The dead angel at Buba's house

When we would go to Buba's house at 34 Lewis Road in Swampscott, there wasn't a heck of a lot for a little girl to do around all these grown-ups. Sometimes my siblings were with me but, surprisingly, I don't have a lot of memories of being there with them.

I would bring my Barbies and play with them a lot. Buba had an old blue foot stool with embroidered flowers on it that looked like a little bed. I used to put my dolls to sleep on it and cover them in little blankets. Sometimes Buba had some things to play with on her side porch. She always seemed to have paper dolls. They were OK for a short time but I didn't have delicate little hands, and I would end up accidentally tearing the tabs off the tops of the dresses and then they wouldn't stay on the doll. Or I'd color. Or I'd play "secretary" on her old typewriter. I remember writing poems on that typewriter as well.

Many times, though, I would go exploring through her Cape Cod style house. It wasn't an extremely old house, but to me a house from the 1920's seemed ancient.

Grandad in his red chair in his den.

I liked going into Grandad's den and sitting in the red leather chair in the corner. One day in the future that chair would find a loving place in my own home. I liked looking at all the old photos he had on the wall. People I didn't know, but I knew they were connected to me. It was warm and cozy in that den with wood paneling and dark colored furniture.

He had a really cool desk with all these cubby holes in them that I liked to stick my hands in and out of. I think my mother had that for a while.

Buba had some cool things too. In her living room, especially. One of them I was both fascinated by and terrified of. It was a rectangular ceramic tile that sat cradled on a silver plate holder. It depicted Cupid with his golden blond locks, sleeping sweetly by the water.

As an adult now, I can describe it to you that way. The gorgeous colors. The serene beauty of the cherub as he slept so deeply.

As a small child, though, I was convinced it was a dead angel that was shot down by a bow and arrow. No one could convince me otherwise. I was terrified of it. But I couldn't stop walking up to it and looking at it. I never went into that room without looking at it. I'd have anxiety about it while I slept upstairs. Some times I'd be really brave and get up really close to it and study it. I had some logic that it had some sort of spell or magic attached to it. Buba thought I was being ridiculous and she and my mother got a big laugh over my "thing" about that piece.

In 2015 I visited my Aunt Jean's apartment in Reading, Massachusetts. There we were having a nice glass of iced tea in her living room talking about family. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted it. In her dining room.

I hadn't thought of it in years...maybe not since I was a child, even. I surprised my Aunt and jumped up and ran over to it.

"The dead angel!" I said, looking at her with huge eyes and pointing my finger at it.

My aunt, a very gentile and well mannered woman, looked perplexed and annoyed at the same time.
"That," she said indignantly as she walked over to me, "is Eros, or Cupid. It is not a dead angel."

"Yes. It is too a dead angel." I insisted, nodding my head and crouching down to look at it more closely.

Cupid, they tell me. 

This banter went on for a good minute or two.  My 90+ year old Aunt was becoming more and more irate at my seemingly lack of education and appreciation of art.

I snapped a photo of it.

I then told her the story of my encounters with it as a child. How I was enthralled with it and scared to death of it. How I would circle around it to see if it was going to come alive. How I would never play with my back to the dead angel because I wanted to keep an eye on it at all times.

And just like Buba. Just like my mother. My Aunt burst out laughing. "That is the silliest thing I have ever heard of, Jenny!" But she kept laughing.

It is incredible the memories our mind retains. Of good things, of scary things, of long forgotten and fleeting memories. My mother tells me this piece was always displayed in HER grandmother's house (Luta Shrum). She has special memories of it as well. But not scary ones.

I had a similar experience in Buba's scary basement with other family objects. Either I was just a kid that got scared a lot or I just had too much free time when I was there.

 I'll save that for my next post.

Jennifer...nice to meet you!

My parents were big on tradition and naming their children after family members. Some of us more than others.  I’m not so convinced some of us were especially “named after” someone or if my mother simply liked the name and referred to the person in the family who shared the name as inspiration for it. I don’t think my father really had much to do with the process, quite honestly. Dad was pretty laid back and mild mannered and as long as he didn’t hate the name, I think the final decision was up to my mother.

The Horner Children 1966

My brother, Charles Merritt Horner (born April 18, 1952) was definitely in honor of my Dad’s father, Merritt Horner. Grandad was a cool guy. And he was very fond of my mother. But who was Charles? My mother, when asked, said it was for her brother in law, Charles Burleigh Wellington, who was married to her sister, Jean. But he was always called Burleigh, so I think this was one of those instances where my mother felt she needed to justify why she chose Charles. My brother was called Chuckie for the first part of his life (and as of this writing, still sometimes is by my Aunt Jean, who is 90 years old). Later on as he got older he went by Chuck. But Merritt was a name he was proud of, and he named his second son Kyle Merritt Horner, as well as naming various businesses he owned with the Merritt moniker.

