Last September, I did an author event as a fundraiser for my local library. Before my hour-long talk, a friendly couple came up to me and introduced themselves. We chatted for a few moments, but they were among several people whom I met that night, and I knew I was going to have to remember them when I autographed a book for them after my talk. So I asked again, “What did you say your names were?”
“It’s easy,” she said, putting her arm around her husband. “We’re Ken and Barbie.” Okay, she spelled it “Barbee,” but still… that was a simple one to remember.
It reminds me of the time – while researching my second travel memoir, Small World – when I actually spent a weekend at a nudist RV campground in Athens, New York. Yes, really. I did. Some of the friendliest people I’ve ever met were there, including an older fellow and his wife. Several times throughout the weekend, I witnessed him meeting new acquaintances (most all of them naked as the day they were born, by the way), and he introduced himself this way:
“Hi, I’m Walter. This is my wife, Barbara. We’re the Barbara Walters.”
I revel in that type of introduction. For one thing, it sure makes it easy to remember a name. Plus, it shows a certain whimsy, a dash of self-deprecation, an attempt to add a wink and a smile to a simple first encounter. Like the fellow I met in Oregon who explained that his last name was Pitt – “like a big ol’ hole in the ground.”
There was a woman I met in Paris, Kentucky. She and her husband owned the Bourbon Drive-in theater (it was in Bourbon County, but that’s a pretty ironic name if you think about it). The drive-in still utilized a straw dispenser from the 1940s, a popcorn machine from 1953 and a projection system so old that it was used equipment when the theater began decades earlier. I loved being able to see behind the scenes of such a vanishing icon of mom-and-pop businesses.
But the thing I remember most is how the woman introduced herself – as “Trish Earlywine – early in the mornin’, wine you drink…” (And this at the Bourbon Drive-In). I’ve included a photo of her and her husband below.
Other times, the names are memorable for other reasons. There was that meteorologist that I caught on the TV while parked at a Malibu campground – Dallas Raines was his name, which (ironically) seems so L.A.
But most appropriate may have been this: I recall rolling into Las Vegas along Interstate 15. Just as we arrived in Sin City, a large billboard crowded the side of the highway, announcing a fellow who was running for county commissioner and asking for peoples’ votes in that boozy town.
His name? Tom Collins.
I’ve been saving this one for today because it’s a rather unique way to wish my wife Amy and my mother a Happy Mother’s Day. You never know what you’re going to find, as you rumble along the nation’s back roads. A couple of years ago – during a stop for a meal at the Pie Town Café in Pie Town, New Mexico – this is what I came across:
Since today happens to be my birthday, I’m going to write a post about Brad Herzog. But it’s not entirely about me, so it’s not completely narcissistic. You see, among the many “story idea” files that I keep in my office at home (as opposed to my summer office on wheels) is a file with this title: “Other Brad Herzogs.”
I’ve been known to Google myself on occasion, just searching for book reviews and newspaper articles and such. I know there’s an element of vanity involved, but well… the life of an author can be a bit of an ego rollercoaster, so sometimes I need all the self-esteem I can get. In the process of such searches I’ve occasionally come across other Brad Herzogs. So I started keeping a file, although I was never quite sure what I would do with the information – until now.
(Disclaimer: This won’t really work if your name is Joe Smith – too many possibilities. Or if your name is Fannie Katzenellenbogen – too few.)
Anyway, here’s what I’ve found: There’s a Brad Herzog who teaches literature at Southern Arkansas University (I’d like to meet him). There’s a former high school swimmer from Broken Arrow, Oklahoma… and a 275-pound wrestler from Beachwood, Ohio… and a business economics graduate of the University of California in Santa Barbara… and a police officer in Marseilles, Illinois… and a bank manager in Orinda, California… and a photographer in Massachusetts… and a skier in Montana… and, apparently, a big fan of dachshunds in Colorado. Historically speaking, there’s even a Brad Herzog who fought in the Battle of the Bulge.
And a few months ago, I received a Facebook friend request from a fellow from Kansas City named… Bradley Herzog. So that was weird.
What does this have to do with my traveler’s journal? Well, what intrigues me about these other people is that we’ve gone through life with a shared name but obviously dramatically different experiences. Frankly, it fascinates me.
The same is true for American places. Pick almost any town name, and you can probably find at least a few other hamlets around the atlas that share it. Occasionally, you can find dozens. Let’s pick one as an experiment. To keep the narcissistic theme going, how about Bradley.
There happens to be a hamlet named Bradley here in Monterey County, California. It's the site of a military base. But there’s also one in West Virginia, and it is home to Appalachian Bible College. And the one in Maine is near the Sunkhaze Meadows National Wildlife Refuge. There’s a Bradley in southern Arkansas, about five miles from the Louisiana border – and fewer than 600 people live there. But there’s also one in eastern Illinois, on the outskirts of Kankakee. More than 12,000 people call it home.
Imagine the varied experiences people have had, all of them living in a place called Bradley. Someday, I’d like to explore them all, just to get some more insight into the diversity of places that are similar in name only. And in a house on wheels that just may be a possibility.
But I wonder if they also prefer to be called Brad.
