March Right Up Trivia Quiz

Answer: March of Dimes

"The famous charity that helps make 'change' in the lives of mothers and babies" is the March of Dimes. Long before he became President of the United States, Franklin Roosevelt suffered various health problems, especially paralysis; he was eventually diagnosed with polio. Years later, he formed a new nonprofit, dubbed the National Foundation for Infantile Paralysis.

The name-change to "March of Dimes" came about after Eddie Cantor -- a popular entertainer known for his philanthropy -- "coined" the phrase. While promoting the NFIP on a radio broadcast, he said that if a million people each sent just one dime, that "march of dimes [would] reach all the way to the White House." The phrase itself was a pun on the "March of Time" newsreels of the day.

In time, Jonas Salk developed a successful polio vaccine -- in fact, part of the funding for his research came from a grant from the March of Dimes! But with that breakthrough, the foundation refocused on maternal-health issues, as there were (and still are) many challenges that can threaten both mothers and their babies. They proudly declare they believe in a world "where every mom and baby is healthy regardless of wealth, race, gender or geography" -- and their efforts have reached some seventy countries around the world.

(Credit to Wikipedia and to history.com for some of the historical info.)

This clue's little (and pretty obvious) hint was in "two cents ... five times," which of course makes ten cents.

Answer: "Middlemarch"

"Middlemarch" is the name of "George Eliot's long and famous novel about life in 19th-century England." The full title is actually "Middlemarch, A Study of Provincial Life," though it's usually just referred to by the first word. This work is massive in its length -- in fact, originally it was serialized. Eliot's work was published in eight volumes, each one printed one or two months after the prior volume's release.

When we see or hear "march," we tend to think of it as either the month or of rhythmic walking -- and in such cases, obviously, it's a complete word. But when we start looking at other occurrences of "march," it often turns out that there are different etymologies going on. There can be overlap at times, but the point is, when we see the five letters M-A-R-C-H in that order, they're not always standalone words.

The title of Eliot's novel is somewhat of a case-in-point example. "Middlemarch" is named for the fictional town in which everything takes place. A little more specifically, the town is somewhere in England's Midlands -- and actually, that's where we can dissect the title. Of course, our primary interest is in "march," but it's pretty much impossible to separate the two halves. "Middle" is a very symbolic aspect, because in this provincial little town in a big story, there's a plethora of different characters and storylines. It's a town at a crossroads.

The "march" part of the name is just as important too, because in context, this "march" isn't used nearly as much as it was in centuries past. The term means a frontier, a boundary, a borderland. In Middle English, it was spelled "marche," with roots going way, way far back to a Proto-Germanic word, which itself goes even further into what's known as Proto-Indo-European -- which, suffice it to say, just means it's exceptionally old, from B.C. times.

Now, I'll cut out the middleman somewhat and just give sort of an upshot of why and how "Middlemarch" needs both halves. Essentially the entire story itself, as well as its title, is -- figuratively -- a town that's at the heart of, or "in the middle of," a time when social and cultural ideas and norms are changing, traditional giving way to contemporary, the old versus the new. It's a place that's in a state of transition. Geographically, a "march" is a borderland or frontier, but in Eliot's use, Middlemarch's "borderland" or "boundary" is -- again -- a figurative one, that sort of intermediate state, where one thing is nearing its end and starting to transition into a new era. Basically it's like Eliot saying, "Imagine this quaint, old-fashioned little town somewhere in the Midlands, and it and its people are facing a time where morals, politics, social norms and more are all shifting, and here's how it impacts various people in many different ways."

And if you thought *that* was long-winded ... try reading the novel in its entirety! Most copies average about 800 pages, and the story feels like it has about that many plot twists and turns. But it's very famous, and considered a masterwork, for good reason!

The only real clue in the blurb was about a "bookish" friend -- meaning an avid reader.

(Credit to the Online Etymology Dictionary for some of the info about the now-obsolete use of "march" and its origins.)

Answer: Ides of March

The "period of eight days after the 'Nones'" (of March) is the Ides of March.

