What's in a (baby) name?

I haven't done any official studies on this, but from observational experience, there are three questions a burgeoning belly inspires most: 1. When are you due? 2. Do you know what you're having? (which inspires my favorite answer: a baby) 3. Do you have a name yet? (with my second-favorite answer: Yes, I've had it since I was a few hours old.)

Obnoxious comments aside, the last question certainly poses the first great challenge of parenthood--for some of us, anyway. Over the years, I've met a few people whom I suspect were given names without much thought. One guy I interviewed several years ago was named T.B. Yep, just T.B. I know a lady who named her daughter after a pharmaceutical company brand printed on a bag of complementary toiletries the hospital gave her after the baby was born. I know people named after soap opera characters, road signs, counties and cities (by the way, Ashley Judd is named for the city of Ashland, Kentucky.)

In the quest for the perfect name for the baby on the way, I've looked to friends, pastors, neighbors, co-workers, the lady behind the counter at Fazoli's (that's an entirely different story involving Drano, spoons and stuff I really don't want to put in black-and-white). I've discovered a world of baby-naming web sites which offer names from around the world. One site even has a "baby naming wizard" which randomly assembles letters into mostly things less pronounceable than the symbol Prince used when he was trying to get out of his record contract. Occasionally, it hits upon consonants and vowels that form real words, but I've not seen any that I'd want to name my child. (Unless, of course, I was a celebrity and wanted to ensure that my child will be forever scarred by answering to some hideous monicker until she's old enough to have it changed legally, if she's out of rehab by then and considered sufficiently mentally competent to petition the court.)

My most frequently consulted source has been the Bible. Names seem to carry great importance in scripture. They seem to me to be given as a gift, as a description of one's faith or hope for the child, or as a story of the circumstances of the child's birth or some personality or physical characteristic, or as a pedigree, announcing the child's lineage.

Today, we don't always think of those weighty things when naming a child. We tend to think more about possible unflattering playground rhymes or infamous forebears of the name, whether in the history books or movie credits. We look for names that make our child seem distinctive or trendy or endearing.

In naming our five-year-old daughter, Meghan, we went with heritage. Meghan is a Celtic name (both my husband and I have Scot/Irish roots), and Elizabeth is a family name. This time around, the naming process has been more difficult. I felt this child, such an unexpected blessing, should have a name that reflects our faith. He wanted to name her after a car. (He was just kidding. I think.)

One friend told me I was thinking too much, and that parental instinct will kick in when we see her little newborn face, and we'll know exactly what to call her. However, I'm a bit concerned about choosing a name befitting a red, wrinkled, pointy-headed infant. (Maybe that's how some celebrity babies got their names.)

Actually, we do have it narrowed down to one front-runner and a couple of back-ups, so the chances are slim that in a few weeks that we will be leaving the hospital with a nameless offspring. In fact, my mother can rest her fears that her beloved granddaughter will be displayed in the nursery with nothing but "girl, 7 pounds, 20 inches" on the index card on her bassinet.

So what's in a baby name, after all? Will she be inspired to greatness, or doomed to some seedy profession, all based on whether or not she started life with a good name? (At least I can be comforted that most of the gals in certain lines of work seem to adopt new names rather than performing with the one their parents gave them.) I think it comes down to this: it should be something with a good meaning, that sounds good when you shout it out the back door or say it tersely in the middle of the grocery store, that's easy to spell in kindergarten, fits on a standard business card, and can't be shortened or rhyme with any body parts or other objectionable words. That's not much to ask, is it? I hope she agrees.

Old Glory?

