Two N Glenn

 When we lived in Hoonah, we knew just about everybody in town. Most folks came to the store where I worked at least once a week. Some folks came several times a week and some came in every day. I guess they wanted to plan dinner based on what we had on the shelves at the time. In any event, in a small town of 850 people, it was hard not to know everyone.

My good friends across the street informed me the other night that the neighbor who we had known as Dwight, was in reality Glenn, with two n's. I was only repeating what Jan had told me a few years ago. She had gone and introduced herself to Dwight/Glenn and his wife Maxine. They are about our age, elderly, apparently childless, and pretty much keep to themselves, which is kind of hard to do when you live in a cul-de-sac of 9 homes. How in the world she managed to mangle his name is anyone's guess. Dwight doesn't sound anything like Glenn with two N's. His wife was talking to my friends and mentioned that it was spelled with two N's. I don' t know why she mentioned that, unless she was expecting someone to write him a check or something. Oh well.

Names are pretty important; you don't want to be addressing someone with the wrong one. I have twin boys and understandably people get them confused. When all the kids were living at home, I would get upset with one of them and end up running through the whole list before I got to the offending child. It was frustrating.

When I was young I used to get mail addressed to Tom Box, Tom Batts, Tom Butts, Tom Bartz, Tom Boats and a few others I've long since forgotten. As long as the right name is on my driver's license and bank statements, I don't care all that much.

Years ago we had a fellow show up at the farm who claimed his name was Roland Megow. He said he'd read about the farm in an article in Alaska magazine and wanted to come visit. I asked him about his name because it was unusual. He mentioned it was German. When I inquired about his vocation, he said he was a sandwich salesman for infra red sandwiches. Turned out he was hiding from some unsavory characters after he had cheated them in Las Vegas or Reno. His real name was David someone or other, a far cry from Roland.

Speaking of the farm, there was a fellow named Russ who lived on one of the farms farther north in Alaska, on the Delta farm. He was an accountant and used to travel to all of the farms before April 15 to help those folks who might have had an income, with their taxes. He was also very vigilant at the Delta farm, meeting the people who worked off the farm when they came home every pay day, to make sure they paid their 50% that the farm demanded. My friend, Matt, mentioned that his dad nicknamed the guy, I R Russ. It stuck with him, rightfully so, since he was similar to the treasury department in wanting his pound of flesh.

I would like to mention here that names aren't limited to people or animals. Different dishes on a menu can take on a completely different meaning if the name is mis-spelled. I recall traveling on the Alaska state ferry, Aurora some years ago. There was a cafeteria on board that offered cold sandwiches and snacks as well as two or three entrees every day. I was in line waiting to see what was on the menu, when one of the workers came out and started writing on a clear lucite board in bright pink marker. There was clam chowder. Hmmm, not a big fan. I love digging them but hate to eat them. They also offered grilled rock fish. I don't like to eat fish unless I caught it and cooked it myself. Last but not least was Beef Strokenoff. Wait, what?! Strokenoff? It sounded like something that would be on a menu in a Nevada brothel. Perhaps it was the nickname of a male porn star. I was wondering if the crew hand who was printing up the menu was Russian or Ukrainian and was spelling it the way they spoke it. In any event, I agreed with one of my fellow passengers who said, "I think I'll have the cheeseburger."