Mercifully, this one is a bit more straightforward. We can thank Shakespeare for the phrase "beware the Ides of March" from Act I of "Julius Caesar." Pretty much ever since Bill coined the phrase, it's been popular, idiomatically, as a warning -- not so much about the month itself, but just about what was associated with it back in ancient Rome. That is, nowadays, it just means that misfortune and betrayal are both things one should try to be very cautious about -- especially in politics, since by its nature there will always be people vying to be the one in power.

There's a lot of interesting stuff that goes back to the Romans. This is another instance of having two words in play that deserve equal unpacking to understand, so buckle in for a bumpy ride. For a long time, the Romans used a lunar calendar with ten months, each with either 30 or 31 days; on this calendar, Martius was the first month. But when Julius Caesar came around, he switched to a solar calendar with 12 months and 365 days; Martius was retained but reordered. The month is named in honor of Mars, the Roman god of war; for his name, you could go back to Old Latin or even further for some really ancient origins, but that rabbit-hole goes a little too deep to bother with here (the etymology also becomes really obscure). In any event, the English-language month of March is just a more-modern spelling of the old calendars' month. Bottom line, it's from Martius and Mars that we get "March" as in the month.

But as noted, here's just a bit more about the "Ides" for good measure, and since I referenced "Nones." With the Roman calendar, there were three "markers" in each month -- the "Kalends," "Nones" and "Ides." The "Kalends" (from a Latin word meaning "to announce") was the first day of the Roman month; the "Nones" (from the Latin for "ninth") was the day of the first quarter-moon phase; and the "Ides" (from the Latin for "to divide") was the first full moon of the month.

But here's what's kind of interesting. Julius Caesar, as noted, introduced a solar calendar that replaced the old, lunar one. This effectively adjusted and equalized the length of the months, so one result was that there were always eight days between the Nones and the Ides. Overall, the three markers more or less worked about the same -- i.e., depending on the month, the Nones occurred on either the fifth or seventh day, while the Ides would occur on either the 13th or 15th day -- but it severed the correlation of these to various moon phases. All of which to say, on March 15, 44 B.C., when Caesar was assassinated, it just so happened that the Ides of that month happened to coincide with a full moon. As superstitious as the Romans were about many things, it was Shakespeare who came up with the idea of associating the "Ides of March" with a time of doom and bad omens.

Credit to Encyclopaedia Britannica for some info about the Roman and Julian calendars.

Answer: Steal a march

If you "steal a march" (on someone), you are getting the upper hand.

This is particularly true if your method of gaining an advantage involves doing something in a sneaky, discreet way.

This phrase actually has two meanings, one of which is more figurative than the other. Getting out my big old copy of the Oxford English Dictionary, here's what it says: "in military sense, to succeed in moving troops without the knowledge of the enemy; hence [generally] to get a secret advantage over a rival or opponent." Helpfully, it also tells the first known usage of the phrase. As a military maneuver, the earliest known occurrence is in 1716 (on the 27th of March -- how appropriate); an Edinburgh letter honored John Campbell, the 2nd Duke of Argyll, who commanded the British forces in Scotland during the Jacobite Rebellion: "We saw him ... steal a March for our Preservation." (Ignore the peculiar capitalization; it's of no significance here!)

The phrase's broader use seems to have started in 1740, from a playwright, actor and theater manager named Colley Cibber, who wrote in his memoir: "After we had stolen some few Days March upon them, the forces of Betterton came up with us in terrible order." Apparently this was in reference to a rival theater company having one-upped his own.

This time around, things are actually a little less convoluted, since the more-generalized usage of the phrase is just a colorful reappropriation (in other words, we don't have to dissect it twice). As it is, even the military usage is really just a slightly more imaginative wording. Think of the word "steal" in the same sense as "steal a glance" -- there's no actual theft, just taking advantage of an opportunity without drawing attention. But one may ask, in the sense of a tactical advantage, why steal a "march" rather than some other military term? Well, it's meant to evoke the image of a troop movement -- soldiers walking in a regimented manner. It's a decisive, forward movement that's both ordered and stealthy, so as to get a tactical edge.

