"A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”
Shakespeare’s famous line from Romeo and Juliet suggests that a name is purely a title without greater meaning. It implies that the names of things have no bearing on the nature of things. On this, Shakespeare and I disagree.
I believe that names are embodied with personality, they plump like an overstuffed suitcase that carries our qualities, our essence and colors. They hold spiritual residues, like the familiar fragrance left behind after a loved one has walked through the room. Names become sacred, revered relics of people and places. And certain names belong to a single bearer, as retired numbers on hockey jerseys, never to be worn by another.
Let us consider the name, Cecil. A quick google search reveals that Cecil is the anglicized version of a Welsh surname. In Latin, it means blind. For me, however, these things are irrelevant. In my life the name Cecil, my grandfather’s name, symbolizes strength and stability. It represents twinkling blue eyes and high pitched humming. It is the twirled comb-over and the sound of a hammer on a Saturday morning. It is the spoken, “show, show” and “my pretty”. Cecil is gruff stoicism and the occasional growl. It’s avid reading but reluctant storytelling. Awkward kitchen assistance and sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, then plastic, then paper towel. It’s the taste of peppermint knobs and chocolate mint patties. The quest for the goldilocks of saltiness at meal time. It’s Wheel of Fortune and Hymn Sing and posing in a sou’wester or attempts at the hula hoop.
The name Cecil is imbued with a personality.
This is a name to hand down. In tribute and blessing. A recognition of loyalty and love. Hard work. Dedication. The acknowledgment of a wedding band worn for life on hands gone to crepiness and warfarin induced purpling.
For me, as childbirth time has long elapsed, the time of passing my grandfather's name to a child is impossible. However, in my family, our pets become cherished loved ones, sharing our home and our hearts. So it comes to pass, that as my beloved poppy was Cecil James; so too does my cherished basset hound carry that exact name.
I know there are some who consider this is a terrible and mocking act – to name a DOG for my grandfather. (Tut, tut. Outrageous!) I assure you that it is not. For me, it is a deeply personal and symbolic gift to my grandfather’s memory. Consider this: With death we lose not only a physical presence, we also lose the precious act of hearing and declaring an existence, that somebody WAS, they were here, a ritual in our everyday. When we cease to hear our loved ones’ names, they become as mist, ephemeral and intangible.
Today, after many years of silence, I listen to my grandfather’s name repeated daily, with love and affection. To hear “Cecil” in my head and on my tongue…well, for me, it is a return to a precious time. What better tribute?
An old soul, with his drooping, sad eyes and deep wrinkles, Cecil’s physical stature pairs well with older names from past generations. Thus, the preponderance of Henrys, Phoebes and Georges in the basset vernacular. Despite this, our Cecil’s title did not exactly roll from our tongues. It took practice. And not just for husband and I. Dear friends also stumbled. Our little guy has been called Walter, Chester, Stephen and once, hilariously, Russell. (Russell?? Seriously…)
Yet, from the first, our long-eared boy has responded to Cecil. His wise eyes met mine the very first time his name was spoken, and have done so each time since.
True to his namesake, Cecil James is a unique character. He possesses a distinctive aplomb, suggesting that he may know more than I do. I am fine with that. I am here to learn and to bear witness wherever I can.
If names hold vestiges of those who have gone, Cecil has large shoes to symbolically fill. Infused as it is with my memory and expectation, his name is a heavy weight to carry. Yet, Cecil does so happily. Moreover, I am certain that somewhere, somehow, the original Cecil, while looking on with a scoff and a head shake and outward disdain for my silliness, harbours a certain pride. I knew my Pop and he knew me. Had we been blessed with another meal at my grandparents’ supper table, my puppy would have, most surely, received an abundance of smuggled treats.