Tag: birthday

El-Ih-Who?

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Yes, I realize that I have given my son a name that requires a little bit of splainin. And I admit, that even after I’d chosen it, I myself didn’t know how it was spelled, or where exactly it came from… Apart from the basic phonetics and the fact that it was a Yaley name that had lived in the lore of my family as long as I could remember (dad both graduated from and taught at the school – class of ’48) – apart from those two things, I really didn’t know the full implications of the name or its history until much later. To set the record straight – my son’s name is pronounced “EL ih hyoo”.  Try as we have to come up with clever rhymes to help remember his name, there aren’t any good ones. “Tell a few” is one. “Smell a pew” is another (yeeps!). And I realize this pronunciation isn’t very intuitive. I myself might guess it to be “el I hoo” if I didn’t know otherwise. And if you speak another language (as Elihu’s grandpa Riaz and grandma Nelly), then you’ll likely never say it the same way we native English speakers from North America do. The diphthong of the ‘hyoo’ sound isn’t easy for some. So much for a low-maintenance, internationally-friendly name.

I’ve never been too comfortable with name choices that called attention to themselves too strongly, but I think I’ve kinda blown it there. I had hoped to subtly distinguish myself from the fashionable, mildly radical choices that began to appear ten years ago… girls named Poppy, Scarlet or Ruby, or boys with names all ending in some sort of ‘un‘ sound, a phenomenon which makes a first name sound more like a sur name; Cason, Mason, Braden, Bryson… I was skittish around Skylars and Ravens, Tuckers and Morgans… Naming a child is a difficult business; you must figure out how to stay ahead of the curve, how to offer your child something that will serve him both as well on the playground as in the boardroom…  My personal goal was to set my child apart from the flock yet somehow stay within the wider scope of what would be culturally accepted. A tall order. I simply did not have the solution ’til over a week after my son was born.

“Isn’t that illegal?” people would ask in a surprised tone when I told them my newborn son had no name. At first I hesitated. I didn’t think so, but was it? I hadn’t ever heard of an unnamed baby before… But then I remembered once hearing about some native Americans that didn’t name a baby until weeks after the child was born – not until the baby’s emerging personality became evident. And some Indonesian people waited to name their newborns too (plus these folks didn’t allow the baby to even touch the floor for the first few months of its life)… There were clearly many ways to do this. And certainly this was no small matter. The name we gave our son would help to define him to the world. I was not going to allow myself to be rushed in such an important matter.

So why didn’t I have a name ready for him? Because, of course, I was positive that I was having a girl! Fareed and I opted for a surprise, and surprised we were. When Fareed announced it was a boy, I told him that that was impossible; after all, we didn’t have a boy’s name picked out! Elihu was to have been Eva, with the classic, European pronunciation of “Ava”. International, good for traveling and would require very little explanation. We had wanted a name that would work well in either of Fareed’s parent’s cultures. So when Elihu arrived, I was completely stumped. A boy?? So not my plan.

Surprisingly, I had not been worried about finding a name for our son. I just kept whispering to my infant child over and over “You’ll let us know when it’s the right one, I know you will”… and I just simply waited.  It was a warm May morning and I was in bed nursing him when it came to me. “Eli” popped into my head, but I knew that still wasn’t quite it. I remembered mom and dad referencing ‘old Eli’ – the nickname for Elihu Yale, the philanthropist whose gift made possible the first structure of the campus – and I remembered that Eli had been short for something… what was it again? I’d heard it many times but hadn’t paid much attention. But I remember it had sounded elegant, old-world like… I called my mother at once, learned the name from her, and in my heart, it was settled. I had no idea how the name was spelled, but I loved the sound. EL ih hyoo…

It sounded like a Lord, like a Knight, like a gallant young man… And he could be an Eli. Yes. That was an easy name! That might travel as easily as Eva. Yet he would have a fine, proper name to fall back on should he wish. I called Fareed immediately with my idea, but he thought Eli sounded like something from the Beverly Hillbillies. I had to agree with him. Our culture didn’t wholly support Elis yet. No Eli Mannings then. Instead, Eli was still an elderly Jewish widower who lived in the apartment building across the street. But I was willing. After all, our names would share the biblical root of “El”. My father would have a legacy to honor his beloved alma mater, and our son could dress the name up or down as he chose. What was not to like? When Fareed asked me what the full name was and I told him, he liked it instantly. Yes, he really liked it. This was exciting. Did our child really have a name? Only five minutes before he had been my dearest baby boy (this is what I called him that first week of his life), and now here he was. He was Elihu. (I remember whispering to him again that I knew he’d tell us; I hadn’t been worried).

