There are no folds in a blindfold. No blinds, either, but that’s a decorating matter and not word-history matter.
Have you ever noticed that there are no crisp creases in a blindfold, no pleats, no folds? If you say that you never looked or even thought about it, I will accept that answer (though the suspicious part of me will wonder if you didn’t notice because you were wearing a blindfold at the time and I’m not sure that I want to hear about your blindfold-wearing adventures and whether you were offered that last cigarette before the firing squad was called to attention, or whether you were offered that cigarette after that delightful evening with your loved one last weekend . . . ).
If you respond, “You know, you’re right,” I won’t inquire further (because you obviously were on the other side of the blindfold, and either still holding the gun, or offering the cigarette to your loved one last weekend . . . ).
Anyway, as I step cautiously, carefully, delicately out of firing range, I will point out that if you’ve assumed that the fold relates to the cloth of a blindfold, it’s because you were blind-felled, struck blind, by that familiar word fold. Rather, you were deceived, as the fold is a variation of felled. You were blind-struck, which is a word that
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Bill Brohaugh
I’m glad no one used, because if blind-felled became blindfold, there’s a chance that blind-struck might have morphed into blind- sock, which is just too odd an image to consider.