What's in a name?

Yesterday was a big news day - a homemade weather balloon escaped from a backyard, with a six year old boy possibly inside it. My older son, home from school, announced that if he had parents like that, he'd be doing everything possible to escape from them, too. You see, the parents had named their son Falcon. "Who the heck names their kid Falcon?" my son asked indignantly. I answered, without knowing, that it had to be hippie parents from Colorado. And of course I was right.

You can tell everything and nothing by a person's name, everything about the family and not much about the person, because, after all, most of us have nothing to do with what our name is.

I like this idea from a historical novel by Deeanne Gist. The following excerpt from the book, set in the Washington Territory at the end of the Civil War, is a dialogue between a ten year boy and the novel's heroine:

"This here is Two."

"Excuse me? I didn't quite catch your sister's name."

"Two, we call her Two."

"I see. And what's her real name?"

"She hasn't decided yet."

"What do you mean?"

"We get to pick our own names when we're old enough. So I'm One, she's Two, my brother's Three, and the baby's Four."

"Now, now, no loving parent would ever name his children One, Two, Three and Four."

Well, I would have! I did not want to name my kids personality unknown.

Pregnancy and childbirth were snaps compared to the daunting task of selecting names. How nice it would have been to wait a couple of years to get to know my child before deciding his name. Without that option, I was paralyzed with uncertainty. I was not fond of most traditional names, not from a family that passed down names, and did not want to be too trendy. So my kids ended up with the rather boring names of Kelly, Lindsay and Brian. I admit to a little imagination with the naming of our second son Wiley - the sneaky little devil born six years after we took "permanent" birth control measures. Time will tell whether he enjoys wearing the name as much as we enjoyed naming him.

I do think it is important that a person like his name. How many times have you heard someone say "that's my name, but I go by.....?"

My mother is from a family where the kids were named Thelma, Thaddeus, Owen, Mildred, Gearldine, etc. Almost all of them picked their own nicknames as children, and those are the names on their tombstones. My mom legally changed her first name to Jo when I was in high school. I don't know why more people don't do that when they dislike their given name.

My husband's first name is Ricky, not Richard or Rich or Rick, but Ricky. Family legend says his sisters picked his name out of the phone book.

One day, after I finished a telephone conversation with him, my secretary came into my office to apologize. It seemed when my husband Ricky called, she initially hesitated to put him through, since she knew my husband's name was "Rick." He explained to her that no, he usually went by his name Ricky, but many people, including me, called him Rick. I was the one who ended up apologizing. After dating for over two years and being married for over six years, I hadn't bothered to find out he preferred his "real" name instead of a shortened version. I've made a point since then of asking people what they "go by" when there is any hint of ambiguity.

I believe I lucked out in the name department with Kerry. It went perfectly with my maiden last name of McCarley and goes fine with Balthrop now. It's gender neutral, which quickly allows me to toss as junk mail anything addressed to "Mr." I can identify my close friends as those who spell it correctly. And I think it will wear well in old age. But that's just me, Kerry Layne McCarley Balthrop.

DONE!

With fifty minutes to spare - another tax season ends.

Another day, another dollar

I'm really looking forward to "blogging" this weekend - after the fifteenth.

For over thirty years my life has been measured by "fifteenths."

Yesterday, I worked twenty-one hours. It keeps me young, though, like I'm still in college doing all-nighters.

Except I get paid for these all-nighters!

Coming Full Circle

In May, 2006, after about a five year hiatus from cat ownership, we brought an adorable, beautiful five week old tuxedo kitten home. Addie snuggled, she played tag, we all had fun. Then she grew older and less content with amusing herself.

Over time, her favorite spot became the top of my desk, particularly when it was covered in paper. This was problematic for me, the high-powered paper pusher who's too soft hearted to move a lonely kitty.

Solution? Get Addie a companion. In December, 2007, we brought the kitten Tyson home from a shelter. Tyson is loving and eager to please. He waited patiently for Addie to adjust. Addie never really played with Tyson, but liked hanging out in the same room with him and keeping an eye on things.

They were not in my office.

Then we got the dog in December, 2008. Addie liked bossing the dog around, even shushing Krista to sleep her first night in our home. Addie has not been crazy about our other cat or dog, but she always seemed interested in what they were doing.

They were not in my office.

In late July our daughter, with her cat Rascal, moved back home for a while. Rascal is a few months younger than Tyson and has only lived alone in a small apartment. He is very similar in coloring and size to Tyson, but acts more like a ghost. Rascal seems to have unhinged Addie, and my cat's psychosis has gradually increased over the past couple of weeks.

