Semper Ubi Sub Ubi
Well, that was fun. It rained here for 23 out of the 31 days in July. And this wasn’t a gentle drizzle; it was usually torrential downpours that flooded roads and knocked out power in our area, which may have had something to do with the fact that our landline telephone stopped working on July 2nd, stayed out for eight days, and hasn’t really worked right ever since then. Oddly enough, the DSL internet on our phone line kinda worked some of that time, albeit at sub-modem speeds (23 kb/s, way too slow to be useful). But after much sturm und drang with Frontier (who bought up Verizon’s rural accounts several years ago), we finally got it fixed. Sortof. Yay.
The very next day our refrigerator died. No kidding. Unfortunately, that happened right after our weekly grocery-shopping trip. We only shop once a week because the nearest real supermarket is a 30-mile round trip, and we tend to accumulate staples (butter, milk, frozen vegetables, frozen chicken, etc.) whenever we can. So this ruined at least $200 of food. It took another ten days and $200+ to get it fixed.
And then … the phone died again. This time you could get a dial tone, but it was hard to hear it over the crashing static. DSL speeds dropped to 1.6 kb/s, too slow even to send a short email. This is where we are now; the phone is utterly unusable and the internet is a bad, useless joke. I’m gonna have to wait and hope for a fast period to post this update — oddly enough, every so often, usually for ten minutes or so late at night, we’d get 290 kb/s, an actual usable speed. It’s almost as if they (Frontier) were doing it on purpose. Oh wait, there’s a lawsuit in West Virginia alleging exactly that. The comments on that article are a window on Frontier’s business practices.
The real problem with Frontier is that they have no competition out here (there is no cable TV or internet, satellite internet is way too expensive, and even local dialup is famously unreliable). It’s not the infrastructure; we never had these problems with Verizon. And the fact that it sometimes runs at usable speeds means that the “problem” is way upstream of us. They’ve apparently oversold their antiquated network and would rather spend money on lobbyists than improving service.
Onward. I would have updated this site earlier (during the brief periods when we had internet), but on top of all this I’m having some truly bizarre visual problems, mostly in my right eye. I’m used to the flashes of light, eye pain and periods of extreme fuzziness common to multiple sclerosis, but this is like having an LED billboard at the right edge of my vision, one that moves and ripples and tilts in a disturbingly psychedelic fashion.
So this issue is way late, for which I am sorry.
As always, we depend to an alarming degree on your continued support and donations, which can be directed here.
And now, on with the show….
My back paystubs.
Dear Word Detective: I was driving into work this morning thinking that perhaps I should extend my vacation. That made me wonder: what is the relationship between “extend” and “pretend”? — Inesa.
I know the feeling. I used to get it all the time on my morning subway ride. Eventually I took a leave of absence from my job and just never went back. After a few years (!) they sent me a letter saying I no longer worked there, which is nice to know. But I still have anxious dreams of being yelled at for not filling out my time sheets. Oh well.
One thing’s clear when you start looking at the history of “extend” and “pretend”: you’re definitely going to get your money’s worth. Both words are members of a large family, call it “the Tends,” with lots of descendants.
In the beginning was the Proto-Indo-European root “ten,” meaning “to stretch” (source of the adjective and verb “tense”). From that came the Latin verb “tendere” (meaning “to stretch, point, direct, touch, offer”), and we were off and running. With the help of some common Latin prefixes, we ended up with scads of “tend” words, including “attend,” “contend,” “distend,” “intend,” “extend,” “portend,” “pretend,” “subtend” and, of course, “bartend.”
English actually has two verbs we might call “just plain tend,” which are considered separate words although they both come from “tendere.” “Tend” in the sense of “to care for, watch over” is actually an aphetic, or cropped, form of “attend,” which we borrowed from Old French in the 15th century and rests on the sense of “stretching” one’s mind, ears, eyes, etc., “towards” an object, person, etc. Our other “tend,” meaning “to have an inclination to do something” (“Bob tends to ignore instructions”), appeared in English around the same time.
