Things Change, Some Don't

I'm fascinated by people giving the same thing different names. When I was young, Dad called a five dollar bill, "A Pound," he called our chase and capture game, Ringalario, Ringalevio. When I called it Ringalario, he'd get pissed and correct me.

The one place he and I agreed everything had the same name was Central Park. The great sleigh

ride hill on 79th Street was Cherry Hill. The dangerous sleigh ride on 72nd Street was Pilgrim Hill (easy, there's a statute of a Pilgrim on top the hill). The man made pond north of 72nd Street was Sailboat Lake not the crappy formal name, The Conservatory. The lake below the castle next to the Shakespeare theatre was called, Catfish Lake. Why? Dad, Mom, Rory and I fished the lake for catfish, Dad and Mom used Silvercup Bread for bait, Rory and I used Wonder Bread, we always threw the fish back in. Then there was the Reservoir and North Lake, and everything else was part of Rowboat Lake. When I'm in Central Park I get comfort knowing my benchmarks, but also enjoy letting myself go and pretending I'm in the deep woods, just like dad did.