Passing the Baton

For starters, I’ll shoot the first person who says it’s only a number.

Not that you knew I was speaking of age (again), of course, but remember the first time you wrapped your head around centuries and discovered they were always ahead of what you expected?  The 20^th century, for instance, was always about the 1900s.  The 21^st century is about now.  It still doesn’t sound right.

Switch to decades and it gets weird[er]. 

When you live till your 11^th decade, you’re called a centenarian.  Did you know if you live to be 110 (your 12^th decade) you’re called a supercentenarian, like Jeralean Talley from Michigan and Misao Okawa from Japan who are both 114!  We all know who an octogenarian is, of course, but do you know what a person in her 90s is called?  Yup, a nonagenarian (not to be confused with a persona non grata!).

Now, meet Susan Elizabeth, Nelson Hodges, Virginia Louise, and Nancy Rebecca, a.k.a.  Floosie Soosie, Funny Sonny, Skinny Ginny, and Fancy Nancy (thanks to Dad).  Funny Sunny began his 8^th decade in January last year.  A week ago Floosie Soosie (not to be confused with our V&V Soosie!) followed suit…and two years from now Skinny Ginny will do the same, with Fancy Nancy the following year.

[After Fancy Nancy, we’ll pass on the baton to the next four in the family, but that’s a few years later, with Goofie Ruthie, the last of the eight, in 2026.]

So, what are Funny Sunny and Floosie Soosie called?  Yup, septuagenarians.  Those of us in our 60s are sexagenarians.  You in your 50s are quinquagenarians.  But you knew that.  You in your 40s?  Quadragenarians.  Then the thirty-somethings and the roaring twenties, of course.

BTW, did you know that once upon a time SEPTember, OCTober and NOvember were our 7^th, 8^th and 9^th months!  Blame the Romans for adding July and August for Julius and Augustus Caesar to screw up the system.  But I digress.

I go through this age ritual every June.  Skipping around like a flighty lark!  June is such a happy month for me.  Just when I think I couldn’t possibly get happier, another June comes and I‘m happier.  Does that mean I love growing old[er]?  I hope so.  I think so. 

However, the closer I get to my 8th decade, I admit that I pause.  It seriously does sound weird[er].   This never happened to me when I showed up for the 5^th, 6^th and 7th.  The 8^th is the part that doesn’t sound right because…it’s not like I’m going to be 80, you know!

Don’t you love how the elders are looking so tenderly and lovingly at the youngers, like they already know something very wise and are eager and willing to pass on the baton.  “DON’T BE FRIGHTENED,” I can hear them say. 

And did you notice none of us is older than 200 years (a Methuselagenarian?).  Nor are we teenagers anymore! 

So what do we have to lose, especially in June with our swimsuits on!  Grab yours and let’s go swimming.  Don’t worry.  Be happy.  Numbers are so screwed up anyway!

Do not deprive me of my age.  I have earned it.
--May Sarton

What's In a Name?

 

Officially, I started out (and appear to be ending up) as Virginia Louise Hart.  However, even though most of my world called me Virginia my first 18 years, and Ginnie thereafter, my family did not.  To them, I have been and always will be Boots.

This is how it happened.  I was born on June 13 in the state of Virginia (no connection).  Think hot.  It's strange to comprehend this now but at 5lb. 8oz. back then, in 1945, I was considered a preemie and was kept at the hospital for the first 3 weeks of my life, to get me up to snuff.  By the time I got back home, it was the beginning of July.  Think hotter.

That was when Mom's nurse friend came to see me, naked but for my diaper.  She promptly said to Mom, "Even though it's blazing hot for the rest of us, you really need to keep booties on her feet."  That sent Mom on a search for booties small enough to fit me, which were nowhere to be found.  Lucky for me, she had always kept the last doll of her childhood and discovered the socks fit me beautifully, even if they climbed my legs up to my hips.

When the nurse friend came back a couple days later, she exclaimed, "Why, she's all boots!" 

Don't you love how those stories stick?  Right!  By the time I headed off to college, I must have felt embarrassed about Boots and a bit too official about Virginia because I made the decision I wanted to be neither.  "My name is Ginnie," I told people.  Not Ginny, mind you, but Ginnie.