To avoid the whole situation, Addie has been hanging out in our bedroom closet during the day, doing unmentionable things. Today I tossed all the cats out of our bedroom and shut the door, forcing Addie to "socialize." Addie, crazed and wacko, hissed and yowled, wanting back into her hiding spot. Eventually she gave up.

Where did she go? Here. In my office.

Where did Tyson follow? Here. In my office.

Somehow I screwed up the grand solution to a cat constantly sitting on my desk. Thank goodness the dog can't jump that high, or I'd have all three of them in my way.

Where's the ghost cat? Don't know, but at least he's not in my office.

Coming Up Soon

For air, eventually.

It's my last major work deadline for the year. October 15 is like April 15, except worse - there are no more extensions.

So I'm working like mad, or madly working (which may be the more appropriate term for me dealing with the IRS.) Since I won't have time to eat or sleep, I probably better not blog much. I think my family would mutiny if I sneak time for posting but can't find time for laundry.

At least it's supposed to rain all week AGAIN, so I'm not missing any beautiful fall weather.

Coming next should be the highlights of Dog meets Farm. Or come to think about it, maybe I'll have to talk about Life in the Laundry Room - that's a whole other world, too.

Have a great week, friends! And if you're feeling sorry for yourself, just think of me in my small corner of the world filling out form after form after form after form after ..................

Rio-l Memories

In March of 1981 I made my first trip to a foreign land (unless you count my college recruiting visit to Boston a few years earlier.) I was part of a two man team traveling across Central and South America for three weeks, preparing tax returns for U.S. citizens working abroad for my firm's clients.

It was quite an assignment - Panama, Rio, Sao Paulo, Lima, Bogota, Caracas, Acapulco and Mexico City. On the flight from Panama City to Rio, the refueling stop was in Quito, Ecuador. We got off the plane on the tarmac during that break, so I've actually stood on the equator.

I don't know if South America was second world or third world, but it definitely wasn't my world. Of course, living in Chicago at the time, I didn't complain about missing the slushy streets of late winter.

Brazil was our longest stop, with four days in Sao Paulo and two days in Rio de Janeiro. I am actually rather pleased that the Olympics of 2016 will be in Brazil. When I watch the Olympic background stories seven years from now, it will be interesting to see how Brazil has changed from my memories of thirty years ago.

Sao Paulo is about three hundred miles inland from Rio. It was then and still is a metro area of over twenty million people. Back in 1981, the smog and smell of gasoline were overwhelming. The streets and highways resembled the lines of a completed jigsaw puzzle, the only road design requirement the avoidance of immovable objects. We often had to go miles in the wrong direction to be able to access the road we wanted in the direction we needed to go. The sea of buildings continued to each horizon. The city had grown so fast there was a minimum two year wait to get a telephone line.

The food in Brazil was terrific, a beef lover's paradise. T-bone steaks, considered cheap cafeteria food, spilled over the edges of their plates. Flowers were everywhere, dazzling in color and variety. Street vendors sold roses for twenty five cents a dozen.

But there was a tremendous chasm between the "haves" and the "have-nots." It started on the plane, where we sat in first class, the rest of the plane crowded with people and packages and chickens and small goats. The disparity continued as we ate in top floor restaurants with a view of nearby slums and rode in our chauffeured limo past the street beggars.

The Americans working in Brazil, mid-level executives back home, lived as royalty. One family we ate with gave us a tour of their rented estate. As the residents, they were considered rich and, to avoid an angry community , were expected to hire many people. They had a cook, four maids and two gardeners. Monthly wages for domestic help averaged about $20 plus room, with rooming privileges the main draw. The garage floor was waxed twice a week, just for the servants to have something to do.

And there was an edginess to being out in either city. Although we didn't travel with armed guards as in some of the other countries, we had to be careful. In Rio, I couldn't leave my hotel room, even for the hallway, without my work companion. An unescorted female was fair game.

Rio de Janeiro was a city of painted beaches, flashy hotels, rampant pick-pockets and lots of skin. From all reports, it hasn't changed much.

The Statue of Christ and Sugar Loaf Mountain dominated the skyline. I'm sure we will see these images constantly during the Olympic coverage, but unlike with most cities' landmarks, I don't think I will tire of this eye candy.

Congratulations and good luck to Brazil, a fresh face for the Olympic Games!

Hiding In Plain Sight

Back in the 1930's no one had to worry about childhood obesity. Kids were too low on the totem pole to get extra food and too underfoot to get to stay indoors. So, they ate only what they needed, and invented games to keep occupied.

Although we ate a little more than needed, we did continue that fine tradition of outdoor gaming this past weekend at my dad's family reunion.

The game from my parents' youth that we play is a tricked up version of hide-and-seek called "Piggy Wants A Motion." One person is "it" and has to find everyone. Anybody who is found has to go to a designated central location - the (pig)pen - and call out for a motion. If someone else in the game, who hasn't been found, waves at him, then the person in the pen can sneak off and hide again.

