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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Drive On

We're actually still changing the world, aren't we?

Rick Danko
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Hello Marty
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My mother was an excellent driver. When I was a youngster my sister lived in Boston and we would occasionally visit her by driving up there from New York. In those days the main highway out of the city was known as the Merritt Parkway. Along the way there were strips of commerce, restaurants, gas stations. motels, shops. Otherwise the scenery along the way was very pleasant. The Merritt passed under many bridges, there were side roads and the evidence of communities near it.

The Marritt Parkway is still there but it has since been replaced as the major road by a super highway, I 91, which runs through Connecticut and hooks up with the Massachusetts Turnpike. It's also surrounded by some very attractive scenery, planted and landscaped to adorn the highway.

As I grew older and made the trip to Boston and back I wondered what had been there. What communities, patches of forest or lake had been removed to make way for the Interstate. Whereas the Merritt had given glimpses of local life along its path, I 90 merely had signs and exit ramps. Whatever was there before the highway was built is gone forever. It can never be brought back.

In the 40s and 50s there was a city planner in New York named Robert Moses who, although he didn't drive himself, saw the automobile as the future of America. He built a major highway in northern New York City called The Cross Bronx Expressway. If you drive down it you will see on either side apartment buildings. In order to build that highway, many blocks of apartment buildings had to be torn down and a huge trench carved into the ground. A great many people had to be removed from their homes and neighborhoods. People who could walk a few blocks to their doctor's office or their favorite shops could no longer do that. There are pedestrian bridges that cross it, but not many. The buildings, homes. parks, neighbors, lives are all gone now and will never be returned.

New York City changes so fast that there's a joke which says that if you turn your back on it for one day they have torn down one building and put up a bigger one.

No one would deny those two highways and others like them all around the country make travel faster and easier for the motorist. The unfortunate thing is that no one can remember what was there. It is forever gone from sight and memory.

Progress and development is taking place all over American to provide better transportation and housing. Forests are being cut down, bays and wetlands are being filled in, mountain tops are being leveled. And all the while changes are taking place in the American people. We have become a nation of the convenient, the instantaneous and the forgetful. Instant coffee, fast food, immediate entertainment, instant gratification. What is gone about us that will never return?

In his epic poem John Brown's Body, Stephen Vincent Benet wrote about the mountains, the people and things that are gone

They are our last frontier.
They shot the railway-train when it first came,
And when the Fords first came, they shot the Fords.
It could not save them. They are dying now
Of being educated, which is the same.
One need not weep romantic tears for them,
But when the last moonshiner buys his radio,
And the last, lost, wild-rabbit of a girl
Is civilized with a mail-order dress,
Something will pass that was American
And all the movies will not bring it back.

DB - Vagabond Journeys
Never Give Up
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This invitation is still open for anyone and everyone to post an entry of their own on my journal, Vagabond Journeys http://vagabondjourneys.blogspot.com/.

A new year is upon us and since it is a time for celebrations, remembrances, resolutions and plans for the future I think people have things to say.

Not to take away from the postings on your own journals, but to add to the joy of my own is why I invite you to write for me.

I want to read what your thoughts are about this magical time of the year. This invitation is open to everyone: Christians, Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, Hindus, Pagans, Agnostics, Atheists and the Uncertain or the Confused. Tell me your thoughts on any subject you wish.

There are no limits in regard to length. The only limitation is that, for reasons so far unexplained to me, my blog does not take photographs, animations, videos or pictures of any kind. I deal in words.

Please accept my invitation. Send your entry to my email address dbdacoba@aol.com I will copy and paste it into my journal and it will be displayed promptly. You may sign your name or not as you wish, and you may leave a link to your blog or your email or not, as you wish. I will do NO editing or censoring. Eloquence is not necessary, mind or heart or both is all.

I have 13 Guest Authors so far. Check them out.
All are welcome. Admission is free.

DB - The Vagabond
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