Names..

It seems to me that names must be very important to people. Expectant parents spend many hours, sometimes months, pouring over lists of names and their meanings, in hopes of finding the perfect name for their child. Of course, when the child has been born, and the name is given, the meaning has no importance to anyone, outside of the person who chose the moniker for the babe. In Biblical times, parents gave names according to personality traits they wanted for their child to develop or to honor the Lord, in some way. Hannah, who wanted a son, named her baby, Samuel, which means 'asked of God'. The name of the first man, "Adam", means 'man'.

Sometimes I've wondered if these little people grow to 'live up to' the meanings of their names. When I look at the way my children have developed, the definitions given to their names seem to have become a part of their lives. For example, my youngest was given the name Megan Beth.

Megan comes from the Welsh, meaning 'strong' and Beth is Hebrew, meaning 'house of'....so Meg's full name means 'house of strength.' Not that I put any store in astrology, but she is also born under the sign of the bull, a Taurus. Megan was a strong-willed child, and as a head-strong teen, was a bit of a challenge for me. As an adult, she is a strong woman, intelligent and
tackles her life head-on, with little diversion from her task. She is, indeed, a house of strength.


Amy, means 'beloved'. She is that, to most who meet her. She is well loved in the family, and seems to make friends easily and be accepted. She is thought of well by her employers and looked upon as friendly and outgoing. She is a giver, governed by her heart, so I'd say that she is beloved and loving too.


My grand-daughter has an unusual name, Selah. The word is a musical term meaning 'pause' or 'meditate on this'. This not -quite-six year old was an infant who seemed to be gazing into unseen worlds, examining everything she saw, and still is a very serious child. She mulls over everything and must have a valid reason for all things. She contemplates every word, and if it doesn't make sense to her, she must question it. Her father says she will be a lawyer.


These examples are just three of many, many instances I've seen where babies seem to grow into the meaning of their names, given before they have a chance to determine what behaviors and personality traits they will adopt. I would want to say to every parent, 'choose wisely the name you bestow upon your child'. It is unclear whether a name really can help or hinder a child to develop good ways of living, but personally, I wouldn't want to take a chance!

Hope Chest

Who remembers the term "hope chest" these days? We of the middle age and older generations do, but somewhere along the passing of time, I believe the idea has gone by way of the dowery.

When I was a teenager in the 1960's, my mother and aunts began giving me household items for my 'hope chest.' I didn't really have a chest, per se. in which to store these things, though I'm sure some girls did. The contents of a hope chest were to prepare the young woman for an eventual home of her own. Gifts would come for my 'despair barrel' as one of my aunts deemed it, and would be stored in my closet for the 'someday' when I'd need it.

I like the custom, though, I'm not sure I did at the time. I always had the idea that I'd be a wife and eventually a mother, but at the age of fifteen and sixteen, I thought I had plenty of time, and household items were not particularly exciting. However, when at the (too young) age of nineteen, I married a high school boyfriend, those towels and dishes, sheets, etc. came in handy.

When my daughters were teenagers, I gave each of them a cedar chest. There were gifts, here and there, of articles that they could save for their future homes, but things had changed by that time. Kids were more interested in 'registering' for the specific small appliances or dishware or linens. Registering is common practice today, but it irks me. When a gal gets engaged and sets a date, she runs to her favorite department store and picks out everything she'd like to receive, and then lets all the gift buyers know where they can choose one of those items to bestow upon her and her intended. I suppose, for some, this makes it convenient because one doesn't have to think much about what the gift will be. They need only to decide what they want to spend and pick something from the list which lines up with their budget. It also is insurance that the bride will like and use your gift, since she's picked it herself.

I've never been ''registered'' for gifts, nor have I purchased anything from a registry list. I like the challenge of shopping for useful gifts that I think would suit the one receiving it. I might sneak a peek at a list, just to see what a bride's china pattern is, or to get an idea of her color preferences, but the gift is all my own idea.

Some of the old ways still charm me more than today's practices. I think I'm getting old, and I know I'm old-fashioned. I can think of a hope chest full of ancient traditions that I'd trade for methods of this day and age. Life moves on, times change, but sometimes I wish things could be a little more like they were in the days when I was young.

MEMORIAL DAY WEEKEND

Memorial Day weekend is here again. It hardly seems possible! In East Hampton, it signals the start of the summer season, but these days, the tourists and second home owners come earlier and stay later. No longer is it a three-month season in the sea-side resort town.

