You’d be amazed, by the way, how much more productive you become simply by removing the batteries from the remote control.

Dear Word Detective:  With the latest Sarah Palin book, the term “barnstorming” has come up in the media more than once.  It got me to thinking about the phrase, which, when you stop to think about it, doesn’t make much sense.  I believe the phrase refers to stunt piloting in the early age of aviation — but why?  And even if it had something to do with flying through, over, under or around barns, how is it “storming”?  I know there’s some military terminology about “storming the walls” and the like, but it would make more sense if it were “swarming the walls.”  At least as I understand the phrase.  Did the “storming” part of these phrases evolve from “swarming.”  Or is it something else?  Could you make some sense of this? — Barney Johnson.

Sarah who?  Y’know, your question reminded me of how much saner I’ve felt ever since I completely stopped watching TV news last year, a move I heartily recommend.  I actually felt a little shiver of glee the other day when I realized that I’ve never heard Levi Johnson’s Johnston’s voice.  Seriously, the guy may sound like Elmer Fudd and I’d never know it.  I figure that one bit of blessed ignorance alone has saved me four or five million brain cells.

“Barnstorming” is indeed a strange word, one of those words that we see or hear so frequently that we rarely realize just how weird they really are.  A word such as “barnstorm” is especially vexing because the constituent parts are simple words in their own right, yet the combination doesn’t really make sense.  Who would want to “storm” a barn (aside from the Bovine Liberation Front, of course)?

An examination of the history of “barnstorming” clears things up a bit, at least as to the “barn” part.  The term “barnstorming” first appeared in the early 19th century, applied to theatrical troupes that toured in rural areas, often mounting their shows in, you guessed it, rented barns.  Such tours were commonly conducted in the summer, and often featured actors who would be engaged in established urban theaters during the rest of the year (“Miss Helen Bancroft, who recently played in this city, was announced as with a barn-storming company,” 1883).

The “storm” in “barnstorming” is a bit more difficult to untangle.  “Storm” as a verb means, logically, to act like a storm, either literally (rain, wind, etc.) or figuratively (to rage, rail, menace or attack).  This figurative use led to the military sense of “to storm” meaning “to attack and attempt to take a fortified position,” as well as more generally meaning “to capture or take over” (“A hundred swords Will storm his heart, Love’s feverous citadel,” Keats, 1820).  The use of “storm” in “barnstorm” is apparently a playful, slightly sardonic use of the term, referring to the need of the troupe to “conquer” one barn full of bumpkins after another in the course of their tour.  (By the way, my ownership of a tractor entitles me to use the word “bumpkin.”)

“Barnstorm” was so evocative of a rapid march through the boondocks that the term was quickly adopted to describe the tours mounted by politicians campaigning in the sticks in the late 1880s, who often held town meetings in those same barns.  The use of “barnstorming” in reference to traveling air shows dates to the 1920s, but the practice had absolutely nothing to do with barns.  Pilots flew from town to town, performing acrobatic maneuvers for paying audiences, and then flying on to another town, often later that same day.  It was this incessant “puddle-jumping” routine that, by analogy to those peripatetic acting troupes, gave these pilots the name “barnstormers.”

How does he make his voice do that?

Dear Word Detective:  What is the root and meaning of the word “ventriloquist”? — Joe Parsons.

That’s a good question, but in the course of researching it, I began to wonder how many of our younger readers have actually ever seen a ventriloquist.  In the 1950s and 60s, of course, they seemed to be everywhere.  Ventriloquists were a staple of the Ed Sullivan TV show, ranging from Edgar Bergen and Charley McCarthy, to Paul Winchell with his wooden pal Jerry Mahoney, to Senor Wences, whose sidekick Johnny consisted of a face drawn on the side of Wences’ hand.  My absolute favorite was Shari Lewis and the immortal Lamb Chop, a sheep hand puppet sporting abnormally long eyelashes.  I actually own a replica of Lamb Chop that I drag out of the closet every so often to annoy the cats.  I also have a duplicate of the rubber dog hand puppet that appears on Conan O’Brien’s show as Triumph the Insult Dog.  My dog puppet actually predates Conan’s show, though I’m not sure I should brag about that.

Meanwhile, for the benefit of our benighted readers who have never seen a “ventriloquist,” the word means a performer who, usually working with a wooden dummy or puppet, appears to make the character talk by speaking without moving his or her lips.  A good ventriloquist can not only pull off this basic parlor trick, but create such a complete character in the “dummy” that the dialog between the two seems entirely natural.

Although “ventriloquy” (or “ventriloquism,” the words are interchangeable) is today a form of humorous entertainment, the origins of the term lie in a practice that was deadly serious and more than just a little creepy.  The word “ventriloquism” comes from the Latin “ventriloquus,” meaning “speaking from the belly” (“venter,” belly, plus “loqui,” speak).  So far, so good.  “Speaking from the belly” is a plausible metaphor for ventriloquism.

But “ventriloquus” was no metaphor.  It was believed by the Ancient Greeks (who called the phenomenon “eggastrimuthos”) and Romans that noises emanating from a person’s belly could be the voices of the spirits of the dead or, in the worst-case scenario, a sign of demonic possession.  A “ventriloquist” (later called a “gastromancer”) was a seer or psychic who interpreted the sounds coming from the person’s abdomen and, depending on the supposed  source, passed along predictions of the future, messages from great-grandma, or bad news about the spiritual future of the patient.

Ventriloquism and gastromancy as a means of divination persisted through the Middle Ages and even up to the 18th century in Europe and America.  Eventually, however, as the public ardor for spiritualism flowered into the age of stage magic, the term “ventriloquism” came to be used for the trick of “throwing one’s voice” in front of an audience.   By the late 19th century, “ventriloquy” was a standard act in the repertoire of vaudeville, and the wooden ventriloquist’s dummy had become an icon of popular culture.  Interestingly, however, ventriloquy has never been able to completely shed its overtones of creepiness, as the number of horror movies involving a ventriloquist’s dummy which moves around quite well on its own attests.