Sunday, August 18, 2013
What's In A Name?
Of course each member of my vast array of stuffed animals had a name. But so did our family car (Betty the green-and-black Chevy Bel Air), the Weeping Willow tree in the backyard (Wendy) and the favorite red chair in the living room that everyone took naps in (Robert).
I even named my hands (Alex and Sally, right and left respectively) and they were great friends who played together, hovering over my head like birds swooping and landing on my blanket (Blankie) as I lay in bed on sleepless nights.
Our house was Sherman (address 39 Sherman Drive, duh!) and I worried about how he felt having to sleep outside every night. And later, when I received a guitar for an eighth grade graduation present (the guitar I still play 44 years later) I named him Vladimir, a name he still goes by.
I cried when my parents sold Betty, replacing her comforting sedan-ish solidness with the sleek champagne-colored Pontiac Grand Prix interloper (Carmine). I even cried a little when my best friend Terri's parents sold their car, a green Rambler named Iris.
These were all friends in my world, companions who kept me warm, let me daydream in their branches, drove me places and made music with me in my moments of teenage loneliness.
Nowadays, I still tend to name things, albeit not every item in my house. My car, a red Rav 4, is Millie, and my lawn mower is Sam. I have two dogs and a cat, who, of course have names, as do my five children. They, in turn have taken to naming their most cherished possessions, a habit I swear I did not pro-actively impart.
This may sound silly, all this naming. A child's game making sense of a child's world. But I find there is comfort, even now, and a sense of connection with my world when I am able to speak directly to it, calling it by name. In the Biblical book of Genesis, God brings all living things to the first humans for naming. This simple event charged them with the care and nurturing of said living things. I like that.