Die Durhaemmer

When I first started walking with greater intention (absichtswandern?) back in 2021, one of the motivations was that those trans-continental trails I wanted to traverse weren't going to hike themselves. Turns out I was thinking about trans-continental trails on the wrong continent, but whatevs. 

As S approaches retirement and we contemplate spending more months every year in Germany, I realized that my German language skills weren't going to improve themselves. My German is adequate, but not great, and if I'm going to have any kind of social or work life in Germany, it behooves me to be better than adequate.

Thus was born Die Durhaemmer, a German-language review club. The name sorta means The Durhamites--or The Major-Key Hammers. We're using a free online textbook and reviewing one unit or so per week. Participation varies, but we're hobbling along with a core group of attendees after six months, and I continue to meet new and interesting people connected by a shared language interest.

Alongside Die Durhaemmer, I've started using an app called Seedlang, which was created by the same folks who appear in many of the videos used by the online textbook. They have enough of a sense of humor and offer enough grammar explication that I paid for a year's subscription, and I've been refreshing and newly learning swaths of useful vocabulary. The app incorporates enthusiastic verbal reinforcement from its makers: every time you finish an exercise, someone pops onto the screen and says something like "way to go!"--which is how I learned Du bist der Hammer! means "You're da bomb!" So now we have a third meaning for Die Durhaemmer.

I'm looking forward to inserting some of my new vocab into conversations this summer, such as:

Die Fortbewegungsmittel (pl. -) - means of transportation. Same number of syllables as in English. Vroom vroom!

Die Bedienungsanleitung (pl. -en) - service manual. Why use two words when you can just use one?

Der Tacho (pl. -s) - speedometer. How have I gotten by in Germany for the past 36 years without knowing the word speedometer? Plus it sounds like a mix between Taco and Tycho, like Tycho Brahe the astronomer, which makes it fun to say.

My favorite new word so far is Die Gleichung. Gleich means "same." Equations express equivalences, things that are the quantitatively the same on both sides of the equals sign. The word "equation" in English offers a similar conceptual self-awareness as die Gleichung. In fact, there's a shared conceptual origin in both languages, even if the words gleich and "equal" themselves don't share any etymological roots. I find these sorts of connections delightful.   

My current favorite new sentence, courtesy of the app: Was ist die schnellste Geschwindigkeit, die du je gafahren bist? ("What's the fastest speed you've ever driven?") So many useful grammatical tidbits and reminders to cull from that, plus a casual way to segue into using the word Tacho.

Fun facts are rapidly accruing, like why is it das Wort (the word) but die Antwort (the answer), when gender is usually determined by the gender of the final root word (wort)? The interwebs say it's because the formerly neuter noun Antwort hung around so frequently with the feminine noun die Frage (the question), that users gradually made Antwort feminine.

Speaking of linguistic evolution, here's a fun fact about many weak masculine nouns (which I love--masculine nouns are the only ones that can be weak, and whatever their weakness is causes them to add an -n to the end when they're in any case but nominative, because who knows why). Many weak nouns, such as der Friede (peace), are becoming permanently -n-ed (-n-ified?): speakers often now use der Frieden instead of der Friede when peace is the subject. Cool.

I learned at last week's Durhaemmer meeting that one linguistic evolution is the gradual abandonment of the genitive case, which apparently is increasingly circumvented using von (of) with the dative case. Genitive is generally used to indicate a noun that is of something, e.g. "of good courage" in "Sei gutes Muts" ("Be of good courage"--thanks, Der Tod und das Maedchen!), or "the pleasure of the miller" in "Das Wandern ist des Mullers Lust" ("Hiking is the pleasure of the miller"--thanks, Die Schoene Muellerin!). As enthusiastic as I am about linguistic shifts, this one makes me a little sad, as one of my motivations for starting Die Durhaemmer was to correctly deploy the genitive case. We won't even get to it until the free German 102 online textbook, but here it is, already dying. Dang. And yet, to paraphrase the dying John Adams' last words ("Jefferson still lives"), at least we still have the dative. (Dative is the to/for case--e.g. Ich gebe dem Hund den Ball--"I give to the dative dog the accusative ball"). We won't get to dative until the next textbook either, but Die Durhaemmer are a precocious lot, and we're already dativing.

