What's In A Name?

Girls named Kate/Cate seem to be getting quite a bit of press lately. Posing naked (again) Kate, Marrying for love Kate, Tackling climate change so-she-can-look-her-children-in-the-face Cate. From the sublime to the ridiculous. I'll leave it for you to decide which is which.


The year I was born, Catherine was the most popular name for baby girls, and so naturally, my parents made it my second name. My lovely sisters, were given the number one most popular name the year they were born. As their first name. I went to school with a lot of Catherines, Kathryns, Cathies, Kaths, Katies. I would have loved to be called Cate. So why wasn't I similarly bestowed with Catherine as my primary moniker?


My mother explains it as such: As new migrants, they couldn't quite understand the Australian predelection for abbreviating names as a form of cultural acceptance and affection. As far as they were concerned they had given their two first girls lovely, complete, not-unreasonably-long, names. And yet every Australian automatically re-christened my sisters with a newly shortened sobriquet. My resourceful parents solved this when I was born. Bequeathing to me the shortest of names, four letters, single syllable.


I feel, as time goes on, I am really growing into my name. Only to be expected I suppose, given that it's the name of a ninety two year old. Don't get me wrong. I'm all about tradition and heritage. I buy antiques and quilt-by-hand for goodness sake. But there's old names and there's old names. Mine isn't the good kind. As a middle name, you can't go past it. As a middle name it works*.


But as a first name it's frumpy and uninspiring.  Through work, I've met people face to face that hitherto I had only communicated with electronically or over the phone. More than once I've been greeted with: Oh, you're younger than I had imagined. Stupid name. No one else has it. Well, no. That's not strictly true. There are others. Mostly alice-band wearing religious zealots. Or old ladies. Evidenced by the fact that it was in the Top 5 most popular names...in 1911.


I like old ladies. I hope to become one. Perhaps then I'll like my name.


*So much that The Man gave it to The Little One as her middle name. Unfortunately, as the children have my surname as a second middle name, smack bang between her cute first and charming last names, The Little One has my whole name. Oh and that's her lovely Double Irish Chain I made her way back. Fabric from the quilt show in Brugge. Hand quilted with cross hatching, Irish tulips and Celtic knots.

Keeping The Boy Warm

This is the latest of my finished projects. It's a quilt for The Boy with Dutchman's Puzzle blocks combined with a Flying Geese border. It's hand pieced. Hand quilted. Started about six years ago on a school excursion to Canberra. The Dutchman's Puzzle, chosen by him, with its centres reminiscent of windmill blades, is a nice nod to our love off all things Nederland.

His dad and I had kids when we were just kids ourselves. While our friends were spending their youth in nightclubs, The Man and I were spending it on nightfeeds. Friends did the post-school European adventure; we did Wiggles concerts and holidays in Huskisson. And so, when I'd finally got my degree, ten years after leaving school, with the promise of tulips and cheese, we packed up our children, our furniture, our lives, and relocated to Holland for a European adventure of our own.

We got jobs, we found a house in a village of thatched rooves and cobbled roads. And yes, it had a working molen (windmill). The children started school. There was only one moment in the five years that I doubted the decision to become 'het meisje naast de deur".  It passed. We began to build a little life there.

Everytime I get on my beautiful fiets with it's large wheels and touring comfort, I am back in Holland. And I hope that's what this quilt does for The Boy. The quilt's on his bed. He lives in Sydney's Inner West; a sharehouse, architecturally vintage, with detailed high ceilings and explansive hallways, with lovely housemates who set each other baking challenges. I sent him a text to tell him the quilt was ready. His reply? Can I come over now?

It's a lovely quilt. His colours, his design. His quilt.