Again, in the broader sense (which was the one I used in the "question"), this is just taking some creative liberty with an existing phrase. It's like saying you'll "get the drop on" someone -- to get an advantage by acting decisively and unexpectedly.

So then, what about the etymology of this particular phrase's "march"? Well, it's a little murky again actually -- not helped by the fact that "march" can be either a noun or a verb, and it's not entirely clear which usage came first. Back to the OED, it seems that earliest uses go back to the 1500s -- the late Middle Ages -- when it would have been written as "marchen," going back to Old French "marchier," meaning "to stride, to trample." Trying to go much further back, we start to run into conflicting theories, so we'll end the pursuit here.

(Credit to Grammarphobia.com for additional info about the OED's 1716 and 1740 references, and to Online Etymology Dictionary for some info about older forms.)

Answer: Demarche

If I have "delivered an official protest on behalf of my country," I have made a demarche.

Don't worry, this discussion will be a bit more concise ... hopefully! To be clear, the above is an example usage of what a demarche may involve. It can take other, related forms in terms of practical application. Merriam-Webster lends a helping hand: "a diplomatic or political initiative or maneuver; a petition or protest presented through diplomatic channels." It also notes that this is effectively a loanword from French (with the same spelling), translatable as "walk" or "gait."

Let's take a walk back through time, because the etymology does still weave a fairly complex web. With credit once more to both the Online Etymology Dictionary and the Oxford English Dictionary, the oldest usage of "demarche" in any sense goes back to about the 12th century -- the Old French word "demarchier," with a meaning of "[to take a] step, to proceed." This earliest form would not have had any diplomatic connotation. Later, in Middle French, it evolved into "demarcher," where it began to have additional meanings of "step, procedure, move" and even "reasoning."

Jumping forward into where our particular interest lies -- namely, as a loanword -- it appears the first usage (this from the Oxford) is 1678, in William Temple's "Letter to the Lord Treasurer," writing: "By the French Demarches here and at Nimeguen ... I concluded all confidence irreparably broken between Us and France." This was a series of peace treaties, but Temple noted that the French weren't entirely acting in good faith, because the "demarches" -- i.e., diplomatic and political tactics -- seemed self-serving and deceptive, and Temple concluded that France was untrustworthy. (Hey, no one ever said diplomacy was easy!)

That said, a demarche is generally meant to show diplomatic tact when discussing or bringing up an issue. Most properly this would take the form of a formal diplomatic letter or correspondence (though a demarche can be also be verbal), from one ambassador or government official to another. In the sense of making an objection or protest, a demarche is a good way to raise a concern about an issue or problem without escalating or being needlessly confrontational. It may well serve as a request or attempt to influence another country's government actions. Potential matters that could be (and have been) so discussed can include human-rights concerns, trade or economic policies, or issues involving national security -- or pretty much anything else. In short, it's a way to try to be firm but still diplomatic.

Answer: The March Hare

If I'm going to confront "the character who is drinking tea with the resident milliner," I'll be talking to the March Hare.

In case you missed it, there was a hint in the first sentence about just where this vignette takes place: "I *wonder* if this *land's* residents..." Wonderland. For anyone who loves a bit of imagination and fantasy, Lewis Carroll's story of a little girl's journey through a most-peculiar place never ceases to fascinate, does it? The realm and all its inhabitants are both amusing and bewildering, going about things in a most illogical and nonsensical way.

At one point, when Alice asks the Cheshire Cat for advice about which way to go, she also inquires, "What sort of people live about here?" The Cat points to two different paths and says, "In *that* direction lives a Hatter: and in *that* direction lives a March Hare. Visit either you like: they're both mad." After some deliberation, she decides: "I've seen hatters before; the March Hare will be much the most interesting, and perhaps as this is May it won't be raving mad -- at least not so mad as it was in March." Arriving at his house, she finds ear-shaped chimneys and a fur-thatched roof. Outside in front of the house, there she finds herself at (as the chapter title calls it) "A Mad Tea-Party."