Interestingly, by then Mom and Dad had 8 of us (I being #3) and Dad took great pleasure in renaming all of us himself, stringing us out like a ditty on his tongue:  "Funny Sunny [Nelson], Floosie Susie [Susan], Skinny Ginny [Virginia], Fancy Nancy [Nancy], On-the-minute Bennett [Bennett], Slim Jim [James], My Son John [John], and Goofie Ruthie [Ruth].  He loved telling this to anyone who would listen, chuckling all the way through.

Why I didn't choose his Ginny, who knows.  I chose my Ginnie.  Years later Mom told me she wished I had collaborated with her first because I was named Virginia Louise after her best friend...who was nicknamed Jenny Lou.  Just think about that.  Do I look like a Jenny Lou to you (think The South)?

Here's what's weird:  if anyone in my family ever calls me Ginnie, it does NOT sound right.  If anyone outside my family calls me Boots, it sounds even weirder.  That includes Astrid. What is THAT about?

Now, angle off into an alley with me for a bit.  Terms of endearment are similar to nicknames but take on other nuances when it comes to what we're called.  I don't mean Honey and Lover and Dear and such.  I mean like calling daughter Amy Snicklefritz [happy face] or Amykins.  Or calling son Mark Marks-n-Sparks or Palooka.

Then-husband Bill called me his Little Chickadee...while now-wife Astrid calls me her Donder-koppie [thunder head].  Did you get that?  How can one person be a Little Chickadee AND a Donder-koppie in one lifetime?

BTW, that's G'ma Olive holding me later that summer of '45 while it was still hot and Mom had obviously found booties to fit.  As they say, the camera never lies.  And some stories never die.

Another BTW:  the image today at my photo blog is of a "Naked Lady," a nickname for a...do you know what?

Who comes up with these names!

What's In a Name

By the time you get to the bottom of this image (HA!  I'm just following the V&V guidelines), I'm sure you've guessed it's from Venice---a trip in 2007.  (If you want to see it fast and in one swell foop, click here.)

Astrid and I just returned a week ago from our honeymoon to England, where we saw Stoke on Trent, Chester, Chatsworth, Stratford and Liverpool...as well as The Three Stooges, our third Musketeer, and 13 others of our blogging friends.  I was supposed to turn right around and fly back to Atlanta this past Saturday (sans wife) to visit my children, grandson and friends for 10 days.  Because of the volcanic ash, my flight has been re-scheduled for Wednesday...if the skies clear.

Venice.  Astrid.  England.  Stoke on Trent.  Chester.  Chatsworth.  Stratford.  Liverpool.  Three Stooges.  Musketeers.  Atlanta.  Wife.  Children.  Grandson.  Friends.  Bloggers.  Volcanic ash.

What's in a name?!  For those of us at our Shutterchance photoblog (SC) this past week, we've had a chance to put a face with a name.  A face with a label, like Blackdog, Tiff, Mully, and Picturit.  Why are 3 of our SC gents called the Three Stooges...and 3 of us ladies The Three Musketeers?  Does it feel different to call me Virginia instead of Ginnie (though I'm both)?  And what do you immediately think of when you see the name Marcie or Toni or the rest of us V&Vers?

Think of what would happen if Venice and Tanzania suddenly switched names.  We're flying to Tanzania this weekend and can hardly wait to ride a gondola!  Wait.  What's a gondola?  And if you've ever riden in one, what memories does it conjure up for you?

Have you ever experienced meeting someone in real life whom you've known virtually for awhile...but you suddenly have to go back and try to remember what it is you already know about this new person?  The one standing in front of you somehow is different from the other one, the blogger.  It's like he/she should have a new name.

What's in a name, indeed.  A place.  A person.  A memory.  A taste.  A color.  A smell.  A feeling.  A sorrow.  A joy.  Somehow everything comes down to what we name things.  And if we have an image to accompany it, the name takes on new meaning.  The face connects to a name. The meaning connects to a word.  The memory connects to a place.  Sometimes the face is the memory.  Sometimes the place is the meaning.  Or a word is the name.

See what happens with photography!  You get to think up all kinds of stories and ask so many questions...especially if your image doesn't quite turn out the way you expected!   But it does look like Venice, right?  Because the image and name really are connected!  (Did someone say Vision and Verb?)