Primrose Path

Day 166: Semantics is the science of verbal communication, more specifically of the exactness of any particular meaning when a certain word or words are used. Recent events have set me to thinking about semantics, because no matter how carefully we choose our words, someone is bound to misinterpret. I'm sure you've all read in the news about President Biden's unfortunate ad-lib remark where he said that Putin cannot remain in power, which many people viewed as a veiled threat against Russia. It could also be read as, "He can't keep doing this. It's unsustainable," in the same manner that one might say, "We can't keep doing this forever." A second circumstance is more personal. Only a few days ago, a neighbour misinterpreted an unguarded remark by a sheriff's deputy to mean that a violent crime had been committed in our neighbourhood. If you recall the children's game variously called "Washtub" or "Telephone," you probably remember how radically a simple statement can be distorted after it is repeated several times down the line. In fact, in repeating what I had been told by the neighbour, I perpetrated another semantic error, and only when friends seized on it did I realize that I had used a word with a different implication than what I had intended (and, be it noted, I fancy myself something of a semanticist!) People hear what they want to hear, and often if an interpretation furthers their own ends, that is the interpretation they will apply.

So what does this have to do with primroses? Aha! Let me ask you a question (and it is by no means a simple one): What colour is "primrose?" Originally, the term meant only a light, clear yellow, but later, it was applied to any yellow of the same hue, regardless of value. Subsequent developments suggest that we can lay some of the blame at the feet of horticulturalists who, not content with a limited palette of blossoms, hybridized a wider range of colours. Our language evolved accordingly, adding "primrose pink," "primrose purple" and "primrose green" to the lexicon. Nowadays, if you tell someone you'd like to use "primrose" as the theme for your wedding party, it is most likely to be interpreted as a fuchsia shade.

Mind what you say. Don't let your words carry you down the primrose path of misinterpretation.

Icmadophila Ericetorum, Fairy Barf

Day 108: Let's talk about evolution for a moment, specifically the evolution of language. Language, like any other living organism, evolves over time. Not only do some strains die off, others mutate from their original form, while others spring up seemingly out of nowhere and spread with the rapidity of a virus. Here, I'll give you examples of each scenario.

Yclept. Go on, use it in a sentence. I dare ya. You'll find it in Chaucer, but it had gone extinct by Shakespeare's day. It means to call or to be called. "Oon was Cyrus yclept, and th'othir Galfridus." i.e., "One was called Cyrus, and the other Galfridus." Dead as a doornail, except when someone like me resurrects it for illustrative purposes.

Hippie. In the jazz/swing era, to be called a "hep cat" implied that you were stylish and cool and "with it," but around the time Elvis Presley began making the top of the charts, "hep" got "hip" and moved up a notch linguistically. Somewhat later, the "hippie" generation was born. Oh, and while we're at it, jazz can be "hot" and "cool" simultaneously. Go figure.

Barf. Prior to 1960, you might have upchucked, urped, heaved, etc., and even Shakespeare might have puked, but you never would have barfed if you had eaten a bad meal. "Barf" cropped up spontaneously, its lineage untraceable by serious etymologists who suggested that it was probably imitative of a sound as many other words are known to be, and before long, children everywhere were barfing like crazy. Ugly and crude, it spread quickly among those who were not vaccinated against linguistic disease.

This brings us to Icmadophila ericetorum. When I first heard the common name for this lichen ("fairy barf"), I rejected it completely. Very few lichens have "official" common names, but since I. ericetorum was recognized as a species well before 1960, I felt that the term must have been someone's bad joke. However, "fairy barf" has come to be accepted as the number-one choice when it is listed in lichen field guides. Although I still think the humour in calling it by the phrase is puerile, we're stuck with it. It's easier to say than "Icmadophila ericetorum," although that may be the only point in its favour.

Ixoreus Naevius, Varied Thrush

Day 76: If he had his druthers, this fellow would be eating insects, spiders and berries, a diet which is severely curtailed when there's two feet of snow on the ground, but he'll accept seeds, fruit and small nuts if they're offered. Oh, back up a minute...I need to translate for my non-American readers, don't I? "Druthers" is a shortened form of "I'd rather" or "would rather" and first came into use in the late 1800s. It was popularized later in a comic strip called "Li'l Abner" and is so much a part of the American vocabulary that we tend to forget that our Kiwi, Aussie and Brit cousins might fail to understand it. Anyway, back to Mr. Thrush. Yes, "Mr." This is a male, as evidenced by his bright colours. Females are more drab, as are juveniles. Native to the West Coast, this species is a unit unto itself. Once erroneously thought to be related to robins, even now, it is often mistaken for one. The second half of Varied Thrush's Latin binomial means "spotted," so if you see a "spotted robin," it's undoubtedly a thrush. And like "fish," the word "thrush" is either singular or plural, i.e., one thrush, two thrush, a dozen thrush. If I had my druthers, they'd be "thrushes."

Anticlea Occidentalis, Mountainbells

Day 266: Mountainbells...Anticlea occidentalis. You might notice a similarity in the second half of this plant's Latin binomial to the one I posted yesterday: "occidentalis" and "occidentale." I am not grounded firmly enough in Latin to be able to explain the distinction other than to say it has to do with the gender attributed to the first half of the name, Thalictrum being masculine, Anticlea being feminine. Most European languages are gendered. For example in Spanish, "the table" is "la mesa" (feminine) and "the car" is "el carro" (masculine). You go along just fine assuming words ending in -a are feminine until you hit "el problema" and "el agua" (both masculine as evidenced by the article preceding them). I can vouch for the fact that it works the same way in German, Russian and presumably French (another Romance language, i.e., one which originated in the vicinity of Rome, not one with which you can woo a lover). Russian doesn't have articles, but nouns are gendered, and German even includes nouns with the non-gendered article "das." You thought this essay was going to be about the plant, right? Wrong.

