over this distinction, but there's no need for such caterwauling.
In sentences such as this one, where "there" functions as an anticipatory or "dummy" subject, the true subject of the verb is the noun following the verb. So we say, "There always seems to be a problem" or "there always seem to be problems." So far, so good.
But Abe has thrown us a curveball by choosing a subject ("plenty") that can be either singular or plural, depending on its meaning. While you would say, for instance, "there always seems to be plenty of money" because here "plenty" means a single amount, you would also say "there always seem to be plenty of kittens" because here "plenty" means many individual items.
So the prepositional phrases following the true subjects ("money," "kittens") enrich the meaning and help us determine the singularity or plurality of "plenty." Take them out, and you have to determine the choice of verb by context alone, e.g. "Do we have enough food?" "There seems to be plenty," and "Do we have enough chairs?" "There seem to be plenty."
Q. In the newspaper, I read a story of an English woman who talked of "mossies" biting her. I can't find the word in my dictionary, and moss doesn't bite, so what is it? Possibly slang? -- Grandma Marie via e-mail
A. Why am I picturing a horror movie titled "Attack of the Killer Moss"? "Mossies" puzzled me, too, so I consulted the wonderfully comprehensive (and expensive) New Partridge Dictionary of Slang and Unconventional English (Routledge, $220).
"Mossie" (rhymes with "ozzie") is Australian slang for "mosquito." It first appeared in print during the 1930s and is alternatively spelled "mozzie" or "mozzy." Wrote Frank Hardy in 1965, "The mossies are big in the Territory," while Andy McNab wrote in 1995, "Underneath that [tarp] you can put your mozzie net."
When it comes to mossies, there always seem to be plenty.
RELEASE: WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 27, 2006
BEHOLD THE HIGHS AND LOWS OF ENGLISH
Q. In a recent letter to the editor, the author used the phrase "low and behold." Shouldn't it be "lo and behold"? Can you explain the derivation of this phrase? -- Jan Birnie, Enfield, Conn.
A. Well, I suppose if you were pointing out an old shipwreck visible only at low tide, you could proclaim "low and behold," but you're right; the phrase, correctly, is "lo and behold."
"Lo" is an old-fashioned word; in fact, the spellchecker on my computer didn't even recognize it. "Lo" means "look; see; behold." It's used in the Bible a lot, as in Matthew 24:23: "Lo, here is Christ."
The derivation of "lo" is uncertain. Some dictionaries say it may be a shortening of the Middle English imperative "loken," meaning "look."
Q. What is correct to use … "theater" or "theatre" … and why? -- Blaine Greenfield, Trenton, N.J.
A. The simple answer is that "theater" is the American spelling and "theatre" is the British spelling, as in "center/centre" and "meter/metre." Noah Webster's 1806 dictionary reported this American tendency to transpose the British "re" to "er."
Etymologically, the British "theatre" has the better claim to legitimacy, for this word derives from the Greek "theatron" through the Latin "theatrum." Given the recent infiltration of British words ("vet" as a verb), phrases ("suss out") and spellings ("travelling") into American English, it's not surprising to see "theatre" pop up more and more often on this side of the pond. But it still bears a whiff of pretension.
Q. I would like to know if the word "of" is no longer used after the word "couple," as in the phrase "I had a couple drinks," instead of "I had a couple of drinks." What's the deal? -- Glenn Runge, North Huntingdon, Pa.
A. You'd better sit down and pour yourself a couple drinks. For, yes indeed, people seem to be using "couple" without "of" more and more often.
Language expert Bryan Garner calls this clipped form a "low casualism." It's usually restricted to speech, but it does seem to be showing up more and more often in print, e.g. "Auto makers offer GPS in their new cars as an upgrade for a couple thousand dollars." (Wall Street Journal); "Only a couple dozen members signed up." (Boston Globe)
Lo and behold, the use of "couple" as an adjective may be completely acceptable in a couple (of) decades.
RELEASE: WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 20, 2006
HEED THE FIVE GRAMMANDMENTS
If this article were appearing in Money magazine, it might be titled “Five Simple Ways to Grow Rich.” Just as basic investment guidelines can increase your wealth, mastering fundamental verbal principles can enhance your life—and, yes, maybe even earn you more money.
1. Know Your Pronouns—Is it “between you and I” or “you and me”? “Please join my brother and I” or “my brother and me”? “We know it was she” or “we know it was her”? And if you’re tempted to say, “Him and me went to the movies,” turn your baseball cap around and wear it with the visor in front.
In such cases, drop the intervening pronoun and see which pronoun sounds right—“between me,” “join me” and “He and I went.” As for “we know it was she,” reverse the sentence (“she it was”).
2. Make Sure Subjects and Verbs Agree—Is it “Each of the pictures (is/are) framed”? “The fielding in all the games (was/were) disappointing”? “The milk and cake with the chocolate frosting (was/were) good”? “Turkey, as well as potatoes, beans and pies, (was/were) served”? As with pronouns, simply drop the intervening word or phrase: “each is,” “fielding was,” “milk and cake were,” “turkey was.”
