When did your love of writing begin? Are certain people responsible? I’ve been thinking lately about how mine began. The presentation of Auntie Hazel’s flashy script and grandma’s heartfelt poems filtered down through dad (both links lead to Sass and Vinegar, a tribute to two creative sisters who loved wordplay). I figured my interest came from dad’s side. After all, they were the letter-writers. I figured they’d been my inspiration.
Maybe I forgot someone.
I found it the other day when I opened a kitchen drawer looking for scrap paper.
Mom. I can hear her giggling. This is one of her lists. One of hundreds, I’m sure. She has collected unusual names for years. If it tickled her fancy, it went on the list. (Not to be confused with poking fun at. No. Mom isn’t like that. One of the sweetest ladies I’ve ever met, mom doesn’t think like that, isn’t made that way. She has a hard time cussing properly (when she should). Odd…my sister and I don’t have that problem. So sad. Yes. Well, back to mom. While we were growing up, the worst I ever heard come out of her mouth was shite. Rhymes with polite. Figures. So, no making fun of here. Simply, mom enjoys unusual names and likes to keep a list.)
Where did she find these people? Newspapers, magazines, flyers, books, catalogs, and just about anything in print were fair game.
Mom is 87 and still an avid reader. They say that puzzles, reading, even learning another language contribute to brain health. Are there any studies about name lists and longevity? I think I need to change that first sentence to “Mom is 87 and still an avid thinker.”
And that’s when it hit: Mom had a hand in my love of writing, words, and wordplay. Lists like this were all over the house when I was growing up.
Ingo Lemme, Barbar Ibach, Robert Baller, Gary Spanks, and Karen Brecknock made the cut.
When I saw mom today, I asked her if she had any name lists handy. I didn’t have to explain; she knew exactly what I meant. Not only did she find the above, she’d also kept this:
You may have noticed the handwriting is different. It’s mine. Holy buckets! This is genetic.
Mom and I must have been
fiddle farting sitting around one day, and, talking about names, decided to look for more. The phone book must have been close.
e did a teensy weensy bit of shopping today and came across those journals people are charging an arm and a leg for, the ones made from old books. I couldn’t resist.
What better way to keep a list of names.
It isn’t my fault. Really. (Thank you, mom). ❤