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To hell in a handbasket

Q: Any ideas about the expression “going to hell in a handbasket”? I didn’t find a very satisfactory derivation on Google. One early 18th-century citation on Michael Quinion’s World Wide Words mentions a “head in a Handbasket.” Could the basket in question refer to a container used to catch the results of a beheading? (Or am I just being over-influenced by recently watching Mary Queen of Scots meet her end on DVD?)

A: I don’t see anything in my usual language references to link the expression with a beheading. You can find almost anything on the Internet, of course, but the only reference I’ve seen on a serious language site is this brief, uncertain mention on The Phrase Finder’s Discussion Forum: “It seems to me that someone suggested that the basket used to catch the head during a beheading gave rise to ‘hell in a handbasket.’”

Michael Quinion is extremely reliable on these matters and I wouldn’t hesitate to accept his entry on “hell in a handbasket,” even though it’s necessarily inconclusive. Here’s how he sums up the situation: “It’s a fairly common American expression, known for much of the twentieth century. But it’s one about which almost no information exists, at least in the two dozen or so reference books I’ve consulted.” In other words, some of these things will never be tracked down.

Another Internet source I trust is Evan Morris’s Word Detective site, which gives this explanation: “Clues to the origin of ‘going to hell in a handbasket,’ meaning ‘deteriorating rapidly or utterly,’ are, unfortunately, scarce as hens’ teeth.” He notes that Christine Ammer, in Have A Nice Day – No Problem, a dictionary of clichés, dates the expression from the early 20th century and suggests that the alliteration of ‘hell’ and ‘handbasket’ probably contributed to its popularity.

I might add that there are scores of variations on this theme: the poor victim may go to hell not only in a handbasket but also “on a poker,” “in a bucket,” “in a hack,” “in a handcart,” “on a handcar,” “in a basket,” “in a hanging basket” [probably a deliberately humorous mistake], “on a shutter,” “in a wheelbarrow,” “on a toboggan,” and even “schooner-rigged.”

Despite the 18th-century citation you mentioned about “head in a Handbasket,” which comes close to the usual expression, there are no published references to “hell in a handbasket” more than a century old.

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Is it “already” or “all ready”?

Q: Which is correct: “all ready” or “already”? I see the words (or word) both ways.

A: They’re not the same. “All ready” means prepared; “already” means previously.

Here’s an example from my grammar book Woe Is I of the two terms in action: “Carrie and Samantha are all ready to boogie; in fact, they’ve already started.”

I hope this helps.

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So to speak

Q: At the company where I work, the project managers use the phrase “speak to” like this: “Would you be able to speak to this question?” Is that usage correct? Or is it just another “office-ism”?

A: People use the expression “speak to,” meaning to address an issue, in two different ways.

The first usage, as in the example “increased crime speaks to the need for vigilance,” goes back to the 17th century, according to the Oxford English Dictionary. In this sense, “speak to” means to influence or to constitute evidence of something.

The second usage, as in “let me speak to that,” also goes back at least as far as the 17th century. The OED cites several published examples of “speak to” in the sense of to deal with or discuss or comment on. The first citation is from 1610: “I desire them therefore to speake to these foure points.”

So both usages are well-established. But these days they’re also much overused, especially in muddy or imprecise writing. I find the second one the most annoying. When I hear people say, “Let me speak to that,” I expect them to speak around a point without really addressing it. In other words, here comes a half-baked comment.

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When is a comma too much?

Q: I’m always delighted when you’re on WNYC. You’re such fun! And I learn so much, too. Which brings me to my question. I’m completely confused about when “too” should be preceded by a comma. For example, was it correct in my sentence above? What is the rule?

A: I usually tell people that a comma with “too” is optional: use one if you want to express a pause or emphasize something. In the sentence you asked about, I think the comma is right.

Although the presence or absence of a comma often doesn’t matter, it sometimes does make a difference. For example, both of these sentences may be punctuated correctly, depending on the emphasis:

a. “Steve likes ice cream, too.”
b. “Steve likes ice cream too.”

If Grandma has just given Steve’s pushy little brother Sam a scoop of ice cream, and their mother wants to suggest that shy little Steve should get the same, she might say, “Steve likes chocolate ice cream, too.” (With a little lilt at the end, emphasizing the “too.”)

But if Mom is just describing a catalog of the stuff Steve likes, and she has already mentioned, say, vanilla ice cream, she might say, “Steve likes chocolate ice cream too.” (No particular inflection there.) It’s often a judgment call.