I've recently taken Park-sponsored two trainings dealing with diversity. One was focused specifically on gender identity while the other skirted the edges of it without adressing it fully. I failed to connect the subject to botanical Latin at the time, but the more frustrated I become with shifting taxonomy and in particular changes which only happen in order to bring both halves of the binomial into gender agreement, the more strongly I feel that gender should be expunged from language altogether, and if articles are necessary, they should be there merely to specify the somethingoranother belonging to "them," or to "their" possessions.

At first I resisted they/them/their because of my singularity. I'm not two people, not plural, and neither are you. That said, language is a continuously evolving entity. Many people of my generation will find it hard to unlearn the stock "he/she/his/hers" words because they have been taught us since birth, but we should make an effort. I am willing to embrace new vocabulary (perhaps moreso than some of the rest of you because I deal with taxonomic changes on a daily basis) and also to try to eliminate from my speech those sneaky gendered words we toss about so freely ("you guys" falls from my tongue all too frequently when I am addressing a mixed group).

While I doubt that I'd ever be able to convince the taxonomists that it would be a lot easier to talk about "Thalictrum occidental" and "Anticlea occidental," I trust my readers not to be so dogmatic. Plants may not take offense at being mis-gendered, but some of your human friends might.

Namesake

Day 192: Over the course of some 50-plus years, I have learned to say four "words" in Crow-speak. It's hard enough learning to speak a human foreign language; learning how to communicate in the language of another species requires first understanding the mode of communication. Let's take it to an extreme. We'll assume for the moment that when extraterrestrials land on Earth, they will have a vocal language. We cannot expect to be able to translate it word-for-word; we can't even do that reliably with our own languages, e.g., "Ich bin ganz voll" translates literally from German as "I am completely full," something you might say after dinner. In fact, it means something quite different: "I'm pregnant." Once you understand the context, the literal translation makes sense, but the origins of other euphemisms are not as easily connected. However, in communicating with another species, we have a broader gap to bridge: what factors make up the base of their system?

Scientists have identified over 200 different vocalizations among ravens, distinguishable by analysis of their respective sonograms. They know that each one signifies something, but what? These quorks and caws do not represent words as we know them. They cannot be strung together to make sentences in the way human words are. Rather, they convey a specific concept, as if in human speech the sentence "I'm eating a sandwich in the back yard under the maple tree" were to be compacted to the single idea, "wgnrmy." Crows have a language similar to that of ravens in that they speak in this conceptual form. The human throat probably isn't capable of producing the subtleties of sound which would show up in a sonogram of Crow-speak, but accented or not, I have learned how to tell my friends my identity and location (one word), that food is safe to take, that food is dangerous to approach, and lastly, that there is danger in the area. They trust me to tell them the truth. On one occasion many years ago, I inadvertently misinformed the Breakfast Bunch by telling them that the food was safe to approach. What I didn't know was that my neighbour had just gotten in his truck and was preparing to leave for work. As soon as he started the engine, every crow fled in haste and I could not get them to come back to the board for a week. Honesty is apparently valued quite highly in the world of corvids, and therefore I have never used that "word" again.

La Cebolla

Day 136: Me gusta la cebolla. Ellas comen las cebollas. La cebolla no es un animale, es un vegetale. Yes, I am back practicing Spanish again. I have a decent vocabulary, but my grammar is appalling. The simplest things like "who," "which" and "how" trip me up. I can make my verbs agree with their subjects and my sentence structure is reasonably good, but those little words need a lot more practice, and to that end, I have signed on with DuoLingo. The site was recommended to me by a native speaker who teaches intermediate and advanced classes in the same building as Morris dance practice. When I arrived early a few weeks ago, I sat outside the door listening in. When I spoke with her afterwards, she suggested DuoLingo as a prerequisite for her intermediate class. Oh, how I would love to become fluent!

DuoLingo lets you go at your own pace, and allows you to return to earlier lessons for practice. The student is asked to type in responses. Sometimes, an unmistakable visual clue is given; other times, you are given a sentence and asked to translate it to or from Spanish. By typing in the words over and over, the spellings and tenses are drilled into your head without the need for painful memorization. I'm finding it quite an enjoyable way to learn a second language (or in my case, refine one I'd already begun to study). They offer courses in many other languages as well...and KLINGON is in the works! That will be my next project.

Particularly Peculiar

Day 326: When I was in third or fourth grade, I experienced a peculiar phenomenon of euphonics in that after saying the word "broom" several times in succession, it ceased to have meaning in my mind and became simply a mellifluous sound; meditative, if you will, and possibly akin to the similar "Om" of yogic mantra. I was a strange child, to be sure, and even then, my fascination with language and semantics was strong. Another linguistic form which continued to intrigue me into adulthood was that of the tongue-twister, and I went well beyond "she sells sea shells by the sea shore" to write my own. ""Few-fruited fennel flowers freely following frost" and "Merrily chewing cherries, very cheery veeries chirrup" are but two examples. However, one which seeped beyond the boundary of true tongue-twister into the realm where meaning ceases to apply was "particularly, peculiarly." It is not a complete sentence, and therefore I do not categorize it as a true tongue-twister, but try it three times fast. You will undoubtedly discover that you're putting an extra "-lar-" in the second word, and then a few repetitions further on, you may begin to wonder whether you are pronouncing it correctly or not. It's a rather disorienting feeling to lose a piece of your language. You may even feel mildly nauseous or dizzy. (The Surgeon General insists that I display that warning to potential practitioners.)

I'd like to be able to work that phrase into today's post, but the best I can do is to say that Clematis and Nigella both have particularly peculiar preposterously pretty pods. It's been a long week.