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Seventy-five years ago I was eliminated from the Wyoming state spelling bee when I misspelled "chrysanthemum." This of course was a major disappointment to me. I had studied page after page of words for the event and had also consulted with a previous winner for advice. I longed to emulate the success of this brainy, but arrogant girl, who snickered at typographical errors in books and magazines and sniffed at people who fiddled with a legitimate word like "night," which, she pointed out, appeared as "nite" on the marquee of our local movie theater: "Friday Bank Nite. Be present to win $200 dollars." I'm certain her reaction to today's text-messaging would be apoplectic.
Then, 20 years ago, my grandson reached the regional finals of the California state spelling bee. I thought perhaps redemption was at hand. One of our family members might yet succeed where I had failed. But no, this was not to be. He faltered on the word, "hennin."
"What in the world is a hennin?" I asked his mother. My daughter had once taken a course in costume design so she knew that "a hennin is a tall, conical or heart-shaped hat sometimes worn with a flowing veil." I think it's what medieval ladies used to wear when they dressed up to attend a joust.
This reminded me of our family's "word of the day" program, instituted by my husband when our children were growing up. We took turns posting in our breakfast nook, unusual words we had either heard or run across in our reading. The idea was to enlarge our vocabularies with new and interesting words which we could use in general conversation. One of the rules was that the word should not be so obscure that other people wouldn't know what we were talking about. "Hennin" would never have qualified for our breakfast nook.
Given my interest in words, you will understand why I was delighted by the popular 2006 movie "Akeelah and the Bee." In case you missed it, it is the story of how an inner city child, with no family encouragement whatever, is relentlessly coached by a stern tutor (almost like our young Olympic gymnasts!) to winning the national spelling bee in Washington D.C. The contest, as portrayed, was as much of a white-knuckler as any sporting competition
Research on the Internet informs me that the national spelling bee has been in existence since 1925. This annual event has been sponsored by Scripps since 1941, with a three year hiatus during World War II. Originally there were only nine contestants as compared to more than three hundred today. Under Disney sponsorship, the contest has been shown on public television and the final stages have aired on the ABC network since 1994.
It is interesting to look at the words the early winners spelled and compare them to the winning words of recent contestants. In 1925 the winning word was "gladiolus." (That's a lot easier than chrysanthemum, don't you think?) Through the thirties and up until the sixties the contest words at least looked like words we might have encountered before. After that such words as xanthosis, vivisepulture, autochonous, ursprache and serrifine, to name a few, were winning words. These are specialist's words, I suppose, and are of such low utility value for daily discourse that I suspect none of us will ever hear them uttered in conversation.
And speaking of the unusual, I remember how astounded I was when my brother came home from junior high school long ago with the information that "antidisestablishmentarianism" (28 letters) was the longest English word in the dictionary. Unfortunately he did not live long enough to marvel with me at the word "floccinaucinihilipilification" (29 letters), which I discovered by chance in my unabridged dictionary last year. I have never been the same since!
"Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious" from "Mary Poppins" is also in that dictionary but is listed as a nonsense word specifically created to be the longest word in the dictionary, so its bona fides are questionable to say the least!
Words are delightful and tricky things, and, as was so often the case, Mark Twain was precisely on target when he remarked, "The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and a lightning bug." The same thing is true of spelling. Almost right won't do.
Lucille Lovestedt lives in Grass Valley.
Then, 20 years ago, my grandson reached the regional finals of the California state spelling bee. I thought perhaps redemption was at hand. One of our family members might yet succeed where I had failed. But no, this was not to be. He faltered on the word, "hennin."
"What in the world is a hennin?" I asked his mother. My daughter had once taken a course in costume design so she knew that "a hennin is a tall, conical or heart-shaped hat sometimes worn with a flowing veil." I think it's what medieval ladies used to wear when they dressed up to attend a joust.
This reminded me of our family's "word of the day" program, instituted by my husband when our children were growing up. We took turns posting in our breakfast nook, unusual words we had either heard or run across in our reading. The idea was to enlarge our vocabularies with new and interesting words which we could use in general conversation. One of the rules was that the word should not be so obscure that other people wouldn't know what we were talking about. "Hennin" would never have qualified for our breakfast nook.
Given my interest in words, you will understand why I was delighted by the popular 2006 movie "Akeelah and the Bee." In case you missed it, it is the story of how an inner city child, with no family encouragement whatever, is relentlessly coached by a stern tutor (almost like our young Olympic gymnasts!) to winning the national spelling bee in Washington D.C. The contest, as portrayed, was as much of a white-knuckler as any sporting competition
Research on the Internet informs me that the national spelling bee has been in existence since 1925. This annual event has been sponsored by Scripps since 1941, with a three year hiatus during World War II. Originally there were only nine contestants as compared to more than three hundred today. Under Disney sponsorship, the contest has been shown on public television and the final stages have aired on the ABC network since 1994.
It is interesting to look at the words the early winners spelled and compare them to the winning words of recent contestants. In 1925 the winning word was "gladiolus." (That's a lot easier than chrysanthemum, don't you think?) Through the thirties and up until the sixties the contest words at least looked like words we might have encountered before. After that such words as xanthosis, vivisepulture, autochonous, ursprache and serrifine, to name a few, were winning words. These are specialist's words, I suppose, and are of such low utility value for daily discourse that I suspect none of us will ever hear them uttered in conversation.
And speaking of the unusual, I remember how astounded I was when my brother came home from junior high school long ago with the information that "antidisestablishmentarianism" (28 letters) was the longest English word in the dictionary. Unfortunately he did not live long enough to marvel with me at the word "floccinaucinihilipilification" (29 letters), which I discovered by chance in my unabridged dictionary last year. I have never been the same since!
"Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious" from "Mary Poppins" is also in that dictionary but is listed as a nonsense word specifically created to be the longest word in the dictionary, so its bona fides are questionable to say the least!
Words are delightful and tricky things, and, as was so often the case, Mark Twain was precisely on target when he remarked, "The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and a lightning bug." The same thing is true of spelling. Almost right won't do.
Lucille Lovestedt lives in Grass Valley.
