by Jane Brunton

Created on: May 23, 2008

What's in a name? Well, it conjures up certain images, sometimes based on prejudice, prior experience or opportunity for humor. I always longed for an onomatopoeic name like Melanie or Willa; perhaps an exotic one like Indigo or Cheyenne. Instead I got saddled with the cacophonous "Jane". Childhood taunts of Plain Jane, or Jane the Pain still ring in my ears. As I advanced in years there were far too many wits (albeit half-wits) who guffawed loudly "Hey Jane! Where's Tarzan?"

I complained to my mother who said defensively that she'd named me after my maternal great grandmother. "It's a good old-fashioned, no-nonsense name. There is nothing wrong with it. When you get older you can have it changed."

When I got older, friends started calling me Janie. I never asked them to or told them that was my name but almost everyone I knew called me that. I could live with that as it was a softer, cuter name somehow. I felt those straight laces loosen a little.

I am thankful that I wasn't born in the era of the Rubys and Berthas and Pearls, or of the Crystals and Charmaines. (My apologies and condolences to any of you named one of the above). In reality I don't think my practical Mother would have considered those fad names that dated you in spite of the number of face lifts you might have had.

Another beef I have with dear old mom is giving me a first name of Elizabeth but calling me by my second name Jane. This has caused all kinds of confusion after filling out forms. I sit in waiting rooms for hours while and they keep calling someone named Elizabeth. I have tried to circumvent this by putting my second name first on the form but some organizations insist that the name on the form must match your birth certificate.

Then there was the question of my last name. Both sides of my family had the strangest surnames: Ricketts, Letch, Connor and Huff to name a few. Why they sounded like a list of disease, perversion, larceny and indignation! I longed to be named after a tree or a color; Ash or Pine, White or Black.

My mother, a normally tolerant woman, had a thing about names too. Maybe it is an inherited trait. Her fixation seemed to be on last names. I dreaded telling her I had a new friend as she always asked their last name and most times got that disapproving look on her face.

In my youth our town was small both in population and in mind. It was widely accepted that there were "good" and "bad" last names. I invariably chose a friend who had an iffy name. Mother, trying to be

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