Before I write this little one-woman dialogue, let me preface it by saying I'm the granddaughter and niece of veterans. According to my family tree (and my uncle Wayne), I am eligible for membership in the DAR (Daughters of the American Revolution, for those of you who were not reared to revere this organization as I was). One of my direct descendents (I can't remember if it was William Logan or William Partin), was a member of General Washington's Guard. Or something like that. (Uncle Wayne, forgive me for my memory lapse here.) I'm proud of my heritage, and always pause for a moment when I walk past my grandfather's memorial flag, folded into a triangle and framed accordingly, on the wall of my parents' home. It's a humbling moment to think of my grandfather going into the horrors of war because he believed in what that flag symbolized.

That said, I have to agree somewhat with a commentary I heard this morning about the cheapening of national symbols. The pundit noted that our national anthem, inspired by a moment of great significance, has become something of a "lounge act," rolled out for the obligatory moment of solemnity just before someone shouts "play ball!" or just before the Miss Apple Blossom Festival pageant contestants take their places onstage. We've heard pop versions with vocal gymnastics, versions with a country twang, heartfelt opera, disconnected New Age, moody jazz--just about every musical genre known to humankind from sea to shining sea. Singers compete to do the honors at hockey games and baseball games and county fairs and small-town parades. Where is the sacred in that?

Never was this point better illustrated to me than a few weeks ago when a coworker and I went to lunch at the food court at a nearby mall. We had just sat down with our trays of some unhealthy delicacy when a female voice informed us and all of our fellow patrons that today the mall management was delighted to share with us a moment to honor the flag. We and the people around us awkwardly lay down our plastic forks and unhanded our disposable cups and listened politely as the voice of an older gentleman, identified as a veteran, spoke about the significance of the flag. He went on to explain each of the 13 folds (just as my grandfather's flag is folded). When he was finished, we went back to eating, then suddenly the female announcer asked us all to stand and show reverence for the playing of the national anthem. We lay our utensils down again, swallowed the bites in our mouths, and stood as the national anthem began to filter over the speakers and echo against the tile and composite tables of the food court. I glanced around at the people sharing this strange moment with us. Some had expressions of deep sentiment, others looked a little confused, and one guy kept glancing down longingly at the half-eaten food on his plate. I glanced at my coworker, whose shoulders had begun to shake, and I was surprised to see her wiping massive tears from her cheeks. Then I realized she was overcome with a different emotion than one might suppose--she was holding in laughter.

Later, she said she felt terrible for laughing at that moment, but I understood. I, too, found myself holding my breath to suppress the giggles that threatened to come spilling out. It wasn't that we aren't patriotic or didn't respect those who were trying to honor our nation's symbol that day. It was just the randomness of the act during lunch hour in the food court. Something about enchiladas on a paper plate didn't seem to fit with the solemnity of the veteran's speech.

It's kind of like going to church in old ripped jeans and a stained T-shirt. It's not that I think God loves us any less (or more) because of what we wear--and in fact inspires and expects humility from us. But there's a certain statement we make to ourselves and to others when we take a little extra effort to don something a little more special than what we'd wear to mow the lawn. And there's something about reserving other symbols of significance for fitting moments when due respect can be paid. Somehow I don't think it's over hot dogs at the mall or preceding swimsuit competitions. At least let me finish lunch first.

Good fences, good neighbors? Part II

I began writing this from our back patio, surrounded by new fencing. We have successfully shielded ourselves from the frequent acquaintance of our neighbors. Interestingly, I remember it being much more quiet when there were no visible boundaries. Lively sounds now waft over the scalloped edges of our fence (except on one side, where the neighbors insisted on a straight fence): I hear grandchildren laughing, and the reserved couple on one side brought out a radio for the first time since we have lived here. The saucy music of their native Brazil provided the soundtrack to our daughter's experiment with riding a swingset while wearing a wet bathing suit (for the record, it makes for a wild ride down the slide and proves quite a challenge to stay on an aerodynamic swing).

