The 1821 Sangamon County commissioners established the
temporary county seat on Spring Creek, so they named it Springfield. But
the town’s real founders — Elijah Iles, Pascal Enos and Thomas
Cox — liked the name “Calhoun,” for John C. Calhoun, the
pro-slavery U. S. senator and one-time vice president from South Carolina.
When southern politics fell out of favor in this northern town, the name
reverted to Springfield in 1825 over other candidates, like Sangamo, Illini
and Illinopolis. Some argued that there were too many Springfields already.
Well yeah. There are 32 states that have at least one Springfield and many
have several. But in this county where the “same old thing” is
generally regarded as a good thing, Rochester wins for prosaism. There are
60 Rochesters.
Such facts and fascinating trivia are in Place Names of Illinois, by
Edward Callary (University of Illinois Press, 2009). “What is the
value of understanding the origins and development of place names?”
the author asks himself. “The simple answer is that our history and
culture, our beliefs, ambitions, and dreams, are encapsulated in the names we give our communities. . . .” This book can be a guide to the amateur onomastician
(look it up), but mostly it’s just fun.
Springfield and Rochester could have picked names more
interesting, like Bug Tussle. That’s in Franklin County, near
Christopher in southern Illinois, where the bugs are even worse than here.
A church revival attracted more June bugs than people, so the congregation
spent most of the evening tussling with bugs. Oblong, in Crawford County,
is said to be the “only community in the United States named
Oblong,” which makes possible that famous Illinois headline,
“Oblong man marries Normal woman.” There were places called
Lickskillet in Macon, Vermilion and Piatt counties, but none survive,
probably because there wasn’t enough to eat. Sangamon, the river
first and then the county, has a more prosperous derivation. It was
recorded by a Jesuit priest in 1721 as Saguimont. Some say it means
“good hunting grounds” and land “where there is plenty to
eat.”
There are at least 13 meanings and 40 spellings for
Chicago, but the author settles on one derivation. “It is
clear,” he writes, that “Chicago” comes from sikaakwa, the Miami-Illinois
word for the striped skunk. By specifying “striped” skunk, the
originators made clear they were referring to the animals, not the
politicians who regularly migrate to Springfield. Sikaakwa also meant wild onions,
so it must have been a smelly place. For those who have to live there, good
thing it’s a Windy City.
Isn’t it charming how we butcher the would-be
lovely names left behind by the early French settlers of southwestern
Illinois? Prairie du Rocher, founded in the 1720s in Randolph County, means
“meadow of the rock,” which, we are told, is the plain
extending from the limestone bluffs along the Mississippi River. The
Illinois pronunciation of that last word is given as “RO cher,”
as in one who fancies roaches. No such helpful pronunciation is given for
the nearby Fort de Chartres, the 1719 French fort which is now a state
historic site. That, of course, is Fort “Charters” in
Illinois-speak.
The pronunciation is accurate for many of the
world-city names transplanted to the prairie, so this would be a helpful
guide to new Channel 20 anchors brought in from Florida or Texas. Athens is
“AY thunz,” and Vienna is “veye EN uh,” although I
would have put “veye AN uh” for Paul Powell’s hometown.
Missing are pronunciations for New Berlin (“noo BURR lun”) and
San Jose, east of Havana, which is “San JOE’s.” For
Cairo, we’re told the locals say “KER o,” but outside of
Illinois one is likely to hear “KAY ro.”
In the category of geographical juxtapositions, the
book notes that Franks, in DeKalb County, is five miles northwest of
Sandwich. Lost Nation, up north in Ogle County, is far from Future City,
way down south in Alexander County. But in Kane County, near Hampshire,
there’s a place called Henpeck, named for the postmaster who had
trouble with his wife. The story goes he left his wife and went just up the
road to start another town, which he called Harmony. In Jefferson County,
there’s another Harmony, five miles southeast of Divide. For real
harmony, go to Moultrie County, where the town of Gays is not far from
Lovington.
Fletcher Farrar is editor of Illinois Times. Contact
him at ffarrar@illinoistimes.com.
This article appears in Oct 16-22, 2008.
