So that’s where Tolkien got “Orc”

ByJohn Brown

Tolkien was a master of words with sounds that connote meaning. But I often find that a lot of his work was not produced from thin air. Case in point: I was looking today at the word “ogre.” Check out this etymology from the OED.

French ogre (late 12th cent. in Old French in sense ‘fierce pagan’, c1300 in sense ‘man-eating giant’, attested again from 1613; also hogre (1704 in the passage translated in quot. 1713 at main sense)), further etymology uncertain and disputed.

French ogre is perh. < classical Latin Orcus, the name of the god of the infernal regions, Hades, Pluto (further etymology uncertain), with metathesis of r (perh. influenced by words such as bougre BOUGRE n.), or perh. < post-classical Latin Ugri, Ungri, Ongri, applied by early writers to the Hungarians or Magyars (see UGRIAN n.). Cf. (< classical Latin Orcus) Middle French orque hell (16th cent.; prob. a later reborrowing), and also Italian orco demon, monster (13th cent.), Spanish huerco devil, personification of death or hell (1330-1900), Sardinian orcu demon, and early modern Dutch orck unruly person (Dutch regional ork). Spanish ogro (1787-1900) is a borrowing from French ogre.

In folklore and mythology: a man-eating monster, usually represented as a hideous giant. In extended use: a person resembling or suggestive of an ogre; a cruel, irascible, or fearsome-looking person.

But Tolkien’s not the only one using his brains. Here’s one from Robert Jordan.

sangrayle, -grayll(e, seynt graal, 7-9 sangreal, 9 sangreall. [a. OF. Saint Graal ‘Holy Grail’: see SAINT a. and GRAIL.
  The pseudo-etymological form sang roial (confusing the word with SANG-ROYAL 2) appears in AF. of the 15th c.: see Godefr. Compl. s.v. SANC. Another spurious etymology formerly common appears in the following quot.:
  1685 STILLINGFL. Orig. Brit. i. 13 Others think that the word was Sangreal, being some of Christ’s real blood..said to be somewhere found by King Arthur.]

1. = GRAIL.

a1450 Le Morte Arth. 10 The knights of the table Round, The sangrayle when they had sought. c1450 Merlin ii. 32 Thi boke shalbe cleped the boke of the seynt Graal. 1470-85 MALORY Arthur II. xi. 88 Soone after the aduentures of the Sangrayll shalle come among yow and be encheued. 1808 SCOTT Marm. I. Introd. Epist. 268 He took the Sangreal’s holy quest. 1871 G. MEREDITH H. Richmond II. 145 They bear the veiled sun like a sangreal aloft to the wavy marble flooring of stainless cloud.

Zing!

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  • Leonard and Lady Randy (yes, that kind of randy)

    ByJohn Brown

    Maybe you’ve heard this one from Paul Harvey. Can you guess who it is?

    “Escape!

    Of all the positions in the field of journalism, that of war correspondent is perhaps most dangerous. Some are captured, some escape. Some die.

    Twenty-five-year-old Leonard Spencer was the London Morning Post’s newest correspondent. His assignment was the Boer War, in South Africa.

    Had young Leonard foreseen the peril awaiting him, he would probably have taken the assignment anyway. That’s how Leonard was.

    About twenty miles from Ladysmith, Leonard could hear the booming guns. He was aboard a British armored train that would take him as close to the front as he could get.

    The train got too close. There was a sudden crash. The train had struck a boulder on the tracks … a Boer booby trap. It was an ambush!

    Immediately, a fusillade of rifle fire followed. Surprised, British troops on the train fired back.

    And Leonard? Leonard ignored the gunshots and exploding shells. He jumped off the train, directed the British defense, helped to clear the wreckage.

    In fact, without the aid of this youthful correspondent from the Morning Post, the train might well have been lost and the British troops massacred.

    Instead, the wreckage was cleared, the train did pull out of the trap and carried a good many British soldiers with it.