“Intend” comes from the Latin “intendere,” meaning “to turn one’s attention to” (literally “to stretch toward”) which also included the sense of “to plan.” “Extend,” which appeared in the 14th century, was derived from the Latin “extendere,” meaning “to stretch out, expand.” The original, now obsolete, sense of “extend” implied strong stretching or straining, but the weaker sense of “straighten or extend” (as one “extends” one’s arm) had appeared by the late 14th century. The sense of “prolong in duration” first appeared in the late 16th century. Today we also use “extend” in senses including the geographic sense of “cover” (as in “His sales territory extends as far as California”) and “hold out, put forward” in (as in “He extended an offer of settlement to the victim”).
“Pretend,” which also appeared in English in the 14th century, comes ultimately from the Latin verb “praetendere” (“prae” meaning “before,” plus our old pal “tendere,” to stretch). One of the senses of the Latin verb, carried into Anglo-Norman and from there to English, was “to put forward as a pretext or reason; to deceptively allege.” So “pretend” has a long history of deception.
However, one interesting use of “pretend,” now largely obsolete, meant simply “to put forward a claim,” not necessarily with an implication of dishonest intent. Back in the 17th and 18th centuries, a time of considerable governmental instability in Europe, there were a number of folks who asserted claims to various thrones, most notably in Britain. Some of these “pretenders to the throne” were deluded, some were the cat’s-paws of schemers and rogues, but some probably had a good case for being, say, Charles III (who failed in his efforts, and is known today as Bonnie Prince Charlie).
I’ll “reason why” if I feel like it, buckaroo.
Dear Word Detective: So is “Half a league, half a league, half a league onward” related to the The League of Redheaded Gentlemen, The League of Nations, or Major League Baseball? If so, how and when did the word diverge to mean a unit of distance (about 3 miles as I understand it) and a collection of people or groups with a common purpose? — Barney Johnson.
Ah yes, “The Charge of the Light Brigade,” by Alfred Lord Tennyson. I first heard that read aloud by my fourth grade teacher during our annual Festival of Depressing Poems. I actually preferred “The Highwayman” by Alfred Noyes, the moon bein’ a ghostly galleon above the purple moor and all. “The Charge of the Light Brigade” is, of course, about the disastrous 1854 charge of British cavalry against Russian guns in “the Valley of Death” during the Crimean War.
The “league” in the poem is a unit of distance roughly equivalent to three miles, said to be based on the distance a person could walk in an hour. “League” was commonly used as a measure around the world at various points, but its definition was variable and “leagues” have long been of use only to poets. Wikipedia helpfully notes that the title of “20,000 Leagues under the Sea,” the 1870 Jules Verne science fiction novel about Captain Nemo and his Nautilus submarine, refers to “the distance traveled while under the sea and not to a depth, as 20,000 leagues is over six times the diameter, and nearly three times the circumference of the Earth.” I wish someone had told me that when I was twelve. I think I thought a league was, maybe, six feet. Of course, that would have meant the Light Brigade charged three feet, not 1-1/2 miles.
“League” first appeared in Late Middle English as “leuge,” and was based on the Late Latin “leuga.” The Latin word was apparently adopted by the Romans from Gaulish, a Celtic language spoken in what we now know as France. (Good first-year Latin students will have Caesar’s “Gallia est omnis divisa in partes tres” — all Gaul is divided into three parts — knocking about their noggins at this point.) Sadly, the trail ends there, and the deeper roots of “league” in this “three miles” sense are obscure.
Unfortunately, none of this has anything to do with “league” in the “Major League Baseball” sense of an association, professional society or group, which is a completely separate word. On the bright side, we do know where this one came from. This “league” entered English in the 15th century (via both French and Italian) from the Latin “ligare,” meaning “to bind.” The first uses of this “league” were to mean an agreement or compact made among and “binding” nations or military or commercial parties for mutual protection of their joint interests (e.g., the League of Nations established in 1919). The use of “league” to mean “association, club, society, etc. with a common purpose or goal” dates to the mid-19th century (“The League was formed chiefly for the purpose of insuring a series of first-class games [etc.].” 1899).
This “league” is also commonly used today in a figurative sense to mean “a certain level in a hierarchy; class” (“She’s out of your league, me lad, and you’ll take a most almighty toss.” 1966). The older sense of “parties bound together by a common interest” is also alive and well in the phrase “in league with,” which usually implies covert and nefarious intent (“For anybody on the road might be a robber or in league with robbers.” Dickens, 1859).