If you are the one hiding, the trick is to be able to wave at pigs in the pen without "it" finding you. If you are "it," you have to balance finding more "pigs" with guarding the pen to prevent escapes. The game ends when everyone is caught at the same time or the hunter gives up, unable to find the last one or two cleverly hidden people.

Our game started Saturday night with about ten players. I was "it" and got to decide the perimeter and, since it was dark, use a flashlight. The ring of campers and cars was the boundary. The pen was a couple of chairs set close to where all the grownups were sitting around visiting.

People hid behind and over and under campers. Every now and then someone sitting around the camp would indicate with a gesture or a nod where to look when the pen got too empty. I finally found my brother inside a car. My niece was inside a storage bin of an RV.

In a twenty-first century twist, the kids would text each other to say where they were hiding so those in the pen would know where to look for a "motion."

My daughter took the next turn as "it." She had a slight advantage, having seen the common hiding places from the previous game. I sat with one of my older cousins and visited for a while before she noticed and called me back to the pen.

The daytime game the next morning was the most fun. The perimeter was a little larger and included the outhouse and the ruins of the farmhouse along with more cars and tractors. My sons were the most creative in their hiding spaces, going under the floors of tents and inside trash bags. My older son was a lizard in his ability to dart from place to place and blend into (or under) his surroundings.

My brother was "it" in the morning game. He had an annoying habit of guarding the pen. (He later admitted he was too out of shape to run much!) Those in the pen had to develop strategies of distraction so that some could get away.

The game allows for other stealth moves. My son-in-law waited until the game started, not hiding in the first wave. He walked up to the pen and waited for a motion. Then, hidden the rest of the game around the farmhouse ruins, he constantly set pigs free.

My brother, unable to find his daughter, stood near the pen and hollered for a motion. She obligingly popped up to wave and he called her out. She was still griping about the unfairness of it hours later.

Finally, having never found my younger son, my brother ended the game. My son sat up. He'd been laying on the ground about ten feet from the pen the whole time - his blue jeans blending into the ice chest and his red shirt the color of an adjacent camp chair.

Until next time, he's the self-declared reigning champion of the game.

On the Road Again

Well, the wagon train is heading out this weekend to southwestern Oklahoma for a family reunion. My brother and niece are flying in from Arizona, so there will be nine in my caravan from north Texas. I'll be driving the Tahoe loaded with people, food, ice, dog crate, games, fishing tackle, tents, sleeping bags, air mattresses, etc. Think of the Clampetts headed to Beverly Hills and you have the picture.

The weekend should provide a plethora of postings next week.

Some topics that are likely to come up.....

What happens when you mix grandparents and hand grenades? (Really.)

How do you allocate tent space when there are an old married couple, a young married couple, an adult daughter and son and a teenage son? There will be two tents.

Who will be best at "Piggy Wants a Motion?"

What can you do with a pontoon boat on a large farm pond?

What will a small, arrogant dog do when she meets very large cows?

How does that whole Pictionary/dominos/cards thing work out when you have a group ranging from teenagers to "old" people, and you're playing the games by lamplight?

How many stars can you see on a September night when you're in the dark in the country?

Good times coming.

Using Common Sense

Which political leader would you agree with?

DOOR NUMBER 1:

"The yearning for peace is universal." POTUS, September 23, 2009.

DOOR NUMBER 2:

"It is too true, however disgraceful it may be to human nature, that nations in general will make war whenever they have a prospect of getting anything by it; nay, absolute monarchs will often make war when their nations are to get nothing by it, but for the purposes and objects merely personal, such as thirst for military glory, revenge for personal affronts, ambition, or private compacts to aggrandize or support their particular families or partisans." FEDERALIST No. 4, November 7, 1787.

MY PICK:

I've got to go with Door Number 2.

I've seen the sneaky (and up front) things my kids do to each other. No yearning for universal peace there!

Almost a Love Relationship

Our number two cat is the sweetest animal I've owned. Our number one dog is figuring that out. The cat always lets the dog play and bite and maul, only using his claws once in self-defense in the last nine months. This picture is from a typical morning. While I'm slaving away, the animals are doing this.

Or this.

But sometime in between the two pictures, someone did this.

WHY was a roll of toilet paper on the bedroom floor?

WHY is a Big Boggle game on the living room couch?

WHY are work files on the living room floor?

And, WHY did the text in this post suddenly become blue and underlined as I added pictures?

Imponderables, all.

Still Charmed

A couple of weeks ago I wrote about my son's ability to inflict damage on others while remaining personally unscathed.

