My parents saddled me with the given name of William, which naturally evolved into Bill. I was named after my father, whose named was David Herbert, but who for some reason had acquired the nickname Bill.
There's nothing intrinsically wrong the name Bill. It's just that the name Bill Brown is so common that even the smallest burg has two or three. And not all of them are people whom you wish to be confused with. Every time we've ever purchased a house, I have had to sign affidavits that I am not the Blll Brown who has had a mortgage foreclosed, filed bankruptcy, or has some other blot on his record.
When your last name is Brown, you definitely need a given name – or nickname – that has more than one syllable.
From childhood to high school graduation, people called me Billy; some people in my hometown still call me Billy. But when I got to college, every automatically called me Bill – it sounded more grownup, I think – and it has been Bill ever since.
Except that it hasn't been, and I can't exactly blame my parents, though I think have a first and last name start with the same letter is at least a contributing factor.
It didn't begin until after I graduated from college, but since then, an amazing number of people get fixed into their minds that my name is Bob.
It is not just strangers to whom I am introduced as Bill and who two minutes later are calling me Bob. As a young reporter, I covered City Hall in St. Petersburg, Fla. On my news gathering rounds, I stopped in the city manager's office every day. About half of the time the receptionist greeted me as Bob. I would correct her, and I would be Bill for a day or two, but then I would revert to Bob. Her explanation for the name confusion was, "You just look like a Bob."
I suppose Shakespeare (or Juliet) was right, but still I used to bridle at being called Bob. No longer, though. People whom I see regularly, including one whose own nickname is Bill, alternate between calling me Bill and Bob. I just smile and respond to whatever name they call me; I guess if I ever run for office, I will have to put my name on the ballot as Blll Bob Brown.
(My wife, whose given name is Adelaide, has a totally different problem. No one calls her Shirley or Barbara or Sue. But they can't seem to say Adelaide. It comes out Adeline, Adalie, and even Natalie. Like me, she's learned to put up with it.)
Still, I wonder what a Bob looks like.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Sunday, September 12, 2010
If I wanted a dog, ...
I do not have a dog, nor do I wish to have a dog.
It is not that I don't like dogs. As a youth, I had several dogs; I had cats, too.
Since we have been married, we have had a succession of cats. Both of us worked long, and often odd, hours. A dog would have demanded far more attention than we could give. Cats, on the other hand, regarded us as staff and occasional entertainment, often pretending they hadn't noticed we'd been gone. Their demands for affection, while single-minded (it's impossible to ignore a cat who doesn't wish to be ignored), are brief.
We are retired now, but when the last cat disappeared, we decided that we did not want to have another pet. At least not now. It is nice to simply close the door and leave home without boarding an animal.
As I am writing these words Raka is lying on floor of my study, regarding me with his sad brown eyes. Raka is definitely a dog. And he is living in my house (all of my dogs were outside pets) But he is not my dog. He belongs to our older son and his family.
How he came to be here is one of those long stories that is best told briefly. Our son, an Air Force officer, spent the past two years in South Korea. He moved on to a new assignment in England this summer. The family couldn't take Raka directly from South Korea to England without the dog spending six months in quarantine. If, however, Raka spent six months in the United States, he could go to England without being quarantined. So Raka came to the states to stay with our daughter-in-law's family. When our son's family came to stay at our house en route to England, Raka came with them. Somehow he never got back our daughter-in-law's folks, and when time came for the humans to go to England, Raka stayed here. He will be eligible to go to England sometime this fall, and I suppose whoever goes to visit England first will take him.
The family got the dog when they were stationed in Turkey, and they originally named him Raki after the Turkish national drink. No one seemed to be able to pronounce the name properly, so they changed the spelling to Raka.
Raka is a Vizsla, a Hungarian breed which Wikipedia describes as "elite sporting dogs and loyal companions." It goes on to say that "through the centuries the Vizsla has held a unique position for a sporting dog – that of household companion and family dog."
I don't know about the hunting part, but I can attest to Raka's qualities as a household companion. He is very much a people dog, and he likes to be where we are. When I go downstairs to have coffee early every morning, he follows to see whether I am doing anything interesting. When he decides that I'm not he goes back up and curls up in his bed in our bedroom. I go up and down the stairs about a million times a day, and each time Raka follows, although he is somewhat conflicted when one of us is upstairs and the other down. When I -- and he -- make one of my brief trips up and down, he looks at me with some disgust, as if to say, can't you just sit still for a minute?
