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In ten days I will be arriving in Rome for a long awaited visit. My good friends Maryann and Andrew moved there almost 2 years ago. Before Maryann's international move she was part of Crescent and Frost. A band that combines elements of folk, pop, country, and bluegrass, yet the final product is much more and distinctly its own. Sadly they don't have more videos to post.

Charlesbridge enters the rock pantheon with The Magic Babushka.


As you can see on this Bob Dylan album cover for Dimestore Medicine, Bob's friend (is that Sara?) is wearing her own magic babushka.



A side-by-side comparison

Marc Palatucci, Intern

In my family, there is a story that has been told and retold countless times over the past few decades. It involves my grandfather Oscar. As the story goes, a young, robust Oscar climbs the ladder to the high dive at the local public swimming pool with a lit cigarette tucked firmly between his lips. Eventually he makes his way to the lofty platform, and approaches the edge. At this point he pauses, and with his hands at his sides, manipulates his mouth in such a way as to flip the still burning cigarette backwards, gripping the butt between his teeth, clenching his lips shut, and leaving the ember hovering precariously above his tongue.
He then leaps from the diving board, holding his breath along with the onlookers as he plummets, eventually plunging into the water below. Upon surfacing, he spins the cigarette back out of his mouth, and exhales a triumphant billow of smoke, to the delight and awe of the spectators. Now, as the years have passed, I cannot help but question the veracity of this story. Of course any tale that travels by word of mouth will develop certain idiosyncrasies with each telling, but even the facts of this account seem hard to believe. Nevertheless, I see it as an heirloom of sorts, and I tell it fondly, if incredulously.

Along with the family lore, another inheritance of mine is an avid love of words. During my childhood, dinner table conversation was rife with obscure vocabulary, lighthearted debates on grammar and usage, and inevitably the stories of how words and phrases came to be. These stories, or etymologies, were always fanciful, and revealed to me the boundless level of imagination embedded in our language. With this sense of fascination about linguistic histories instilled in me from a young age, I was instantly curious when David Wilton’s book Word Myths landed on my desk. I was at once enthralled and repelled. You see, throughout my studies and conversations on linguistics, I had heard whispers here and there that certain of the etymological tales that had delighted me as a child were not entirely accurate. Now here was a book, a legitimate, well researched book, designed to discount those stories. The integrity of my childhood was at stake! Nonetheless, my curiosity prevailed, and I dove in. Much to my relief, the dear recollections from my youth were not corrupted or denatured. Rather, the book was teeming with captivating linguistic legends, with some of the substantiated anecdotes proving more whimsical than those that were fabricated. Alas, I could no longer believe in good conscience that Eskimos have a hundred words for snow, as I had been told, but all was not lost. It turns out some Eskimo languages do have many words for snow, in the same way English has many words for water (ocean, sound, brook, rivulet, cascade, and so on). Thus, there was some kernel of truth at the heart of the myth.

It turned out the doubts I had feared about the fictitious etymologies were no more damaging than my doubts about the legend of my grandfather’s aquatic feat. The mere bounds of reality simply cannot detract from stories so great. With words and stories both, there are no fine lines or distinct boundaries of meaning. That is the very source of their wonder. Stories are not always intended to convey facts, but to stimulate the mind. Myths are invented to explain and describe the unfathomable and ineffable, swapping fact for metaphor. It is a debate of the scientist versus the poet, but my allegiance lies somewhere between the two. A day will come when I sit around the dinner table with children of my own, and I will most certainly let my imagination get the better of me. Yes, I will regale them with tales of their great grandfather’s high dive daredevilry, and I will probably cite some statistical hyperbole on Eskimo linguistics for good measure. I will not be lying to them, I will be entertaining them, enthusiastically so, and without pause, taking solace in the fact that the best stories are always, quite literally, incredible.