Gentle reader, as you can tell from this post (if you've stuck with it this far), German is giving me as intellectually vast a rabbit hole as I've found physically with walking. The immediate impact is that I speak German a tad more precisely but much more slowly (click click click goes my brain). Looking forward to speeding things up and putting refreshed skills to good use this summer.

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Update: I don't think E has read this post, but he happened to email a long word yesterday that he came across in his research: das Fernwasserleitungsnetz (long distance water distribution network).

For the love of all that is good in the world, just use "we"

It's been a while since I've written anything about prose style, but I'm in the midst of providing feedback to a bunch of student science writers, and I feel compelled to speak up on behalf of beleaguered readers of English-language science writing. Yes, I'm talking to you, you more experienced, published science-writing professionals: set a good example for the grad students.

Just use we.

We.

And put it at the front of the sentence, so you can put a verb right after it.

We examine X.

We consider X.

We investigate X.

X can be simple; X can be complex. With "we [verb]" in front of it, X can throw pretty much anything at readers, and readers generally will handle X without getting annoyed. Or at least, without getting as annoyed as they would were X standing in front of a supremely boring passive-voice verb that doesn't show up until a mile further down the sentence road.

Generally, when I read students' science writing, I don't have to know much about the science to detect whether the prose makes sense. Sometimes, to tell whether my confusion is with the prose or my lack of scientific knowledge, I'll look up a term or phrase to see how more experienced authors use it.

Today, I Googled one such phrase. This led me several articles confirming the phrase's existence. One such article included this sentence:

Prospective applications of targeted compounds derived from display libraries in the discovery of targeted drugs and gene therapy vectors are discussed.

Dear readers, be honest: did you read the entire sentence from beginning to end? If so, did you understand it? If so, did you enjoy it?

Please, people, give in to temptation. I promise it's OK: use "we."

We discuss.

We discuss prospective applications of targeted compounds derived from display libraries in the discovery of targeted drugs and gene therapy vectors.

Readers might not adore the revision, but they won't want to bang their heads against a wall after reading it. Or at least they won't want to bang their heads quite so hard.

This has been a public service announcement. Feel free to complain in the comments.

Snowmageddon 2015, Episode 3

Earlier this week, we enjoyed Snowmageddon 2015, Episode 3. I'm losing track of which one was which, but Episode 1 or 2 looked like this:

Frightening, yes? It shut down public schools for about a week across several counties. The tail end of Episode 2 had public schools closed on Monday and Tuesday, even though Tuesday was sunny and relatively warm (you can never be too cautious). Then Episode 3 hit,

and kids all across the Piedmont rejoiced.

As Snowmageddon is becoming an annual event in these here parts, I thought it would be useful to research its proper plural form. I believe there is no plural to the seemingly similar word Armageddon, since sources project but one Armageddon in the course of all human existence. It would be simple to assume the -on suffix is Greek and is made plural with addition of an s, thus Snowmageddons, but that's a little boring, so I solicited suggestions from knowledgeable friends. One offered Snowmageddae (rhymes with reggae). Another posited Snowsmageddon, as successive snowfalls combine for a cumulatively destructive effect. This indicates an etymology similar to the word passerby (pl. passersby), which derives from a phrasal verb (noun + BY, from to pass by). Interestingly, passerby dates back to the 16th century, while Snowmageddon dates back to approximately 2014.

Adverbiously excellent

When I was in 6th grade, I discovered The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton, and I swooned over sensitive Ponyboy Curtis. We had to write a book "report" for school every week--basically a formalized reading journal--and I thought The Outsiders was so fabulous that I asked my teacher if I could write a gushing letter to the author instead of writing my regular book report. She granted permission, then wrote critically on my letter, "You haven't finished the book yet?!" No, I thought, but who needs to actually finish this book to recognize it's GENIUS?