Sorry this isn’t more definitive, and I hope it hasn’t muddied the waters!

Note: I just realized that I answered a similar question last year. If anyone wants to compare the two replies, here’s a link to the old item.

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Is “root cause” redundant?

Q: I’m not sure whether this question is properly directed to you or to William Safire, but here goes: Is the phrase “root cause” proper English, or is it redundant? Wouldn’t the same meaning be conveyed if “root” were omitted? Or are there different degrees of “cause”?

A: In my opinion (and I can’t speak for Safire), the expression “root cause” isn’t redundant. I think one can argue that there are different levels of causality.

I may have an overly complicated view of all this since I was a philosophy major in college. But I think of causes in at least four different ways—material, formal, efficient, and final causes.

The material cause of something is what it’s made of. A house is “caused” by the wood and other materials it’s built from.

The formal cause is the set of characteristics that make it what it is. A house is “caused” by the fact of its having walls, a roof, rooms, or whatever qualities make it a shelter.

The efficient cause is what brings it into being. A house is “caused” by the builder.

The final cause is the greater purpose or good that it serves. The final “cause” of a house is our need for shelter.

This is an Aristotelian view of “cause.” For many of the same reasons, I think almost anything can be said to have multiple causes. Probably the “root” cause of something is its ultimate purpose. But there are no doubt lesser “causes” along the way that contribute to its coming into existence.

This is a very windy way of answering your question. To paraphrase Pascal, I’ve made it too long because I didn’t have the time to make it shorter.

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“We” vs. “us”

Q: In the following sentence, which is correct, “we” or “us”? “This was a ritual that [we/us] kids looked forward to with anticipation.” I favor “we,” but a friend suggested “us” might be correct.

A: In this case, “we kids” is right. However, you could say something like this: “It was a ritual that was greatly anticipated by us kids.”

In the first example, “we kids” is the subject of a clause; in the second, “us kids” is the object of a preposition.

Hope this helps.

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Cohort in crime?

A: One contemporary phrase that bothers me is “cohort in crime.” I maintain that “cohort” is a Latin noun describing a Roman military unit of 300 to 600 men, rather than a single individual who is an associate of a criminal. What do you think?

Q: “Cohort” has undergone quite a change over the years.

In the military parlance of Caesar’s time, a “century” (centuria in Latin) was a unit of 100 Roman soldiers, commanded by a “centurion.” Six centuries, or 600 soldiers (the exact numbers vary at different times in antiquity), constituted a “cohort” (cohors in Latin), and 100 cohorts, or 6,000 men, were a “legion” (from the Latin verb legere, to gather).

So “century,” “cohort,” and “legion” corresponded roughly to our modern “company,” “battalion,” and “regiment” (our regiments are not so large).

But in English, “cohort” has pretty much lost its military meaning and gone civilian. It’s used loosely to mean either a group or an individual.

The first definition for “cohort” in The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language is a group or band of people, and the second definition is a companion or an associate.

In a “Usage Note” following the entry, however, American Heritage says “the use of cohort to refer to an individual rather than to a group has become very common and is now in fact the dominant usage.”

It should be noted that Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary has as its first definition “one of ten divisions of an ancient Roman legion.” But M-W lists definitions in historical order, not in the order of common usage. Not one in a thousand people would use “cohort” in this way.

M-W‘s later definitions correspond to those in use today. A “cohort” can mean either (1) a group, or (2) a companion or associate. The examples given include “a cohort of premedical students” and “a few of their … cohorts decided to form a company.”

To make a long story short, it’s not surprising that “cohort in crime” and “companion in crime” should be used interchangeably in modern times.

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Who’s a bonehead?

Q: I try not to use the term “bonehead” because I suspect that it might have racist overtones. I remember the old cartoon depictions of Africans with bones in their hair. Is my rationale justified?

A: The short answer is no.

The words “bonehead” and “boneheaded” are slang or informal terms that originated in the U.S. in the early 1900s. They refer to someone who’s a blockhead, or who’s thick-headed or stupid.

The first published reference, according to the Oxford English Dictionary, was in Smart Set magazine in 1903: “You talk like a bone-headed fool!”

There are no ethnic or racial overtones—the implication is that the person’s head has more bone than brain.

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A “brand-new” question

Q: My late father, who was educated at an English public school, was irritated by the use of “brand new” instead of the proper “bran new.” He said something fragile (i.e., a china service) used to be packed in bran, the husk residue from milling grains, but excelsior, a byproduct of manufacturing wood products, replaced bran in the early 20th century.