Purdy, Publicity Director

In my youth, back when 8-track players were the cutting edge of music technology, I have fond memories of Sundays when my dad would sing along to his favorite tapes: Eddie Arnold, Slim Whitman, Charlie Pride, Jim Reeves, The Weavers and many others. My father had a good voice and these singers had a style and range that complemented his voice. I sometimes wondered if he had not been the great, good responsible sort, caring for his wife/my mother and three obstreperous boys before he’d even reached the ripe age of 25, if he would not have been more like Woody Guthrie or Pete Seeger, riding the rails, thumbing the by-ways and back roads, singing for his supper. My dad loved to sing, and never missed an opportunity to spotlight his talents when opportunity presented itself in the form of a wedding or funeral or festival. I remember one night watching a documentary special about the Weavers. My dad watched with envy and awe. He sang Goodnight Irene for weeks non-stop following that program. It rings in my ears to this day. Pete Seeger of The Weavers most recently appeared at President Obama’s inaugural celebration. He will turn 90 this May 3rd. Allan Winkler, author of the forthcoming To Everything There is a Season (May 2009) offers up some thoughts about Seeger’s lingering impact on that sea of humanity in DC for the inauguration.

There he was on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, Abe looking over his shoulder in the background. It was part of the exuberant “We Are One” concert the day before the inauguration of Barack Obama. Bruce Springsteen, perhaps America’s best known singer, had just done a song on his own, and now he welcomed 89-year-old Pete Seeger, “the father of American folk music,” with his grandson Tao to lead the crowd of several hundred thousand in Woody Guthrie’s song “This Land Is Your Land.”

As he has done for more than 60 years, Pete started off by giving the audience lines of the song. Over the years, he has dedicated his life to getting people to sing along, and this concert was no exception. But this time the crowd needed no help. People were eager to join in what Springsteen called “the greatest song ever written about our home.”

Pete was in fine form. In his 30s and 40s and 50s, he often seemed serious in concert. He took satisfaction in moving an audience along, but appeared earnest. The real satisfaction came from a job well done. Now he seemed to radiate an unadulterated joy.

He’s admired Springsteen for some time, and was genuinely pleased when “the Boss” put out his Seeger Sessions CD a couple of years ago. This album consisted entirely of songs Seeger had sung and helped popularize, and got attention for both men. Pete, who had tangled with the establishment for decades, over union issues, civil rights, the war in Vietnam, and the environment, who had been willing to go to prison when he felt Congress exceeded its bounds by insisting that he talk about his Communist past, now has the status of icon. He still performs in an occasional concert with Tao, but doesn’t like to travel. For this concert, a private plane brought him from his home in New York to Washington, D.C.

His enthusiasm was contagious. He had an old knit hat on his head. His long-necked banjo hung from a rope strap over his shoulder. But often, with a huge smile on his face, he let the banjo drop and used his arms to entreat the crowd to sing even louder. And all of us, both standing on the Mall and sitting in front of our television steps, were only too eager to join in.

For me, it was especially moving, for in the course of writing a short biography about Pete, I’ve gotten to know him and his wife Toshi. Both have been gracious, helpful, and hospitable, and have made the project one of the most enjoyable in my life. The first time I met Pete, we spoke on tape for about three hours, sitting in his living room in his home by the Hudson. When we finished that first interview, I said, “Pete, I’d like to ask you a favor.” When he asked what I wanted, I pointed to the banjo on the wall and said, “Would you play that thing for me?” He looked at me, then at the guitar I had brought with me, and replied, “Only if you’ll play with me.” And that, of course, what just what I had wanted to hear.

We played four songs that day, and others on subsequent visits. Then, in November, I was in New York, and brought my wife Sara up to meet Pete and Toshi, for she hadn’t been there before. At that visit, I asked if I could bring a couple of fellow historians with me for a musical afternoon in early January, when we would be attending the meeting of the American Historical Association. And so on a Sunday just two weeks before the inauguration, we drove up, with our banjos, guitars, and wives, and spent two and a half hours, playing music with Pete. We sang “This Land Is Your Land,” of course, and many of the other songs, like “Turn, Turn, Turn,” just to mention one, that he wrote and taught to us all. It was a wonderful afternoon. At first I felt self-conscious about asking him to play with me. But then I realized that he was “proudest of all that I’ve been able to be a kind of a link in a chain for a lot of people to learn some good songs.” We’re part of that chain, and he was only too willing to do with us what he’s spent his life doing with people around the world.