Like most dogs, Raka likes to sit on the car seat and poke his head into the breeze, reveling in new smells and sights. When I pop out of the car for a minute, he is sitting behind the steering wheel when I come back.
All of this may sound as if I am leaning toward getting a dog.
I am not.
I do not have a dog, nor do I wish to have a dog.
But if I did want a dog, I would want him to be like Raka.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
It is not that I don't like dogs. As a youth, I had several dogs; I had cats, too.
Since we have been married, we have had a succession of cats. Both of us worked long, and often odd, hours. A dog would have demanded far more attention than we could give. Cats, on the other hand, regarded us as staff and occasional entertainment, often pretending they hadn't noticed we'd been gone. Their demands for affection, while single-minded (it's impossible to ignore a cat who doesn't wish to be ignored), are brief.
We are retired now, but when the last cat disappeared, we decided that we did not want to have another pet. At least not now. It is nice to simply close the door and leave home without boarding an animal.
As I am writing these words Raka is lying on floor of my study, regarding me with his sad brown eyes. Raka is definitely a dog. And he is living in my house (all of my dogs were outside pets) But he is not my dog. He belongs to our older son and his family.
How he came to be here is one of those long stories that is best told briefly. Our son, an Air Force officer, spent the past two years in South Korea. He moved on to a new assignment in England this summer. The family couldn't take Raka directly from South Korea to England without the dog spending six months in quarantine. If, however, Raka spent six months in the United States, he could go to England without being quarantined. So Raka came to the states to stay with our daughter-in-law's family. When our son's family came to stay at our house en route to England, Raka came with them. Somehow he never got back our daughter-in-law's folks, and when time came for the humans to go to England, Raka stayed here. He will be eligible to go to England sometime this fall, and I suppose whoever goes to visit England first will take him.
The family got the dog when they were stationed in Turkey, and they originally named him Raki after the Turkish national drink. No one seemed to be able to pronounce the name properly, so they changed the spelling to Raka.
Raka is a Vizsla, a Hungarian breed which Wikipedia describes as "elite sporting dogs and loyal companions." It goes on to say that "through the centuries the Vizsla has held a unique position for a sporting dog – that of household companion and family dog."
I don't know about the hunting part, but I can attest to Raka's qualities as a household companion. He is very much a people dog, and he likes to be where we are. When I go downstairs to have coffee early every morning, he follows to see whether I am doing anything interesting. When he decides that I'm not he goes back up and curls up in his bed in our bedroom. I go up and down the stairs about a million times a day, and each time Raka follows, although he is somewhat conflicted when one of us is upstairs and the other down. When I -- and he -- make one of my brief trips up and down, he looks at me with some disgust, as if to say, can't you just sit still for a minute?
Like most dogs, Raka likes to sit on the car seat and poke his head into the breeze, reveling in new smells and sights. When I pop out of the car for a minute, he is sitting behind the steering wheel when I come back.
All of this may sound as if I am leaning toward getting a dog.
I am not.
I do not have a dog, nor do I wish to have a dog.
But if I did want a dog, I would want him to be like Raka.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Note to a Friend in Minnesota
Today marked a significant milestone on the road from my near self-amputation.
I managed to tie a small fly onto a tiny tippet. Never mind that it took 15 minutes to do it. Never mind that the fish were not the least bit interested in what I was offering them. I, by George, tied a tiny improved clinch knot.
My left thumb still has not fully healed. The plastic surgeon will decide early next month whether he needs to graft some skin onto a small spot that has stubbornly refused to heal thus far. But my only bandage is a large Band-Aid, and although my fingers are stiff from having been in a splint and the part of my thumb that still moves is equally restricted, after four long months I am beginning to think I may be able to resume being a left hander. I managed to put my left hand in my pocket the other day, something I had not done since May 21, and I am able to hold a pen in my left hand and move it to produce something that looks pretty much like my handwriting. I did manage to write my name with the right hand. It had a cramped look, like the signature of someone who has learned to write his name but who really can't read and write. When I had to write some checks on an account that I am the only signatory to, I stopped by the bank to make sure the checks wouldn't be rejected as forgeries. My friend at the bank put a note on my account that if anyone had a question about my checks they should consult with him. Another reason for loving a small town.
