Last week, I went for a ride in the Butter Mobile. Yes, my buddy Rufus calls his big yellow station wagon with wood paneling along the side the Butter Mobile. I’ve never been able to figure out the age of the Butter Mobile. It was probably born in the mid eighties right before minivans made those big cruising station wagons obsolete,
The Butter Mobile runs pretty well although Rufus (in true guy fashion) doesn’t mind the various wires hanging down from the dash board. I personally would have taped them up to make them more aesthetically pleasing, but then again, I am a girl. I don’t like seeing all the moving parts working.
I am impressed with Rufus’s ability to parallel park the Butter. He can swing that baby in between two beemers with plenty of room to spare. However, I was uncertain about why he felt the need to name his car after dairy. How about Mellow Yellow? Or the Yellow Brick Roadster?
Rufus shrugged at my question. Butter just seemed to fit.
As I thought about Rufus naming his car, I wondered why I didn’t give a colorful name to my own car. I just call it what it is, The Tracker. I like macho outdoorsyness to it. I can go for adventures with The Tracker.
However, the naming of inanimate objects didn’t stop there. Recently, my Aunt said a very simple sentence: Jane is in the car.
At first, I was surprised. What was Jane doing sitting in the car? Shouldn’t she come inside? Then, I realized that Jane is the name for the GPS unit. Wherever you need to go, Jane will get you there. That Jane is pretty efficient.
Why do non-living things have to be named? Does it give them personality? Do we find comfort in naming? What if we started personalizing smaller things like pens? Yep, tomorrow, I’m going to be writing with George and Sara. I’m worried about George. I think he’s almost out of ink.