A: The proper expression, according to every reference I’ve checked, is “brand-new,” not “bran-new.” The “d“ in “brand” is often unpronounced, however, so the phrase sounds like “bran’-new.”

Interestingly, “brand-new” didn’t originally refer to a brand name, or to something so new that it still carried the label or or to a newly introduced product.

The Oxford English Dictionary says the phrase dates back to 1570 (at that time it was spelled “brande-newe”), and the “brand” referred to was a branding iron hot from the fire.

The OED defines the original expression “as if fresh and glowing from the furnace,” and goes on to liken it to Shakespeare’s phrase “fire-new.” The term is now used, of course, to mean quite new or perfectly new.

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Let’s fathom a “sea change”

Q: Where does the term “sea change” come from? I know what it means, but I don’t know anything about its origin.

A: The expression “sea change” originally referred to a change caused by the sea, but it’s now used figuratively to mean a significant change or transformation.

The phrase was coined by Shakespeare in The Tempest to describe the vision of a drowned body. In Act I, scene 2, Ariel sings to Ferdinand about his father, Prospero:

“Full fathom five they father lies:
Of his bones are coral made:
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.”

The entry for “sea change” in The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language includes this modern quote from the playwright Harold Pinter: “The script suffered considerable sea changes, especially in structure.”

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Saying is believing

Q: Do you know of any CDs with pronunciations of English words, especially more obscure ones?

A: I’ve heard good things about the Cambridge English Pronouncing Dictionary, which comes with a CD, though I haven’t actually heard it myself. You can find it on Amazon.com.

Here’s a comment from someone who e-mailed me about it: “Love it! I’m ordering one for each of my kids. I especially love that it has both British and American English. This should resolve many a dispute between me and my British friends.”

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Ginning up the politics

Q: I hear the term “gin up” used more and more these days, especially by politicians. Do you know its origin? Does it have anything to do with a gin pole?

A: The term “gin up” dates back to the 1880s, and originally meant to drink hard liquor. The first reference I could find comes from a book called Saddle and Moccasin: “They were ginning her up, that’s a fact.”

In the early 20th century the term also came to mean to drink before going to a party—I suppose for the purpose of getting a head start on the other drinkers.

In the 1970s “gin up” took on a third meaning: to stir up or excite or get something going. That’s the way it’s generally used now. One pol, for example, might accuse another of ginning up a phony crisis.

As for your second question, I don’t see evidence that “gin up” has anything to do with a gin pole, a lifting device for oilfields, construction sites, ships, etc.

The two boozy meanings probably come from drinking gin, an alcoholic beverage flavored with juniper. The word “gin” is short for geneva or Hollands Geneva, the original Dutch name of the booze. (The Dutch word for juniper is jeneverbes.)

As for the more recent usage (to stir up, etc.), some language authorities speculate that it may be related to “generate” or “engineer” or “ginger up” (as in adding spice to something or getting someone’s spirit up).

Most of this comes from Eric Partridge’s Dictionary of Slang and Unconventional English, the Random House Historical Dictionary of American Slang, and a posting by Douglas G. Wilson on the American Dialect Society’s Linguist List.

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Should “banal” rhyme with “anal”?

Q: I believe the correct pronunciation of the word “banal” is “BAY-nul,” but people say “bu-NAHL” because of embarrassment at the rhyme with “anal.” What are your thoughts?

A: I don’t think there’s a single correct way to pronounce “banal.” The two dictionaries I consult the most, The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language and Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary, each list at least three acceptable pronunciations.

The first one in both dictionaries is bu-NAL (rhyming with “canal’). Others are BAY-nul (rhyming with “anal”) and bu-NAHL (the last syllable rhymes with “doll”). Merriam-Webster’s also lists bay-NAL (the last syllable is accented and rhymes with “pal”).

American Heritage’s Usage Panel is all over the place on this, with 46 percent preferring bu-NAL, 38 percent favoring BAY-nul, and 14 percent going for bu-NAHL. For what it’s worth, I’m in the bu-NAL camp. But I agree with American Heritage that the “pronunciation of banal is not settled among educated speakers of American English.”

If in doubt, of course, you can always use “trite.”

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A hot time next door!

Q: Here’s an unusual word for your consideration: “ucalegon,” a neighbor whose house is on fire. Can you tell me anything about its use and origin?

