Haul that keel, and, like, whatever.

Dear Word Detective: I have followed your column in the Green Bay Press Gazette for years, and, before that, your father’s column in the Pittsburgh Post Gazette. As a now retired Speech/Language Pathologist, I love word study. I just noted this phrase in a local story about the new Pirates of the Caribbean movie coming out: “Avast and belay!” I know these words are of English derivation, but have never heard the “belay” word before. Can you provide some background –”Arrrgh, Matey!”? — Marycarolyn Jagodzinski, Suring, WI.

Hiya. It’s always nice to hear from long-time readers. Incidentally, this is actually the same syndicated column that my father, William Morris, began back in 1956 under the title Words, Wit and Wisdom, which probably makes it one of the longest-running newspaper columns in the US. My mother, Mary D. Morris, actually contributed greatly to the writing of the column from the beginning, but her name didn’t appear on it until the 1970s.

I’m not sure what my parents would have thought about movies based on theme-park rides, but I was actually considering seeing POTC II until I learned that it runs well over two hours. That’s a bit much, although I’ve loved pirate movies ever since I saw Robert Newton’s classic over-the-top portrayal of Long John Silver in Disney’s 1950 movie of Robert Louis Stevenson’s “Treasure Island.” Incidentally, a good book for anyone interested in the facts behind Hollywood’s pirate fantasies is “Under the Black Flag: The Romance and the Reality of Life Among the Pirates,” by David Cordingly.

Although “avast” is considered a classic pirate word by landlubbers, it’s actually been in general nautical use since the 17th century. “Avast” is an order to “stop, cease, hold still,” and comes from the Dutch phrase “houd vast” (meaning “hold fast”), frequently apparently slurred into “hou’vast.”

“Belay” is a natural companion to “avast,” since it means “to fasten or tie up securely,” as one might tie up a ship to a dock. The root sense of “belay” is “to lay something around another thing,” and in the 13th century to “belay” often meant to ornament a jewel, for instance, with a circle of gold. In the 14th century and thereafter, “belay” was often used in a military sense meaning to surround or lie in wait for the enemy. The most common use of “belay” today is the nautical one, in which a line or rope is “belayed,” or wrapped around, a deck cleat or “belaying pin” in order to secure it. (“Belaying pins,” incidentally, are those wooden things often used to knock people out in pirate movies.) “Belay” is also used in mountaineering, where properly secured lines are even more important, in much the same sense.

Get this thing out of my mouth.

Dear Word Detective: I have always maintained that the phrase for being in a hurry is “…champing at the bit.” I am in the minority, however, since everyone I know says “chomping.” Of course, these are the same people who may cite this clarification as a “mute point” rather than “moot,” but I am always trying to educate them. Can I have your assistance? — Anita.

“To champ at the bit” is a metaphor meaning “to be very eager to get started” on a task or enterprise (“The new owners were champing at the bit to cut employee benefits”). The “bit” in question is the metal bar in a bridle that goes inside the horse’s mouth, and the analogy of “champing at the bit” is to a racehorse at the starting line excitedly chewing on its bit in visible eagerness to begin a race.

While one of those horses will win the race and become the “champion” (at least for a few minutes), the shortened form of that word, “champ,” is unrelated to the bite sort of “champ.” “Champion” is from the Latin “campio,” meaning “combatant,” based on “campus,” or “field,” in this case a battlefield.

But the sort of “champ” that horses do is almost certainly onomatopoeic or “echoic” in origin, meaning that “champ” arose as an imitation of the sound of an animal noisily chewing something. “Champ” is a fairly recent word, dating only to the 16th century, and “champ at the bit” applied figuratively to eager humans is even more recent, first appearing at the end of the 19th century. “Chomp,” incidentally, is simply a popular variant of “champ” (much as “stamp” begat “stomp”), so while “champing at the bit” is the more established form, “chomping at the bit” can’t really be said to be incorrect.

You’re on more solid ground in your rejection of “mute point.” “Moot” was originally a legal term applied to a hypothetical debate (as in “moot court,” where law students practice effective argument), and a “moot point” was originally one well-suited to such lively practice debates. But as hypothetical debates by definition have no real-world consequences, “moot” has gradually come to mean “irrelevant.” “Mute” has nothing to do with either meaning of “moot,” and “mute point” really doesn’t make any sense. It’s a case of people substituting a word they know (“mute”) for an unfamiliar one (“moot”), a process known as “folk etymology.” It’s a very common process in the evolution of language, so brace yourself. Like it or not, if enough people start saying “mute point,” it will eventually become the standard form.

