Linda

 

“What's in a name? That which we call [Linda] by any other name would smell just as sweet.” William Shakespeare - Romeo and Juliet

When I go to sleep, I never count sheep,

I count all the charms about Linda.

And lately it seems, in all of my dreams,

I walk with my arms about Linda.

The song was written in 1942 by Jack Lawrence but was not recorded until 1946. Lawrence wrote the song to herald the arrival of the daughter of Lee Eastman, his friend and attorney. I too arrived, albeit with much less fanfare, a couple of years later. By the time of my unceremonious entry into this world, the song had long inundated the radio airwaves and every mother lacking in imagination had named her daughter Linda as, of course, had mine. 

Consequently, throughout my elementary school years, Lindas were sprinkled in the midst of every classroom. If our current teacher lacked intellectual creativity, we were rechristened Linda1, Linda2, etc.; somewhat robotic, but nonetheless innocuous. If the next class year’s teacher had one scintilla of originality, our middle names commonly were used instead. This typically did bode well for me since Linda was my preference. When it was my turn to stand and recite my middle name, I would respond with Genoveffa - G-e-n-o-v-e-f-f-a. After speech returned to the awe struck teacher, it would be suggested that I remain ‘Linda’, while the others were poetically remanded to Shakespeare’s question: “what’s in a name”. 

Meanwhile, back at the home front, my various aunts and uncles were busily procreating boys. For years, only male cousins spewed forth with great regularity, while I stood, pretty and pink in frilly dresses and shiny shoes. Princess Linda was loved and spoiled by every family member. Life was great, until it all came crashing down one sun filled day when the unthinkable happened. An aunt gave birth to a daughter. Another girl in the family? Wait. What. Even worse, she was named Linda. What? What!!!! Not only had I lost my “only girl” Princess crown, but I had lost it to a knockoff? What? What!! In one black hearted moment, I fully understood Maleficent’s deepest desire and darkest motivation to smite her nemesis. Real life transformed from glorious living color to mundane black and white and I was only five years old. The all consuming humiliation was somewhat mitigated after another family member (and I honestly can’t remember if it was my dad or another uncle), said that the second Linda naming was undoubtedly due to the resounding success of the first Linda. Admittedly, I reflected on that truth and came to accept the reasoning behind it. 

Time passed. In high school, I was now just another Linda —with an “i”, not a “y”. As we all learned from Jersey Boys, “‘y’ is a bullshit letter; it doesn’t know if it’s a vowel or a consonant”. We were traveling through the early 60s. The Beach Boys’ California sound was ever present. Bermuda shorts and sockless loafers were in vogue. Jan and Dean, bless them, stepped up with their pop version of Linda and once again I was on top. L-L-L-L-L-L-L-Linda

But, just like a fading summer tan, the later 60s’ California sunshine moment paled to the London sound of the Beatles. Of course our parents were horrified. The Beatles had long hair, they were irreverent, they wore odd clothes, they were pasty-faced. After listening to my mother sermonizing on the downfall of the world’s morality because of the Beatles’ music, I joyously pondered aloud — why, then, would she name me after the wife of Paul McCartney. Recall that Lee Eastman named his daughter Linda. Linda Eastman grew up and married Paul McCartney. It was a pure ‘circle of life’ moment.

Today, whenever I meet a woman named Linda, I know that she is around my age, give or take a year or two on either side of my driver’s license. If the lady is much younger, then I’ll learn that she’s named after her mother or, horrors, her grandmother. The name alone is a great conversation starter. On occasion, I will remark that I was named after a song. As the silent drum roll goes off in my head, I wait for the inevitable question: “what was the name of the song?” Followed by the inevitable eye roll. 

So, to unimaginative mothers everywhere, we Lindas say thank you for not naming us Blanche, Agnes, Bertha or Philumina . Heck, even Frank Sinatra extolled Linda’s virtues. How could that be wrong.

But miracles still happen

And when my lucky star begins to shine

With one lucky break I'll make Linda mine.