While I made up nursery songs for my son using his proper name, I called him Eli most of the time, and certainly out in public. I was always terribly self-conscious about his name being so different, so strangely spelled, so unusual. People have always been timid about repeating it after I tell them, and frankly I don’t blame them. It is a weird name. I knew a woman whose grandfather was named Elihu and that brought me some relief. Finally, one person to whom I owed no explanation. If only we’d lived a couple hundred years ago it wouldn’t have been such a big deal. But using ‘Eli’ helped. Made it easier, for sure.

When Elihu was around four, shortly after we left Evanston, he told me that his name was not Eli, but Elihu. I was taken aback at how matter-of-factly he’d told me. He really and truly meant it. And honestly, it made me feel better to hear it from him. Somehow it gave me better resolve to use his proper name with less concern for the comfort of others. So he became a full-time Elihu at the age of four. (He’s still Eli to some family and friends, but that’s fine too.)

I don’t mean to belabor the story of my son’s name, but I find these related stories of great wonder…

First, there is the story of settler Elihu Conant. He was a gentleman farmer, originally from a town here in upstate New York, just ten miles up the road from the very house from which I now write. In the mid 1800s this other Elihu Conant moved to Dekalb, Illinois. Dekalb is where my own Elihu and I moved from to come here. Can you believe this? I mean, really? I have googled up and down and never found another Elihu Conant aside from this man. And this other Elihu Conant made the exact same cross-country move that we did, only in reverse, some 150 years later. Is this not amazing?

I located a first-hand account of Elihu Conant’s story and personal misfortune from the Lee County Historical Society files. In the laws of the time a property owner himself was guilty of crimes committed on his lands if no evidence existed to prove otherwise. High drama between tenants resulted in a shooting and death, and Elihu as landowner was subsequently jailed for six years. After researching all I could, locating the spot of his ancient farm and finally visiting it myself (my own Elihu napping unawares in the back seat) my heart was deeply saddened to find nothing left…. nothing at all. On the very spot where once stood his home, and presumably trees, a well, some barns and outbuildings… not a one of these things remained. All that was left was an enormous, undulating field of soy bean plants stretching off into the distance. Ah well. His witness lives on in me, and now in all of you. And anyway, that particular Elihu is certainly long past his misery here…

There is another Elihu of some significance to us who once lived in here in Greenfield, too.  Martha’s fine old country home was built in the early 1800s by settler Elihu Wing. Did you get that? Elihu Wing. It almost seems there was a cosmic mix up and my son got the wrong last name. That I’ve known Elihu Wing’s home all of my life – and that my son has too – it just gives the house an even greater significance in our lives.

Then there’s the Elihu of ancient times, the young man in the book of Job who sits and patiently listens to the old timers complain that while they’ve made all the requisite sacrifices God has asked of them, they’re beginning to doubt such a God exists as He’s not responded in kind. Finally, Elihu, the youngest member present, speaks. He cites miracles of nature, the perfect organization of the seasons, the relationships between all creatures and more… all this, must be, Elihu pours from his heart, irrefutable evidence of an all-knowing, all-loving God. Suffice to say, he’s the kid at the party, and yet he’s the one with the line to the truth. Right on. I like that story.

There have been a handful of distinguished men over the past several hundred years named Elihu. Each a successful, intelligent contributor to his work. One ran for Vice President, one designed Boston’s first municipal electrical grid, one served as peace activist who opposed the slavery of his time, and one was an Italian educated artist whose works hang in the Smithsonian. For a sleeper of a name that almost no one’s ever heard of, it’s got a lot of impressive history behind it which hopefully portends the bright and happy future of one nine year old boy who, like those great men before, also answers to the name of Elihu.

Sunny Birthday

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Is it possible to write a post in less than ten minutes? It will have to be. Thanks all for your kindness in so many emails and FB greetings. I feel so blessed and lucky to have so many well-wishers. I send you my gratitude… It’s hard to understand that I am now embarking on my fiftieth year here. !

My day has been lovely and unstructured. It is a fine, sunny spring day here in Greenfield. Not warm nor cool; today exists in that minutest fraction of temperate perfection so seldom experienced on this planet of extremes. In a word – the weather today is perfect.

