When I set out to write about travel this month, there are certain things I didn’t think I’d have to cover. The two-week delay of my luggage, which went on an entirely separate journey to mine, was one of them; I’ll get to that next week, maybe. Today is a sadder journey: saying good-bye to a friend who has left this world.
Fred Grimm was never at loss for words for any sort of occasion, but I find myself lacking them now – so I’ve picked a few I think he’d especially appreciate: small, and far away.
One Anglo-Saxon word for small or little is hwón-líc. Hwón on its own also means little, but is generally used in the neuter accusative, as an adjective to indicate quantity or size: ie, ‘use a little honey’, rather than ‘this is a little town’. The -líc ending forms the last part of lots of adjectives, rather like the modern -ly.So if you were discussing the smallness of, oh, say, tiny plastic cows, they’d be hwón-líc. And if this conversation left you a little exasperated, you’d use hwón. Nothing at all about Fred was small (well, except maybe his bearish counterpart) – he had a personality and a heart that matched his physical size. There will be nothing small, either, about the hole left in so many lives by his absence.
Feor was the Anglo-Saxon word for far away or, literally, at a great distance. The Proto-Indo-European root for this word meant to pass over or beyond. Fred is, I suppose, far away now, gone beyond where we’re able to go with him, but he’ll never be very far away from the minds of everyone who loved him. Fred was a storyteller, and that’s how we’ve been remembering him – by sharing Fred stories of our own.
There are so many other words I could share – scortness, for the brevity of time Fred was on this earth, or æglæc, for our grief, but perhaps the most appropriate is cynn, which meant of a sort, kind, or genus, but was also used in compounds to describe types of family. When you find your people in this wide world, hang on to ’em for as long as you can.