A: Wow—what a word! I couldn’t find it in any of my modern dictionaries, but it’s in my old Webster’s New International Dictionary (2d ed., 1954). I’ll copy the entry, which explains its derivation:

“Ucalegon … In Trojan legend, one of the ancient counselors who sat with Priam on the wall. Aeneas speaks of the flames reaching Ucalegon’s house, next to that of Anchises, before he fled from the city. Hence, a next-door neighbor, or a neighbor whose house is on fire.”

The word comes from Virgil’s Aeneid. It’s part of the phrase proximus ardet Ucalegon, meaning Ucalegon burns next. (The house of Ucalegon, an elder of Troy, burned down when the city was sacked, according to Virgil’s account.)

The Latin phrase seems to have been used quite often in the 19th century to refer to a dangerous situation. It was apparently so common at one time that Thomas de Quincey, in his 1849 essay “The English Mail-Coach,” calls the expression trite. It appears in early 20th-century versions of Roget’s Thesaurus (meaning a pitfall or source of danger), but not in modern ones.

Homer’s Iliad, in describing the battle for Troy, mentions Ucalegon only briefly and doesn’t include the fire story. By the way, Ucalegon’s name in the Iliad (usually spelled “Oukalegon” in English) combines the Greek words for “not” and “care.”

The Oxford English Dictionary doesn’t have an entry for “ucalegon,” though the word does appear in an early 20th-century citation for the OED’s entry on “neighbor”: “But proximus ardet Ucalegon, which is to say, ‘Don’t care’s house is afire, and his neighbour is quaking.’”

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A “pitchy” usage

Q: I’m a fan of “American Idol,” but the judges use a word on the show that drives me crazy. When they want to tell someone that he’s singing off pitch, they tell him that he’s a little pitchy. This can’t be right, can it?

A: I don’t watch “American Idol,” and look what I missed! I’ve never heard or seen “pitchy” used in this way. In The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language, “pitchy” is defined as covered with pitch (something like tar) or as the color of pitch.

Usually singing or playing that’s off key is described as either sharp (too high) or flat (too low). I suppose “pitchy” might come in handy if you can’t tell which.

I just Googled “pitchy” and came up with 332,000 hits—most of them, it seems, about singing, not roofing. Well, “pitchy” still sounds lame to me, but maybe it has legs!

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Taxi! Taxi!

Q: I’m a WNYC listener in Minnesota. I have a comment, not a question. You were discussing the origin of the word “taxi” on the last show. I believe it comes from the Greek tachis, meaning fast or swift.

A: I’ve done some rooting around for the root of “taxi” and here’s what I’ve found.

“Taxi” is a shortened form of “taxicab,” and both first appeared in print in 1907. The two words are derived from the expression “taximeter cab,” meaning a cab with an automatic meter (or taximeter) for recording the distance traveled and the fare.

The meter itself (the word “taximeter” dates from 1898) took its name from the French taximètre (earlier spelled taxamètre), which came in turn from the German word taxameter, a meter used in horse-drawn cabs.

The “taxa” portion of the original word comes from Medieval Latin and means, literally, a “tax” (from the verb taxare, to tax or assess or evaluate).

The Greek taxis means arrangement or division, and is unrelated. It’s the source of our words “taxonomy” and “taxidermy.” The Greek takhos (speed) is the root of “tachometer” but not, it would appear, of “taximeter.”

I’d better stop now before this becomes too taxing.

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Compound interest

Q: Here’s a question about compound nouns. I’ve seen “try out,” “try-out,” and “tryout.” Are they all correct? Or is only one proper?

A: The current preference is for one word, no hyphen: “tryout.” This comes from the most recent editions of my two principal dictionaries: The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language and Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary.

The present style for “tryout” is likely to persist, since compound nouns tend to start life as two separate words, then become hyphenated, and over time lose their hyphens and become one solid word.

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Language (and marriage) counseling

Q: My husband and I have two points of contention: the pronunciation of the words “respite” and “angst.” He prefers reh-SPITE and AHN-gst, but they make my skin CRAWL. I prefer the much more common (and CORRECT!) reh-SPIT and AANG-st. For the sake of the English language and the welfare of my marriage, can you please, for once and for all, clarify the CORRECT pronunciation of these words?

A: Rather than insert myself into a marital tiff, I’ll let The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language do the deciding.

The “a” in “angst” is pronounced like the “a” in “father”: it sounds like ahng-kst (but with one syllable).

The two-syllable “respite” is accented on the first syllable, and the “i” is short, not long: it sounds like RESS-pit.

