I have always wondered how our great grandparents, James Knox Polk and Rose Ann Turner Sampson, came up with our grandfather’s first name and my middle name, Alonzo or Lon. Here was a couple who had little education and exposure to the world, who had all English-blooded ancestors, and who made their living farming, sheepherding, and working on public works projects. Where and how did they come up with Alonzo, the Italian version of the Old German name, Alphonse? This week, I may have found the answer.
First, I want to tell you more about the name. As I said, Alonzo is the Italian version of an Old German name. I have discovered three meanings for it: (1) ready for battle, (2) noble warrior, and (3) beloved or favored. The first appears to be the literal translation of the oldest version of the name. The second seems to be a sentimental and affectionate version of the first. And the third is hubris at its best and a load of hooey at its worse.
As with many first names, Alonzo became a surname. The first appearance of it is in a Castilian document from the early 10th Century. The holders of the name were Visgoth nobles living in Leon, a town in northern Spain. Now you can see the name is Old German, Italian, and Spanish. So how did it happen two yokels in Wayne County, Utah, gave one of their sons a non-Biblical, non-English, and mixed-origin first name?
I don’t know how popular Alonzo was in 1886, the year grandpa was born. Today, according to namestatistics.com, Alonzo is No. 451 in popularity in the United States and a mere 2.2 percent of men hold the name. I don’t know if this is good news or bad news. If they go by the short version, Lon, then I think it’s bad news. To me, Lon is what you cut every Saturday morning from the beginning of April to the end of October. At least that’s what the kids I grew up with—including my brothers , sister, and cousins—told me using different lame examples.
Now here’s where I think our great grandparents, those longtime Americans (Abraham Sampson was born in Massachusetts in 1628) of English stock, got the name Alonzo. This week I picked up a copy of A History of Wayne County by Miriam B. Murphy. James Knox Polk Sampson or J.P. Sampson, which must have been the way he signed his name, is mentioned three times.
In the first citation, Murphy says great grandpa was the founding settler of East Loa. He discovered the place when he was part of a team of surveyors who passed through Wayne County in 1874, and he built his home and staked out his farm there in 1876. The township was renamed Lyman after Apostle Francis M. Lyman visited the valley in 1893. Lyman was influential in getting the settlers to move closer to a spring to the north of East Loa. This leads me to believe great grandpa’s original farm was a little south of present-day Lyman.
The second citation covers the formation of an irrigation company for “colonizing the Fremont Valley and bringing the land under cultivation . . . erecting mills and factories, etc.” in 1879. Great grandpa was a signor of the agreement or incorporation papers.
The third citation discusses the reorganization of the same irrigation company in January 1889. Seven directors representing three towns—Loa, Fremont, and Thurber—signed the paperwork. One was Alonzo Billings, who represented Fremont, and another was J.P. Sampson, who represented Loa.
I’m not sure how many Alonzos lived in the Fremont Valley in the 1880s. When I looked at all the entries in Murphy’s index, I only found one—Brother Billings. This leads me to believe our great grandparents and the Billings were close friends; close enough for J.P. and Rose Ann to give their 10th child Brother Billings’ first name. They didn’t even give grandpa a middle name. He’s the only one out of 14 children who wasn’t given one.
If this happens to be how grandpa got his name, it’s worth asking where Billings got an Old German, Italian, and Spanish first name. A quick look on the Internet makes me think the name Billings is more English than the name Sampson. My curiosity will have to go unfulfilled. The Billings family will have to figure that one out.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Everyone Can Own the Real Thing
Since I live in Sandy and have an excellent library close to my house, I don’t go to the Salt Lake City Main Library often. When I do, which is usually when my children have late books and high fines, I always stop at Art in the Main, the art gallery. I do so because of a valuable lesson I was taught many years ago.
In the early- and mid-1990s, I became acquainted with a man whose path crossed mine about two times a week. In bits and pieces, I learned he was retired but taught art history classes as an adjunct professor at a national college with a branch in Salt Lake County. One day, when I was telling my friend about Sister Wendy, a bucktooth, habit-wearing, Catholic nun who seems to know everything about European art and had starred in several art history documentaries for the BBC, he told me there’s a secret about art that most people don’t know or understand. That is everyone can afford it. No one has to have prints on his or her walls, ever.
Over the next six months, I tested my friend’s assertion by visiting art galleries and co-op studios. To my surprise, I learned he was right. I could afford original art. I could have pieces that no one else in the entire world had. That is if I could solve one problem that started to bother me almost from the beginning: what in heaven’s name should I buy? After long consideration, I came up with two rules that, for the most part, I live by today. First, if I could paint it, it’s not art and I don’t want it. Second, everything I buy has to mean something to me.
The first piece I bought was an oil painting of Wheeler Farm. I did so because my children went there once every spring, summer, and fall. They knew the trees, barn, and outbuildings in the background; the dirt track in the middle; and the large white stones in the foreground. The artist had just finished painting the picture, and it looked fresh and crisp, and she only wanted $250.
Next I bought a vase from the Sundance Art Shack for $80. This was when Sundance saved all the bottles from their restaurants and then invited glassblowers from Mexico to spend the summer at the resort to turn it into plates and glasses for Sundance and vases and sculptures for visitors. My children got to see how our vase was made, and I filmed it so they could always remember the day.
