Several readers apparently were taken with the mention of Nominative Determinism in my last blog.
Eydie wrote saying she took her pet Misty to a veterinary office run by a Dr. Ostrich and when Eydie was growing up, she had a dentist named Dr. Dent. Al mentioned a nurse navigator at a cancer center who is named Ms. Wellcomer. “I thought that was rather appropriate,” he writes. And Valerie says her husband went to a Dr. Shingles. He wasn’t a dermatologist, but “doesn’t a doctor, ‘Hang out his shingle’?” she asked.
“Hanging out your shingle” is an American colloquialism dating to the early 1800s, I’ve read. When lawyers, and then doctors, started their own practices, they would hang out a “shingle” or signboard to identify their new office.
This got me searching for a photo Richard sent about a month ago while visiting the Hague, the royal capital of the Netherlands. De Gouden Schaar is translated (via Google Translate) as The Golden Scissors. They sure look red to me but the moveable “shingle” definitely catches your attention, especially if it’s time for a haircut, although the shop was closed due to COVID.
If you have any more N.D.s, please pass them on. Until then, enjoy this sunset, Ghent, Belgium-style, again via Richard. Laurie Lynch
My winter joy has been the view of the birdfeeder from my mother’s living room window.
It is a simple feeder—a repurposed baking tray from an auction in Kutztown many, many years ago. The bakery went out of business. I use the tray to hold pots of seedlings so I can water without mess. This year, no seedlings, so it holds seeds for the birds. Behind it is a plastic pastry platter holding water (or ice) depending on the temperature outside. Most of this winter, it was a skating pond.
The feeder has had its share of chickadees, wrens and finches, along with a lovely cardinal couple and a bossy blue jay. But this week, there were new beaks at the feeder—a pair of soft grayish-beige mourning doves.
I didn’t realize, until doing a little research, that mourning doves migrate. I’ve always enjoyed them around the house during the gardening season but didn’t know they left for the winter. Seeing them this week is my 2021 sign that spring is on its way.
The mourning dove (Zenaida macroura) has gone by many names throughout history, but the “mourning” is taken from its gentle, almost sorrowful, cooing. The bird makes the soothing sound by puffing up its throat without opening its bill, according to the bird buffs at Cornell University. It is commonly called the American mourning dove and the turtle dove, and was once known as the Carolina pigeon and the Carolina turtledove.
Zenaida macroura is a seed-eater, 99% of its diet. It is one of the most abundant and widespread birds in North America with an estimated population of 350 million. Surprisingly, at least to me, it is also one of the most frequently hunted of birds—with 20 million shot each year in the United States.
In the Bible, Noah was overjoyed when a dove he released returned with an olive branch in its beak, symbolizing land out there beyond the floodwaters—hope and new beginnings. Native Americans believe the dove symbolizes opportunity for growth and encourages healing.
The story I love the most about mourning doves is how the genus, Zenaida, was named. The genus is named after Zénaïde Laetitia Julie Bonaparte. Zénaïde was married in Brussels to the French ornithologist Charles Lucien Bonaparte (also her cousin). Her husband graced the dove with his wife’s first name when he created the genus. Her last name, and his, was already famous, as their uncle was Napoleon Bonaparte. Zénaïde shares the birthdate of my granddaughter, Lais, (July 8) although Zénaïde was born in 1801, more than two centuries earlier. Nothing like a French-Belgian-American connection at a backyard birdfeeder. Laurie Lynch
Nominative Determinism: I’ve always been interested in words, and in recent years have taken note of how sometimes a person’s name reflects their occupation. I remember when I was in my early 20s, a friend’s father introduced me, Laurie Fedon, as “Laurie Feedin’-the-chickens”. I guess it was his way of remembering how to pronounce my last name. Then, 30 years later, I was actually feeding chickens. Anyway … names and careers are something that click with me. My niece Alicia told me about her daughter’s favorite cookbook, called Cooking Class, written by Deanna Cook, and all I could think was, “Of course.”