The temporary incapacity does have some advantages, as my older son, who always sees the glass half full, would be quick to recognize. I can eat right-handed, a skill that can come in handy at a crowded table We lefties always look for a corner seat to avoid the battle of the elbows; now I can sit at the middle of the table if need be.
I have gone the whole summer without getting my left hand wet. I fished (spinning rod) several times with Griffin, the older grandson, who here for nearly two months, but I couldn't paddle, so we settled for fishing from the dock. I'm counting on it being healed by November, when I'm supposed to go paddling in the Okefenokee with some friends. If it doesn't, I guess I'll just tied a bag around my hand.
And, at long last, I can type with both hands. I haven't written much of anything for the past four months because I was reduced to typing with my right hand. Now I'm typing with nine fingers.
There is, of course, a lot that I still can't do – I'm eager to get started on some rehab to help take care of some of that – but, by golly, I got that fly tied to the tippet this morning, and that was enough to make me feel like I'm going in the right direction.
Hope your summer is going well.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
I managed to tie a small fly onto a tiny tippet. Never mind that it took 15 minutes to do it. Never mind that the fish were not the least bit interested in what I was offering them. I, by George, tied a tiny improved clinch knot.
My left thumb still has not fully healed. The plastic surgeon will decide early next month whether he needs to graft some skin onto a small spot that has stubbornly refused to heal thus far. But my only bandage is a large Band-Aid, and although my fingers are stiff from having been in a splint and the part of my thumb that still moves is equally restricted, after four long months I am beginning to think I may be able to resume being a left hander. I managed to put my left hand in my pocket the other day, something I had not done since May 21, and I am able to hold a pen in my left hand and move it to produce something that looks pretty much like my handwriting. I did manage to write my name with the right hand. It had a cramped look, like the signature of someone who has learned to write his name but who really can't read and write. When I had to write some checks on an account that I am the only signatory to, I stopped by the bank to make sure the checks wouldn't be rejected as forgeries. My friend at the bank put a note on my account that if anyone had a question about my checks they should consult with him. Another reason for loving a small town.
The temporary incapacity does have some advantages, as my older son, who always sees the glass half full, would be quick to recognize. I can eat right-handed, a skill that can come in handy at a crowded table We lefties always look for a corner seat to avoid the battle of the elbows; now I can sit at the middle of the table if need be.
I have gone the whole summer without getting my left hand wet. I fished (spinning rod) several times with Griffin, the older grandson, who here for nearly two months, but I couldn't paddle, so we settled for fishing from the dock. I'm counting on it being healed by November, when I'm supposed to go paddling in the Okefenokee with some friends. If it doesn't, I guess I'll just tied a bag around my hand.
And, at long last, I can type with both hands. I haven't written much of anything for the past four months because I was reduced to typing with my right hand. Now I'm typing with nine fingers.
There is, of course, a lot that I still can't do – I'm eager to get started on some rehab to help take care of some of that – but, by golly, I got that fly tied to the tippet this morning, and that was enough to make me feel like I'm going in the right direction.
Hope your summer is going well.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
August Started Early, Looks to Stay Late
August seemed to arrive about the end of May, and it shows no sign of departing anytime soon.
The herbs and flowers that Adelaide so hopefully planted in what was supposed to be spring have long since given up and turned brown. Even regular watering didn't give them the will to see the summer through. Even some of the native plants, particularly azaleas and hydrangeas, are looking particularly stressed. We lost some during the last drought, and I expect that we will lose some more.
We have lost several small trees, and I worry about the red oak right beside the front deck and the white oak by the patio. Both of them show dead limbs, occasionally dropping one. Their demise would deprive us of much needed shade -- and having them removed would cost a princely sum, because both would have to be taken down in pieces and carried away by hand.
I was making good progress of my list of outdoor home improvement projects until I nearly amputated my left thumb with a table saw. That put paid to the outdoor projects. Realistically, I would have postponed many of them anyway because of the heat.
