A is for Apple

from Edward Gorey Gashlycrumb Tinies for whom this month's posts are dedicated.

"A is for Apple which is the beginning of all things", or so said John Lennon in 1968 when The Beatles launched their multimedia baby, Apple Corp.  Then in 1976 Steve Jobs started Apple Computers and so began a decades long trademark war between two of the most iconic brands in all of Christendom.

There was somewhat less enthusiasm when Gwyneth Paltrow named her baby daughter Apple Blythe in  2004, although maybe that was because it was a human baby and not a business, or perhaps it was the new millennium and the populace had discovered fructose malabsorption...  either way, there was unarguably a degree of cynicism attached to naming a child after fruit such that nobody (on record at least) subsequently tried calling their progeny Banana or Pear.

As a life-long Beatles devotee (yes, I have a shrine in my bedroom), also a Mac-user and utterly ambivalent about Gwyneth, I didn't have any of that on my mind when I decided without hesitation, to name my son Apple (μήλο) in Greek, Milo, although all sorts of links and parallels could quite legitimately be drawn. Lovely as all that is, Milo was named for the protagonist in Norton Juster's 1961 literary masterpiece The Phantom Tollbooth.   A book I first read when I was nine. (Synopsis: Phantom Tollbooth Wiki)


The adventures of Milo have resonated with me for most of my life in so far as when I discovered the baby I was carrying was a boy, I knew immediately who he would be and I began to dare to hope that just like his literary namesake, his life would be a trippy trip full of quirky, fascinating folk and he would be sweet and kind and engaged by all things.  Because that's what perspective can do for a person who follows that path and not the other...

That's what I hoped for him, anyway.

The Map of the Lands Beyond from The Phantom Tollbooth (1961)
by Norton Juster, illustrations by Jules Feiffer

You can't imagine how pleased I was when one day in October 2o1o I heard that Norton Juster was alive and kicking in Massachusetts. Particularly considering that for some reason up until that very moment, I had imagined he was Norwegian and long dead.  

The moment I got home that day I did the stalker uber-fan thing and googled him to find his address (surprisingly easy), google-mapped his house, and then without any further hesitation took a deep breath and handwrote him a letter and sent a photo (see below).

Dear Mr Juster

I read The Phantom Tollbooth when a mere dot, and was enchanted by every bit of it.

At age 38, when presented with my first child, a boy, I knew instantly he would be Milo and so he is.

Now he is almost four and is the best thing in the world: loving and warm and interested in all things.

Your wonderful Milo has stayed with me for my whole life.  Thank you, thank you for introducing us.  Now I have my own Milo and I am repaying the favour by introducing him to you.

Dear Mr Juster, you are a wonderful, evocative teller of tales and we are so grateful you have shared.

With every best wish, and our love.

And then, in one of the correspondence highlights of my life, I received an email response.

Dear Sophia:

What a lovely letter.  It made my day.  You're right, of course, Milo is the best thing in the world - but, since you named him for the character in my book I own 10% - I'll settle for the smile and the sparkling eyes.

When The Phantom Tollbooth was published in 1961 (next year is the 50th anniversary) the general consensus of the experts was that:

1.It wasn't a children's book

2.The ideas were too complex

3.The vocabulary was too difficult

4.The kids would be put off by all the puns and word play.

Over the years it has been a source of great pleasure for me that they were so wrong.

Letters like yours are a joy. 

I hope your Milo has a wonderful trip to The Lands Beyond!

Best,

Norton Juster

I cannot describe the thrill.

So there you have it.  That is the reason my boy is called Milo.  His formal name is longer.  I had to find a historic or mythical character containing "Milo" (Romilo) to satisfy the Hellenic questioning Milo would inevitably encounter, because I knew just how tedious it would be for him to try and explain for all of eternity that he is named for a fictitious literary character when Greeks just don't do that.  He will have enough on his plate trying to explain why he isn't christened.  And that's a whole other story.

Rainbow and Spotty Dog

And the after mo...

What do we want? (and) When do we want it?

On the news, they said we were 20,000.  Not a bad start, (Mr Abbott, given you're too busy to get to the Climate Change conference in New York later this year).  It was a beautiful day.  A sunny day and it was an honour to hear Professor Tim Flannery.

An interloper jumped on stage and grabbed the mike at the end of the speeches claiming to be a representative of Leonardo di Caprio.  It was an awkward moment.  No-one knew whether to listen or shuffle him off.  In the end he realised he'd gone further than he ever thought he would and he didn't have anything to say.  So he whooped and urged us all to walk.  It was actually very funny.  And very Australian.

The marching party was very committed (obviously) but wasn't particularly rowdy: it certainly wasn't full of the usual complement of anarchists and ferals. We were instead a sea of very composed and concerned Es for the E (Elders for the Environment), families and more anti (or were they pro) cow Vegans than I ever thought there were.

After lunch and Milo's perfunctory ice-cream (for his throat, of course) I discovered a beautiful but recently deceased native bird by the pool - which due to the recent rains has turned into a swamp.  I armed myself with tissues for the tears that always, always flow whenever I am confronted with handling dead creatures (despite my impeccable technique with plastic bags and tongs which mean I never have to touch or feel anything) and I began disposing of the corpse.

Somehow though I managed to complete the job without shedding a drop.  You see, there were triffids.  They'd taken over the garden beds around the pool. 

I don't know how and I don't know when, but there was no pretending they weren't there.  And there was no way they were staying.  

So with even greater reluctance than tackling the bird, but with slightly greater satisfaction, I slashed, pulled, ripped and tore.  Bare hands.

Did you hear that?  I. Got. Dirt. Under. My. Nails.

I have truly done my duty today.  Civic and domestic.  

Tomorrow I relaunch my business.  These are the days on which tomorrows are founded.  I hope tomorrow will be good.

Tonight I plan to sleep well.