Michele Bender | What's in a name?
My 2003 Chrysler PT Cruiser, “Bailey,” recently celebrated his 21st birthday. He’s a “woody,” the color of Bailey’s Irish Creme. Now eligible to vote, he may register.
Coincidentally, Oct. 2 commemorates National Name Your Car Day. This observance, created by a St. Louis television reporter in 1990, acknowledged the bond he shared with his 1954 Cadillac, “Elvis.” (It shakes, rattles and rolls.) I couldn’t make this stuff up.
Naming cars is surprisingly commonplace among drivers.
Hollywood promoted the trend when Disney presented “Herbie, the Love Bug”; “K.I.T.T.” chatted with the “Knight Rider”; and “The Dukes of Hazzard” soared with “General Lee.” A buddy of mine named his hillbilly Ford F-150 pickup “Jethro.”
Our trusty steeds play important roles in our daily lives.
My ‘73 Dodge Charger supported me through my pre-actual adulthood phase (‘73 to ‘76). Once totally yellow, it sported a green passenger door and a red hood. The missing front bumper and one lost windshield wiper prompted my neighbors to dub it “The Wonder Car” – wonder what will fall off next?
Speaking of green, I recall “The Hulk.” Guys referred to such vehicles as “beaters.” My winter unit during our late-’70s ice age, the sturdy Chevelle station wagon was big, green and ugly.
Monikers sometimes salute a lasting memory. “Bubbles,” a used 1980 Cadillac Coupe DeVille, once cruised Goucher Street coated with layers of dense pink foam because I ran out of change at the car wash.
“Grunt,” Mom’s ’88 four-cylinder Escort, announced his name as he huffed, puffed and gasped up Millcreek Road from the Suppes showroom.
Some dismiss naming cars as a foolish attempt to personify a machine. I believe autos do exhibit human traits. “Bailey,” since age 19, developed cataracts (uh – car-taracts?). A pal from Parkhill gave us the remaining portion of a headlight cleaning kit, and another friend performed the actual surgery. Bailey was delighted (relighted).
I gifted “Bailey” a new inspection sticker last week. The “car hospital” transfused his scuzzy oil and examined his innards. While we drove home, he burped with satisfaction.
“Living, breathing pets who respond with wags and woofs, and add love and companionship to our lives deserve names – not machines,” one zealot insisted. “What should I name my air conditioner? ‘Frosty,’ what else?”
A fella I dated years ago owned a “dendron” named “Phil.” “Rhoda,” my “dendron,” an outdoor gal, stands guard outside my apartment window.
I could start calling my microwave “Beep” and my electric toothbrush “Buzzy.” Say, there’s the afghan Mom crocheted for me, “Cuddles.” My favorite sunglasses, my “Audreys,” stay in “Bailey’s” glove box. My wheelchair, “Led,” lives in his hatch.
I need to stop now.