What's in a name?

I’ve always been interested in etymology (the study and meaning of names) probably a result of the childhood trauma I suffered at not being able to find pens or keyrings adorned with my name and name description. Everybody has had one at one point and at the time it felt like all my primary school contemporaries wafted around with their branded items on show.

I used to glare at the Rachel's and Rebecca's of this world and be consumed with jealously at their ability to buy such treasure. It's not that Ruth is a particularly rare name, I think it’s present enough that everybody knows of a Ruth by some means, it just doesn’t saturate our lives as much as some of the more popular names do, and for that reason isn't worthy of a space-limited spot on a keyring rack. 

I will always remember the epiphany I experienced on realising that ‘Ruth’ is not typically associated with the young ‘uns when in an episode of Friends, Ross suggests to Rachel they call their unborn daughter Ruth, to which Rachel replies, “Oh, I’m sorry, are we having an 89-year-old?”.

Such discrimination against my old-lady name haunted me for years until I finally came across my very own special magnet with my name on it. Though the magnet is long lost, I still remember what it read:

Ruth

From the Hebrew meaning friend.

She is strong, dedicated, hard working and well respected; she will fight for those she loves. A born leader.

No, I haven’t made that up to make myself sound good, here is further proof! My babe of a friend, Chesca sent me this little present in the post a couple of months ago and to say that I was excited is an understatement. A keyring with my name on it!

Think I’ve found my new CV opening line...



All this talk of leadership is making me want to grab my pipe and play it through the streets of Hamelin. Follow me ratties! 

Further research confirmed that ultimately Ruth means ‘friend’ (big smiles J) and then I found this lovely complimentary description which satisfactorily stroked my ego:

People with this name tend to be a powerful force to all whose lives they touch. They are capable, charismatic leaders who often undertake large endeavours with great success. They value truth, justice, and discipline, and may be quick-tempered with those who do not. If they fail to develop their potential, they may become impractical and rigid.

I’m willing to overlook the fact that this makes me sound like I could be a leader of a sect or cult. 

I then came across another description which claimed Ruth to be an American name and that it instead means: Drunk, satisfied. Ha!

I gotta say though, the majority of the descriptions offered are spot on. I do value truth and justice a lot. I wouldn’t describe myself as a leader (not yet, but who knows, maybe in the future) but I am hard working and love making new friends. 

This made me wonder if I am a product of my name, whether my personality was destined upon my naming, or whether on reading that keyring description which I so longed for years ago, I subconsciously took on the prophetic traits. Or maybe it’s just a coincidence.

Either way, it got me thinking, would I be a different person if I’d been given a different name? This led me on a manhunt to find the scraps of yellow paper my mother had written on 22 years ago with her list of potential baby names for the parasite growing within.  

Here for your perusal is a legitimate selection of some of the names on her list, and their name meanings:

Beatrice: (meaning: voyager through life, blessed)

Bernadette: (meaning: bear-like bravery, or simply, bear.  She obviously wanted me to become a nun. Sister Bernadette has quite the ring to it)

Bertha: (meaning: bright)

Carolina: (pronounced: karo-lee-nah. Meaning: woman. Well, that’s accurate at least)

Esperanza: (meaning: ‘hope’)

Esther: (meaning: star. Love this name!)

Also included in the list was my mother’s own name! I would find this hilariously self-centred if it wasn’t for the fact that my lack of affinity for many girls names means that dare I have more than two daughters I may have to resort to having a mini Ruth myself.

To end, my personal favourite- Olga. It has such a ring to it with my surname but sadly not with my physical appearance. I always think of Olga’s as big, strong, and tall women-completely my opposite. Meaning: holy, blessed.

On reading the list (and not quite sure what to make of it) I went to ask both my lifegivers how close I was to being named something other than Ruth. The mothership and fathertron both replied that it had been a very easy decision, Ruthie all the way, no contest.

It was quite lucky that they both liked Ruth as my father didn’t get much say in my naming.  I get the impression that if he had sole responsibility I would’ve ended up being called something like Kevin.

Go check out your name! See what you think; is it accurate with your personality? You might learn something about yourself. I encourage it! I implore you! I beseech you! Then come and tell me what it means.

Yours as ever,

Olga.

What's in a name?

That which we call a rose.

By any other name would smell as sweet. 

The Bird Murderer

A couple of weeks ago, I went out in the garden to say good morning to my faithful sidekick, Mr. Pickles, the lop-eared rabbit, when I came across a crime scene.

Feathers everywhere.

No corpse, no fingerprints, no weapons, no sign of a break-in, the assailant had been clever to leave no incriminating evidence. Just…feathers.

The victim appeared to be a small bird judging by the length of its feathers. The murder scene was directly in front of Mr. Pickles’ hutch, the perfect witness, except he wasn’t because a) he’s a rabbit and b) he can’t talk, see [a].

Then, last week, the plot thickened. Another murder. We have a serial killer on our hands.  This time, the feathers were strewn all over the garden, many more than the time before, big, long, grey feathers that looked like they belonged to a collard dove.

This was a more brutal murder, this time he had left the body behind. Or parts of it, it’s hard to tell. Flies were gathering by the time I plucked (wink, wink) up the courage to investigate the scene.

I could only hope it wasn’t one of our beloved collard doves who visit our garden every day and sit on the same spot on the fence, watching the world pass by. And probably look for scrummy worms and berries too.  We’ve had these two collard doves visit our garden for donkeys years (realistically, it’s probably been several generations visit us but I like to think it’s the same elderly dove pair year-on-year).

The murder scene was directly beneath their spot on the fence. 

Keeping watch from the house, I spotted one of the doves later in the day sitting on the fence. Just the one. I began to get a bit concerned as to where the other one was…there is always two of them, but not that day. I fear the worst.

The days pass and the evidence decomposes into the ground, completing the life cycle. Then, today I see the collard doves! Two of them on the fence! They are sitting next to each other but one is much smaller than the other. I think it’s a baby, coming to learn the ways of the fence, or coming to mourn a parent.