You win some and you lose some.

If the biggest problem in your marriage is that you say reh-SPIT and he says reh-SPITE, let’s NOT call the whole thing off!

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A moment of truth

Q: I’ve always been annoyed by a sentence like this one: “The plane will land momentarily.” It’s my understanding that passengers wouldn’t have time to disembark if the plane landed only momentarily. Am I right?

Q: The adverb “momentarily,” meaning for a moment, goes back to the mid-1600s. But a newer usage, meaning in a moment, dates from the mid-1800s. Unfortunately, this second meaning creates problems when a statement might be taken two ways.

A sentence like “The plane will land momentarily” could mean either for a moment or in a moment. That’s why many usage authorities have argued against the newer meaning.

The “momentarily” entry in The American Heritage Dictionary of the English (4th ed.), for example, notes that the newer meaning is unacceptable to 59 percent of the dictionary’s Usage Panel.

Nevertheless, the upstart usage has become so widespread, especially in the United States, that it’s probably here to stay. You’ll certainly be hearing it for a long time, not just momentarily.

[Update, Aug. 11, 2012: Since this post was written, The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language has appeared in a new fifth edition, and its  usage note for “momentarily” has changed. The editors now say that while the Usage Panel still “shows some dissatisfaction” with the use of the word to mean “in a moment,” the panel’s “resistance is waning.” Sixty-eight percent of the panelists now accept the nontraditional usage.  And 58 percent approve of a vaguer sense of the word, meaning “for the time being,” as in “The file server is momentarily out of order.”]

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Heteronyms and homophones

Q: What do you call words that are spelled the same but have different meanings and pronunciations? I’m thinking of words like “tear” (as in rip) and “tear” (as in crying) or “dove” (the bird) and “dove” (did a belly flop). Any thoughts?

A: Words with the same spellings but different pronunciations and meanings are called heteronyms: like “desert” (to abandon) and “desert” (the Sahara) or “wind” (breeze) and “wind” (to twist).

Homophones are words that sound the same but differ in meaning. They can be spelled differently (like “night” and “knight”) or the same (like the “bark” of a dog and the “bark” of a tree)..

Isn’t English fascinating?

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Monkeyshine!

Q: I’ve been curious about the word “monkeyshines” since I was a child and visited my grandmother, who was born in the early 20th century in a small town in Kansas. As we drove away, she’d make odd gestures and call out “monkeyshines.” I know that the word means acting up, but I wonder where it comes from. Does it have its origins in vaudeville or minstrel shows?

A: The word “monkeyshine” (often “monkeyshines”), referring to a mischievous or playful trick, has a very interesting and disturbing history.

It first appeared in 1828 (as “munky shines”) in a song by Thomas “Daddy” Rice, a popular white comedian who performed in blackface. In the song, called “Jump Jim Crow,” Rice sings and dances as an old plantation slave: “I cut so many munky shines, I dance de gallopade.” (The gallop, or gallopade, was a 19th-century dance.)

The song also gave us the term “Jim Crow” for segregation and other discrimination against African-Americans. But the use of the word “shine” as an abusive term for a black person may have nothing to do with Rice’s song. The usage didn’t appear in print until the early 20th century, well after the song’s heyday, according to the Oxford English Dictionary.

Your guess that “monkeyshine” comes from minstrel shows was right on target. In fact, some people consider “Daddy” Rice to be the father of minstrelsy.

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Don’t fold and mutilate!

Q: I’m a big fan of WNYC and I listen all day, but everyone who talks on the air seems to misuse the word “fold.” I go nuts every time I hear one of the talk-show hosts or news readers do it. Next time you’re on the air, could you bring this up?

A: I’m so glad you mentioned this problem. In my writing book Words Fail Me, I did an entire chapter about the ways in which people mutilate numbers . I cringe when I hear or read that something has increased “X-fold.”

In the book, I used this example: “Babe’s flock of ten sheep increased threefold last year.” Then I went on to explain why the flock did NOT increase to thirty!

Using “fold” is a very fuzzy way of indicating that something has multiplied. It may be read any number of ways.

It could be that each “fold” represents a doubling (to a total of 80 sheep). Or “threefold” could mean an increase of three times the original number, in which case you’d end up with 40 sheep—the original 10 plus three times that number.

Any way you look at it, “fold” is a bad way to approach the problem. Even if you get it right, you’ll probably be misunderstood.

