A few months ago, I wrote about the dozen or so people out there roaming around with the exact same first and last name as mine. I related it to towns that share a name and discussed how places that sound similar can offer completely distinct experiences.
Certainly, you can’t judge something by name alone. Again, to return to my narcissistic tendencies, consider my first name. Maybe it’s just my paranoia, but it seems like every time I turn on some B movie, the unlikeable character (i.e. the jerk bully or ex-boyfriend) is always named Brad. Seriously, it’s uncanny.
I don’t want some B-movie buffoon named after me. I want a town.
I know what you’re thinking. What arrogance! Who does he think he is? But that’s just it. There are a great many American communities named after relative nobodies. In fact, if you’re too well-known, you’re probably out of luck.
As far as I know, there isn’t a single town named after, say, John Quincy Adams or Alexander Graham Bell. But William Epperson Justice? Yep. I’ve been to Justice, West Virginia (it happens to be populated primarily by direct descendants of the infamous Hatfields and McCoys). What did ol’ Epp Justice do? Well, he simply cleared out some land in an Appalachian hollow.
All you really have to do to lend your name to a town is be in the right place at the right time.
The Texas community of Ben Arnold was named after a three-year-old who traveled on the first train to arrive in town. Another community in Houston County (Abe, Texas) was named after an early postmaster. In California, there is town called Lee Vining. It turns out that Lee was a rather unlucky fellow who bled to death in Nevada when he accidentally shot himself in the groin. Really, I’m not making that up.
I mean, if that’s all it takes, my name could grace a bunch of places. How about that curve along Georgia’s Chattahoochee River where I tipped my canoe moments after shoving off. Or how about that section of rural New York where my misplaced wallet eventually fell off the top of my car. Or maybe that stretch of country road in Oregon where I accidentally started driving with the RV’s slideout extended.
Brad, Oregon. I like the sound of it.
There are hundreds of similar examples out there – from Arnold (Minnesota) to Zachary (Louisiana). Okay, sure. It’s not easy to get your name on a town these days – what with the demise of the American frontier and all. But think of the lasting glory. How many hundreds of millions of Americans have existed? And the names of only a tiny percentage grace the most basic element of U.S. civilization. So think about that the next time you snicker through Ralph, Arkansas.
Meanwhile, I continue to be flummoxed by pop culture’s disdain for my name. Now, even my mother-in-law is in on it. Each December, she gives us a themed calendar to hang in our kitchen. A couple of years ago, the theme was The Hobbit. Last year, it was a calendar about the world’s magnificent castles.
This year? Modern art. And here’s what I found in April:
