Names Continued

First of all, let me say thank you to everyone who sent me e-mails about THEIR relatives’ peculiar, odd, or long names! Fascinating stuff! I did notice that the majority of the notorious nomenclature seemed to arise from the South…proving, of course, that Southerners are more creative!

So, to continue the Name Saga, I submit for your perusal my children: Charles Franklin Coffin IV, Donald Tristram Coffin, Kathleen Dionys Coffin, and Seth Robert Coffin, respectively. The eldest is named for his father, but we call him Chip. Tristram’s first name comes from my father, but his middle name, and the name he goes by, comes from the first Coffin to come to America. That was back in 1642. The original Tristram apparently supported the wrong side in the English Civil War, though we’re not entirely sure which side that was. (Clearly, more research is necessary—and a field trip!)

But anyway, it became prudent to pull up stakes and get out of Dodge…or Brixton, as the case may be. He settled first in the town of New Bedford, Massachusetts, where his wife, Dionys, opened her own tavern and made excellent beer.

Dionys, apparently, was quite a character—unusually liberated for the times. She charged seven pence a tankard, whereas most of the tavernkeepers charged five, and still she got the lion’s share of the business in town. Her aggrieved competitors had her brought up on charges for “price gouging.” Yes! They had it even back then! Dionys, however, brought samples into court and PROVED her beer was better than everyone else’s, and so deserved the higher price. And she won! (There are two alternate spellings of “Dionis/Dionys,” just as there are two alternate spellings of “Coffin/Coffyn.” My daughter’s birth certificate says “Dionis,” even though I distinctly remember spelling it “Dionys” for the nurse. Kathleen prefers “Dionys,” so that settles it.)

My youngest son, Seth, is named for Seth Coffin, (not in our direct line, but still a relative) who was a whaling captain in the 1800’s. He also has quite a story. Yes, it probably isn’t true—but as the great writer Robert Heinlein once said, “since when do we let truth stand in the way of a good anecdote?” Seems “Uncle Seth” was out at sea, in pursuit of cetaceans, and one of the ungrateful beasts objected. Strenuously. And proceeded to crush the captain’s leg. Gangrene set in, and Seth had a big problem. Not only was there no doctor on board, and no one on the ship had ever performed an amputation, but Seth himself was the only person present who had even seen an amputation. The legend goes that he called his first mate in and told him, “My leg must come off. You are going to do it. I will tell you how.” The first mate reportedly said, “hell, no,” and Captain Seth held a flensing knife to his throat, and said, “hell, YES.” (Icky historical fact: A flensing knife is one of those big blades which was used to strip the blubber off the whales.) Thus, Uncle Seth directed the amputation of his own leg, without anesthesia. It is said that afterward both men fainted. But the operation must have been a success, because Seth lived well into his 80’s.

The moral of this story is: Don’t mess with those Coffins, they’re a tough crowd.

Observations on the Vacuum Cleaner

Someone once said that nature abhors a vacuum.

Well, I have something in common with nature. I can't stand my vacuum, either. That is, I can't stand my vacuum cleaner. This may have something to do with the fact that it's male.

It's not that I'm anti-male, really. But what with my husband and three sons, not to mention my (male) German shepherd, my daughter and I are are already outnumbered. The last thing we need is a male vacuum cleaner, too.

You may not have realized that household appliances have genders, but they do. This particularly applies to vacuum cleaners.

Male vacuum cleaners are sleek and shiny, with lots of chrome. They usually have wheels on the bottom, but these are purely for decoration. The typical male vacuum cleaner is top heavy and falls over when being dragged from room to room or around corners. This is because men are stronger than women, and really don't care whether the vacuum cleaner rolls smoothly or has to be lugged from room to room on its side. After all, they've used to clubbing a moose and dragging it back to the cave, right? After that, a mere 50 pound vacuum cleaner is a piece of cake.

Yes, male vacuum cleaners are heavier, and supposedly sturdier than the female variety. They are sold door-to-door, and never in a discount store. They usually have a sticker price similar to a compact car, and like a car, they have endless options which can be added on. That's because men love gadgets. Male vacuum cleaner salesmen are usually male themselves, and they insist on "the man of the house" being present at the demonstration. Supposedly; this is because the man makes the major buying decisions; but in reality, it's because the salesman knows he can impress they guy with the rug shampoo/floor sander/Cuisinart option.

And then there's the lifetime moneyback guarantee. This sucks men in like a black hole. To a man, a lifetime guarantee says security. It says, I love you enough to buy you the best.

To a woman, where a male vacuum cleaner is concerned, that lifetime guarantee says: LIFE SENTENCE WITHOUT PAROLE.

I haven't said much about the female of the species. Well, it is usually lightweight, efficient, quiet, and can be purchased at any discount store for under $300.00. Invariably, the man will think it looks "cheap" and wonder aloud if it is powerful enough to do the job.

"Geez, it doesn't even have a paint removing attachment!"

But set a male vacuum cleaner in front of the man you love, and he'll get a gleam in his eye similar to the one he gets when he sees a new Corvette. ("Look, honey, real Corinthian leather seats!")

So ladies, if necessary, give in gracefully. Let your husband purchase a male vacuum cleaner and drag it out to his workshop to gather dust (literally). Then bop over to Wal-Mart and get yourself a female. Who knows? Maybe you can breed them, and have little dust busters running all over the house cleaning up your toddler's cookie crumbs.

Well, I can dream, can't I?