He’s Fred, Jim.

Dear Word Detective: What is the origin of the word “conn”? I think I first heard the word while watching Star Trek: “Number One, you have the conn.” Recently, the word has caught on around the office and the question “Who has the conn?” will often be heard. Sadly, most have never seen the word spelled, so they invariably will type “Who has the con”? I guess a second question would be which is preferred, “conn” or “con”? –Andy.

Are you sure about that? I always thought it was “Mister Sulu, you have the conn,” and that Number One was the actor you’d never seen before who beamed down to Altair Four with Kirk and Spock and then got eaten by a giant clam.

To “have the conn” means to be in charge or have the power of command. I tend to associate the term with movies made from Tom Clancy novels and similar he-man fare, so it’s a bit difficult to imagine “Who has the conn?” being widely used in any office where you’re not required to salute your boss. On the other hand, I’ve been working at home for many years, so maybe I’m unaware of a recent militarization of office life. I can’t say I’d be surprised, but I hope this doesn’t mean I have to buy little uniforms for the cats.

“Conn,” meaning the power to metaphorically steer the course of an endeavor or enterprise, comes from the literal use of that power. When “conn” (in the form “cun”) first appeared in English in the 17th century as a verb, it meant “to direct the steering or course of a ship,” usually from the bridge of the ship or its equivalent. Obviously, the captain of a ship has the primary responsibility for “conning” the vessel, but often delegates the “conn” (the noun appeared in the early 19th century) to subordinate officers. Early battleships actually had elevated “conning towers,” armored to protect the captain, et al., but today the same functions are usually carried out from a “conning station” on the ship’s bridge.

For a term redolent of the high seas and naval battles of yore, “conn” has a remarkably tame origin. “Conn” apparently arose as a variant form of the verb “cond,” also meaning “to direct the steering of a ship,” which in turn derived from the obsolete verb “condue,” meaning “to conduct or guide.” As you might suspect, “condue” itself ultimately harks back to the Latin “conducere” (to lead or guide), which also gave us our modern English “conduct.”

The pitter-patter of tiny larcenies.

Dear Word Detective: Could you please indicate the origin and definition of the word “rapscallion” or “rapscalion”? — John V. Murphy.

I’ll give it a shot. The usual spelling today is “rapscallion,” although, as we shall see, the spelling varies a bit over the history of this word and its relatives.

“Rapscallion” today is usually used to mean “a rascal” or “a scamp,” a person who may flout society’s conventions, and even, on occasion, break the law, but who falls short of being a major-league evildoer. A “rapscallion” is mischievous, not murderous, often a ne’er-do-well but never a hardened criminal. But before we get too warm and fuzzy about “rapscallions,” we should note that this tolerant connotation of the word is a fairly recent development.

“Rapscallion” first appeared in the late 17th century, but that spelling was apparently a mutation of the earlier “rascallion,” which had appeared in print in 1649. Both words originally carried a more pejorative connotation than “rapscallion” does today; the Oxford English Dictionary defines “rascallion” as “a low mean wretch or rascal.”

That definition contains the key to the origin of the word — “rascallion” is simply “rascal” with the suffix “alion” or “allion” appended. That suffix is, alas, an etymological mystery. Evidently it carried a solidly pejorative meaning back in the 17th century, because it also turns up in “tatterdemalion” (a vagrant dressed in tattered clothing) and “rampallion,” (a ruffian or villain), both of which were current at the time.

“Rascal” is a somewhat older word than “rapscallion” and its relatives, first appearing in English in the early 14th century, drawn from the Old French “rascaille,” meaning “outcast or rabble,” possibly in turn derived from “rasque,” mud or filth. “Rascal” originally simply denoted a member of the lower classes (which is bad enough, given that “filth” stuff), but by the 16th century had come to mean “an unprincipled or dishonest man.”

The transformation in the meaning of both “rapscallion” and “rascal” from “criminal” to “mischievous scamp” seems to have come from the growing use of the terms in a figurative, playful sense, a process which, in the case of “rascal,” was underway by the 17th century (“Sweet Rascal! If your love bee as earnest as your protestation, you will meete me this night at supper,” 1610). Today both “rapscallion” and “rascal” are almost entirely devoid of any real pejorative connotation. The same process has also tamed “tatterdemalion” (today meaning usually just a raggedly-dressed child) as well as “ragamuffin” (originally “Ragamoffyn,” a demon in William Langland’s 1393 epic poem “Piers Plowman,” but now meaning simply “a messy child”).

