On Naming
My sister, Peggy, named me. My parents decided that, as my birth occurred one day before her thirteenth birthday, they’d consider my sister’s new teenage input in my naming. Peggy pulled my name from a few catchy tunes, all of which included Sally as the subject: “Mustang Sally,” “Ride Sally Ride,” and my personal favorite, “Long Tall Sally.” Go ahead—picture me and think of this title. Okay. Now, stop laughing.
Do any Sally songs pop into your mind? My songwriter friend, Stormy (who coined his name, Thunderstorm Hunter, as an adult), collected Sally songs. He gifted me a fabulous playlist that includes a select few of the over 250 songs in his collection.
I’m glad to be one of the “Sally Club.” When we meet each other, we nod, acknowledging the shared name, and then we wink, knowing the reality that our name is a rarity outside of songdom.
But, I want to tell you about a Naming Event that happened recently, out of the blue, as I sat outside, content in the quiet Valley of Fire State Park, Nevada, where Bill and I were camping earlier this October. Immersed in reading my novel and writing in my journal, I heard a voice,
“Don’t you love the combination of red and silver?”
Turning my head, I saw a smiling woman, around my age, with short salt-and-peppered hair, the same color as mine. She’d paused at our site as she walked along the road beside the gorgeous red cliffs bordering the campground
“Oh, hi,” I said, “Yes, a fantastic color scheme. I noticed you earlier at your site with your silver Airstream and red truck, like ours.”
My friendly neighbor moseyed over to sit and chat for a few minutes, as campers do. There is something natural and easy about conversing with a person at campgrounds, knowing you share only a singular moment in time in a lovely, natural setting, never to see one another again. We discussed the beauty around us, the pulsing energy of the sheer red cliffs, and the astounding mystery of petroglyphs created around two thousand years ago and still visible on the cliff sides today. Before heading on her way, the camper mentioned that she’d named her Airstream “Sally.”
“What, really?” I locked eyes with her. “That’s my name.”
“Oh?” she said. “We think it’s the perfect name. So cheerful.”
“Huh,” said I, feeling somehow proud.
“I love that your airstream is called Sally. I’m curious, what is your name?”
“I’m Charlotte.” My fellow airstream dweller replied.
And with that word, “Charlotte,” she revealed the answer to a question that had eluded me since we purchased our small trailer two years ago. Frequently, friends asked what we’d named our Airstream. I had nothing. No name came to mind. Nada. Blank.
“No name, “ I’d tell my friends, “just The Airstream.”
Now, in a snap, I knew her name. “Charlotte.”
My very favorite character, the graceful spider-writer, Charlotte, from my very favorite story, Charlotte’s Web.
Surely, our Airstream had been born with the name Charlotte. I just needed a passerby with an Airstream trailer named “Sally” to reveal the name “Charlotte” to me. The next morning, as I sipped my coffee at our table, I noticed “Sally” departing the campgrounds. I hadn’t had the chance to tell my new friend, Charlotte, that she had shown me our Airstream’s name.
Instead, I’ll tell you, my cherished readers, the story of Chatlotte-the-Airstream’s naming.