Not knowing what to make of Wonderland, Alice tries many times to apply the 'real-world' logic she does know to try to make sense of things, but in a world where everything is illogical, it doesn't help. What's interesting is that in her decision to try visiting the Hare, she clearly recalls the simile "mad as a March hare." The Cheshire Cat had just told her that "we're all mad here," so Alice reasons that perhaps since it's the month of May rather than March, then if the Hare's madness is tied to March, maybe he'll be a little more reasonable. Given the choice of two characters, both "mad," Alice figures that maybe a good choice would be the one who should be less mad -- and besides, she's met hatters before, so at least this will be more interesting.

In terms of phrase origins, "as mad as a March hare" pre-existed Lewis Carroll by more than 350 years. The oldest usage seems to be a poem from circa 1500, "Blowbol's Test," of unknown authorship; the manuscript that contains it is referred to in a mid-19th-century "Dictionary of Archaic and Provincial Words, Obsolete Phrases." In the original Middle English poem, the adjective is different but it's the same basic phrase: "Than they begyn to swere and to stare,/ And be as braynles as a Marshe hare."

To be clear, there are other sources (from later in the 16th century) where "brainless" becomes "mad" and the archaic spelling "Marshe" (for the month, hence the capitalization) eventually becomes "March." We've already seen the etymology of the name of the month. What does set Carroll apart is that his appears to be the first usage of "March hare" as its own entity mentioned separately from the entire, longer phrase. As a point of interest, in Carroll's time there were *two* idioms -- "mad as a March hare" and "mad as a hatter," so it's entirely appropriate that both the Mare Hare and the Hatter are having a "mad tea-party" together!

The difference in idioms is that while they mean the same thing -- a person who is completely crazy -- the reference for a hatter is madness due to poisoning from the mercury that was once used in hat-making, whereas the other is a reference to their frenzied behavior during mating season.

(The other slight clue was in "milliner," or a person who makes hats.)

(Credit to Project Gutenberg, Online Etymology Dictionary and Wikipedia for some of the historical info.)

Answer: Marching cubes

The "algorithm that systematically scans a grid of geometric shapes to create a 3-D model" is called "marching cubes."

Okay, this is fascinating in some ways, but explaining it can quickly get rather technical, and definitions tend to be unwieldy, so maybe we can break it down more meaningfully. Any given algorithm is just a set of instructions that tells a computer how to calculate, process or problem-solve. Here, the "marching cubes" algorithm tells how to create a special type of graphic -- a so-called "3-D mesh," which means a three-dimensional model that is made up of polygons.

That said, it still helps to be able to visualize the image that is created by this process. Ever seen (usually in toy and novelty stores) the so-called "pin art," which looks like a big square full of soft metal pins? When you press your hand or some object against the pin-screen, some of the pins will be pressed forward, creating a 3-D relief (i.e., impression) on the other side. It forms a shape that projects outward from a flat surface, giving a three-dimensional contour and depth. The impression never looks absolutely smooth, but you can tell what it is.

Well, "marching cubes" doesn't really operate on the same principle (since it's just graphics on a screen), but the resulting image is quite similar in how it too has complexity and depth -- and you can tell the complete 3-D image is made up of many smaller ones. In a day and age where computer-generated objects are becoming ever more detailed and intricate, there's still a very real need for some things to be rendered *in three dimensions.*

Probably the easiest one to suggest -- and one of the most useful applications of marching cubes -- is in medical imaging. Suppose a doctor orders an MRI of someone's head. The scan itself takes multiple two-dimensional images, one "layer" at a time -- think of a loaf of bread cut into slices. A doctor wants to be able to analyze each individual layer, but to visualize them all together -- as a complete 3-D image of the whole head -- *this* is where marching cubes comes in. All these slices are combined into (as described above) a three-dimensional "mesh" made up of polygons.

But what about the term "marching cubes"? Well, an MRI is just one example of the type of data that the algorithm works with. Regardless of the type of image, the "marching cubes" algorithm is what creates the composite image. Remember the note that an algorithm basically just tells a computer a series of instructions? Well, this one -- marching cubes -- tells a computer to take this data and divide it all up into a grid of small cubes, each of which represents one 'unit' or 'part' of the data. Then the algorithm is told to scan the grid systematically -- the idea is of "marching across the grid, one cube at a time" -- as it goes, it analyzes each cube. It determines whether each cube is part of the 3-D object that is to be created. Those pieces are combined, like a 3-D puzzle, to build up the whole shape. By repeating this across every cube, the algorithm eventually forms a complete three-dimensional model of whatever the image is.

