erithacus' saga: a family gathering and more about names
A family party was being held on Mary’s five square yard stretch of lawn to celebrate the diamond wedding anniversary of her Great Uncle Stan and Great Aunt Iris. The spring afternoon was unusually warm and the grass shone fluorescently after several days of rain.
In times long gone, the corporation for which Great Uncle Stan worked had refused to give him time off to wed his beloved Iris. They had therefore opted to marry on Christmas Day. It was strange that the anniversary party should be held in April. Perhaps it had something to do with the introduction of the Gregorian calendar.
Family members had arrived from different parts of the country to eat butterfly buns and potted meat sandwiches and drink “pop” and endless cups of tea.
I felt awkward. I didn’t know anyone except Mary and would have found it difficult to explain what I was doing there, had anyone asked me (which they didn’t).
A ruddy-faced man wearing glasses that changed colour in accordance with ultraviolet ray intensity approached me.
“Now then,“ he said, “I haven’t seen you since you were a baby. “My, you have grown,” he asserted.
He’s never seen me before, I thought. Even if he had seen me when I was a baby, growth was something to be expected.
“I’m Uncle Alan” he continued, as if Uncle were some kind of title like Lord or Professor.
“You’re not my uncle,“ I corrected him.
He didn’t take any notice.
“I’m in flues,” he said chortling to himself and mutely repressing his mirth, which was accompanied by a loud hissing noise as he inhaled and exhaled quickly through his nose. “What do you do?”
“I’m in boxes” I answered, not liking having to define myself by my job. My work was more of an accident and circumstances than the result of planned career choices.
Many cultures manifest the importance of work in family names. Smith, Fletcher and Thatcher were first used in early medieval times. Surnames were adopted at certain points in history and families and descendants have kept on using them even though the trades of their forebears have long since been abandoned. If work-related surnames changed with each generation I could now have a haughty-sounding double- or multi-barrelled surname such as erithacus Cardboard Man, erithacus Warehouse Operator or even erithacus Mail-order Washing Machine Electrical Spare Parts Supplier and Mary’s would be Office Receptionist. Perhaps they weren’t so snappy. The erithacus and Mary part of the name would be superfluous anyway.
“What’s your job?” continued Uncle Alan Flues, unperturbed by my reverie.
“I’m a warehouse operator, “ I replied.
“Mmmm, interesting” he said, perusing as he stroked his imaginary beard.
“erithacus!” called a voice. It was Mary. I excused myself, explaining that some emergency butterfly bun carrying was required.
“Don’t let Uncle Alan trap you,” said Mary in a low voice. “He’ll have you cornered for hours and bore you to death with flues or insurance.”
Perhaps I ought to be grateful to her for having saved me from a sticky web of tedium but then again I could have always told him I wasn’t interested.
In times long gone, the corporation for which Great Uncle Stan worked had refused to give him time off to wed his beloved Iris. They had therefore opted to marry on Christmas Day. It was strange that the anniversary party should be held in April. Perhaps it had something to do with the introduction of the Gregorian calendar.
Family members had arrived from different parts of the country to eat butterfly buns and potted meat sandwiches and drink “pop” and endless cups of tea.
I felt awkward. I didn’t know anyone except Mary and would have found it difficult to explain what I was doing there, had anyone asked me (which they didn’t).
A ruddy-faced man wearing glasses that changed colour in accordance with ultraviolet ray intensity approached me.
“Now then,“ he said, “I haven’t seen you since you were a baby. “My, you have grown,” he asserted.
He’s never seen me before, I thought. Even if he had seen me when I was a baby, growth was something to be expected.
“I’m Uncle Alan” he continued, as if Uncle were some kind of title like Lord or Professor.
“You’re not my uncle,“ I corrected him.
He didn’t take any notice.
“I’m in flues,” he said chortling to himself and mutely repressing his mirth, which was accompanied by a loud hissing noise as he inhaled and exhaled quickly through his nose. “What do you do?”
“I’m in boxes” I answered, not liking having to define myself by my job. My work was more of an accident and circumstances than the result of planned career choices.
Many cultures manifest the importance of work in family names. Smith, Fletcher and Thatcher were first used in early medieval times. Surnames were adopted at certain points in history and families and descendants have kept on using them even though the trades of their forebears have long since been abandoned. If work-related surnames changed with each generation I could now have a haughty-sounding double- or multi-barrelled surname such as erithacus Cardboard Man, erithacus Warehouse Operator or even erithacus Mail-order Washing Machine Electrical Spare Parts Supplier and Mary’s would be Office Receptionist. Perhaps they weren’t so snappy. The erithacus and Mary part of the name would be superfluous anyway.
“What’s your job?” continued Uncle Alan Flues, unperturbed by my reverie.
“I’m a warehouse operator, “ I replied.
“Mmmm, interesting” he said, perusing as he stroked his imaginary beard.
“erithacus!” called a voice. It was Mary. I excused myself, explaining that some emergency butterfly bun carrying was required.
“Don’t let Uncle Alan trap you,” said Mary in a low voice. “He’ll have you cornered for hours and bore you to death with flues or insurance.”
Perhaps I ought to be grateful to her for having saved me from a sticky web of tedium but then again I could have always told him I wasn’t interested.
posted by Bob @ 11:19 am
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