In Which We Discuss Names

Fuck it, Gentle Reader. I’m going to attempt to post, despite the fact that the only Internet-available is from my phone, Caractacus, who may either shut down without saving, or, in fact, explode*. It’s been too long, and posts have been sparse on the ground of late. I apologize. Further, I’m sure you’ll forgive the spelling; I can’t spellcheck on Caractacus.


This morning, I awoke at Dawn. I praised various deities associated with the break of day, for once in a somewhat sublime mood. I snatched up my notebook, and did my morning writing exercise, although I usually leave it for later in the morning. This morning, I wrote about place-names.

At a young age, I was already obsessed with England. It wasn’t until I was slightly older that I learned that I’m of primarily English descent, and my family, in fact, came from a house with a name. My Great-Great-Grandmother left the ancestral pile, Lilac House, for Australia, where she established a brothel, that she named Lilac House, for reasons unknown.

As a child, almost as soon as we moved in to the house I grew up in, I named it Arvingdale.  After a few years, I stopped calling it that in front of company – I was already a pompous, unpopular child – emotionally unstable, prone to break-downs at school, raving that everyone I knew wanted to kill me – and I tried to minimize my native strangeness. Too little, too late.


My father’s parent’s house was, simply, called Lakeside, or sometimes, The Compound – my great-grandparents and great-uncle’s family lived on the same stretch of land as my grandparents, until people died, and plots were sold off. My mother’s parent’s house was Horsehead Acres, after the bay that it was on. Neither were very imaginative, but I was very young – four, or five.

The first house I rented, many moons ago, Ex-Husband and I called Madrona Quarters. When our friend, The Colonel, rented the same house later, it became Phoenix Down Hall.

The most recent place I lived was called Teaberry Retreat. Miss P insists that the name refers to the people, the household, and the outlook thereof, but I disagree. It referred to the place, also called the Farm. The name is tainted now. I don’t want the new home associated with that name; it would dishonor it. The new home isn’t named, yet, and we’re still unpacking. We don’t truly know its character, and can’t predict it. Still, I know a name will organically arise.



*This is true. Caractacus’s battery is swollen, like the distended belly of a starving child. The chemicals inside are doing all kinds of things, and by having the phone on at all, I am agravating the problem. What am I supposed to do, though – stay offline in the meantime? Pfaah.

About Ty DeLyte

Madame DeLyte has suffered a grave disappointment - YET AGAIN - and still believes that freedom, beauty, and truth are what's valuable, rather than vulgar cash. He'd add love to that list - but, well, what can he say about love?
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4 Responses to In Which We Discuss Names

  1. barb says:

    I never knew the thing about “madrona quarters”… Fitting, though.

    Also… Writing this reply from a state of returning soberness on the couch at the new place…. I agree. “Teaberry Retreat” is…. tainted.

    The dawn I watch appear outside of the livingroom window is a bit poetic, as the sky lightens above the trees, onto the ducks… Then, later onto the pieces of the Glen that still reside on the front porch. There should be a new name, which, as you say, will be organic, and grow from the soul of the new place, just as “Teaberry” grew from the soul of the last.

    But, then again, as the first light of morning hits the golden coupola, the tower, and the bar, there seems to be one Name that has lasted, even through this most recent darkness… And as it will endure, so the Family that maintains it will endure.

    Hail Paisley.

  2. ekgo says:

    Just to point out the ginormous chasm in years between us: I wish I could have babysat you when you were little. I LOVED kids like you. So much imagination! So easy to entertain. Kids like you would sit for HOURS letting me write their stories and we’d illustrate them together. Kids like you never demanded I play football or baseball, which, while I could, wasn’t my favorite past time. Kids like you liked music, liked fantasy, liked scary stories with the lights on. Kids like you were the BEST kids ever to watch.

    And also, now I feel that my house has a stupid name. We just call it Happy Home. Because, apparently, Gabe and I haven’t grown beyond the age of 2 in the house-naming department. But it really IS a happy home, so at least we are correct in our description.

    • Tyler J. Yoder says:

      If it’s true, then it’s a great name.

      I think that I really would have enjoyed you babysitting me, given how well we get along! Of course, when I wasn’t utterly ludicrous, I was very solemn, as a child. I spent most of my time in the company of adults, and the elderly, and not around other children. Childhood… was strange for me.

      • ekgo says:

        Little B was one of those kids, too. She only recently learned to interact with her peers and it’s still pretty trying for her. But she also wound up with a great sense of humor and not much phases her and those are awesome skills for an almost-sixteen-year old.

        If we get another go-round, I’m going to apply to be your babysitter. Because I still think I’d have loved watching you. I mean that in a non-creepy fashion; it’s just what you say as a babysitter.

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