Some people say that more technically, the algorithm could be said to "iterate" rather than "march" across the cubes. Well, this is splitting hairs -- to iterate just means to repeat a process step-by-step, so it's fine to say either word, because whatever you say it's doing -- it "marches" or "iterates" -- it simply means it's systematically going across the grid, one cube at a time, to build the model. In this sense of "marching," of course, it's the same idea as a regimented troop movement -- methodical and precise.

(Credit to Science Direct for a couple of articles that discussed some aspects of the "marching cubes" algorithm.)

Answer: Marchioness

A "a noblewoman whose rank is just below that of a duchess" is a marchioness.

Ranks of nobility and the terms for them always drove me batty, because not only do some sound counterintuitive, but they also tend to have variant terms that mean exactly the same thing -- language often turns into a mix-and-match! Let's see if this discussion can sidestep some of the extra length and cut things down to size. This is as good a place as any to get the terminology clear, so here it is: The term for a male nobleman -- who ranks above an earl and beneath a duke -- is called either a marquess or a marquis. The female counterpart -- thus ranking above a countess but below a duchess -- is called either a marquise or a marchioness. (There's a whole slew of lesser-used variant spellings -- none of which we will be concerning ourselves with here.)

In terms of which came first, etymologically, let's first be clear: "marquis" (for a man) and "marquise" (for a woman) are French words, and "marquess" and "marchioness" are the derived English-language forms. One of the oddities in all this is that "marquess" is lesser-used, because the "-ess" suffix is much more commonly used to denote the feminine form of a word (e.g., "prince" vs "princess"). This is really a murky mess if you try to explore it; suffice it to say that the spelling of "marquess" seems mostly just influenced by spelling conventions of the time, and any confusion that may have arisen was not intended.

Rather happily for discussion's sake, all four of the terms pretty much trace their roots back to about the same etymology. All of them really go back to the Old French "marchis," "lord of the march(es)." This gets a touch tricky, but follow along: As was discussed to be the case with "Middlemarch," this is another case in which very-old words like "marche" (and later "march") specifically meant "frontier, boundary," hence the term -- it just means one who rules a border-land. (If you want to convolute the matter, Encyclopedia Brittanica and other sources note that originally, a "marquess" actually *was* a count or earl, but one who owned -- and was responsible for -- land that bordered another country. Mercifully, such distinctions have long since faded into the distant past -- somewhere along the line, I suspect, someone decided, "This is all too confusing!")

Anyway, the term in question was specifically a *marchioness* -- though does it seem at all odd that of the four terms discussed, only *one* actually has the precise letters "march" in it? The others are all variant spellings, as noted. This is, more than anything, just a quirk of how different words evolved from the same root into French and then English forms. Well anyway, our old workhorse the Oxford English Dictionary says that as-is, "marchioness" can be traced back to 1533, in Rymer's "Foedera" -- a historical summary of various treaties and similar documents. Before that, however, the older form was a Medieval Latin word, "marchionissa," the feminine form of "marchio," which means -- what else -- "marquis." When you're back that far in time -- i.e., the Middle Ages -- it's not unreasonable to put an origin date of maybe the 12th or 13th century, but that's about where things dead-end just because any older (related) terms get mired in obscurity.

Answer: Frog-march

If I "grab [a person] by the arms and force him to walk forward," I have decided to frog-march him.

Of all the different words and phrases that contain "march" -- whether as its own word or simply the letters M-A-R-C-H contained within a bigger term -- this one may well be my favorite, largely because the mental picture it conjures is so ridiculous. But I get ahead of myself actually -- the earlier usage is more vivid than what the term came to mean later. So, this merits explaining in more ways than one. Back to Oxford's tome we go. This is a late-1800s phrase that seems to have first been associated with, or directly used by, police officers in London. Naturally, it's often a dicey proposition to deal with a person who is drunk or otherwise belligerent or stubborn, since they may be unruly.