When I think back on the holiday weekend from earlier years, I do, indeed, find many of them memorable. When I was a youngster, early in the morning on Memorial Day, I would hear the 21 gun salutes at the near-by cemetary. I donned my Girl Scout uniform and headed for the flagpole near the library and Town Pond. I'd join my troop for the long, often warm, trek to the windmill on the north end of the Village. It was something I looked forward to and was proud to do.

In later years, as a parent, I watched my young ones march the same route, wearing their various assortment of uniforms...Brownies, Girl Scouts, Cub and Boy Scouts, Civil Air Patrol, EHHS marching band, Little League. Whatever the uniform, Mom was there to deliver the kids and to stand proudly, beaming at the children. We always stood, afterward, at Hook Mill for the ceremonies honoring our men lost in wars. We listened to our local public officials, and we applauded the students who were presented with scholarship awards. It was all a part of the day, as was the annual cook-out our family attended at one or another home.

Two Memorial Day events stand out in my mind. One was when I was a young mother, expecting my second child. The phone rang in our kitchen that morning, and my own mother's voice said, " I have bad news." (I recognized that phrase as my mother's coming announcement that someone had passed away.) She continued to say that my Grandmother had died that morning.

Years later, another family died on Memorial Day. In fact, he died in a way that would probably have been chosen by him, had he had a choice. Uncle Bob was a veteran of the US Navy and an active member of the Navy Reserves. Having reached the rank of Chief Petty Officer, his uniform bore an arm-full of stripes and his chest was decorated with many colorful ribbons. He'd served in five wars. He loved his uniform and was proud to wear it in patriotic service for his country. That May morning, Uncle Bob carefully put on each item of clothing, being sure to line up his shirt buttons with his belt buckle, as is the military way. He 'reported for duty' for the last time, to the flagpole. He began marching in step with the drumbeat, accompanied by other men and women of the Veterans of Foreign Wars. He marched almost half the way to the Mill, when the flag he carried began to droop toward the ground. Someone stepped up to take the flag as Uncle Bob collapsed to the ground. He'd served his country well, and finished his earthly work wearing his Navy uniform.

A Memorial Day indeed.

By the Sea...

I need a fix. I need to visit the seaside. I've often said that I have salt-water in my veins, instead of blood, as my ancestors were men who worked on the water in some capacity. The early family were whalers. Later men in the families were members of the Life Saving Service, and then, the US Coast Guard. Some were manhaden fishermen, and one was the Captain of a steam ferry. Although I love my new surroundings in the foothills of the Appalachians, one thing is missing....the ocean.

One of my favorite pastimes when I lived in East Hampton was to walk on the beaches. When I was a teenager, and April signaled that Spring had arrived, my friends and I would head to Main Beach where we'd spend countless hours sifting the soft white sand through our fingers as we discussed the most earth shattering news in our lives. Sometimes we'd meander near the edge of the water, toward the rock jetty, where we'd sit and enjoy the sun.

In later years, when it seemed the world was caving in on me, the ocean beach was my place of refuge. I'd find a quiet place, far from others who might be there, and plunk myself on a beach towel, lie back, and contemplate my current situation. The rhythmic, soft slap of the waves on the shore was comforting. No matter what storm raged in my heart or mind when I'd arrived, I always left with a peace and, sometimes, more clarity.

There were times when walking the sands that I'd feel that a great enlightenment had fallen upon me....as if I'd actually heard the voice of God speaking. One particular day, I had gone to the beach, overwhelmed and confused about what was happening in my life. I remember silently saying, "wow...there are so many grains of sand that make up this shore." I 'almost' heard God say, "Yes, and if everyone of them was one of your problems, I would know each of them and every detail of every one of them." Now, that opened my eyes!

I feel no particular need of comfort as I write this, but I do feel a bit homesick for the shore. When we make our way north to East Hampton in August, the beach is the first place I'll visit. I want to look out over it's vastness, to watch the gulls soar and dive. I want to smell the salt air, and to pick up the briney foam from the edge of the water. I want to hear the waves crash and watch the sands chase the water back to the sea. I'll walk until I'm tired of walking. Perhaps I'll get up very early one morning and watch the sun rise over the jetty.

I will fill my memory bank with the sights and sounds and smells, for who knows how long it will be before I will have a taste of the East Hampton beaches again?

Fog

When I read her blog this morning, she'd written of the fog that surrounded her home yesterday. It's my turn, as when the day turned light, I could see from my windows that the world was shrouded in a film of gray.

I've always loved the fog. There's an air of mystery about it. I may be perfectly clear in my mind about what it covers, knowing that behind the veil there stands a tree, or our neighbor's home, or some other object of familiarity. However, when I look out and there is a wall of fog between myself and the object, I feel isolated in some way.

