Wonderful Words
PENULTIMATE
In my last post I mentioned that one of my favorite words is penultimate. That prompted my erudite cousin to write that he and his wife had recently been invited to a party where attendees were expected to wear a costume that started with the letter P. I can’t even begin to think of a word to describe the kind of people who would throw such a party, but I bet some of my more astute readers can. Anyway, my cousin and his wife each wore a sign — “Next” and “Last” — then stood together - next to last. That’s right - they went as penultimate. To someone whose only thought would have been to dress up as puke, this sounds terribly clever and the story stimulated me to consider other under-appreciated words that one usually only sees in a George Will column. I say that because I cannot get through a George Will column without consulting a dictionary.
DEFENESTRATE
This morning I read an op-ed piece that (even though it was NOT by George Will) used a word I didn’t know when describing what a politician’s party might do to him “with great speed and greater joy.” The word was defenestrate and, rather than just opening a browser to google the meaning, I decided to put my Latin to work because I am convinced that, in about 50 years, no one is going to know the meaning of the word wonder, because no one will do it anymore. For example, in the pre-internet days we would listen to a song and, if we couldn’t think of who was singing it, we wouldn’t immediately open Shazam, we would wonder about it. Maybe we would ask someone else who was also listening to the song if they knew who it was, and the very act of wondering together could take us down a winding path of associations and memories until finally one of us, 15 minutes later, remembered that the group was Kansas. Because when you don’t know who the group is, it’s always Kansas. Unless it is 38 Special. But certainly one of those two.
Mrs. Dugan - tiny bird-like Latin teacher.
Anyway, in high school, I took two years of Latin from a tiny bird-like woman named Mrs. Dugan who appeared to be about a hundred and five years old. Mrs. Dugan suggested that, if I were to use flash cards to memorize vocabulary words I might improve my grade from a D to something more like what my two older sisters had made years before in the same class. So I made flash cards, my grades improved and, as a result, I can still remember a plethora of Latin vocabulary even today. I memorized that a, cum, de, e mean away from, with, down from, out from. So there’s the first part - Down from. And the second part is fenestra which means window. There you have it: Down from a window. Well I thought it fairly unlikely that the writer really meant that members of the party would literally throw someone out a window, so ultimately I did give in to the call of the Google siren. But you see, I gave it a good try first - I wondered. Merriam-Webster defines defenestration as “a throwing of a person or thing out of a window,” so I'll be damned if I wasn’t right. The second meaning is “a usually swift dismissal or expulsion (as from a political party or office),” so I guess that’s the one the writer was using in the piece I read. Although, in our current political climate, it is quite possible the first meaning could be applied literally.
MISANTHROPE
My breathtakingly misanthropic sister Norah.
The other day my sister Norah called and, during the course of the conversation, we both related stories about tedious people with whom we had communicated that day. Norah struggled to think of “the word that means a person who hates people.” At the time, I thought she was looking for the label in order to apply it to me, but it turns out she was actually talking about herself. No one ever accused me of having a prodigious vocabulary but my sister Norah has a PhD, so I wasn’t about to let on that I didn’t have a clue what that word would be. I quickly googled, “what do you call a person who hates people” and Google found the word instantly. “Do you mean a misanthrope?” I smugly asked, and she allowed as how that was the word she was trying to find. This is an example of when it is okay to go straight for the answer without stopping to wonder about it first. I am a very visual person so by applying my sister Norah’s face to the word, misanthrope, I know I will always be able to remember its meaning in the future. Since then I have discovered that I know so many people to whom the term misanthrope can be applied that it has become my new favorite word.
CHIFFOROBE
If Mayella Ewell’s chifforobe had been this nice she never would have asked Tom Robinson to chop it up and where would we be?