But he did drive a Mustang, didn’t he?

Dear Word Detective: “Roll Up! Roll Up!” There’s a phrase we’ve heard at the circus and even in Beatles and ELP lyrics. When and where did this phrase originate? I’m writing a play that takes place in late 19th century rural England and I’m hoping to be as accurate with my phrase usages as possible! — Annie, New York.

Good question. I certainly remember “Roll up! Roll up!” at the beginning of the Beatles’ Magical Mystery Tour. But what is “ELP”? The Wikipedia “disambiguation” (I love that word) page for “ELP” suggests several possibilities, including the baggage code for El Paso Airport, but I suspect you mean Emerson, Lake and Palmer, a British “progressive rock” band popular in the early 1970s. Personally, I was (and remain) partial to Procol Harum.

I’m glad to hear that you are paying close attention to historical accuracy in your novel. There’s nothing that seems to tick off certain reviewers more than Julius Caesar lighting a cigar or Tom Paine greeting Washington with “Wassup, dog?” I wish I thought that readers would also appreciate your attention to detail, but I keep reading surveys indicating that many college students believe Paul Revere used speed-dial on that fateful night.

I think you’re on solid ground having your character use the phrase “Roll up! Roll up!” in the late 19th century, although your margin will be decades rather than centuries. The use of “roll up” as slang for “congregate or gather” (making “Roll up! Roll up!” the equivalent of “Gather round!”) first appeared in print in Australia in 1861. However, as is often the case, we can assume it was in spoken use for at least a few years before it made it into print, and I think we can also assume that the phrase was current in England by your deadline.

The use of “roll up” in this sense appears to invoke the image of rolling things, in this case people, together, perhaps even by allusion to “rolling up” a carpet. A similar sense of “roll up” has long been used to mean “methodically destroy or neutralize” (“He had made a mistake in Berlin, and … his network had been rolled up,” John Le Carre, 1963).

The Oxford English Dictionary lumps the “gather or assemble” usage together with another use of “roll up,” this one in the sense of “arrive” (“A townie. A bit overdressed … he once rolled up in a velvet jacket,” 1976). But while the two senses may be logically related, I would argue that “roll up” in the “arrive” sense refers, at least metaphorically, to the wheels of a conveyance.

Eek.

Dear Word Detective: Could you tell me the origin of the word “skittish” please? –David Franklin.

Thanks for an interesting question. The moment I read it, of course, I realized that many readers would wonder whether “skittish” has any connection to the noun “skit” meaning a short, humorous playlet. As it happens, the two words are indeed related, but the connection is a tangled one.

Today we use “skittish” to mean “nervous, restless, fickle or unreliable,” as in “The skittish witness against the mob boss was eventually found to be living in Ulan Bator disguised as a itinerant fly swatter salesman.” Animals as well as people can be “skittish,” and one of the better definitions of the word comes courtesy of the Oxford English Dictionary (OED) speaking, in this case, of “skittishness” in horses: “Disposed or apt to start or be unruly without sufficient cause; given to shying or restiveness through high spirits or playfulness; unduly lively or spirited.” The general sense of “skittish” today is of a person or animal that is nervous, easily distracted or “spooked” and perhaps a bit paranoid.

The sense of “skittish” when it first appeared in English in the 15th century, however, was a bit different. As the OED puts it, “skittish” meant “Characterized by levity, frivolity, or excessive liveliness,” and many uses at the time gave the distinct impression that the person under discussion was simply not taking things as seriously as they ought (“She is like a frog in a parsley-bed, as skittish as an eel,” 1592).

The origin and development of “skittish” is, unfortunately, a bit unclear. “Skittish,” the verb “to skit” (meaning “to move lightly”), and the noun “skit” (originally meaning “a vain or frivolous woman”) all appear to be related to the Old Norse word “skjuta,” meaning “to shoot or throw.” The underlying sense of all these words seems to be something that moves lightly and quickly, perhaps unpredictably, a meaning also reflected in the use of “skit” to mean a quick shower of rain or snow, a squirt of water, and the stroke of a pen. Thus “skit” the noun, by the early 18th century, was also being used to mean a quick, biting remark or quip, a sense which, by 1820, had grown into the dramatic satire or parody known as a “skit” today.

