Strange Names

I have fallen in love with American names,
The sharp names that never get fat,
The snakeskin-titles of mining claims,
The plumed war-bonnet of Medicine Hat,
Tucson and Deadwood and Lost Mule Flat.

Stephen Vincent Benet
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Hello Arlene
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The poem above is the opening stanza of a longer poem called "American Names." In it the author, though satisfied and grateful for the years he spent in Europe, yearns to be back in America. He goes on to say that he will not forget his homeland.

"I will remember Carquinez Straits,
Little French Lick and Lundy's Lane,
The Yankee ships and the Yankee dates
And the bullet-towns of Calamity Jane.
I will remember Skunktown Plain."

I also love American names and the strange way some of them are pronouned. Pronunciations are often the result of local dialects, so that the same name in Texas will sound different from the one in California. Some of the names came from foreign countries but end up sounding completely different coming from the tongue of a local citizen. You're never sure until you hear a native say it. There's a place in this country where Brazil is pronounced BRAZZle.

I have lived half my life in New England where I got used to names like Coos (COH ahs), Berlin (BURR lin), Peabody (PEE biddy), Teaticket (Tee AT ikit), Natick (NAY dick). Truro and Swampscott are, blessedly, pronounced just the way they look.

Being also a New Yorker I'm familiar with names like Sag Harbor, Chappaqua and Tribeca (try BECK uh). People think New Yorkers have lazy speech because of things like The Bronx being pronounced DUH Bronx. Don't be fooled. It's a dialect and one New Yorker will recognize another one when he speaks, even if they're in the Gobi desert.

I did a few plays in a town called Blowing Rock, North Carolina. That's in Appalachia, where the Hill Billy's live. The nearest city is Boone (buhOON). One of the characters I played was an Appalachian, so I had to get the dialect right. I hired a dialect coach then went around town listening to the local people. There were two authentic Blue Grass musicians in the show and one of them said I sounded like I was a local person. I guess if I fooled the musicians ear I must have got it right.

Other than that experience I'm not familar with strange names and their pronunciations in the South or other places in the country. If anyone reading this has similar items to add you are welcome to put them here.

DB - Vagabond Journeys
Never give up.
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Olaf

He who does not look ahead remains behind.

Mexican proverb
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Hello Rose
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This is the tale of Olaf, the prophet, a New England story.

Any man can tell you that some of the most arcane literature can be found written on men's room walls. Contrary to what most people think, and against old wives tales, I don't remember ever reading anything that said something like:

"For a good time call Daisy"

with a phone number attached. But there are statements that seem to find their way onto all the men's room walls of the world. If I have to read one more time:

"I'd rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy"

I think I will kick the wall down in a rage. Maybe it was mildly clever the first time around, 35 years ago, maybe, but enough is enough. It is worth noting that in some rare cases something can be found of interest. Near a theatre I used to manage was a bar and grill that I liked to frequent at night after the show was over. Among the other nonsense on the walls of the men's room someone had written:

"What's hot and swims"

That curiosity kept me and my colleagues amused for some time.

I used to live in northern New Hampshire, near the White Mountains. It was a tourist town. Almost all year round people would come up from southern New England, what the locals called Flatlanders, to enjoy the recreational aspects of the area. In the winter that meant skiing. There was a lounge with food and entertainment not far from where I lived, and I used to like to go there for lunch after my radio shift was over.

It was usual that there would be plenty of snow by mid to late December for the visiting skiers. But one year the snow was late in coming. And on the men's room wall someone, probably a frustrated flatlander, had written:

"There's no snow"

A few days later I was in the same restaurant and underneath it someone else had written:

"Olaf knows why there is no snow"

As the winter progressed with still no significant precipitation some one else had written:

"Why, Olaf, is there no snow?"

The Winter came and went. During the Spring the walls of the men's room had been painted, thus erasing all communications to and about Olaf.

But the next Winter's weather was comparable. Folks were waiting and hoping for a major snow storm that wasn't happening. I ventured into that men's room one afternoon and, sure enough, there on the wall someone had written:

"Where's the snow"

After about a week I found written this plea:

"Where is Olaf when you need him?"

That seemed like a serious, ongoing saga about Olaf and the lack of snow when a few days later another men's room journalist had written

"Olaf moved to North Carolina"

It seems that in North Carolina they had mastered the art of making snow.

And thus ends the tale of Olaf, the prophet..

DB - Vagabond Journeys
Never give up.
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Waiting For Irene, Part 1

Will there be a Waiting For Irene, Part 2? Who knows. That there is a category 3 hurricane approaching is a sinister enough experience to live through. But there is something grotesque about waiting for it.

A day or so ago I read that Irene was down in the Caribbean. She's still in the Caribbean. A day or so ago I read about what damage she had done in the Bahamas. I'm still reading about the damage in the Bahamas. It's as if Irene is waiting around until everyone is sufficiently frightened or sufficiently evacuated before she launches her attack. Or she's inching along, driving in the slow lane and taking her sweet ladylike time to get here.

Reading all about what is liable to happen when the hurricane finally arrives, the 100+ mile per hour winds, the foot or more of rainfall, the surges and all, is like watching the coming attractions of a Hollywood Blockbuster film I don't think I want to see.

Governors are declaring states of emergency all up and down the East Coast, news organizations with their high tech maps are showing where the hurricane is likely to go as if colored dots on a wall could describe such an event. In some cases we get photos and videos of past hurricanes to further illustrate what the possibilities are. Hurricane experts are trying to describe the extent of the danger to the land. And yet, as usual with natural disasters, overhead hangs the sword that no one really knows what's going to happen.

Irene will probably make landfall in North Carolina, but maybe not. She could possibly blow out to sea and spare everybody, but maybe not. She could zip right into the middle of New York City and cause damage that is impossible to imagine or calculate, but maybe not.

The local forecast is for "heavy rain." Oh really? New Jersey is one of the states that is supposed to be the most vulnerable to Irene's fury. If you look at a map of New Jersey you will see that it bends slightly in the middle and where it bends a bit of Pennsylvania is pushed into its side, like a punch in the stomach. In that bit of Pennsylvania is where I live. So does that put me in the path of Irene? Probably, but maybe not.

This is an adventure story. Will it have a tragic ending or a happy ending? Who knows. Stay tuned for "Waiting For Irene, Part 2"

DB - Vagabond Journeys
Never Give Up.
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SUMMER QUESTION

Summer is moving along, people.

It's a long, hot, sticky summer, so here's a hot, sticky question for you.

Same sex marriage. Should it be legal or not? If so, why? If not, why not?

dbdacoba@aol.com

18 answers so far.

You have until the last day of summer, but don't dally.
I eagerly await your answer.

DB
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