Some collective nouns may be either singular or plural depending on your meaning, e.g. “The family are arguing among themselves.” When a singular and plural subject are joined by “or” or “nor,” the verb agrees with the nearer subject, e.g. “Either I or they are going.” And amounts of time and money are treated as singulars, e.g. “Four hours is a long time.”
3. Watch Out for Linking Verbs—Is it “I feel bad” or “I feel badly”? We sometimes mistakenly use adverbs instead of adjectives following verbs that express a state of being, e.g. “become,” “seem,” “grow,” “appear,” “look,” smell,” “taste,” “remain,” “sound,” “stay” and, yes, “feel.” Correct: “It smells terrible,” “It looks bad,” “I feel bad.”
4. Beware of Words That Sound Alike—Some of our most embarrassing errors occur when we confuse similar words: it’s/its; they’re/their/there; affect/effect; accept/except; complement/compliment; weather/whether; besides/beside; infer/imply; peek/peak; and my personal bugaboo: principal/principle. And be sure you know the correct use of fewer/less, amount/number, between/among, and like/as.
5. Above All, Be Clear—Ditch the bureaucratic buzzwords and jargon. Instead of proactively framing your paradigms in an ongoing dialogue that impacts negatively on the comprehension quotient, speak and write in plain English.
RELEASE: WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 6, 2006
NEW WORDS FOR NEW TIMES
What do the terms “blogosphere,” “shout-out” and “blue state” have in common?
They’re among the 500 new words and phrases added to the new edition of the American Heritage Dictionary, last updated in 2000. Taken collectively, these neologisms provide a telling snapshot of our problems, preoccupations and predilections during the last five years.
Not surprisingly, 9/11 and the war in Iraq have spawned many new entries: “al-Qaeda,” “bunker buster,” “collateral damage,” “DHS” (Department of Homeland Security), “casevac” (casualty evacuation) and “UCAV” (unmanned combat air vehicle).
Computers, the Internet and other new technologies yielded “text messaging,” “instant messaging,” the verb “Google,” “malware” (software that interferes with other computers) and “mash-up” (an audio recording that includes samples of many musical styles).
New medical terms include “Botox,” “SARS,” “biont” (a living organism), “osteopenia” (a less severe version of osteoporosis) and “orphan disease” (a disease so rare that it’s not financially viable to develop drugs to treat it).
Several familiar words and terms have taken on new senses: “Easter egg” (a hidden feature in computer software), “peeps” (short for “people”), “cookbook” (a manual telling how to make biological or chemical weapons) and “snapshot” (a quick shot in ice hockey).
Our newest forms of fads and fun are reflected in “sudoku,” “speed dating,” “reality TV,” “sandboarding” and “Texas Hold ‘em.” And, no, “bundle of His” has nothing to do with male attributes. It’s a band of cardiac muscle fibers named for Swiss doctor Wilhelm His Jr.
So what’s your neologism I.Q.? Match these new words with their meanings:
Terms: 1. noscomial 2. snarky 3. deskfast 4. Wi-Fi 5. micropolis 6. edamame 7. fattoush 8. mojito 9. chickenhawk 10. halo effect
Meanings: a. the extension of positive perceptions of the part to the whole b. fresh green soybeans c. someone who has never served in the military, but favors military force d. breakfast eaten at a desk e. a small city or urban area f. of or relating to a hospital g. a salad made from bread, cucumbers, tomatoes, mint and other ingredients h. rudely sarcastic, snide i. a trademark certifying that products meet certain standards for wireless network transmission j. a cocktail made with rum
Answers: 1. f 2. h 3. d 4. i 5. e 6. b 7. g. 8. j 9. c 10. a
IS IT TIME TO RETHINK ‘THINK’?
With help from Leslie Savan’s terrific new book on pop lingo, “Slam Dunks and No-Brainers” (Knopf, $23.95), let’s examine two old-fashioned words that have been supersized and upgraded in recent years.
“Think”—Remember the 1950s, when IBM desk signs read “THINK,” commercials told us Viceroy was the “thinking man’s cigarette,” and Volvo was “the car for people who think”?
Think again. During the past few years, we’ve remodeled this suburban tract house of a word and turned it into a 17-room “think” tank.
Cutesy writers now punctuate descriptions with punchy “think” imperatives, e.g. “Her sister is perky, friendly and sparkly. Think Katie Couric.” TV commercials tell us to “rethink the hamburger”; bosses tell us to “think outside the box.”
Today “think” is sarcasm’s sharpest stiletto. An idea regarded as absurd or laughable is met with “I don’t THINK so!” Miscreants are warned with “Don’t even THINK about it!” or condemned with “What were you THINKING?”
Perhaps it’s time to put on our “thinking” caps—or at least put a cap on “thinking.”
“Good”—That boring, goody-good word “good” is suddenly, well, good. It started during the late 1990s when people would respond to useful information with “Good to know!” and writers would label finished files, essays and letters “Good To Go.”
Soon people were refusing offers of drinks and food, not with “no, thank you,” but “I’m good,” and describing positive situations as “It’s all good.”
Seeing “good” as gold, advertisers began using an understated “good,” as in the AT&T slogan, “Talk Is Good,” and Martha Stewart began describing every domestic pleasure as “a good thing.”
Inevitably, sarcasm snaked in. The trendy response to overly positive assessments—“My boyfriend just got a motorcycle!”—became “And this is a good thing?”
But the snarkiest “good” isn’t all that new. It’s the one that means “tricky, cunning, clever,” crooned with a long “gooood” sound. Humphrey Bogart, playing Sam Spade in the 1941 film “The Maltese Falcon,” praised the lying ability of the conniving Mary Astor: “You’re good. You’re very good.”
President Bill Clinton used it when a reporter tried to trick him into commenting on the Monica Lewinsky affair. “That’s gooood,” he said. “But … I’m not commenting.”
And this was a good thing?
THE WORD GUY
RELEASE: WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 23, 2006
FREEWHEELING ON THE VERBAL HIGHWAY
Words and wheels don’t seem to mix. It’s amazing how many linguistic accidents occur in sentences about motor vehicles.
Recent examples of vehicular homicide in newspaper articles include “Dwayne Dorr spent the winter pouring over his racecar” and “to eek out a little more knee room, the GTC’s designers scalloped the backs of the front seats.”
“Eek!” scream discriminating readers and drivers who know that the preceding sentences should read, “poring over his racecar” and “eke out a little more leg room,” respectively. But these are only minor fender-benders.
Ellyn Zeve of West Hartford, Conn., wonders why so many cars seem to have minds of their own. She cites this sentence from a news story: “She … was walking around the front of the car when the front end swung around and hit her.” This wording suggests, Zeve writes, “that the car randomly attacked the woman.”
Intention also concerns John Barrett of East Hartford, Conn., who cites a newspaper story about a state trooper who “crashed” his cruiser. “The story means to tell us,” John writes, “that he and his cruiser were involved in a crash, but instead tells us that he deliberately ran the car into something.”
Even traffic reporters, though carless, can be careless. Julie Eisdorfer of Ewing, N.J., writes, “So often I hear traffic reporters describing traffic as backed up ‘either’ way on the N.J. Turnpike, the Parkway or a heavily traveled bridge. My first reaction is always to wonder if they expect me to guess which direction might be the problem … but then I realized they really meant that traffic is backed up in ‘both’ directions.”
Speaking of traffic, David Reik of West Hartford, Conn., wonders about the verb “traffic.” Though we often use it as an intransitive verb (“he traffics in weapons”), he notes, we don’t use it as a transitive verb in the active voice (“he traffics weapons,” “cars traffic the road”).
But, oddly enough, we do use “traffic” in the passive voice all the time, as in “a heavily trafficked road” (or a store or a drug). Using a heavily trafficked online search engine, Reik discovered that the number of uses of “trafficked” in The New York Times has increased from two during the 1920s to 121 during the 1990s.
Call it a “trafficked” jam.
RELEASE: WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 16, 2006
TOMMY HITS A SINGLE
Mom: Tommy, where’s Jimmy? You were supposed to keep tabs on him!
Tommy: Well, I did keep one tab on him.
Exchanges such as this remind us that the plural nouns in many common expressions have no singular form. For instance, we offer someone our “congratulations,” “best regards” and “condolences,” but never “a congratulation,” “a regard” or “a condolence.”
Just for fun, let’s find out what happened to little Tommy who kept only one tab on Jimmy. Considering the number of “lost singulars” in his life story, you might say he led a singular life . . .
Tommy’s family was so poor that he had only one pajama. Instead of scads of toys, he had only one scad - a scissor, which he gleefully used to cut a pant, a trouser and a dungaree into a tatter. Because he never wore his galosh, he experienced a touch of all the childhood illnesses: a mump, a measle and a chicken pock.
Tommy lived in a boondock near a tropic and an antipode, though his whereabout was usually unknown to his parents. He and his brother Jimmy were often found to be in a cahoot. If they had their druther, they would engage in this hijink: One boy would call a dib on a tweezer or forcep, then use it to build a miniature gallow. Sometimes they would punch one another in the chop. Cute.
Though this antic would sometimes put their parents on a tenterhook and occasionally gave them a heebie-jeebie, the boys usually warmed at least one cockle of their hearts. On a dog day of summer, the boys would sit on a bleacher at a ballgame; later, they would look back fondly on this as their salad day.
Tommy eventually attended a small college on a tiny scholarship, which allowed him to study only one humanity, one mathematic, one physic and one economic. In fact, he was allowed to participate in only one athletic. But this didn’t give him even one blue. Nope, he moved to a badland, went out on a husting and campaigned for minimalism - on the ground that government should be singularly small.
After being elected, he stayed single and lived the life of his nib. He moved into the coolest dig, spent a lot of time on a golf link and often drank a distilled spirit. To this victor goes the spoil.
Rob Kyff, a teacher and writer in West Hartford, Conn., invites your language sightings. Send your reports of misuse and abuse, as well as examples of good writing, via e-mail to Wordguy@aol.com or by regular mail to Rob Kyff, Creators Syndicate, 5777 W. Century Blvd., Suite 700, Los Angeles, CA 90045. To find out more about Rob Kyff and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.
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