What's in a Name?

I, like I suspect a good many people, am not happy with my name. “Gary.” It seems so bland, so ordinary. When I asked my parents where it came from, they were rather vague: “Oh, we just liked it.” There’s no other Gary in our family; there’s no history associated with the name. How could I ever have become an important writer—or composer or artist—with a name like Gary Brown; it reeks of the ordinary.

I thought of better names when I was very young. I liked Jason. Perhaps I had seen Jason and the Argonauts. It seemed vaguely more romantic, although I can’t imagine why I thought that. As I got older I wondered why I wasn’t Ernest, Jr., named after my dad since I was the first son. Again, rather a muddled answer from my parents. Looking back, I suspect it had something to do with Mom having had at least one miscarriage before I was born; maybe that child was intended to be the Junior. Also, for some reason, Dad did not have a middle name. I guess it happens now and again, probably because he was born on a very poor dirt farm in southwest Oklahoma. Maybe they couldn’t afford a middle name? He finally gave up explaining to people and just adopted the middle initial “L,” although it stood for nothing. So, I gave up on becoming Ernie, Jr., although I still like the sound of that.

More recently, I’ve come up with another idea: Major Ernest Brown. I like the sound of that. “Major” is not a title; it’s my grandfather’s name: Major Emmet Brown. And like other family names (including my brother’s, Kenneth Lee Brown), I have no history for it. I just like the sound of it. And it includes Dad’s name without the “Jr.” attached.

But truthfully, it’s too late for a name change. I only know one person who has legally changed his name, and that’s my friend Ray, who was an actor in New York City for many years. His Hispanic name was leading to him only being cast in Hispanic rôles. One day waiting for an audition, he decided to change his name to that of an author whose book he was holding: Algernon Blackwood. So Ramón became Ray, and his last name became Blackwood (I don’t remember his original last name). And he eventually went to court to officially change it. But I’m too old for that. Should I become a famous writer or artist, I’ll change it. But at 75 that seems less and less likely.

Seven Continents

I ran across this cartoon a few days ago. I sent it to my brother with the comment “Totally me.” That’s not entirely true, since I have had a successful career and I have traveled extensively. But since I’ve been dealing with the aftermath of a total knee replacement, I couldn’t help but giggle over the last panel.

But I got to thinking about the traveling part. I have traveled extensively, thanks in part to the Navy, and I got to wondering how many continents I’ve actually visited. There are seven, as we all learned in grade school: Asia, Africa, North America, South America, Antarctica, Europe, and Australia. Were I the Ruler of the Universe, I think I would reduce Australia to a really big island; but I haven’t got that title yet, so seven it is.

Obviously, I’ve been to North America. And I’ve been all over Europe, visiting quite a few countries there. I’ve been to Asia: China (both Hong Kong and the mainland). And I’ve been to  Japan and the Philippines. Depending on the source, these two island nations are Asian, or sometimes South-east Asian. But definitely China. I stood on a high ridge looking into Red China, which in the 1960s was as close as we could get.

I’ve never been to Africa, although it’s possible I saw Africa from the ship as we sailed into the Mediterranean; I know we didn’t see it as my ship left the Med as the captain sailed as close as possible to Gibraltar so we could see that.

South America is a bit trickier. I have been to Panama, and to Panama City. Most people consider it to be Central America and not South America. But I did find this entry on the ever-trusty Wikipedia: “Geographically, South America is generally considered a continent forming the southern portion of the American landmass, south and east of the Panama-Colombia border by most authorities, or south and east of the Panama Canal by some." I’ll take that view since it meets…well, the criteria I want it to meet, and since I spent a pleasant day in Panama City, I’ll say I was in South America.

So, that’s four out of seven. Not bad. I have no desire to see Australia nor Antarctica. I would love to go to some spots in Africa, but I don’t see that on the horizon, as any more traveling off this continent will probably involve some places I’ve missed in Europe—or return visits to some very special places: Venice, Rome, London, Amsterdam, and my dream retirement place: Korčula, Croatia. Ah, to fantasize…

From Gary's Gallery

I thought I would take a slightly different tack today so instead of whining I would talk about a few of the art works in my apartment. Since I moved from a three-bedroom house into a tiny one-bedroom apartment, and I wasn’t ready to part with the art I had collected over the years, my walls are covered. But I love it that way. Here are the back stories about three of those works:

First is the one above. This was painted by my mother, a very talented porcelain artist. I never really quite understood how it was done, but I know that the work is fired multiple times on porcelain. Mom did some of the more traditional porcelain works, flowers, but what she really loved was painting animals. This delightful portrait is of a young—lion? wildcat? I’m not sure. But I find it charming and I delight in it daily.

One more from Mom: this kingfisher watching for a bit of dinner. What I find interesting about this painting is that it wasn’t on porcelain; rather, she wanted to try a new medium so she picked gouache, an opaque watercolor. She had never used it before and yet she turned out this vibrant picture of a kingfisher, a bird I have always been fascinated by (well, she picked this subject at my request). I don’t have a date but I believe it is one of the last paintings she did.

This watercolor I find especially interesting as it was painted by the only person I ever knew who actually ran off and joined the circus: April Cerf. April and I worked together at an insurance company in Dallas. We both hated the job and spent time hanging out together, complaining about work and generally having a good time. Okay, occasionally it involved recreational pot, as we now call it. Hey, I was young. Younger. While looking for another job, April answered an ad for an artist to work with the Carson & Barnes Circus with set design. She didn’t get the job advertised, but they offered another job; as I recall it was one of those women who hang from ropes and spin around. I wouldn’t bet the bank on that memory, however. I do recall that later she worked with elephants. I’ve long lost touch with April and can find nothing about her online. When she was getting ready to move to the circus (they winter in Hugo, Oklahoma), she offered me the choice of whatever painting I wanted. I picked the lion cub. I have so often wondered what ever happened to April. I hope she’s happily painting somewhere.