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.

Superior Ovaries

Day 322: Clintonia uniflora (aka Queen-cup or Bead-lily) has superior ovaries. No, no...I mean like they're really on top of it. No, wait...I mean the ovary is on top of the petals! Are we clear on that now?

Do you ever get the feeling that even though we speak the same language, we sometimes aren't the best at communicating what we mean? Scientifically, a "superior ovary" is one which develops above the petals in the traditional botanical four-part whorl arrangement of sepals, petals, stamens and stigma/style/ovary. Conversely, an "inferior ovary" occurs below the sepals/petals (an example would be the winged ovary of a begonia flower). "Superior" in this sense means "above," "inferior" means "below." However, someone unfamiliar with botany might think that I was speaking in reference to the plant's ability to reproduce successfully rather than describing the arrangement of its reproductive parts.

Communication is not always as simple as saying what's on your mind. A single word or string of words may signify something entirely different to different people depending on their backgrounds. Semantics (the selection of a word based on a precise definition, its placement in the word-order of a sentence, and sometimes even the euphonic resonance of its syllables) is the science of verbal exchange, and unless everyone is on the same page (i.e., from similiar verbal backgrounds), the message can go widely astray. The wise speaker chooses words to suit the audience. A "nicely tanned skin" might refer to bathing-suit cheesecake or to a cozy, curly fleece rug. I know how I'd be most likely to use the phrase, but do you?

And here you thought this post was going to be about botany! Not to disappoint, it has taken me a very long time to find and photograph Bead-lily's solitary blue bead. Some little critter seems to think they're very tasty. Out of several hundred plants I checked, all but half a dozen had had their "beads" bitten off neatly.

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.