Name it and Claim it

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose, by any other name, would smell as sweet." Romeo and Juliet (II, ii, 1-2) by William Shakespeare

 Blam! The head of the plant exploded in a shower of petals. The POOF of pollen emitted by the concussion glistened golden in the morning sun. Another hydrangea bloom had sacrificed itself for the sake of my boyish imagination. To the natural world, a lush bloom had been obliterated. But to me, Roberto Clemente (the Great Roberto) had just hit another homerun.

It had all started a day or two earlier when my Dad had brought home a new wiffle ball bat from W.T. Grants. This one was special. Unlike the thin jaundice yellow ones I was use to; this one was bright red with a fat barrel. It looked more like one of Fred Flintstone’s clubs than a baseball bat.

 I quickly tired of hitting the wiffle ball that came with the bat. Its light plastic construction was perforated with holes, which minimized the distance the ball traveled even with my best swing. Abandoning the disappointing and unresponsive ball I went in search of more satisfying projectiles.

Rocks work well, but they left marks on the bat. Green apples leapt off the bat traveling a good distant. They had to be carefully selected however. Those that were too ripe exploded on contact leaving fruit pulp all over the bat (and me).

However, there was a certain satisfaction generated by the exploding apples. I realized that destruction could be as much fun as distance. So next I experimented with dirt clods. The exploding “POOF” they created was exciting, but I was constantly getting dirt in my eyes from the plume of dust created at contact.

That was when I spied my Grandmother’s hydrangea bushes.

The other targets with which I had experimented required that I release the bat with one hand, toss the projectile into the air, then re-grip the bat and swing away, all in one swift motion. On the other hand, the round, puffy blooms of the hydrangea bushes were stationary, held at the perfect height by the stems. Because I could stand facing the target, with both hands on the bat, swinging at my leisure, it enhanced by ability to play out my big league fantasies.

There I stood. Bat in hand. It’s the bottom of the ninth with two on and two out. The count is three balls and two strikes. The great Roberto is at the plate. Here’s the wind up and the pitch: “BLAM.” Another bloom was blown to smithereens.

“JAMES THE LESS!”  

Hearing my Grandmother shout brought me quickly out of my big league fantasy. Her voice was coming from the front porch, where she was undoubtedly standing in her blue flowered house dress and favorite apron; her hands fisted on her hips. I turned around scanning my path of destruction: four or five shattered plants lay behind me. The remains of purple and pink blossoms were scattered everywhere.  “James the Less!” came her voice again. I knew immediately I was in trouble.    

“What’s in a name?”  In Shakespeare’s “Romeo and Juliet” Juliet rationalizes that a “rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” So if Romeo could only change his last name he would no longer be a member of the family which opposes Juliet’s family, paving the way for their marriage. So she asks the question: “Where for art thou Romeo?” (Why are you named what you are named?)

What we call things is, in point of fact, very important. I was named James after my Grandfather. Normally my family addressed me as Jimmie. But when my Grandmother really wanted to make a point, she differentiated me from my Grandfather by addressing me as “James the Less.” It was not intended to be derogatory, but rather, definitive.

To my mind, we “make a point” every time we address someone. Expressions such as friend, beloved, son, daughter, wife, husband, mother, father, et cetera should convey respect as well as a deep and deepening relationship.

On the other hand, if we resort to addressing others with terms such as stupid, clumsy, worthless, jerk, or a variety of other terms, which are not fit to print, we are not only being unkind; we can inflict permanent damage. If a child is told they are worthless they will ultimately see themselves as worthless. If however, we address them as beloved (or as a loved one) they will come to know they are loved.

We are stewards of one another and one of the ways we steward others is how we address them. In other words, what we call them.

How do you think of those around you? Is your child “my stupid kid” or “my wonderful son or daughter?” What you call them may make the difference.

(Epilogue: James the Less’ bat was confiscated. The Great Roberto hit no more home runs that summer…at least not hydrangeas.)

Dear God: Remind me that what I call people makes a difference in their lives.

“And so with all things: names were vital and important.”  ~Algernon H. Blackwood, English short story writer and novelist (1869-1951)

©2012 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.

“90 Second Stewardship” All rights are reserved. You are welcome and encouraged to forward this e-mail to family and friends provided the”© 2012 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” is included along with this message. Organizations, whether for or non profit, are required to receive written approval before reproducing these reflections. If written approval is given the “© 2012 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” must be included along with this message.