After venturing onto some long-abandoned properties and digging up what I could find of flowering spring bulbs, I have returned home covered in dirt. The bus will be here soon, and shortly after Elihu comes home I’ll grab a quick shower before my piano students come over. This evening my parents, brother and son and I will go out to dinner.

This is what a birthday should be. Lucky gal am I.

Frogs’ Legs and Helicopters

Posted in An Ongoing Journal..., Farm Life, Low Vision Life, Mommy Mind, Pics1 Comment

A week has nearly elapsed since Elihu’s ninth birthday and the whole week has been a veritable whirlwind. Right now we two are still straddling two worlds; Elihu attends Waldorf, yet tomorrow he will and I will be performing at his former school’s talent show. I have had my hands full running the production and haven’t had a moment to spare. After a too-late bedtime I sit, sleepy at my computer, wondering how possibly to catch up.

His proper birthday was last Saturday. The birthday angel had left some lovely gifts as he slept, and he awoke to a kitchen table filled with flying contraptions, plus a few bird-related items for good measure. (This month the bills will have to wait, our priorities were elsewhere.) What a lovely day it was, sunny and just warm enough to try a few outdoor flights. With so many new toys to become familiar with, the day was passed with me sleepily watching him from the couch as he learned the intricacies of each one. A couple of our chicks hatched that day too, which added to the delight of the day. The soundtrack of that afternoon was the constant peeping of the baby chicks and the whirring of helicopter blades.

That evening we went to dinner at the local favorite restaurant called “The Wishing Well”. It was where we’d eaten the past year on his birthday, and although mom sponsored our trip there, she did not join us as the place is quite pricey and the tab might have been a bit too severe for all five of us Conants. It was a night I will always remember. As we sat at the low tables in the bar area listening to the piano player, we had drinks and he opened just a few special gifts I’d reserved for the occasion. When the waitress came to take our drink order Elihu told me to ‘go ahead and get something special’ and so I did. I enjoyed my first martini in several years (gin, straight up with olives thank you). He had taken such pride in dressing and looked to me as handsome as ever. I too had dressed up, and the two of us felt very good indeed as we sat in comfy leather chairs beneath the giant head of a taxidermed moose above the fireplace.

Elihu’s first gift was a lovely field guide of the birds of Europe and England – accompanied by some tasty caramels – sent by his sister, Brigitta, who lives outside of London. He entertained me by testing my knowledge of the birds. He covered up the names and smiled ear-to-ear as he watched me struggling for the name. He knew nearly every bird in that book. He laughed when I asked how that was possible. “I’ve been reading about them since I was four!” he laughed. Then I presented my own gifts to him. I watched as he opened the first, amazed that by the shape alone he hadn’t been able to figure out what they were. When he saw his very first, professional pair of brushes, he lit up. I have never heard that tone of his voice before as he thanked me ‘so much’. He was thrilled that he could finally “play like the real jazz drummers”! Immediately he took them out, opened up the metal fans and began playing on the table. “Like this?” he asked, as he practiced a circular movement. There wasn’t much room for me to improve on his intuitive technique; as he played he got the idea very naturally. After a bit I had to ask him to hold back, as it might be distracting to the table next to us. Thankfully he is still young enough (and yes, cute enough) that he’s easily forgiven. Plus he was actually playing along with the pianist and sounded pretty good. Our table in the dining room was still occupied and so the manager began to bring us little complimentary treats to help pass the time. First it was some asparagus and corn soup. Elihu loved it. I was so pleased to see him taste it – often he’ll pass on soup – but as it was his birthday and he was quite earnest about being grown up, he did what was polite. Turned out he dug it. As he did the escargot that followed. In fact, he like them so well I gave him my share. A sampling of crab meat then arrived just before I offered him my second gift; a treasured CD of polkas we’d once enjoyed (but which now only frustratingly skipped over the first few tracks.) He was thrilled! What joy in this mother’s heart to see her son so fully happy. (And that martini made me happy too.)

We were shown to our table, which was in a far corner of the farmhouse-turned restaurant, and there was both a crackling fire and a wall of bookshelves behind us. He pulled out an ancient cloth-bound book on aviation and amused himself with that as we waited for his much-anticipated frogs’ legs. Dinner was not too long in arriving, and soon we were eating and thoroughly enjoying ourselves. I had the soft shell crab, and treasured each bite. The meal was perfect. We bagged what was left of our mashed potatoes for our chickens back home, and after paying the bill as carelessly as if it were something I did every day, we gathered our things and headed out into the night.