Wait right here.

Dear Word Detective: My co-conspirators at the office and I have been debating the origin of “hold the line,” which might so easily derive simply from the era of the plug-and-socket manual telephone exchange. Then it occurred that it could have had military beginnings. Are you able to clarify for us? — Ian Wheeler, England.

You don’t say in what sense you’re using “hold the line,” but there are two primary meanings in English. One is, as the Oxford English Dictionary puts it, “to maintain telephonic connection during a break in conversation.” In such a situation, I might say “Hold the line” (or, more commonly today, “Please hold”) before I push the hold button, the purpose of the phrase being to let the caller know that I will be back and am not simply hanging up. This sense appeared around 1912, but it’s not really related to the old days of manual switchboards where lines were actually plugged in, and the imperative “hold” does not mean “don’t unplug.” “Hold” here is used in the very old sense of “preserve, keep or maintain.” A figurative use sometimes heard in the US is the expression “hold the phone,” meaning essentially “wait a minute” and indicating surprise (“Hold the phone! You mean Larry won the lottery?”). My sense is that “hold the phone” is more common than “hold the line” in this meaning.

The other sense of “hold the line” means “to maintain and preserve a position against attack, opposition or change” (“It’s important that the School Board hold the line against licentious apparel”). Given that you mention a possible military origin in your question, this is probably the sense you mean. But while this “hold the line” does conjure up visions of brave soldiers defending a position against an onslaught (probably of other brave soldiers), the source of the metaphor is not, in fact, military. The reference is to American football, and the “line” is the line of scrimmage where the ball sits at the start of each play, beyond which each team would rather its opponent not progress. Metaphorical use of “hold the line” in this sense is, no doubt, nearly as old as football, but, interestingly, the earliest usage recorded by the Oxford English Dictionary is from 1956, in singer Billie Holiday’s autobiography Lady Sings the Blues: “But 52nd Street couldn’t hold the line against Negroes forever.”

I hope it’s oatmeal. I have issues with oatmeal.

Dear Word Detective: A few years ago (very few, it seems to me) people started substituting the word “issue” for “problem.” People stopped having “problems” and suddenly had “issues” instead. This usage still sounds awkward and forced to me, even years later, and I wondered what you could tell me about how and why this got started. You’ve pointed out before that when enough people want to re-coin a word or retool its meaning, there’s not much we can do about it (e.g., your recent comments about “mute” points). But maybe we can at least find out the hows and the whys. I’m not conservative about most things (in fact, I’m quite liberal), but I resist this sort of alteration of traditional modes of saying commonplace things. I have issues with it. — Jerome Norris.

Yeah, that’s me. The Grinch who lets language-manglers off the hook. But that doesn’t mean I personally like all the changed usage and new coinages in the past few years. My job is just to offer up the data for you folks, and if you decide that it strikes you as ugly or silly, feel free to say so. I report, you deride. Personally, the one that really annoys me is “substance abuser,” which always, to me, conjures up a vision of a guy beating a large lump of some unidentified material with a baseball bat.

The use of “issues” as a stand-in for “problems” is a relatively recent development. A 2003 draft addition to the Oxford English Dictionary (OED) pegs the earliest appearance of the term found thus far in print to 1982 in the New York Times (“Then it becomes how do you deal with the emotions and intimacy issues that were largely dealt with previously through alcohol?”). But I’d be amazed if this use of “issues” were not eventually discovered somewhat earlier, perhaps in the 1970s, in psychology books or journals.

As to the “why” of “issues” used in this sense, I think that it, like “substance abuse,” is primarily a therapeutic euphemism designed to soften the impact of reality and especially to dodge the question of culpability. If one were to ask a patient about, for instance, the “problem” he has talking to his father, the patient might well respond angrily that the “problem” lies with his father. Better to neutralize that stumbling block with the blame-free “issue.”

The percolation of “issues” in this sense into daily life is certainly annoying, but I think there may be a natural limiting factor to its spread. It’s difficult to imagine news reports referring to the US government “having issues” with avian flu, for instance.

Take a break.