Well, nominative determinism came into play recently here in Centre County. I’m in the process of buying a house and needed to hire a mover. My Realtor suggested Packer Up Moving, a company run by a fellow named Adam Packer. Gotta love it! I couldn’t resist. Turns out he’s a nice fellow to talk to and I’ve paid my deposit to get on his moving schedule. Time to pack her up.
My sister Lisa (16 months younger) and I both lived in the Lehigh Valley during our childbearing years. I was there, with my mom, at the midwifery center for her first birth, son Lamar. A year later, I had Marina. Then she had Lia. Then I had Richard. Then she had Lake.
Like many mothers-to-be, we analyzed everything about our pregnancies. Lisa was a firm believer that if you crave a particular food, it is your body telling you that you need a certain vitamin, enzyme or amino acid. With Marina, it was watermelon. I couldn’t eat enough of it. Luckily, she was born in August. For Richard, it was rice pudding that we found at a diner in Nazareth. To this day, I think that’s why he makes a fantastic pot of saffron rice (and I have no confidence with rice, pudding or otherwise).
Nine months after my mother’s death, I’m craving again. After a white-out winter in Happy Valley, it’s fresh asparagus and pineapple I collect in my grocery cart.
Since I started gardening I’ve had two rules: Never buy a supermarket tomato and never buy supermarket asparagus. Of those two, I only eat fresh out of the garden or what I froze from my harvest.
Well, in February I broke the asparagus rule. Chalk it up to a deep yearning for Spring. As for the pineapple, its golden flesh is just brimming with sunshine, something that’s been scarce around here.
I guess you could say I’ve been pregnant with possibilities.
That’s why in February and again this month, I’m saying, in my sweetest voice, “Welcome to University Wine Company.”
I’ve become an occasional weekend hostess for a wine-tasting room a few miles from home.
It all started with one of my mom’s AOPi sorority sisters. Linda sent out an email explaining that Natalie and Jinx, dear friends of hers, and their son Jeff, opened University Wine Company in November. Many moons ago, Linda (a retired kindergarten teacher) had Jeff in class. She swears she only served grape juice at the snack center but now he’s president of a wine company. Go figure.
UWC is a beautiful, timber-beamed, wide open (COVID-correct with masks and social distancing), three-story winery. Jeff makes wine on the first floor while everyone on the second and third floors empties the bottles. The problem was, Jeff’s parents made plans to spend February and March in Florida, and needed people to work behind the counter of the tasting room on weekends.
I was getting tired of weekends spent Zooming and Skyping with no in-person interaction, unless you call jabbering to Sandy 4.0 “interaction”. I do appreciate his kisses and waggles and cuddles but I needed more.
So, I have a colorful, fabric wine glass mask and pour 2-ounce tastes of our Wine Flights, three wine glasses suspended in an individual rack, to all sorts of masked strangers. We’ve had adult birthday parties, nurses de-stressing after a long week, families with children who romp on the third-level while their parents sip and chat, and couples who share a romantic bottle of bubbly Ovation in front of the fireplace. We need to card those of questionable age. After trying to focus on the small print of driver’s licenses and doing mental math, I figured out as long as they were born in the last century, I was good.
I’ve washed hundreds of wine glasses—wash, rinse, sanitize for 30 seconds. Then, air dry and I wipe each glass with a coffee filter to prevent water spots. (So far, I’ve only broken one glass.) We also serve mugs of hot mulled Sangria. Even in winter, the U-Chill wine or hard apple cider slushies that Jeff started the business with 10 years ago are popular.
I get paid in tips (the first I’ve gotten in 45 years), bottles of wine, conversation, and purpose. Last weekend I worked with Lou, married for 65 years to a woman he’s known since he was 14. Lou and I met in the 1980s when I was working the education beat for the CDT and he was a new principal in town. The weekend before I got a lesson on staying calm when customers flood the entrance all at once, thanks to Pam, a pro at hospitality services.
If you are out and about in Centre County, or just traveling online, check out www.universitywineco.com It’s full of possibilities. Laurie Lynch
Fleur-de-Blog 