Our house has a name.

Some folks think this is weird.

We, obviously, do not.

When our daughter was young, Mr. Anonymous read her the entire Anne of Green Gables series.  Every place Anne lived had a name.  Our daughter asked why our house didn’t have a name.  Regular readers know that we live in a historic home, and we wondered ourselves why the house didn’t have a name.

So we gave the old place its own moniker.  No big deal.

Until our blessed child began telling everyone, “We named our house!”

Then the looks began.  You know, the what-are-you-some-sort-of-Michael-Jackson-my-place-is-called-Neverland look.  Or the Do-you-think-you-live-in-Bel Aire-or-the-Hamptons look.  (Which, for the record, we do not).

It became awkward, and we even began apologizing when it was mentioned.

Until…

one of our British friends responded, “Oh, yeah.  All the places back home have names.”  Then he quoted the title of the house he was born in.  “Lots of places in Canada are the same,” was his final word on the subject.

And so, it’s our final word on the subject, too.

Our daughter has a new facet to her childhood, and we don’t have a complex.

Perfect.

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