My sister, Lynnette Jean Horner (born October 9, 1953) was in honor of the two aunts. My father’s sister, Grace Lynette (called Gracelyn), and my mother’s sister, Jean. My mother had a thing about double  n’s as you’ll see when it gets down to me. Lynnette was called Lynn. Or “Nin” for the little ones who couldn’t pronounce our L’s.

Next came Robin Elizabeth Horner (born May 23, 1955). Now here is where it gets weird. When I asked my mother who Robin was named for she said it was for my father, Robert. When I asked my father who Robin was named for he said a license plate. More on that in a minute.  Elizabeth must have just sounded good with Robin because there is no family connection there. Robin is the only one of us who never had a nickname. She was Robin. Sometimes we would call her Rob, but only because we were lazy. 

So, the “famous” license plate story that my father loved to tell was that in 1955 Connecticut began offering vanity license plates. Meaning that you could order a specific name of series of letters if you wanted to pay a little extra money. My father—a car enthusiast who always owned some kind of sports car or another – decided this was for him and headed down to the DMV to pick out a license plate that said, “RLH” for his initials, Robert Loehwing Horner. The problem was, someone had already taken RLH. So my father—as only my father would think—decided that close enough was good enough. REH was available. So he took it. My sister Robin was born a few months later. Coincidentally she was named Robin Elizabeth Horner. My father thought it was quite amusing to tell people she had been named after the license plate. Some 60 years later, that REH plate registration still lives in the Horner family. In fact, I am the one who has it now on my car. My mother began with it and after she moved out of state, Robin took it over. When Robin moved out of state, it so happened that I was getting my first car. It was very important to my Dad that I take over the REH plate. I did so with much pride at the family history of it. People ask me about it all the time and what it stands for and I love to tell the silly story. So much my Dad.

My brother, Richard Potter Horner came next (born April 16, 1959). No Richards in our family, but Potter was the middle name of my mother’s father, Harold Potter Willett. I always felt kind of bad for him that he had what I thought was an embarrassing (kind of like potty) middle name, but he never thought of it like that. As an adult, once J.K Rowling, Harry Potter books came out and were such a huge success, Potter was a really cool name to have! My brother was called Ricky for ever. But he goes by the much more grown up Rick now.

My grandmother, Jenny and me.
Thanksgiving 1969. I was 4 years old. 

And then came me. The baby (born February 15, 1965). I had the honor to be named after my two grandmothers. My mother’s mother was Jeanette Matthews Shrum Willett. She was called Jenny. When exactly that began is in dispute. Some stories say it was started when my grandparents moved to Swampscott and met the neighbor across the street, and her bridge club members began calling her Jenny. But Jenny was a common nickname for Jeanette in the 1800’s and early 1900’s and her husband, Harold, had a sister named Jeanette, whom was sometimes called Jenny, so some of us think Grandad called her Jenny sometimes too. Regardless…my mother liked the name Jenny and wanted me to be called that, so she named me Jeannette. Notice the 2 n’s again. It is not the way Buba (as we grandkids called her) spelled it, but my mother liked it that way. My middle name was Grace. After my Dad’s mother, Ethel Grace Comp Horner. Grammy was always called Grace.

Grammy's passive aggressive 

charm bracelet. 

Grammy did not like the order in which I was named. She said she thought the name Jenny would bring to mind the slang term for a donkey, which was a common and, some thought, a derogatory word back then. In retrospect, we think she was just a teensy bit jealous that I was not named Grace Jeannette. Regardless, she didn’t have so much of an issue with the name Jeannette, but she refused to call me Jenny. I remember quite clearly she would call me Jenna. I even have her charm bracelet of all her grandchildren’s silver “heads” and all our names engraved on each. My “head” says Jenna. I remember it made me very mad when she called me Jenna. And I remember very clearly when they came to visit in the 1970’s and were staying at a motel on the Berlin Turnpike in Newington and we went down to see them.  I told Grammy to stop calling me Jenna. I had to be about 8 or 9 at the time.

She listened. She called me Jenny from that day on. 

So I went by Jenny for nearly everything for most of my life. It wasn't until I was an adult and had to apply for jobs, taxes, etc. that I realized how frustrating it was that people assumed my name was Jennifer. A lot. When you introduce yourself as Jenny...somehow, 30 minutes later they are referring to you as Jennifer. Not Jen. Not Jenny. Jennifer.  It's weird. Nothing against the name. It's just not mine.