The chifforobe narrowly beats out the credenza and the ottoman in the contest for the coolest name for a piece of furniture. Tony and I fear that the term chifforobe could be headed for extinction, just like the verb to wonder, so we use it whenever we can. If you don’t know what a chifforobe is, well that’s just a shame because it means you haven’t read To Kill a Mockingbird and have probably never even heard of Harper Lee. No worries. If you don’t have time to read, you can watch the wonderful 1962 movie with Gregory Peck which, if you followed my advice in my favorite apps post and use the app, JustWatch, you would know is currently available on Amazon Prime Video. But if you want to see the Aaron Sorkin adaptation on Broadway starring Jeff Daniels you had better get cracking because he leaves the role of Atticus Finch on Nov. 3rd. But on the bright side, Jeff Daniels will be replaced by Ed Harris who is able to sneak through my sister Norah’s misanthropy filter because she has a thing for bald men and has always loved Ed Harris. But do read my advice on where to sit or not only will you not see a chifforobe, you won’t see the jury either.
HEMIOLA
If I were to break the word hemiola down to its parts, I might guess it is derived from the Latin heme, meaning blood, and the contemporary slang suffix, -ola, meaning excessive amounts, as in payola and sickola. So one might guess that hemiola means “a lot of blood,” but this is not the case. Hemiola is one of my favorite musical terms. I like both the sound of the word and the musical phraseology it represents. I’m sorry to say that I can’t give you a clear and concise definition of hemiola because it’s sort of like pornography - it’s hard to define, but you know it when you see (hear) it. This is when you turn not to Google, but to YouTube, where there is an excellent explanation of what a hemiola is, in case you are really dying to know. If you are a person who can’t rub your tummy and pat your head at the same time, this guy will blow your mind:
ICTUS
You may recall that I sing in a women’s a cappella group, so there are a number of splendid musical terms that I am proud to know how to use in a sentence. See if you can choose the correct usage of the term, ictus:
The music had been stored in the cellar and so was covered in ictus.
The soprano casually coughed up an ictus and continued to sing.
The conductor indicated the cut-off with a clearly defined ictus.
Wipe a violin bow with a cloth dipped in ictus before storing it in its case.
If you guessed #3 you are correct. The ictus is the gesture a conductor makes to illustrate the beat and make it abundantly clear at what point everyone is to place the final consonant and cease singing. Whether or not the singers follow the signal is another story entirely, but a crisp ictus, as opposed to a floppy one, can make all the difference. My a cappella group’s conductor, Linda, possesses an exceptionally precise ictus which you can see for yourself at our concert on Oct. 27th at 3:30 at First Presbyterian Church in Charlottesville. (Never pass up the opportunity to ensure that the audience has at least as many members as the performing group).
CURSIO
I have been very excited to tell all you non-musicians about a wonderfully esoteric term that describes the notation you make at the end of a staff to indicate what is going to happen when you turn the page. I have always been told it is called a cursio but when I went to find out whether it is spelled cursio or curseo (or maybe even some other way) I found no such thing! I did, however, find the word custos, which is defined in Wikipedia’s Glossary of Musical Terminology as a “symbol at the very end of a staff of music which indicates the pitch for the first note of the next line as a warning of what is to come.” Here is an example of a cursio or custos I added to a piece we are singing right now. It reminds me that the moment I turn the page I switch from soprano 2 to soprano 1 and shows me the first three notes I am supposed to sing. For someone who regularly forgets her own phone number, that’s a lot to remember:
So what I always thought was a cursio might actually be a custos, but fortunately it is easy to remember either one as they both clearly have the same etymology. I am quite certain that cursio is derived from the verb, to curse, whereas custos is derived from the verb, to cuss. And this is because those carefully written notations at the end of the last staff are meant to ensure that you don’t say, “Oh shit!” when you find out what is at the top of the next page. And, believe me, we have all done it. Musical readers, feel free to prove to me that a cursio is a real thing, as this discovery has caused me great consternation.
PERSPICACIOUS
The first time someone used this word to describe something I had said I quickly excused myself and ran to the bathroom to smell my armpits. Since then I have discovered (as I’m sure you will agree) that it is perspicacity that allows me to write this deeply insightful and educational blog.