    The one left behind to face the enemy…was Leonard! No, the story does not end sadly there.

    Leonard was captured, unharmed. Even though Leonard was technically a war correspondent, the Boer commander was sufficiently impressed with his bravery…to have Leonard thrown into prison at Pretoria.

    The Pretoria prison was among the world’s most carefully guarded strongholds. Still, that did not stop Leonard from plotting an escape with two other British captives.

    As darkness fell, the trio waited for their opportunity. It was now pitch black. The sentries exchanged their posts. Leonard sprang across an open area, hurdled a fence of barbed-wire mesh. When he looked back, there was no one. His comrades had missed their chance!

    Three hundred miles of hostile territory lay between Leonard and his freedom. For a while, he followed the railroad tracks to the east, stumbling alone, through the dark, dodging enemy patrols. Tired, hungry, thirsty…Leonard plodded long into the night, knowing that, each painful foot of the way, one false step could be his last.

    The night turned to day and back to night again, until the days and nights blurred.

    Finally Leonard reached a mining town. His luck wearing thin but holding, he knocked on the door of the only Britisher in the territory and was smuggled onto a train loaded with bales of wool.

    The train would carry him to the British consul. To safety.

    And that’s how Leonard Spencer, the London Morning Post’s fledgling correspondent, got his story…and his reputation for daring.

    History has all but forgotten this incident in his life in order to make room for later glory.

    The fortune that once seemed to be wearing thin had only begun…and one day rubbed off on all of England.

    For the young correspondent who once upon a time saved a British armored train and escaped the enemy under impossible circumstances…continued to do the impossible for the rest of his life.

    We knew him as Sir Winston Leonard Spencer Churchill!

    And now you know THE REST OF THE STORY.”

    Um, no, not even close. 

    When I read about the childhoods of famous historical figures I’m often surprised. For example, I’m still freaking out that Hitler was a street artist. So I ran across this article today about Winston Churchill’s childhood and his mother who was nicknamed “Lady Randy” for her promiscuity (rumored 200 lovers).

    She had no time for Winston. Other people raised him. Yet she wasn’t completely absent in his life. Apparently, she called on favors from previous lovers when Winston needed to learn French. Nevertheless, it appears Winston was raised without a father or mother, yet ends up being the kind of man who could lead a nation at war.

    This is fertile ground for drama of the best kind.

    I’m going to be seeking out some biographies. It’s going to be fascinating seeing how Winston pulled it off and who influenced and helped him along the way. 

    There’s one thing more. These facts aren’t all that drew me. What Winston wrote upon his mother’s death, well, it’s the finest poetry I’ve heard this last month.

    “I do not feel a sense of tragedy,” he said, “but only loss. Her life was a full one. The wind was in her veins.”

    That metaphoric power of that last sentence given her history and relationship with him–it’s stunning. 
     
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  • The path to?

    ByJohn Brown

    Is this not delicious? I found it on istockphotos.com and couldn’t stay away. I want to be on that trail. I want to know what’s around that bend. Holy moly, the feeling of this photo is just marvelous.

    So I bought a copy. It’s by stellalevi.

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    Zing, Baby!

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  • The church of dead chickens

    ByJohn Brown

    For about two hours each Sunday I get to teach a bunch of wonderful six and seven year olds at our church. 5 boys. 2 girls. One of the boys likes to rip the buttons off his shirts with his teeth. So I’m thinking, hey, this is my kind of crowd.

    I teach with a man named Jed. Poor mountaineer barely keeps his family fed. One day he was shooting up some food when up from the ground came a bubbling crude.

    Okay, so Jed isn’t a poor, bare-foot fellow with starving kids. He’s an eligible bachelor who helps his father run one of the biggest cattle ranches up here. Nevertheless, his name IS Jed. And we do live in the mountains.