And there he was at the inaugural concert in Washington, D.C. It was an energetic performance, celebrating a momentous occasion. Pete, once unwelcome to the nation’s leaders, was there in fine form to help us celebrate the dawn of a new age.

By Anatoly Liberman

A word, some scholars say, can have several etymologies. This is a misleading formulation. Various factors contribute to a word’s meaning and form. All of them should be taken into account and become part of the piece of information we call etymology, because words are like human beings. Someone we know had two parents and inherited their traits, along with those of many generations of his ancestors, then grew up in an environment that partly reinforced and partly suppressed those traits, changed his habits under the influence of his domineering wife, and took her last name, to spite his parents. He has recently celebrated his 100th birthday. Words too come from a certain source, begin to interact with their neighbors (some mean nearly the same, and the newcomer either tries to stay away from them or drives them out of existence; others sound like it, and their closeness affects its meaning or stylistic coloring), grow old and dull or join a disreputable gang, and perhaps die. Each event deserves the attention of a language historian, but it is better not to speak of the multiple etymologies of one word.

In other cases, two or three sources look like a word’s probable etymons. Only one of them was its true parent, but we have no way of recognizing it. Both situations seem to be relevant to the history of akimbo. Among the conjectures about its origin some are reasonable. It is also possible that, regardless of the real etymon of akimbo, the word may have succumbed to the lures of folk etymology, a process that usually obliterates ancestral traits. This is the reason the most cautious dictionaries say “origin unknown.” But theirs is not the ignorance born of the lack of evidence. It is akin to the dilemma that faced Buridan’s ass, which, being placed between two equally appetizing stacks of hay, starved to death, unable to choose the best one. Those who can visualize the position called “with hands (or arms) akimbo” will agree that invoking the image of that unhappy animal could not be more apt.

There is the Italian phrase a sghembo “awry, aslope,” and it has been proposed as the etymon of the English word. Several factors weaken this idea. Someone who suggests borrowing should show in what circumstances the lending language shared its resources and why people from another country decided to accept the gift. If these conditions are not met, the hypothesis has no merit. We know why English took over a multitude of musical terms from Italian, but why akimbo? Were Italians famous for having their “hands on the hips and the elbows turned outward,” to quote an admirable dictionary definition? The worst thing about this etymology is that the Italian phrase has nothing to do with the position of the arms. Consequently, the English are supposed to have borrowed a sghembo and endowed it with a sense remote from the original one. As we will see, this argument will also prove deadly for another attempt to trace akimbo to a foreign source. An etymology killed with such heavy artillery may not need a few additional bullets, but we cannot help observing that Italian gh designates “hard g” (as in Engl. get), whereas akimbo has k. The parallel form a schembo (sch = sk), was dialectal, so that its popularity among English-speakers could not have been significant at any time.

Akimbo surfaced as in kenebowe (1400). More than two centuries later the variants a kenbol(l) ~ a kenbold appeared. For their sake, and perhaps not without some regrets, we will leave Italy for Scandinavia. The Icelandic words kimbill, kimpill, and kimbli “bundle of hay; hillock,” once compared with akimbo, exist. According to some old dictionaries, they mean “the handle of a pot or jug,” but they do not. Their root is related to Engl. comb and was used in Germanic for coining the names of fastenings, barrel staves, and so forth. However, similar words (kimble, kemmel, and many others), designating various vessels (not handles), are current in modern British English and Swedish dialects. For this reason, Ernest Weekley set up Middle Engl. kimbo “pot ear, pitcher handle.” The metaphor, from a pitcher with two handles to a person with hands akimbo, is perfect and widespread. In kenebowe may have been a conscious translation of the French phrase en anses “on the handles,” as Weekley says, but why is it so different from present day Engl. akimbo, especially if we remember that Middle Engl. kimbo has been reconstructed rather than recorded and that 17th century authors knew kembol(l). What happened to final -l? Weekley did not provide an answer to those questions. Akembol could not develop from in kenebowe in a natural way. More likely, it was a product of folk etymology, perhaps indeed under the influence of the names of pots and jugs.