The solution? Don’t use “fold” to say something has doubled, tripled, or quadrupled. Just say that it has doubled, tripled, or quadrupled: “Babe’s flock of ten sheep tripled last year.”

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Plastered in Paris

Q: This isn’t a question, but a comment about a WNYC show. You were discussing the term “plaster of Paris” and its origin. Paris was indeed a center for the production of gypsum-based plaster. I live on the hill of Belleville, previously a village near Paris known for its vineyards and gypsum quarries. Even today, the presence of these quarries is felt.

We say that Belleville is a “gruyère,” or Swiss cheese, full of holes. One of these holes just down my street is currently being filled. The porous soil also leads to the formation of underground rivers and streams, and the area was first exploited by monasteries that created a network of underground aqueducts. Several access points, known as “regards,” remain today. Our street names show this heritage: rue des Cascades, rue des Rigoles, rue de la Mare, all related to water. Here’s a link to a “regard” up the hill.


A: Thanks for the very illuminating e-mail, and for the beautiful picture. What gorgeous old stone! How lucky you are to live there. Must be fascinating. Meanwhile, regards!

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Three sheets to the wind

Q: I was wondering about the phrase “three sheets to the wind,” meaning intoxicated. Any ideas of its origin? Why “three” instead of “one” or “two” sheets?

A: It’s an expression from the era of sailing ships. The “sheets,” it turns out, are lines (ropes, to a landlubber), not sails, as many people think.

Why three sheets? One explanation may be that a sloop, the most common sailboat, has one mast, two sails, and three sheets. (The sheets are used to trim, or adjust, the sails, making the most efficient use of the available wind.)

The expression was originally “three sheets in the wind,” but now it’s usually “three sheets to the wind.” Most language references explain it this way: If the sheets are loose, the sails can flap around, not unlike drunken sailors stumbling back to their ship after a night on the town.

The earliest reference in the Oxford English Dictionary is from 1821, but I prefer a scene in the Dickens novel Dombey and Son (1848) where Captain Cuttle believes Bunsby “was three sheets in the wind, or, in plain words, drunk.”

I once made a mess of the nautical terms when I tried to explain all this on the air, but a listener kindly straightened me out. I hope I have the terminology right this time. My sailing experience is limited to capsizing a Sunfish every few years, so please excuse my shaky sea legs.

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Is “death knell” overkill?

Q: I noticed a headline in the New York Times that said “Death Knell May Be Near for Public Election Funds.” Isn’t the phrase “death knell” redundant? My dictionary says “knell” indicates the end or failure of something. So it seems that “knell” alone would be sufficient. What do you think?

A: A knell is an ominous sound or a slow and solemn tolling of a bell, as if for a funeral or as a signal of disaster or destruction. Since it isn’t exclusively a funeral thing, it’s not really redundant to say “death knell.”

You’re right in that it does seem to signal the end of something. But I think most people would find “knell” all by itself a little puzzling, no? Just my opinion.

The word “knell,” by the way, is very, very old. The earliest citation in the Oxford English Dictionary dates from the 10th century (it was spelled “cnyl” in those days). The OED’s first reference for “death knell” is in “The Lord of the Isles” (1814), a poem by Sir Walter Scott: “I must not Moray’s death-knell hear!”

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On cows and cowlicks

Q: You were asked on WNYC about the origin of the word “cowlick.” I have no evidence to cite, but I’ve always assumed the word comes from the appearance of a newborn calf licked dry by its mother. The calf’s hair stands up in swirls rather than lying flat as it naturally will a few hours later.

A: Several listeners e-mailed this explanation and I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s on the money, but I couldn’t verify the calf angle in any of the language references that I usually go to.

The word “cowlick,” which refers to a wayward tuft of hair that won’t lie flat, first appeared in print back in 1598, according to the Oxford English Dictionary. It was in an English translation of an Italian treatise on art: “The lockes or plaine feakes of haire called cow-lickes, are made turning upwards.” (A “feake,” according to the OED, is a “dangling curl of hair.” )

Most of the language sources I’ve checked believe a cowlick does indeed have something to do with the way hair looks after being licked by a cow, but none of them refer specifically to a cow’s licking a calf.

The OED notes, however, that the term “calf-lick” means pretty much the same as “cowlick,” which may give credence to your explanation, though the evidence isn’t quite hair-raising.

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Excuse me, Mr. Trump!

Q: On “The Apprentice,” Donald Trump says things like “You will be joining so-and-so and I in the boardroom” or “You will be joining so-and-so and myself in the boardroom.” Do you think “I” or “myself” will become accepted in sentences like those? (I don’t think so!) If not, do you think someone should tell Mr. Trump?

A: No, we don’t think “I” or “myself” will ever be acceptable in place of “me” in the examples you gave. And we think someone should tell Mr. Trump. (Someone who DOESN’T work for him!)

Mixing up “I” and “me,” we believe, is the single most common mistake in American English. We’re sure you’re aware that Donald Trump has a lot of company. Bill Clinton and George W. Bush are serial offenders (“with Hillary and I” … “from Laura and I”).

Luckily, there’s an easy way to help decide whether to use “I” or “me.” Just mentally eliminate the other guy and the correct word becomes obvious : “You will be joining … me in the boardroom.”

And using “myself” when you can’t decide between “I” and “me” is a cop-out.  The word “myself” should be reserved for two uses: 1) To emphasize something (Let me do it myself). 2) To refer to oneself (I can see myself in the mirror).

In the contest between “I” and “me,” the booby prize goes to “myself.”

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Hacking it

Q: Why do we use the same word, “hack,” for a cab driver, a forgettable writer, and a horse?

A: The word “hack,” meaning the driver of a hackney carriage, first appeared in print in the late 17th century, according to the Oxford English Dictionary.

By the turn of the century, the word was also being used to mean a drudge or a person hired to perform whatever needed doing; for example, a literary “hack” would be a writer who hired himself out as a mere scribbler.

During the 18th century, “hack” came to mean a hackney carriage itself, a carriage horse, or any horse, especially an ill-bred one, used for ordinary riding. Nowadays, it also refers to a taxicab and someone who drives one.

I’ll save the word “hacker” for another time. (I’d better update my antivirus program first!)

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Is “scot free” a slur on Scots?

Q: What’s the origin of “scot free”? Is it an insult to people from Scotland?

A: Contrary to what you may think, “scot free” has nothing to do with Scotland or the Scots.

The word “scot” in the expression dates back to the 1200s, according to the Oxford English Dictionary, and means money (or a tax) assessed against someone, or somebody’s fair share of an expense (for instance, a bill for drinking or entertainment). It’s derived in part from an Old Norse word, skot, and an Old French word, escot.

The expression was around in medieval times, when towns levied taxes in proportional shares for things like a poor fund. The tax was called a “scot,” and somebody who wriggled out of paying it got off “scot free.”

Nowadays, according to The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language, to get off “scot free” can mean either to avoid paying for something or to escape punishment.

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An etiquette lesson

Q: Do you know how the word “etiquette,” which means label in at least three languages (French, Italian, and Spanish), came to mean proper behavior in English?

A: The behavior of the word in those four languages isn’t as different as you imagine. Although the French, Italian, and Spanish versions (étiquette, etichetta, and etiqueta) do indeed mean label, they can also mean proper behavior. And the French étiquette gave us the English word “ticket,” which comes close to meaning label.

Here’s the story. The Old French word estiquette (meaning a soldier’s billet or order for lodgings) evolved into étiquette (meaning label) in modern French. The word came into English, Italian, and Spanish in the 18th century, according to the Oxford English Dictionary.

In English, it referred initially to correct behavior at court and later to proper social or professional conduct. It’s not certain how a word for a soldier’s billet in Old French and a label in modern French came to mean proper behavior in English (not to mention in French, Italian, and Spanish). Etymologists have offered several possibilities.

The Barnhart Concise Dictionary of Etymology suggests that a soldier’s billet may have included written instructions for good behavior. And John Ayto’s Dictionary of Word Origins suggests that étiquette might have once referred to a small card with written or printed directions on how to behave at court.

I wonder what Miss Manners would make of all this.

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More “bone” mots

Q: Regarding your blog entry on “make no bones about it,” is there a connection with “have a bone to pick”? In French, we say “il y a un os” (there is a bone) when an unexpected problem arises and things cannot go as planned.

A: To “have a bone to pick,” meaning to have something you want to argue about or settle, refers to the image of two dogs fighting over a bone and picking it clean. Another expression, “bone of contention,” also comes from the image of dogs scrapping over a bone.

Both of these expressions date back to the 1500s, according to the Oxford English Dictionary. Similarly, in olden times to cause trouble between two people was to “cast a bone between them,” meaning to give them something to fight over.

To “make bones about it,” as the blog item notes, is another usage from the same era but with a different image as its likely source: bones in soup made it harder to eat, so to “make bones about something” meant to make difficulties, according to the OED.