    So anyway, we have a great time with these kids. I mean, with adults, they all sit there polite in their chairs. But with these kids, well, every once in a while there’s one boy who gets up and jigs like Lords of the Flame. We appreciate his art and then get on with the lesson. You also get to say things like, “Hey, do you need to blow that schnoz,” and “get your hand out of your pants” right in the middle of class and nobody bats an eye. During the prayer one of them likes to sit Indian style, hands out, thumbs to the birdie finger (what’s the real name of that finger anyway, Tallman?), and say “oohm.” Trying to break him of that habit. That’s not quite the civilized style of prayer in these parts. But at least he closes his eyes and figures prayer is fun.

    So at the beginning of each class we go around and tell one cool or interesting thing that happened that week. I think their stuff is cool. They think my stuff is cool. We have a cool chat and then move on to professionally prepared lessons. Lots of interaction. I’m a private sector teacher, right? (Look, I’d say “trainer,” but then all them snooty types would say, “So what do you want? Sex TRAINING or sex EDUCATION?” Then they’d look down on me. And I’d say, well, education can sometimes be boring. Let’s try the training part. Then I’d get kicked out of my church job. So I’m keeping my job, okay?)

    Jed and I, we facilitate some good lessons.  Thing is you never know what gets through. Until, of course, the parents give you some feedback.

    I had a party with the kids over at my house. We couldn’t find an official slip-n-slide, so we pulled out some plastic, folded it up, and then set it up on our hill. One benefit of coming to my house for slip n slide fun is that we have a hot water tap outside. Nice for washing cars. Nice for mixing with the cold water so you’re sliding in a warm sploosh. Not some ice fest because you want to be loosey-goosey when you’re careening over grass.

    It was all good until one boy zoomed down the slide at 80 mph while another was trying to straighten our redneck slip-n-slide. The first smacked the other I don’t know where with his head.  All I know is that there was a nice watermelon sound and a delayed wail of extreme pain. We all admired the sound echoing around the hill we live on then moved onto some buddy tag (you call it missionary tag out here in Mormonland). Then to flying paper airplanes off our deck, after which we cooked s’mores over a fire. We ended up with hooligan fireworks on the driveway–smoke bombs and tanks. Everyone loved it. Kids didn’t want to leave. Who would?

    That Sunday we had another fine lesson at the church. So what do you think this kids are going to remember?

    I’ll tell you what they’ll remember. One little gal just told her mom that they needed to get some dead chickens and turkeys and put them on their porch.  This is what they learned in primary from Brother John and Brother Jed. And she’s not the only one talking like that.

    I deny teaching any voodoo.

    Or taxidermy.

    Of course, I will admit that when we were flying airplanes off the deck I told them I wanted to put up a few platforms maybe two feet square down by our garden. Put them up on 7 foot poles and throw some dead animals on them during the winter, maybe a chicken from the store, and watch the bald eagles and hawks gather. I mean, come one. Forget those weiner sparrows. Who wouldn’t want a few bald eagle badboys in the garden, looking down and scaring the cats? We all agreed that was cool then went on flying our multi-colored airplanes.

    So that’s what I’ll admit to. But the parents can’t be mad because being nice to others, especially those with razor sharp beaks and talons that like to rip and tear raw flesh, hey, that’s the second great commandment. I was just teaching the gospel truth.

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    Jon Ronson, mild-mannered pal of extremists

    ByJohn Brown

    Take a guy who does humorous journalism, but not in the sneering sort of way, and send him out to find out more about extremists (KKK, Islamicists, etc.) and conspiracy theories (he didn’t really believe in the Bildeburgers…until he was followed), and what do you get?

    Well, you get British journalist Jon Ronson.

    I just listened to a wonderful interview with him on Radio West.

    Don’t miss it.

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  • Maya, a character for a thriller?

    ByJohn Brown

    mayalassiterbeachphotoMaya lives in a yurt.

    She has glorious garbage floors.

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    Here’s a list of her most popular blogs.

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    In fact, what would happen if I took a Maya and put her in that thriller I’ve got incubating? 

    Oh, baby. Zing.

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