Dear Word Detective: I was wondering what the origin is of the term “resting on one’s laurels” or, as my Dad used to say, “sitting on one’s laurels”? Most people I know use it to mean wasting time or being lazy, but I wondered if it doesn’t really have to do with foolish indulgence after reaching the top (laurels being given to the winner of a competition or to signify achievement). — Britt Morris.

How odd. If folks really think that “resting on one’s laurels” means simply “being lazy,” they’re skipping a rather important step, the one where the person becomes fabulously successful. Without that success, whether financial or otherwise, you’re just sitting on a pile of prickly leaves.

Your suspicion that “resting on one’s laurels” means more than simply “taking it easy” is correct. To begin at the beginning, the “laurel” in question is the “True” or “Bay” Laurel, “laurus nobilis,” a large shrub (or tree) native to the Mediterranean area. This laurel (there are several other plants with “laurel” in their names) is also known as a “Bay Tree,” and is the source of the spicy and aromatic “bay leaves” used in cooking.

The significance of laurels, and of wreaths of laurel leaves worn as symbols of accomplishment, goes all the way back to the mythology of Ancient Greece. The god Apollo, who was more than just a bit of a jerk, criticized the archery skills of Eros, the god of love (and lust, giving us the word “erotic”). Eros retaliated by shooting Apollo with a magic arrow that made him fall in love with the nymph Daphne. So far, so good. But then Eros shot Daphne with an arrow that made her hate all men, especially Apollo. Apollo then pursued Daphne over hill and dale, until Daphne, finally cornered, begged Gaia, goddess of the Earth, for help. Gaia quickly turned Daphne into a laurel tree, and Apollo, bereft, fashioned a wreath from the tree as a symbol of his love. Laurel leaves were forever after associated with Apollo, and wreaths made from them were awarded to the victors in the Olympic Games in Ancient Greece as well as to honored poets (giving us the term “poet laureate”).

The use of “laurel” as a metaphor for “honor or distinction” in English goes back at least as far as Chaucer in the 14th century, leading to such phrases as “to reap one’s laurels.” Given the human tendency to take a break once you’ve hit the jackpot, “to rest on one’s laurels,” meaning to coast on the strength of one’s former accomplishments, had appeared by the 19th century.

Which one works the espresso machine?

Dear Word Detective: Many years ago, a high school teacher told me that the expression “showing or learning the ropes” came from the days of sailing ships whereby a new sailor had to learn the functions of all the rigging and lines which were, of course, what we refer to as “ropes.” Years later, a retired navy chief told me that the sailors in those days would have never called the lines and rigging aboard a ship “ropes.” It was a good way to get “dressed down” (a bit like a private who calls his rifle a “gun”). Years later, a museum curator stated that the expression came from teaching a new bell ringer in the church what notes would ring by pulling certain ropes tied at the bottom of the bell tower. But wait, there’s more! I was also told by an old cowboy that the expression came from the old days of roping cattle and wrangling horses. A new cowboy was shown the “tack” room where all the ropes were stored. Well, this is as far as I can go in my quest to learn the truth. Which do you prefer? A 10th grade school teacher, a retired navy guy or a burnt-out cowboy? — Orville.

You left out the museum curator. Actually, if you want to get the full range of stories about “learn the ropes,” you’ll have to seek out the tour guides at nearly any “historical” tourist attraction. Many of the best (i.e., weirdest) word and phrase origin stories I’ve heard come from these folks. There seems to be something about a ruffled bonnet or knee-britches that addles the brain.

In this case, we actually have two winners. The 10th grade school teacher and the retired navy guy are both right. “Know the ropes” (or “learn,” “teach” or “show”), where “ropes” means “how to do something; the inside knowledge,” does come from the world of sailing ships, where the layout and function of the various lines and sheets was the most fundamental and important knowledge a sailor could possess. The phrase first appeared in print in 1840, in the form “know the ropes” (“The captain, who … ‘knew the ropes,’ took the steering oar.”) in Richard Dana’s seafaring classic “Two Years Before the Mast.” It’s clear from that quotation that the term was already in use as a general metaphor for “knowing what to do,” and within a few years it had appeared in non-nautical contexts as well (“Tell me … about Canada, and show me the ropes,” 1860).

But it’s also true that no sailor of the day would have been caught dead calling lines and sheets (lines that control sails) “ropes.” But for landlubbers using the phrase metaphorically, “ropes” is clearer, and “knowing the lines” sounds like something only an actor would worry about.

This just in.