A third putative source of akimbo is Gaelic cam “bent, crooked”; the English adverb kim-kam “all awry, all askew” has been attested. Since -bowe in kenebowe means “bend” and is identical with -bow in elbow and rainbow, kimbo, from ken-bow ~ kin-bow ~ kinbo, emerges in this reconstruction as “bent bend,” a tautological compound (both of its parts mean the same), like many others in the Indo-European languages. Compare Engl. courtyard, pathway, etc. and numerous place names, which, when deciphered, yield “white white water,” “hill-hill,” and so forth. While reading the entry akimbo in Skeat’s dictionary, I discovered, much to my surprise, his passing statement on the popularity of such compounds, as though this fact were the most obvious thing in the world. It is not, and few researchers are aware of them. The suggestion that just one component of akimbo is Celtic has little to recommend it. In sum, akimbo would be easy to explain, if its earliest form were not kenebowe. Lost among Italian, Gaelic, Icelandic, and English, we will return to Scandinavia.

Another form that allegedly might generate akimbo is Icelandic kengboginn “bent into a crook.” British dialectal kingbow looks like a variant of it. This etymology is given in most dictionaries as final. A late 14th century English word could have been borrowed from Scandinavian, but Italian a sghembo hastens to take its revenge. Kengboginn never meant “akimbo,” and a change from “bent, crooked” to such a highly specific meaning (“with one’s hands on the hips”) is suspect. Also, keng- in kengboginn, like kimble, bears little resemblance to kene- (-bowe, is not incompatible with -boginn, however). Once again we wish there were no kenebowe.

At first blush, kene- in kenebowe is the adjective keen. If so, in kenebowe must be understood as “in keen bow,” that is, “in a sharp bend, at an acute angle, presenting a sharp elbow” (such are the glosses in The Century Dictionary). In Middle English, keen “sharp-pointed” “was in common use as applied to the point of a spear, pike, dagger, goad, thorn, hook, anchor, etc., or to the edge of a knife, sword, ax, etc.… In its earliest use, and often later, the term connotes a bold or defiant attitude, involving, perhaps, an allusion to keen in its other common Middle English sense of ‘bold’,” The quotation is from the same dictionary, which calls all the previous explanations erroneous.

Skeat defended the kengboginn etymology and kept repeating that Middle Engl. kene was not used to denote “sharp” in such a context. He never elaborated on his phrase in such a context. Despite Skeat’s objection, the etymology of kenebowe defended in The Century Dictionary seems to be the least implausible of all, assuming that the first vowel of kenebowe was long; the vowel in keen undoubtedly was. This is not too bold an assumption, for kene- with short e has no meaning. Later, this e must have been shortened (a usual process in trisyllabic words, to which we owe short o in holiday, as opposed to long o in holy, for example), and the change destroyed the tie between kene- and keen. The second e was shed—another common process in Middle English. The new form (let us spell it kenbow) began to resemble words for vessels with two handles and in kennebowe became akingbow, akingbo, akimbo, and so forth. In the disguised compound akimbow, the idea of a bow also disappeared (even an association with elbow did not save it); hence the spelling -bo. The influence of Gaelic cam need not be invoked in the history of akimbo.

Faced with many hypotheses, none of which should be dismissed as untenable, we are still not quite sure where akimbo came from, but “origin unknown” would be an unnecessarily harsh verdict. In 1909, the first edition of Webster’s New International opted for keen-, the second (in 1934) cited kingboginn, and the third (1961) gave the earliest form (kenebowe) and stopped. This is what I call the progress of the science of etymology.