March was Hreðmonað. Bede writes that this month is named for the goddess Hreða 'to whom they sacrificed at this time'. Hreða proves to be quite a shadowy figure. Though today's heathens have re-established links with this goddess, there is no existing lore about her. In his Teutonic Mythology, Jakob Grimm (of Grimm's Fairy Tales fame) presents evidence that in some parts of Germany the old name for March was Retmonat or Redtimonet, names which seem to be directly cognate with the Anglo-Saxon. This is the only evidence we have that the goddess Hreða may have been known outside of England.According to my unlinkable Duden Band 7 (the German language equivalent to the OED), the German verb retten (to save, to rescue) gives a clue*
retten: The origin of the west germanic verb (middle high German retten, old high German [h]retten. Dutch redden, old English Hredden) is unclear. It is perhaps related to old Indic Srathnati "becomes loose, loosened", srathayati "freed" and thus originally meant to wrest, to loosen, to free.In other words and to connect the dots, the old Anglo-Saxon notion of Hreðmonað seems to be preserved in the modern German verb "to be saved" or "rescued." Winters were harsh and spelled doom for the tribe. It makes sense that they would offer tribute to a goddess who delivered them from extinction.
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*retten: Die Herkunft des westgerm. Verbs mhd. retten, ahd. [h]retten. niederl. redden, aengl. hreddan ist unklar. Vielleicht ist es mit aind. Srathnati, “wird locker, ist lose”, srathayati “befreit” verwandt und bedeutet dann ursprünglich “entreißen, lösen, befreien”.
18 comments:
It makes sense that they would offer tribute to a goddess who delivered them from extinction.
The goddess of global warmin' - she's hot.
Nice tie-in, April.
It's just a reversion to the mean.
I love the title chickl.
Poul Anderson wrote a wonderful piece called Uncleftish Beholding. It's a discussion of basic nuclear physics using only words of Anglo-Saxon, Germanic origins, none with Greek, Latin, Romance or other roots. So an atom is an "uncleft," hydrogen is "waterstuff," etc. Funny stuff, at least if you're a language geek.
Write-on, Lem!
"Save" as "release" from the ice . . . I knew where you were going!
Maybe "spring" from a trap, at that!
@Mumpsimus: What a delightful read at your link! Thanks for that.
amba said...
"Save" as "release" from the ice . . . I knew where you were going!
Yes! Winter's grip.
Nice to see you here, amba. You are a fellow March-birth if I recall correctly.
I must relay some bad weather news though. A storm system is currently passing overhead and headed east. It's laden with moisture and so that will mean snow in the mountains and in many states east of California.
@ Chickelit/Stormy weather - Isn't that good news? Dry as a bone CA needs all the moisture it can get.
Don't worry about us. We are used to the white stuff and the cold the.... winter. If we don't get winter during winter, spring isn't as spectacular and exciting.
March will come in like a lion for Colorado's High Country. This weekend's storm will favor the mountains in southwestern Colorado with Winter Storm Warnings in effect until 8 p.m. Monday. The San Juans, Sangre de Cristos, Sawatch mountains and La Garita mountains could see 1 to 4 feet by Monday evening.
The goddess of global warming must be wintering in Barbados.
@April: Western Slope snowpack flows right back to us.
...and in many states east of California.
Hawaii and Alaska spared.
"A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory."
I've been pondering that, off and on, for quite a while now. It is very, very good.
More than good.
I'm tempted to say . . . perfect.
Yes.
Perfect.
Yes, related to the word 'wrest' and 'wrestle'.
I have such perfect moments.
And when the moment is happening I go, damn, if only I had my camera this would be it. One time a moment so perfect and right beyond the perfect subject sat a camera (a so-so camera, but a camera nonetheless) that by retrieving would ruin the moment so I stood there and took her all in, my dog, I stared at her loveliness in admiration of a perfect thing allowing that Kodak moment to etch forever in my visual cortex which is a thing that I just made up.
She is a black silky dog, like a Samoyed in negative, fuzzy erect pointed ears and graceful sloping tail. Square as a table and agile as they wind, she was in her sphinx alert -rest posture watching my every move, her body on the carpeted hallway blocking the archway with her front legs and front paws stretched out on the kitchen tile, where she is not allowed.
I had a blue balloon floating around that I brought home from work. There was a matchbox and an alligator clip right there on the kitchen counter. I clamped the tiny box to the string and the balloon held the box in the air by its string. I maneuvered the balloon and swung the box back and forth so it tips into the dog's nose to vex her. She's concerned about the balloon then a tiny box comes from nowhere and taps her in the face and she cannot come into the kitchen. But that's mean.
So I unsnapped the box and wrapped the string of the balloon around her paw so that the balloon hovered just above her head and stepped back and looked at her.
And she looked at me.
And she is so beautiful. I mean it. She is art right there. Sometimes I cannot believe how beautiful she is. Just perfect. She conforms to her standard perfectly without knowing it. She is a model. Her brown eyes ever on me, ever calculating, anticipating that moment I call her to me.
And she is looking at me.
How much like a child she seems content with her balloon. This and blue blot, wood, carpet, tile wood and black fur composition is beautiful. She let me do anything with her like that so long as it is like play. If I would clamp the matchbox to her fur she'd allow that too. She is just beautiful.
And she is looking at me.
*snap*
And we sat there and admired each other for very long moments. That moment must last forever.
The next day following work at the FRB I had to rush to photoshoot. That particular shoot had their own whole thing going on, their whole look they create, and they applied on my person a half metric ton of pancake makeup. After the shoot I went straight home eager to remove what felt like a layer of paste on my face. I unlatched the dog run and Tina came flying out. She takes one lap around the yard and meets me at the patio door. We time it to meet.
But that day was different. I was rushed. I closed the sliding door behind me, then thought, "Aw, that's mean." I opened the door again, stood outside, and bowed as a servant inviting a guest into the room. But Tina did not whip past. I held my posture and waited. I looked up and Tina was in the rose patch scratching around.
I watched her. She was twitching. Something was wrong.
I ran up to her in the roses. She was stuck in the thorns. She was out of it. He body was limp. The thorns were all caught up in her fur. Apparently she took a short cut through the pines instead of around them.
She was watching me and cut short her circuit around the yard, cut through half way and somehow snapped her neck. She died in my arms a few moments later and I was destroyed.
I cried like a girl.
It seemed like a long time. I held her in my lap and sat there and cried. I hit her. That was mean. She ruined everything by dying. I didn't put it together yet that I rushed her.
Finally somebody said, "You have to do something with your dog."
I didn't look up. I don't even know who that was.
What about pluperfect moments, Lem?
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