Dear Word Detective: Do you know when we first started referring to the media or those working in journalism as “the press”? — Karen.

I sure do. Sometime around 1926. Next question. Just kidding. You don’t want a year — you want the whole story, and I’m here to give it to you. Actually, I’m here at the moment because the alternative seems to be replacing the screens on the sun porch, and my hand is still bandaged from the last time I tried that. Here’s a handy home repair tip for you folks: if the directions say “Then press the spline into the groove with the concave side of the tool,” you can save some time by calling 911 before you begin.

The noun “press” first appeared in English in the 13th century with the now-obsolete meaning of “a crowd; the condition of being crowded,” i.e., being “pressed upon” by a crowd of people. The appearance of the noun at that time was a bit odd in that the more general verb form, “to press,” defined by the Oxford English Dictionary as “To act upon (a body) with a continuous force directed towards or against it,” didn’t show up in English until the 14th century. In any case, “press” is rooted in the Old French “presser,” which in turn derives from the Latin “pressare,” meaning, you guessed it, “to press.”

“Press” as a noun in English has acquired a wide variety of meanings over the past seven centuries, from the “press” that crushes grapes for wine to the “press” that puts a crease in trousers to the kind of “press” that weight-lifters brag about. In regard to journalism, we are, of course, talking about the printing press, invented in the 1450s by Johannes Gutenberg. Gutenberg’s invention transformed literature and eventually revolutionized education, leading to the spread of literacy and the evolution of newspapers, which, in turn, made it possible for millions of people around the world to follow the saga of Bat Boy in the National Enquirer. Hooray for Gutenberg!

The use of “the press” to mean “journalists” is an outgrowth of other figurative uses of the word, such as “press” meaning a publisher (today usually a small book publisher), “press” in the sense of the products of printing presses, especially “the coverage given to an issue or person in news reports” (“The lobbyist’s arrest has resulted in some bad press for several senators”), and “press” in such abstract phrases as “freedom of the press.” The leap in the early 20th century to using “the press” to mean either individual reporters or journalists as a group (“At least a half dozen times since the wedding the unfortunate composer has been badgered by the press….”, 1926) was thus a natural outgrowth of this figurative sense of “press.”

On a tear.

Dear Word Detective: I listen to a word show called “Says You” on public radio. They have a show segment of odd word definitions. One person has the correct definition, two others make up a definition and the other team has to guess the correct one. One week’s word was “winklehawk.” I’m not sure of the proper spelling. It is the “L” shaped tear in a piece of cloth or clothing. It was one of those words that stuck with me. Do you have any idea of the origin? — Dave Straka.

That show sounds like fun. I must warn you, however, that public radio word-puzzle shows have a spotty record when it comes to accuracy. In fact, last year grammarian Geoffrey Pullum posted an entry on the group linguistics blog Language Log explaining why Will Shortz was wrong in counting the word “these” as a pronoun in one of his NPR Weekend Edition puzzles.

“Winklehawk” threw me at first because not only had I never heard the word, but none of my dictionaries (and that’s a lot of dictionaries) had either, not even the Oxford English Dictionary or several collections of ancient and obsolete words. I finally ran “winklehawk” to ground, however, in John Bartlett’s 1849 Dictionary of Americanisms (where the “Says You” staff almost certainly also found it). Bartlett defines “winklehawk” as “A rent in the shape of the letter L, frequently made in cloth” (a “rent” being a tear, from the Middle English “renden,” to rip or tear, also the source of our modern “rend”). Bartlett notes that the term is sometimes rendered as “winkle-hole,” and declares it “a New York term.”

Most importantly, Bartlett pegs “winklehawk” as being rooted in the Dutch “winkel-haak,” a connection that makes perfect sense since New York, after all, used to be called New Amsterdam. “Winkel-haak,” as it turns out, is the Dutch term for a carpenter’s square, that L-shaped metal ruler used to mark precise square lines. I don’t speak Dutch, but apparently a “winkel” is a shop, especially a women’s dress shop, and “haak” is Dutch for “hook” (sharing a common ancestor with our English “hook,” in fact). So a “winkel-haak” was probably originally an L-shaped ruler for precisely measuring and cutting fabric or other materials. The application of the term to an L-shaped tear seems natural, and the change in spelling to “winklehawk” when the word entered English was to be expected, since “haak” is not an English word but does sound a bit like “hawk.”