Well, I didn't "knock on wood," so in the fifth and final game of his Labor Day soccer tournament he was hit hard enough to be injured. He finished the game that Monday morning, but later showed us the bruising and swelling. When it did not significantly improve the next day, we took him to the doctor.

The doctor diagnosed an injury which will need surgery in the long run to relieve discomfort, but in the short run just needs rest. He could play again once the pain and swelling subsided. After another week and a second doctor visit, he was told to wait a few more days.

Today he was feeling fine, able to run and jump without pain, and will be back at sports full time on Monday. Today the sun came out consistently for the first time in two weeks.

Since his injury, all his soccer practices and games have been postponed due to the rain and sog. He won't have missed a thing.

Reality Check

Do you watch reality television shows?

My parents watch the original reality TV show Jeopardy every night and sometimes Wheel of Fortune.

My husband records and watches several - Amazing Race, Survivor, The Apprentice, Deal or No Deal and others as they come and go. Our family even made a video and applied for a spot on the Amazing Race. We were way too normal to get selected. Ricky and I are waiting until we're old enough to qualify as the "old married couple" in the race. Maybe we'll get lucky a couple of years from now - you'll know it when my blog goes dormant for a few weeks!

My highly educated daughter is addicted to shows like Bridezilla and America's Next Top Model. She could name by sight the eight children of Jon and Kate. My boys watch crazy obstacle course contests. I'm not sure how many original episodes there are, though, since whenever I ask about a particular contestant, they already know whether he wins or not.

I generally stay condescendingly above it all, maybe pausing for a peek as I walk through the room with laundry.

However, if it's "America's Got Talent" night, you had better not get between me and the remote control. I started paying attention to that show a couple of seasons ago when a local area ventriloquist, Terry Fator, won the show. He's gone on to sign a $100 million Las Vegas contract. Last season's winner was an incredible opera singer. My favorite, who didn't win, was a Broadway style singer who had lost his voice in an auto accident and gradually recovered. He has since produced a CD. (Maybe Santa will wrap it up for me this year?)

I watched nearly every episode this summer. The judges picked over one hundred and fifty contestants from auditions around the country. They ranged in age from seven to over seventy. The acts included magicians, dancers, singers, harpists, triplets playing violins, drummers, animal tricks, comediennes, chain saw juggling and anything else you could think of.

During the preliminaries you saw more of the train wrecks - the people whose friends and families did not have the guts to tell them they really weren't very good. The judges had no such scruples and their comments could be brutal. I still recall the young woman who thought it was a talent to open her suitcase on stage and have a friend crawl out. What do you say to that?

After the preliminaries, the judges culled the group down to forty, at one point giving three groups twenty-four hours to rehearse and have a dance-off for the remaining spot. The producer added eight (including one of the losing dance-off groups) and the voting season started with quarter-finals of twelve acts each. For each quarter-final, the fan votes picked the top four advancing and the judges picked the fifth. After taking two weeks to do the quarter-finals, two semi-finals were used to reduce the twenty contestants to ten with fans choosing eight of the ten. Those ten competed on Monday night.

I am proud to say that I voted every time. There were some very good acts that did not advance far enough, but all in all, the American people did well in their choices. And many of those that did not make the finals, like the guys combining trampolines and basketball dunking, carved out solid stepping stones to future opportunities.

As one of the judges mentions regularly, this show is what America is all about. The contestants come from all parts of the country and all social strata, but start on an equal footing. They are judged on their abilities alone. If they advance, it is because of their performance, not their past. If they fail, it is because they are not as talented or appealing as the other guy.

One compelling aspect of the show is the remarkable goodwill shared and expressed between contestants. Nearly every competitor, upon his or her exit from the stage, graciously recognizes the achievements of those moving on, understanding his own performance was lacking. He wasn't robbed, someone else was better. The "losers" learn from the experience and vow to try again. The "winners" appreciate and acknowledge the efforts of those that came up short.

There are some common characteristics of those that move ahead.

First, they have worked very hard and were prepared for the opportunity in the preliminary rounds. Second, they were able to use the judges' criticisms and suggestions to improve subsequent performances. Third, they were able to creatively work under pressure to improve their act or routine for the next round of competition.

Would that we applied these concepts to our own failures and successes of living and working!

It is amazing to see, over the course of a few short weeks, the finalists transform from ugly ducklings into swans using the production resources of AGT. The pretty opera singer, originally wearing a simple sundress, now has the evening gown, hair-do and bling to match her powerful voice. The former chicken catcher has emerged from the poncho and baseball cap in stylish clothes and a visible face that only enhance his ability to hold a crowd breathless with his music.

I watched ten great acts compete for the top prize. I voted forty times for my two favorites. But no matter who wins this season, I won't say "oooh." This time they were all that good.