Since I am a left hander, the injured thumb also meant postponing a good many indoor projects, too. For a while, even trying to type was slow and painful, but within the past few weeks I have been able to apply at least nine fingers to the keyboard.
I have managed to keep the bird feeder filled. It hangs from an oak limb just outside the dining room window, and watching nature through double-glazed windows has provided more entertainment than television. The grandchildren have found the nuthatches a particular treat, marveling as they watch them walk up the tree trunk and then walk back down, always facing the direction of their travel, sometimes hanging upside down on the limb by the feeder. We had an abundance of goal finches early in the spring, but now a solitary brightly colored bird makes occasional trips to the feeder.
The red bellied woodpecker has returned to the feeder after an unexplained absence. When he cruises in to the feeder, the smaller birds scatter like destroyers making way for a battleship. Even the squirrel casing the feeder from a nearby maple branch doesn't want to cross him.
The fireflies which were so profuse during the spring have disappeared, but the August night brings its own interested creatures. We were sitting on the front deck one recent evening when Adelaide noticed the bird feeder moving. I had already noticed that on many mornings a feeder that was full at sundown was considerably less so by sunup. We flipped on the spotlights at the corner of the house and we could see the shadow of a creature clinging to the feeder A flashlight provided more illumination, and my suspicions were confirmed: we once again had a flying squirrel as a nighttime diner. It was unphased by all of the attention.
I walked down the steps to the base of the tree that the feeder hangs from.The feeder is about 20 feet overhead from that vantage point. From the base of the tree, there is a line that leads up to a pulley, which provides a way to lower the feeder for filling.
I gave the line a quick tug, and the squirrel glided down, passed just over my shoulder and disappeared into the darkness.
I'd be happy if August followed him.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
The herbs and flowers that Adelaide so hopefully planted in what was supposed to be spring have long since given up and turned brown. Even regular watering didn't give them the will to see the summer through. Even some of the native plants, particularly azaleas and hydrangeas, are looking particularly stressed. We lost some during the last drought, and I expect that we will lose some more.
We have lost several small trees, and I worry about the red oak right beside the front deck and the white oak by the patio. Both of them show dead limbs, occasionally dropping one. Their demise would deprive us of much needed shade -- and having them removed would cost a princely sum, because both would have to be taken down in pieces and carried away by hand.
I was making good progress of my list of outdoor home improvement projects until I nearly amputated my left thumb with a table saw. That put paid to the outdoor projects. Realistically, I would have postponed many of them anyway because of the heat.
Since I am a left hander, the injured thumb also meant postponing a good many indoor projects, too. For a while, even trying to type was slow and painful, but within the past few weeks I have been able to apply at least nine fingers to the keyboard.
I have managed to keep the bird feeder filled. It hangs from an oak limb just outside the dining room window, and watching nature through double-glazed windows has provided more entertainment than television. The grandchildren have found the nuthatches a particular treat, marveling as they watch them walk up the tree trunk and then walk back down, always facing the direction of their travel, sometimes hanging upside down on the limb by the feeder. We had an abundance of goal finches early in the spring, but now a solitary brightly colored bird makes occasional trips to the feeder.
The red bellied woodpecker has returned to the feeder after an unexplained absence. When he cruises in to the feeder, the smaller birds scatter like destroyers making way for a battleship. Even the squirrel casing the feeder from a nearby maple branch doesn't want to cross him.
The fireflies which were so profuse during the spring have disappeared, but the August night brings its own interested creatures. We were sitting on the front deck one recent evening when Adelaide noticed the bird feeder moving. I had already noticed that on many mornings a feeder that was full at sundown was considerably less so by sunup. We flipped on the spotlights at the corner of the house and we could see the shadow of a creature clinging to the feeder A flashlight provided more illumination, and my suspicions were confirmed: we once again had a flying squirrel as a nighttime diner. It was unphased by all of the attention.
I walked down the steps to the base of the tree that the feeder hangs from.The feeder is about 20 feet overhead from that vantage point. From the base of the tree, there is a line that leads up to a pulley, which provides a way to lower the feeder for filling.
I gave the line a quick tug, and the squirrel glided down, passed just over my shoulder and disappeared into the darkness.
I'd be happy if August followed him.
Contact the writer at billatthelake@gmail.com
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