When I was entering my freshman year of high school, I surprised my parents by opting to register for a Latin class as an elective, the first year it had been offered in some time, and as one might expect, a small class. The year was 1961, and I was again the new kid, one for whom being slightly, though not too overtly different was routine. I’d been amused by an older kid’s signature in my autograph book the year before: “Latin is a dead language, it’s very plain to see: It killed off all the Romans and now it’s killing me.” That it had risen as the proverbial phoenix from the ashes of an educational system in Alabama apparently resonated as an opportunity to me. Go figure.
Taking Latin was just a little off-shift, and it intrigued me. I would come to love it, take two years of it, and learn that it was the foundation for English and other “romance” languages, a curious thought in itself. It introduced and piqued an interest in etymology that still entertains.
At the top of the list of words that caught my fancy in its native form was “fenestra,” Latin for “window.” It was female in that romance language sense, which held some now unremembered appeal. It was a simple term, not a derivative, not a combination of root and affix. It was pretty, it flowed nicely off the tongue, and so was one easily remembered. Later I would learn that it had morphed into a variety of meanings over time.
“Fenestration” in architectural renderings involves an arrangement of doors, windows and related openings. To an auditory specialist, it relates to the “round window” of the inner or middle ear; to the botanist, it’s the holes that appear naturally in some species of several plants.
Most gentle is its description as ” intended to produce light, to make to be seen” and its lightness of being in the zoological context: Fenestrations are those nearly-transparent markings on the wings of butterflies and moths.
Conversely, add the Latin “de,” meaning “down, or away from,” to the front of it, and the word takes on another life of its own. It becomes “defenestration,” meaning quite simply, the act of throwing something (or someone) out the window, an actual historical term relating to conflict in Prague in the 1700’s. Well, there we have it. Leave it to the leadership to create belligerence from the beautiful.
Beyond the joyful sound of the word “fenestra” itself, windows and doors in buildings old and new have always appealed to me…invitations of stories untold in generations coming and going, residents throwing open a sash to a light morning sun, shutting out the cold of a long winter, peeking out at passers-by.
Unique designs, some by intention, others framed and settled by history and events, all playing to the lens of a wandering traveler.
Rambling Through the Lens 