So here are the OED's definitions as well as their citation of the first known use. As a noun: "A movement forward in frog fashion." (That's really helpful, isn't it?) Next: "The method of carrying a drunken or refractory prisoner downwards between four men, each holding a limb." And as a verb: "To carry (a prisoner) face downwards; now usually, to hustle (a person) forward after seizing him from behind and pinning his arms together."

They date this term to 1871, in London's "Evening Standard," where it debuts as a noun, with a slight variation: "They did not give the defendant the 'Frog's March.'" It also doubles as a verb a little over a decade later. So far, this is what seems the funniest idea -- and oddly specific -- that a person was being taken away by a quartet of others, and in such a way that someone observing it thought, "That guy looks like a splayed-out frog."

It's not exactly clear what prompted the shift -- or at least the alternate definition -- away from the distinct resemblance to amphibian posture, but it's still rather an amusing thought, because instead of associating the phrase with being splayed-out like a frog, now the idea was to recall how frogs *hop*. In that sense, it's a more-common sight -- basically, that of someone (usually an officer) nabbing or restraining a suspect, forcing their hands behind their back, and making them proceed forward. Depending on how much the person is resisting, it can be fairly unremarkable at times, or it really can fit the bill of "an awkward hopping motion like a frog's." The dictionary cites Dorothy Sayers' mystery novel "Gaudy Night," written in 1935, as the first occurrence of the newer meaning of "frog-march," though it wouldn't be surprising if a journalist had retooled the phrase earlier than that.

Answer: Marchpane

The "dough made with almonds and sugar" is marchpane.

Or as it's much, much better-known, marzipan. Things get a little tricky, and even the dictionary acknowledges "the etymology is obscure." The best guess seems to be that this is an intriguing case of the same basic word having more than one linguistic "stream" -- as in, different languages may have given different influences on how the word evolved. Admittedly, the definition itself compounds the issue, because however you spell the word, it can mean other things than strictly a sweet made with almond dough. It can be "a kind of confectionery composed of a paste of pounded almonds, sugar, etc, made up into small cakes or moulded into ornamental forms," or it can also be "a cake or shaped piece of this composition." And another one says "(figuratively) chiefly as the type of something delicious or exquisite. (Obsolete.)"

What follows is not by any stretch meant to be a definitive, perfect understanding, but it should at least combine the info from a few good sources into one consolidated discussion that hopefully sheds some light on things. Okay, so "marchpane" is definitely *old* to say the least. That word, both as-is and with a few variant spellings, seems to have come into English as early as 1494: "A march payne garnysshed with dyuerse fygures of aungellys." That is, an ornate marchpane confection "garnished with diverse figures of angels." This is from "Fabyan's Chronicle," an account of some of the history of England and France.

As the Oxford helpfully notes, this word is thought to have "come into the other Roman languages from Italian. ... What seems to be the same word occurs in various Roman forms and in medieval Latin with the senses 'small box,' 'a certain medieval weight,' and 'a medieval coin.'" As much as this may seem like it just compounds an already-tangled web, there are several sources that suggest there's a connection partly to "pane" (Italian for "bread") as well as to the Arabic "martaban," meaning "spice box." Recall, again, this is not definitively proven. So that gives an idea that the Italian word takes the Arabic influence, making a reference to a container for imported, exotic ingredients -- that seems to square well with even the earliest references to a fancy confection. Anyway, here's where things do converge a little more nicely: Even if we can't absolutely prove every suggestion of what influenced the Italian word, "marzapane," we *can* tell quite clearly that other languages picked up the word -- the original English form would have anglicized it as "marchpane," and when the confection eventually spread to Germany, their spelling conventions would have retained the Z and spelled it as "Marzipan." And at some point this entered English as a German loanword, effectively supplanting and obsoleting "marchpane."

(By the way, a little clue that was intended to point toward the 'pane' part was in "it looks as smooth as *a sheet of glass*" -- i.e., a pane of glass. Well, it was the only hint I could think of at the time!)