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“Ditto,” a word with a past

[An updated post about “ditto” appeared on March 14, 2014.]

Q: Do you know the origin of the word “ditto”? I use it all the time, but I have no idea where it comes from.

A: Believe it or not, “ditto” has ancient beginnings. It comes from the Latin dictus (having been said), which evolved into detto in standard Italian. In the Tuscan dialect, detto became ditto, which entered English in the early 17th century (the first published reference dates from 1625).

When it first appeared in English, “ditto” was used to avoid having to repeat a month or year in a date. Someone might have written, for example, “on 22 January and 25 ditto” to avoid having to say “on 22 January and 25 January.” Half a century later, in 1678, “ditto” was being used in a more general way to mean the same or aforementioned.

This information comes from the Oxford English Dictionary, John Ayto’s Dictionary of Word Origins, The Barnhart Concise Dictionary of Etymology, and The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language.

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“Gender” bending

[Note: An updated post on “sex” and “gender” ran on May 25, 2016.]

Q: Is “gender” a substitute for “sex”? (It’s a good thing I used quote marks!) I’ve always thought “gender” should be used for words that change endings in other languages. When we speak of someone’s sex, shouldn’t we use “sex” instead of gender?

A: I also prefer the word “sex” in referring to the two sexes, but “gender” has become an acceptable substitute. Both The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language and Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary accept phrases like “the feminine gender” or “gender roles.”

Nevertheless, I’d hate to see “gender” replace “sex.” The word “sex” (from the Latin sexus) has long meant either of the two divisions – male or female – that characterize living things. By extension, it has come to mean the sex act.

“Gender,” on the other hand, has long been a grammatical term that describes the way some languages categorize words by sex (masculine, feminine, or neuter).

Perhaps it’s inevitable that as we speak more openly about sex we feel a need for a more neutral word to refer to the Great Divide. But to my ears “gender” sounds prudish as an alternative to “sex.”

I should note, however, that both “sex” and “gender” have been used over the years to refer to the sexual act as well as the sexual divide. The noun “gender,” for instance, was used for the male or female sex back in the 14th century, and the verb “gender” was used for the sex act as far back as the 15th century.

Now that’s an example of “gender” bending!

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Mash notes

Q: Is the word “masher” (a guy who comes on to women) a contraction of the French “ma chère”? And by extension does the phrase “mash note” come from the same source?

A: You’re not the first person to wonder if we have “ma chère” to thank for “masher.” Back in the 1890s, the humorist Max Beerbohm wrote about the issue and concluded that “masher” actually came from the chorus of a music-hall song: “I’m the slashing, dashing, mashing Montmorency of the day.”

Around the same time, Charles Godfrey Leland, a humorist, amateur linguist, and student of gypsy culture, suggested that “masher” was derived from a Romany word meaning to entice, according to Michael Quinion’s World Wide Words site. The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language says the verb “mash” (to put the make on someone) may indeed come from the gypsy word for entice.

The Barnhart Concise Dictionary of Etymology, however, offers a more prosaic explanation for the origin of “masher.” The dictionary says it probably comes from the verb “mash” as in to mash potatoes. A masher, according to Barnhart, is a man who presses or forces his attentions on a woman (think of a potato masher), trying to turn her emotions into a mash.

The word “mash,” originally meaning to mash malt or grapes, is quite old and can be traced back to Anglo-Saxon times, according to the Oxford English Dictionary. The word “masher,” one who mashes malt or grapes, first appeared in print around 500 years ago.

The first published reference to “masher” as a man who makes advances to women dates from 1875, according to the Random House Historical Dictionary of American Slang. The dictionary’s earliest citation for “mash note” (initially, “mash letter”) is from 1880.

I don’t think we’ll ever know for certain the origin of “masher.” As with so many other words, the trail is as cold as yesterday’s mashed potatoes.

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Incentive payback

Q: A curator at the Museum of Modern Art in New York was quoted as saying that “risk has been incentivized.” Yuck! Any comments?

A: Someone in the arts has no business using that kind of bureaucratese. Leave it to the CEOs and politicians. In fact, the “incentivize” entry in The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language gives an example of the word at work by quoting a politician: “This bill will help incentivize everybody to solve that part of the problem.”

While we’re on the subject, “incentivize” is bad enough, but people are now using “incent” as a verb. (“We need to incent our sales team.”) Jeepers! What’s wrong with offering the sales team an incentive? Both “incent” and “incentivize” make me incensed.

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