The next day was Sunday, the day of his birthday party. To sum up the day, I might simply say it was “off the hook” and I believe you’ll get the idea. It was a day in which his two worlds came together; there were children from his old elementary school there along with new classmates and friends from Waldorf. As usual, we invited and encouraged siblings and parents to come and stay, so before long our tiny house was filled to the rafters with bodies of all sizes. The eggs in the incubator began peeping and cracking open as planned, yet in spite of all the plans I’d had for keeping on top of the presents, they flew open at a rate I could not keep up with. Water guns (pre-loaded) were the party favors, and before the cake was out kids were running in and out of doors and everywhere outside in a great chase. The trampoline was well beyond my ‘rule of 3’ capacity, but the many adults sitting close by didn’t seem to mind. Chickens were being chased, eggs were being collected, and yes, the drums in the basement – plus an electric guitar and my wurlitzer too – were being played. And all at the same time. Our neighbor showed up with his two week old baby, wife and other young daughter; they’d ridden over in their 1925 model T. Soon he was giving party guests rides around the field in his ancient car. The day was spirited, joyful chaos. As soon as I turned my attention to someone, I was shortly pulled in another direction. I finally managed to take one moment at the top of the steps to pause. I stood there by the kitchen door just looking out at it all in wonder. Wow. Such a contrast to the way things started for us here. To see this, you’d never know the darkness in which we’d lived for those first few years. This new life was simply miraculous.

That day we met many new friends. This week Elihu’s discovered that along with friends and their generosity comes the task of letter-writing. Since he is not given homework at Waldorf these days, his homework this week has been to write thank-you notes. Not a small task, but one he sees the value of. He is well aware how blessed he is to have so many people in his life, and he himself feels compelled to let his friends know that he appreciates them. Yes, Elihu is growing up. He’s growing up to be a good young man. I am so proud of him, I am so in love with him. I am a mother with a full heart.

He’s a good kid, and he’s one tired kid, too. Tomorrow his school will hold a May day celebration in the park, and tomorrow night he will be the rim shot guy at the talent show, hitting his snare and crash cymbal after all the corny jokes. And I’ve been told there will be a lot of them. One more long day, one more long night. Then our transition is underway in earnest.

Welcome Spring! Welcome new life! Another year, another year’s adventures await…

161 Years Old

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Today, January sixth, is both my mother’s and my father’s birthday. Together, they are one hundred and sixty-one years old. (They share a birthday, yet are seven years apart.) We have nothing planned to celebrate; I think the recent soiree at our house on Monday will essentially have served that purpose. I do think mom’s planning on the two of them going out to a good supper at one of Saratoga’s finer restaurants – but that will likely be tomorrow, as she puts in a full day of work today. I wish I had something special for them, but alas, I don’t. I am going to give each some comfy new pairs of socks. Really, who doesn’t like new socks? And at their age, it’s highly likely that they haven’t been out to purchase any in quite a while. My mother seems to have quit buying new clothes a few decades ago… And my father’s new acquisitions depend upon my mother taking up the charge. So it’s likely neither’s had new socks in quite a while. Although it might seem I’m ‘under-gifting’ them, I believe my modest gifts will be thoroughly enjoyed.

Today is also Epiphany, or the day when the three wise men finally reached the manger and gave baby Jesus their gifts. I’ve always thought this day made much more sense as a gift-giving holiday than the date we celebrate. It’s hard for us Americans to understand that much of the Christian world is celebrating Christmas today. In our family, partly because of mom and dad’s birthday – brother Andrew’s is nearby New Year’s Eve as well – we didn’t think of the season as being completed until this day. In a purely secular way we simply thought of this as the logical conclusion to the season. I like that too. Coming to a screeching halt with the holiday – either the 26th or January 2nd – feels much too abrupt for me. I like to coast down easy after all of it… and I can take down my tree and decorations with much less frustration and a better sense of closure and satisfaction when I do so upon full completion of the anniversary of the events we purport to celebrate. Somehow, it makes me feel in better step with the rest of the world. My life just breathes better when I wait til this day to remove the festive red and green. Good-bye Christmas, thank you for all the spirit you helped us to express. Good-bye New Year’s Day, thank you for restoring our sense of hope.

Happy birthday, my beloved parents. Thank you for all that you’ve helped me to be. I wouldn’t be right here, right now if it weren’t for you. Thanks for teaching me about art, music, nature and everything in between. I love you both so much.