Tuesday December 14, 2004

Cars, grandmothers, and the stories behind names Dick "Doc" Blanchard wore a bow tie to work every single day that I knew him, and I'd hazard a guess that he wore a bow tie to work every single day of his life.  He was proud to say that "his vocation was his avocation, and that his avocation was his vocation".  Because of his obvious passion for his work, he left a stamp on most of his students, including me.  I was lucky to share the experience with the eccentric English teacher with my family, too - in Doc Blanchard's first year of teaching, my father was one of his students, and in Doc Blanchard's last year of teaching, my younger brother was his student.  I enjoyed the privilege somewhere in between.

When I knew him, he had chalk white hair, a chunky figure and the already mentioned bow tie on his neck.  He did not use first names; boys were called by their last name, and girls were given the respectful title of "Miss", followed by their last name.  Every single Monday, without fail, he brought in clippings from the New York Times Sunday paper and spent a great deal of time discussing the items in the clipped articles that he found interesting - with the apparent hope that the stories would inspire us.  Seats were assigned, and if he forgot your name on occasion, he would never, never forget your seat assignment, "Ah, yes, ahem, Miss, you're Row 4, Seat 2."  He was the kind of teacher that you remember, years later, even when other parts of high school have become more of a blur.

Mr. Blanchard placed a tremendous emphasis on the etymology of words - and tried to spark curiousity in the minds of his students about the derivation of words and names.  Every single day, we explored the stories behind words.  For some teenagers, this fascination with words and names did not appeal - it had little to do with that weekend's football game, the next school dance, the upcoming alumni cross country race, or whether there was enough ice on the local ponds to support a game of hockey.  For some, like me, he planted a seed that took time to germinate.  There is a story behind every name. And, as evidenced by a paperback that kept me company on a recent flight to the Rocky Mountains, there is at least one story behind the making of dictionaries, too.

As one of my colleagues recently told me the story behind her name, she unknowingly reaffirmed that Doc Blanchard was right - there are rewards in paying attention to etymology. Her father's passion for race cars drove him to name his first-born child after a race car.  As you can see, it is a beautiful car.  I'm quite sure I didn't hear all of the story, though.  Were other names considered?  Did the expectant parents argue first about naming a lovely baby girl after a car?  What did her mother think?

 

I was named after my paternal grandmother.  I'm half-Greek, and it was traditional in my mother's family that children be named after their grandparents.  As the second girl, there was no debate.  It did cause a bit of confusion in high school, when my grandmother and I lived a block away from each other in "Live Free or Die" New Hampshire.  I would call to cancel a haircut appointment, and my grandmother's appointment would get canceled by mistake.  Better yet, my grandmother was asked out by more than one teenage boy by telephone (they must have been so nervous that they didn't notice the 50 year age difference in my supposed voice!)

What's the moral of this blog, you're now wondering?  That there is a story behind every name.  More later.

(2004-12-14 19:09:49.0) Permalink