I remember the walks I used to take beside the sea in East Hampton. Wrapped in the thick, wet, morning fog that rolled in off the ocean, I'd make my way to the jetty. The air was heavy with the smell of salt and the surf would pound against the sand. My footprints were erased with every wave, and it was almost as if no one would ever know I was there. I felt solitude in my silver, misty cloak. It was complete serenity.

In Maine some years ago, my husband and I sat on the craggy cliff in the early dawn hours. We could not see the ocean, but we could hear it slapping hard against the boulders below. We felt the spray as we sat in the cacoon of fog. The mournful sound of the foghorn warned the boats of the ragged walls at the edge of the sea. The beam from the towering lighthouse attempted to penetrate the air, another warning to those in boats somewhere.

The fog can be a dangerous thing. I don't care to drive in it and would love it far less if I was on the water, or in an airplane, when it chose to make its appearance. It's weather that comes when it will, when conditions are right. So long as I'm in a safe environment, I'll not worry of the danger, but will lose myself in the thoughts of its mysteries and romance. Let the curtains of gray fall and envelop me with its peace and solitude.

Do What You Love

There is currently a theory that if you do what you love, what you're good at, you will succeed in business. I'm not sure that would work for me....but it doesn't really matter, because I'm not looking for a business.

For years people have been telling me that I could make 'good money' if I would sell my crafts. They've said the same thing about my articles and poetry, encouraging me to put them together in a book and sell them or to write greeting card slogans. Do you know what? I don't want to do that!

I keep thinking that I'd begin to hate the crafting, the card making, the writing, and that the creative juices would stop, if I had to do it. I do what I do, when I do, for the pleasure of it. I do it for the presenting of some part of me as a gift. If someone else along the way appreciates it, that's all well and good, but to get so busy creating for profit doesn't give me a thrill. I don't care to think of the record keeping, bookwork and legalities that go with a having business of your own. I've spent too many years chained to a desk working for someone else and I don't care to put the shackles back on even if I'd be the boss. Perhaps I'm too independent. I like governing my own time and talents, without the discipline it would take to make money at all this.

Yes, maybe someone else could be a successful business person by doing what they love. As for me, I'll do what I love and enjoy the feeling of success I have when I see the delight in a child's face, or a new mother's glow when I've given her a handmade gift. I'll be happy enough knowing that one of my cards has encouraged someone or brightened their day just a little. I'll leave the money-making to someone who's not satisfied with his or her life as it is. Besides, I'm better at spending money than making it!

A Sad Life

He never owned a home of his own, but at one time he had a bed in a place he called home. He was a youngster then. As he grew up, I saw him, I attended classes with him, but I didn't know him. Perhaps I thought I was 'better' than he was. Perhaps because he didn't approach me, I didn't bother with him either in my youth and shy ways. I'm not sure he cared whether we spoke or not, and I didn't either, but, somehow, these days a thought of him arises now and then.

For years after he left school, he'd wander the streets, sometimes begging for a few bits of change. The only work I'd ever known him to do was the collecting of bottles that he'd turn in at the redemption center for the five cent deposit. Sadly, there were times when he'd be found by the police, sleeping or passed out, in the middle of the road. The officers would chase him off, or escort him to a safer place. There were a few occasions, when I worked in the village where he lived with others whose lifestyles were similar, I would see him sleeping in a doorway. My heart always sunk at such times. It seemed to me that he lived such a sad life.

Was this a way of life he followed because it was what he'd come from? Was it because, genetically, he was predisposed to a life of inebriation and poverty? Was it discouragement that put him there and kept him there? What was it that didn't allow him to rise above that way of living? I have no idea of his family life as a child. There's no knowledge in me to say why he lived the way he did. I want not to believe it was his choice. I don't want to think that he was a sluggard with no incentive to work or to try harder to escape the trap he seemed to be in.

There is no way for me to know how a little boy grew up to be such a man. It hurts me to think that the fact is, there are many in every city, who live much the same way. Does anyone see them? Do we walk by and carry on, as if these lost souls don't even exist? There they are, rummaging through garbage cans for something to eat. There they are, sleeping off a bottle, in the doorways or on the sidewalk grate. There they are, pushing their belongings along the street, on the way to their next temporary bed. Will they live this way until they leave this earth?

My schoolmate did. He will never have a chance to make another choice or work toward a better life. His circumstances were the same for him, day in and day out, until the hit and run driver ended his life. What he might have been will never be known. Such a sad life....such a sad ending.