About a year later, my family and I went to a play at BYU. To get to the theater, we had to pass through the main lobby of the Harris Fine Arts Center. At the time, many of the art students had their work on display. One piece, a Nativity scene with a horse in it instead of a donkey, jumped out at me, and another by the same artist of Mary Mary Quite Contrary, jumped out at my daughter. I bought both for $700. Later I commissioned the artist to give Mary a boyfriend by doing a third painting of Little Boy Blue.
I won’t bore you with everything I’ve bought over the years, but I want to add one more tidbit. My two rules have not served me perfectly. I own a piece I started to hate the day I hung it on my wall, and I wish with all my heart I owned a painting titled Ain’t Nothin’ Out There But the Moon, Ma! The latter is a farm scene—a large barn and a two-story house—at night. An enormous beetle with huge, glowing eyes is standing over the house. His underside clears the roof, easily. In my mind, I can picture a mother telling one of her sons to look out the window to see, “What in tarnations is out there making all that ruckus.” Then, catching sight of one of the beetle’s eyes, the boy says, “Ain’t nothin’ out there but the moon, Ma!” I passed on the painting because it’s fantasy, which I’ve never fully appreciated, and it’s quite dark. Today, I’d pay twice as much as it was selling for to get it.
This reminds me, Art in the Main currently has a framed painting called God’s Gold that is listed for $560. As my youngest sister would say, “It’s to die for,” but I don’t have any extra money. So, check it out. And while you’re at the gallery, take a look at the one where the skiers are doing a run over a bowl of green Jell-O. I can’t say it’s my forte, but like the picture of the beetle, it makes me laugh. There I go again. I really like the piece, and, if I had extra, extra money, I’d get God’s Gold and the skiers.
In the early- and mid-1990s, I became acquainted with a man whose path crossed mine about two times a week. In bits and pieces, I learned he was retired but taught art history classes as an adjunct professor at a national college with a branch in Salt Lake County. One day, when I was telling my friend about Sister Wendy, a bucktooth, habit-wearing, Catholic nun who seems to know everything about European art and had starred in several art history documentaries for the BBC, he told me there’s a secret about art that most people don’t know or understand. That is everyone can afford it. No one has to have prints on his or her walls, ever.
Over the next six months, I tested my friend’s assertion by visiting art galleries and co-op studios. To my surprise, I learned he was right. I could afford original art. I could have pieces that no one else in the entire world had. That is if I could solve one problem that started to bother me almost from the beginning: what in heaven’s name should I buy? After long consideration, I came up with two rules that, for the most part, I live by today. First, if I could paint it, it’s not art and I don’t want it. Second, everything I buy has to mean something to me.
The first piece I bought was an oil painting of Wheeler Farm. I did so because my children went there once every spring, summer, and fall. They knew the trees, barn, and outbuildings in the background; the dirt track in the middle; and the large white stones in the foreground. The artist had just finished painting the picture, and it looked fresh and crisp, and she only wanted $250.
Next I bought a vase from the Sundance Art Shack for $80. This was when Sundance saved all the bottles from their restaurants and then invited glassblowers from Mexico to spend the summer at the resort to turn it into plates and glasses for Sundance and vases and sculptures for visitors. My children got to see how our vase was made, and I filmed it so they could always remember the day.
About a year later, my family and I went to a play at BYU. To get to the theater, we had to pass through the main lobby of the Harris Fine Arts Center. At the time, many of the art students had their work on display. One piece, a Nativity scene with a horse in it instead of a donkey, jumped out at me, and another by the same artist of Mary Mary Quite Contrary, jumped out at my daughter. I bought both for $700. Later I commissioned the artist to give Mary a boyfriend by doing a third painting of Little Boy Blue.
I won’t bore you with everything I’ve bought over the years, but I want to add one more tidbit. My two rules have not served me perfectly. I own a piece I started to hate the day I hung it on my wall, and I wish with all my heart I owned a painting titled Ain’t Nothin’ Out There But the Moon, Ma! The latter is a farm scene—a large barn and a two-story house—at night. An enormous beetle with huge, glowing eyes is standing over the house. His underside clears the roof, easily. In my mind, I can picture a mother telling one of her sons to look out the window to see, “What in tarnations is out there making all that ruckus.” Then, catching sight of one of the beetle’s eyes, the boy says, “Ain’t nothin’ out there but the moon, Ma!” I passed on the painting because it’s fantasy, which I’ve never fully appreciated, and it’s quite dark. Today, I’d pay twice as much as it was selling for to get it.
This reminds me, Art in the Main currently has a framed painting called God’s Gold that is listed for $560. As my youngest sister would say, “It’s to die for,” but I don’t have any extra money. So, check it out. And while you’re at the gallery, take a look at the one where the skiers are doing a run over a bowl of green Jell-O. I can’t say it’s my forte, but like the picture of the beetle, it makes me laugh. There I go again. I really like the piece, and, if I had extra, extra money, I’d get God’s Gold and the skiers.
Monday, March 9, 2009
A Great New Word
Max just introduced me to a great word. Have you ever heard “pshaw” used? If you haven’t, look it up and start using it. The word is absolutely wonderful: it’s like a swear word but it isn’t a swear word.
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