There's something satisfying and yet sad about all the effort that goes into guarding ourselves. Still, listening to the sounds of life all around us, I realize we are not quite isolated. Recently, however, a friend commented that in his neighborhood, fences are neither required nor desired--a neighborhood full of children near the same age. It's nice to think of a neighborhood like that--with shared spaces and swingsets. We have a taste of that on the street side of our neighborhood. Instead of shared backyards, the communal property seems to be basketball goals, T-ball posts, a court perfect for riding bicycles and flying kites, sidewalks made just for chalk art.

It's our ultimate hope (and promise) that one day there will be no need for boundaries, but in the here and now, we draw our lines, build our fences, and go about our lives as best we can, learning something about ourselves--and our neighbors--as we go.

'Good fences make good neighbors.'

There are strange marks along the boundaries of our back yard. After much discussion, debate, and a little rancor, most of the neighbors have agreed to fences between our little kingdoms and how they will look--what kind of wood, the shape of the fence (scalloped or straight), how high, how far apart the boards will be. The one renegade neighbor who surprised the rest of us by popping up a small picket fence in the middle of the week, while most of us were away at work, will soon find himself surrounded by the towering privacy fences preferred by the other kings and queens. The great fence debate is over.

Some years ago, dutifully doing my literature homework while sprawled across my four-poster white bed in a room that overlooked the farm, with land as far as I could see, I read and re-read the evening's assigment: Robert Frost's "Mending Wall." The poem hit home with me even then. You get to know something about fences when you live on a farm. (A sidenote here--although my parents were no farmers, my family had called it that since the first generations made their way from Scotland and settled into the Appalachian hills.) Still, my uncle maintained a herd of cattle, a couple of horses, and an occasional corn crop nearby. And, of course, there was always hay growing that must be "worked" every year. (It's such a grueling process, no one in my family--particularly my brother and my uncle--ever talked about "harvesting" hay.)

A fence was an important part of the equation. If the fence was down at some point, the cows would break loose and trample the yard, particularly the flowers and shrubs my parents so meticulously maintained. Or the cows might make their way to "the road," which referred to either the main highway or the recently paved road that led into Prichard Branch, the hollow neighboring ours. Or the crop of hay would be ruined, or the corn eaten. Any way you looked at it, a downed fence was trouble. Sometimes hunters would cut their way through the barbed wire, or somehow bend it down enough to climb over without too many injuries to delicate regions, or they'd take apart the wooden railings. So, whenever a gap appeared in the fence, or when a cow appeared somewhere it shouldn't be, the rush was on to find the gap and mend the fence. Dinner was gobbled down, or served late, many a night for the sake of a mended fence. Once, after a particularly busy hunting season, and several attacks on the fence, my uncle decided to put in an electric fence. It worked well until one rainy day when I decided to take a short cut between my uncle and aunt's house and ours, and ended up in ankle-deep water and painfully attached to the electric fence, which I hadn't noticed in the rain and fog. My uncle heard my screams and knocked me down with a stick. The next day, the electric fence was disassembled.

In our well-ordered subdivision in the heart of the bluegrass, fences serve quite a different purpose. No cows to constrain--but babies, dogs and cats, and privacy. Living in a quilt-square subdivision means giving up the freedom of living out of sight of anyone but the occasional deer and squirrel (oh, yeah, and the cows). But it also means having a cul-de-sac filled with the laughter of children on a summer night, a network of neighbors and friends close by. But even those things have their limits, and the need for some sort of quiet space, a border to the kingdom, appears.

My neighbor said her husband had recently observed that "good fences make good neighbors," saying aloud what I had been thinking as we haggled over straight or arched, pine or cedar, privacy or picket.

Footnote:
An excerpt from Frost:

He only says, "Good fences make good neighbors." Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder If I could put a notion in his head: "Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it Where there are cows? But here there are no cows. Before I built a wall I'd ask to know What I was walling in or walling out, And to whom I was like to give offence." ... I see him there, Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed. He moves in darkness as it seems to me, Not of woods only and the shade of trees. He will not go behind his father's saying, And he likes having thought of it so well He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors."