Changing my Name

I am not a 21^st Century feminist, but I have always sympathized with those women who simply keep their maiden name when they get married. Now I empathize with them.

Changing your name is not as easy as changing your address. Or phone number. Or even your flat tire. It’s a long, drawn out process that is probably going to take me years. I’m starting to wonder if I will even live that long.

For one, these Yankee states above the Mason Dixon line continue the War of Northern Aggression with their silly rules and regulations. I mean, really? How am I supposed to prove the name change I have chosen with a W-2 when I haven’t even received a paycheck in my new name? Let alone received a W-2 when I’ve only been married 3 weeks? And the time they give you for getting a driver’s license doesn’t even allow you enough time to get your passport changed. I mean, it’s not like I’m picking some name out of the air. Every part of my name is legally mine to hold or loose. I’ve got lots of documents to prove every syllable of it. I just want to follow a Southern tradition, drop my middle name and move my maiden name. Yankees think it’s their Confederate counterparts that keep the “South will Rise Again” fires burning, but in truth they’re the ones who won’t stop trying to smother us and our traditions. Meanwhile, my name remains in limbo.

And it’s almost impossible to call a company, tell them you got married, give them the new name and then watch everything get changed within that company. I’ve had to contact Verizon twice. I’ve talked to my bank three or four times…and I need to call them again. For while one part gets changed, my maiden name shows up somewhere else in the paperwork. Good thing I really don’t have that many bills.

Every week, I come across something else I have to change my name on: Amazon, PayPal, Thriftbooks, Ebay, Half.com, iTunes…I’m sure I haven’t even thought of everyone or visited the website since I was married. Slowly, I’m also trying to change my e-mail as well. Some of them were easy enough. iTunes took me nearly an hour. And since some of them then also require password changes, I’m starting to loose what’s what.

Of course, I still sign my name “Melissa Sturm”. Usually I catch myself or scribble in a “Camus” after it. The one that really gets me, though, is when someone on the phone asks my name. It’s automatic: “Melissa Sturm”. Well, now it’s more like “Melissa-Sturm-I-mean-Camus”. Makes me sound like I don’t even know my own name.

But maybe I don’t since everything isn’t exactly correct yet. It’s enough to make me re-think the idea of giving girls middle names. And it makes me feel very sorry for a couple of girls I know who have two middle names. It might be smarter if they just never get married. Or decide to be feminists.

Pittsburgh Potties and Being Nebby

Okay, so, yes, this is not a usual title for a blog written by Melissa Sturm (sorry – Camus…still getting use to that). I’m a bit 19^th century prudish about my language. But there is simply no other way to describe what I am about to write about: a Pittsburgh Potty.

Truth be told, I haven’t actually seen one in real life yet – only pictures. I hear that 75% of homes built in the late 19^th and early 20^th centuries here in Pittsburgh have one. (They probably all did, but the rest have been torn out during updates.) And exactly what is a Pittsburgh Potty? Well, think of a potty just sitting in your basement. Either you will be a bit disturbed by that image or you’ll laugh.

Literally, a Pittsburgh Potty is a toilet that is simply sitting in your basement. It probably has a sink with it as well, but no walls. So, not technically a bathroom. (Unless you want to call your entire basement a bathroom.) It’s perfectly operational, even if it might be quite old. I guess I just wouldn’t offer its use to my guests.

The history is quite simple: during the days when Pittsburgh was a hazy, smoky, dirty city and most of the men worked in steel factories or coal mines, they needed a place to clean up before they actually came into the house after a hard day at work. So, sinks and potties were put in the basement so they could enter through there, clean up and join their family for dinner. That allowed just a little bit less dust and grime to gather in the house itself.

But for those of us who are not from Pittsburgh, the concept is a little bizarre. I had one woman from Texas tell me she didn’t want one in her house…at least until she had three going on four children and the only bathroom was on the second floor. She had one put in. It’s probably great for the kids…without walls and a door, that’s one less thing to open and close when you’ve waited too long to leave your play and have to go!

And, with no or narrow windows in your basement, you don’t have to worry about your neighbors being “nebby”. That is another turn of “Pittsburghese”. It literally means “nosey neighbor”. You know, James Stewart in Rear Window or Elsa Lancaster in Disney’s That Darn Cat! People who spend all their time watching the goings-on up and down their street (which is Pittsburgh means dozens of houses and hundreds of occupants to snoop on). And, actually, it’s one Pittsburgh word I think I could take into my vocabulary. I think it touches my Southern roots of shortening phrases so you can stretch out the vowels longer. Like “y’all”.

Nebby. Yeah, you can draw on that pretty well.

Landscape Architecture

Sometimes I wonder what people think when they look at my resume. Although, apparently, I have decided that an office is where I belong, do they wonder if I simply can’t choose what sort of office? Or with all the states listed, they might think I’m running from the law. If I had my choice, I’d work at a camp again. And I’d move back to New Hampshire. But “My ways are not your ways” the Lord tells the prophet Isaiah. Amen to that.

Believe me, landscape architecture is not where I thought I would land (no pun intended). I’ve always considered it quite fortunate that I didn’t kill one plant I was given as a gift inside a week – it took a whole month! But now I might have killed a plant here in the office this past week… Carol, my boss, is in Las Vegas on vacation so among my tasks has been to water the plants. I thought myself pretty successful until I watered hers this morning and found tiny white insects crawling in the soil – tiny white insects that don’t drown. Being a little apprehensive about tiny white insects since a recent lice scare, I watered the plant and then put it outside. I’m not taking any chances.

Thankfully, the architects don’t ask me for plant advice. They know plants by their Latin names. And they know where to put them, or how to arrange them, or how to fix problems with them. Not to mention everything they know about stone paths, piping, lighting, fences and walls and how to make an open field a breathtaking landscape people will pay to see. I’m just glad my husband keeps the lawn mowed so the neighbors don’t complain.

Thankfully people who can do amazing things on computers and arrange flowerbeds in shapes need other people who have Excel spreadsheet formulas memorized and can type 100 words a minute. Because that’s what I do. It’s not very colorful (unless you’re formulating Excel cells to turn colors when a number is off). And it’s hard to type 100 WPM when I’m not quite use to landscape architect language. (Like the word “punch” referring to a tool that is used for forming, embossing or cutting versus something I drink or hitting my brother.) But I’m good at it. And, funny enough, find satisfaction in the order of it all.

 So, here I am learning about something new. And while I miss what I did just two months ago, it’s good. And you’ve got to admire people who can take God’s created beauty and shape to show His glory even more.

Pictures? Company website: www.mtrla.com

Blueberry Picking

I can’t honestly remember the first time I went blueberry picking. Taking fruits and vegetables from a garden was something I knew all about from a very young age. I never took to it like some of my siblings, but growing things, and weeding, and seasons were never foreign. Not like some people (like my husband) who have grown up in a city (like Pittsburgh).

Not that Ed doesn’t know about growing things, and gardens, and seasons. He does. He just doesn’t have first hand experience. So, I started him small. We went strawberry picking in June. It was the end of the season and we had to hunt hard for the little berries, but he enjoyed it. So, I decided he could graduate up to blueberries.

Actually, I think blueberries are easier to pick than strawberries. No bending over and crawling. And this season has been amazing. We first went the start of July. We ended up with several pints after an hour or so of picking. Trained by my mother, I do like to freeze fruit and have it all year round. So, we met back up at the farm when he got off from work today to try again. I called ahead because it is nearly August and the season should be coming to an end. But, nobody told that to the blueberries. The bushes were covered with berries and not half of them were quite blue enough to pick yet. I don’t know if the season started late because of the cold winter or the cool, wet summer we’ve had is keeping the season going longer; but we picked several more pints today and it didn’t take half as long.

Next month, we’ll graduate to something we can do for months: apple picking. (I may need to purchase a small freezer…)

Ed picking blueberries.

My Dad

Not long after Ed and I were married and settled into our duplex, a robin couple decided the rafters of our porch would be a wonderful spot for their new home. They tried for several days to build a nest in different locations, long grass and other things falling down on our porch. We were pretty sure they wouldn’t manage to build anything on those narrow boards, but one day we came home and had new neighbors! For a while, it worked out fine. But now they have babies on the way and spend a lot more time in their little nest. Because of this, they are making a mess on our porch. Ed’s response: “Those birds have to go.” He sounded just like my dad…

Today my dad turns 60 years old. And he has been my dad for over 34 years. Before that, he was a little boy mentioned in the letters we recently found from my grandmother: “Little Joey is doing well in school,” “Joey is anxious for Christmas to arrive,” or “Joey likes sharing a room with his new baby sister.” Little Joey grew up to be a bigger Joey, playing high school football and dating Pat Ogilvie whom he would marry in 1977 after graduating from the United States Naval Academy the year before. After traveling the world on ships (not boats), he would be given shore duty in Newport, Rhode Island where his first child (me!) was born. After that, we just traveled the United States in cars, vans and trucks. As my mom always said, “You can take the man out of the Navy – but you can’t take the Navy out of the man.”

I have lots of memories of my dad. Where else would I have learned how to pin someone down in a wrestling match and count, shouting at the end, “I’m the winner!” (I mean, my three-year-old self must have pinned Dad’s shoulders down with all my brute strength, right?) Or to shout, “Go Navy! Beat Army!” with passion? Or how to cast a fishing line (off the front porch), blow bubbles with my gum, play checkers (I did break the rule, “Daddy always wins” and beat him once!), jump off the diving board before I was 2, pump up a bike tire, drive a stick-shift (and even though I cried through nearly every lesson, I’ve never owned an automatic), paint walls (with white paint, of course) or pump gas?

My dad was the man who read to me from my Bible story book every night before I went to bed. He led us in family prayers. He encouraged me in memorizing Bible verses before I could write my own name. He helped me win my first Bible. He also taught me the importance of tithing (and good stewardship of everything the Lord gives me). He took us to church every Sunday and Wednesday, plus almost every other day the church was open. And he continues to set an example of hard work, faithfulness in marriage and being a loving dad.

During our marriage counseling (over three-way phone calls since I was in Minnesota), Pastor Ben asked me about my family, especially my parents. I don’t remember exactly what I said. I know I didn’t say anything I wouldn’t normally say to anyone who asked, but when I finished he had only one comment, “Ed, you have a hard act to follow.” And maybe he does. Or maybe my dad just set the path my husband will now walk with me. I just know I’m now doubly blessed with two godly men in my life.

Happy Birthday, Dad!