I'm only a third of the way into A Tale of Two Cities, and with my 6th-grade teacher's criticism still ringing in my ears, I won't write to Dickens yet--but I don't need to finish the book to recognize it's genius. Sure, it's a little melodramatic, and Lucie Manette is a little too diminutive, but it's so delightfully snarky, without being mean like Hawthorne, and so full of witty metaphors and imagery, and such a linguistically entertaining romp, that I'm ready to give it an A+. It still gets an F from 11-year-old me (the language was simply too challenging), but the experienced watcher of British period dramas, 46-year-old me, is already prepping the fancy gold-glitter-glue A+.

Grammar in Esgaroth

My friend Susan, who is well versed in religious and epic texts in assorted languages of old, insists I would appreciate Tolkien's prose more if I were better read in Middle English and Icelandic. Every sentence I threw at her, she read smoothly, without batting an eye or stumbling over a single missing comma.

So I decided to continue on with open mind after the death of Smaug in Esgaroth by Bard's last and best-aimed arrow [<--see what I in the narrative, that unfolds within the improvisational mind, have learned about strings of prepositional phrases!]. Full on the next paragraph I fell, and read aloud with epic voice these sentences: [<--apologies for the colon, I'm new at this]

"[The wind] twisted the white fog into bending pillars and hurrying clouds and drove it off to the West to scatter in tattered shreds over the marshes before Mirkwood. Then the many boats could be seen dotted dark on the surface of the lake, and down the wind came...No, dagnabbit. Wait a sec...and down the wind came...and down the...Ah, got it...and down the wind...came the voices of the people of Esgaroth lamenting their lost town and goods and ruined houses."

Reading with the epic voice helps.

Grammar at Bag-End

A geek's confession: I have never read The Lord of the Rings, and I only know The Hobbit because my fifth grade teacher read it out loud over several weeks of "quiet time" in 1977.

Recently, in post-Harry Potter and Percy Jackson 2010, the eight- and nine-year-old males in my son's peer group have started carrying around assorted Tolkien books. The paperback covers are worn and tattered, mainly from falling out of perpetually unzipped backpacks, but I suspect some of the boys are actually reading the books too.

So I decided it's time for some mother-son bonding: I would nip E's potential cultural illiteracy in the bud, and (long overdue) make up for my own, by reading the books out loud to him.

We are now nearing the end of The Hobbit, and I think I've discovered the reason I never felt any affinity for it. It isn't because most of the book is about a long arduous slog, nor because the peoples of Middle Earth somehow managed to procreate (as evidenced by the existence of characters) without there being any females around. No, even the book's admittedly good moments--like Bilbo's riddle duel with Gollum--aren't enough to make up for its thoroughly annoying grammar.

I've therefore taken it upon myself to decipher some of Tolkien's rules, so that the path might be easier for other wannabe LotR fans.

Rule 1: After introductory elements only weak minds need commas.

Exhibit A: "In spite of the dangers of this far land bold men had of late been making their way back into it from the South, cutting down trees, and building themselves places to live in among the more pleasant woods in the valleys and along the river-shores."

Exhibit B: "Following him they found themselves in a wide hall with a fire-place in the middle. Though it was summer there was a wood-fire burning and the smoke was rising to the blackened rafters in search of a way out through an opening in the roof."

I suppose it doesn't make sense to say it was summer in a wide hall with a fire-place in the middle. Still, I wouldn't have had to back track from "Though it was summer there" to "Though it was summer, there" had Tolkien included a comma.

Exhibit C: "As Bilbo's sharp inquisitive eyes got used to seeing things he could catch glimpses of them whisking off the path and scuttling behind tree trunks."

Fun with back-tracking! Find your favorite introductory element:
a. "As Bilbo's sharp inquisitive eyes got used to seeing things he could catch glimpses of,"
b. "As Bilbo's sharp inquisitive eyes got used to seeing things he could catch,"
c. "As Bilbo's sharp inquisitive eyes got used to seeing things,"

Rule 2: Ambiguous pronoun references add depth to them.

Exhibit D: "Then at last they [Bilbo and the dwarves] said good-bye to their ponies and turned their heads for home. Off they trotted very gaily, seeming glad to put their tails towards the shadow of Mirkwood."

E and I suspected something was amiss when Bilbo's party headed in the wrong direction, and we confirmed it when the hobbits and dwarves sprouted tails.

Rule 3: Separating subjects and verbs over as vast a distance as possible, and recalling thus certain tape-worm-like sentence structures composed by authors in the German language and also sometimes apparently even in English, gets readers' attention.

Exhibit E: "Occasionally a slender beam of sun that had the luck to slip in through some opening in the leaves far above, and still more luck in not being caught in the tangled boughs and matted twigs beneath, stabbed down thin and bright before them."

Rule 4: Remember this, colons are bad.

Exhibit F: "All the time they ate, Beorn in his deep rolling voice told tales of the wild lands on this side of the mountains, and especially of the dark and dangerous wood, that lay outstretched far to the North and South a day's ride before them, barring their way to the East, the terrible forest of Mirkwood."

This is a nifty example because it deals with several of the rules and their exceptions: "All the time they ate, [surprise comma!] Beorn in his deep rolling voice [observe delay of verb] told tales of the wild lands on this side of the mountains, and especially of the dark and dangerous wood, [this unnecessary comma confounds the reader] that lay outstretched far to the North and South a day's ride before them, barring their way to the East, [colons are bad, but a colon would be helpful here] the terrible forest of Mirkwood."

Rule 5: Because an idle mind is the devil's workshop to figure out your meaning, make your readers struggle.

Exhibit G: "The barrels now all lashed together creaked and fretted."

You choose the error: is it (a) lack of commas separating items in a list ("The barrels now all lashed together, creaked, and fretted"), or (b) missing commas around a participial phrase ("The barrels, now all lashed together, creaked and fretted")? (Ooh, ooh, choose (b)!)

Exhibit G occurs about two thirds of the way through The Hobbit, by which point you are no longer likely to be surprised by such comma-less constructions.

A gift for the Germans

When we lived in Freiburg im Breisgau, Baden-Wuerttemberg, Germany, last fall, I blogged regularly about our experiences, almost always from the perspective of a stranger in a strange land. There was much to priase: gun control, clean public restrooms, a functioning multi-party political system, bucolic scenery, walkability, public health care, architecture, art. There was much to feel distressed about: the shadow of the Holocaust, alienated teenagers who beat up strangers on subways, neo-Nazis. And there was much to poke fun at: pop music (good news! "Aloha He, Stern der Suedsee," by the group Die Flippers, is back on youtube.com!), the bizarre and remarkable consistency of Brotzeit menus from one Bavarian restaurant to the next, regional dialects, adult men who pretend to be cowboys on their play ranch near IKEA, and people who vacuum their sidewalks in the fall and shovel snow off of them before dawn in the winter.

Today, to show my appreciation for all those quintessentially German experiences, I offer a gift in return: something quintessentially American. Indeed, it has "Made in the USA" written all over it in proud, indelible ink. Into which category--praiseworthy, distressworthy*, pokefunworthy*--will the inquiring German tourist place it?

We have before us, on this Easter eve, Westwood Baptist Church, in nearby Cary, North Carolina. Too busy shopping at Wal-Mart and Starbucks to properly contemplate how Jesus Christ died on the cross for your sins? Thanks to Westwood's Drive-Thru Easter, you can hear and see the Passion from the comfort of your very own air-conditioned SUV! Church members enact six scenes of the season, beginning with Christ's triumphant entrance into Jerusalem and ending with His Resurrection (for which, reports the Raleigh News and Observer, "Jesus' tomb is fashioned out of the church's Dumpster area, a dark sheet, and a toy pool made to look like a boulder").

Germany, of course, has the famous Oberammergau Passion Play, performed at least once a decade over the past 376 years as a way of thanking God for sparing the town from the bubonic plague in 1633. This year's cast numbers around 2,000--about half the population of Oberammergau. But the play lasts five hours, not including a three hour dinner break, and you actually have to get out of your car for it. Plus, all the stores are closed by the time it's over. So inefficient. In the U.S., it's all about convenience. At Westwood, you get to enjoy "almost an instant worship experience," and you're already in position to drive somewhere else as soon as you're done.

*Neither "distressworthy" nor "pokefunworthy" are real words in English, though I'm sure the German language can come up with legitimate one-word translations for both.

You guys 'n' y'all

One of the more unfortunate shifts in the English language a few centuries back was the fusing of thou and ye into the single, all-encompassing you, a pronoun that now stands for both you-singular and you-plural. (One of the cleverer shifts has been the consequent elimination of you-formal, which is what you formerly was, but that's another story.) I thought Southerners had cornered the market on a solution with the brilliant second-person plural pronoun y'all, but thanks to my new copy of How We Talk: American Regional English Today by Allan Metcalf (2000), I am reminded that I grew up with the Northerner's version of the same: you guys.

You guys, like y'all, isn't something one sees in formal prose. Unlike y'all, it has the disadvantage of being blatantly gendered. Although one might hail a group of both males and females with the phrase hey you guys!, the word guys without a preceding you is distinctly masculine. (Metcalf explains that the word guys originated in reference to effigies of the 17th-century wannabe English Parliament blower-upper, Guy Fawkes. Fawkes' "Gunpowder Plot" was foiled on November 5, 1605, and celebrations of Guy Fawkes Day began in the 18th century. The OED dates the word guy to the early 19th century.)

You guys, because it includes an unadulterated you, is somewhat awkward when it comes to possessive forms. Turn down you guys's car radio sounds strange, even though it's dialectally correct, while Turn down your guys's car radio is just plain wrong, since it suggests that whoever you is controls guys rather than a shared car radio. Change the command to a simple Turn down your car radio and the editor breathes a concise sigh of relief, but the you-plural is lost.

Y'all has the benefit of dropping the -ou while retaining the y-, so the pronoun loses some of its obvious you-ness. One can thus derive possessive forms of y'all with relative ease, as in Turn down y'all's car radio. The especially enthusiastic speaker might emphasize the pluralness of y'all by making it y'alls, thus, Turn down y'alls's car radios. If more than about three folks are making a ruckus, one could say All y'all might should turn down the car radio. It's a bizarre twist, that all y'all, for its existence suggests y'all itself is on the way to becoming singular.

Metcalf mentions a few other you-plural options: yiz (in Philadelphia, where yous is the singular); yinz (in Pittsburgh, derived from you ones); and youse and you-uns, both regional Northern variants. Take y'alls's picks, but I'm sticking with the Southern solution.

Triple modals

The English language provides those who use it with several modal auxiliary verbs (a subset of a larger group of helper verbs): can, could, may, might, must, ought to, shall, should, will, would. Two of the nifty distinguishing qualities of modal auxiliaries are that we don't decline them, and they don't have infinitives. While one might expect to awaken at 4 a.m. due to jetlag, one never expects to should at any time or for any reason; and while petting a happy cat can be quite pleasurable, shoulding a cat is always a bad idea, at least in English.

Speakers of standard English generally consider it ungrammatical for modal auxiliary verbs to help one another. One of the truly delightful things about some regional performances of Southern American English--right up there with "red" being pronounced as a two-syllable word--is that no one bats an eye if you combine conditional modal verbs. (The conditionals are the waffly ones--might, could, should, would, ought to--the modals you might expect to hear followed by but, as in "he would share the Milka bar, but he doesn't want you to catch his cold.") Indeed, if you so desired, you might could combine conditional modal verbs all day long--although whether you oughta should is another question.

In rare cases, triple modals step forth to express a degree of trepidation not afforded by mere double modals. Consider: you might oughta should load the dishwasher before you go to bed, but you really oughta should unload it first. Indeed, next to the combined modals, a single waffly standard English should can sound downright bossy in Southern American English.