That August still, all these years later, is remembered for its introduction of my new "friend" that Thunderhack summer: 'Adam Allergy'. Did I mention that, in the huricane of all of George's notableness, he tended to pronounce things strangely sometimes? Well, he did. His usual explanation for this was that "as long as somebody knows what you mean, does it matter if you say it just perfect?" As time went, this conclusion became much more evident (but was usually left unspoken, of course) as I met people in grown-up life - but, as usual, George made it clear to me first. It came to happen after another long and threatening-to-become 'raging' discourse on why, the more I found myself using it, it was important for George to keep that other name he used (Göran) at the ready so often. This time Beverly (I had become familiar enough on their property/in their kitchen over the weeks to be invited to call her that) joined in the discussion.
   "His Swedish name is Göran Tordönhaka. The first name means earth worker, or farmer. George's father thought that would be an ideal energy for his boy to be given."
   As always, I was more than a little skeptical ... especially since, by the looks of her dark eyes and black hair (gray flecks aside), she seemed far more like a Spaniard than a Swede or anything else. George's hair was very dark blond and, since I initially had summed his appearance up as being akin to that Kiefer Sutherland person (and had done all attached research in regards to that mean-in-movies thug) who was Canadian, that seemed to hint that he looked French. Or something? So, I was left to wonder...
   "What's Swedish about you two?" I asked.
   Mrs. Thunderhack then reached into her handbag, grabbing her wallet. Therein she kept a picture of "George's Father" (strangely enough, I never heard the man referred to as anything else; never given a real "name"). In looking at his snapshot, the "Swedish" connection looked more sensible. He was a stately looking blond, fair-skinned man. Bespectacled. By the looks of him, a bit older than his wife (all right, to be honest I thought he might have been George's grandfather, but I managed to politely NOT blurt out that observation) and even I had to see that he'd been a handsome fellow. George had his eyes, I thought. George had his mother's hands.
   Interestingly, George never talked about his Dad with any visible sadness. There seemed a reverance, a "lightness" to him when he remembered. Once, he'd said to me that (in more ways than one) Mr. Thunderhack had never really left. In George's summation, his father had spent a lifetime building ways for the rest of his loved ones to remember him. This served dual purposes. It made crying for him or missing him mostly pointless. It also made forgetting about him unlikely, maybe entirely impossible. And, naturally, the conversation then turned to rivers (yet again). "None dry up." George announced, "They just change direction." And *while I still can't say if he meant for this to happen*, every time perfectly damaged George talked that way, I thought I really needed to learn how to swim. Dad said I was too old to learn. Mom said I'd likely drown trying ("so why risk it, kiddo?"). George, though? He made swimming seem like something we're just meant to do. No need to complicate the waters any further than probing it beyond that, and only that.
   "It's why my Father liked calling me Göran," he continued. "He loved that it meant "farmer" in Swedish - and that his great-gradfather WAS a famer in Europe. Named Göran . He farmed the ground, grew the food that fed his four children. Which strengthened them to farm other things - with the same purpose but with other goals and very different stuff to harvest." [Note: once again, George didn't say all that exactly THAT way ~ but it's how I recall hearing it.] Which, finally, had led to my neighbor who seemed able to "farm" next-to-everything. Goals murky, results always direct and earnest. And occasionally startling in their "roots".
   "By the way, Ellis. I looked you up in my Father's books last night. Mother and I think that your name is a form of Elijah. It means "the Lord is my God"."
   I said nothing in response to that. My parents were very grounded and soulful people (I knew that not only because they'd been known to say so very often, they also proved it daily), but they had made it very clear to me, from a young age, that they would not direct my religious beliefs. According to MY Dad, there was something to find believable in all ideas, within reason. My decisions about such matters would be my very own and their job, in terms of me, was to raise me to be clear-of-eye enough to learn what I needed to learn by looking at the most reasonable directions to take. And to decide for myself thereafter. At the time, I'd no great familiarity with ANY "God" ... and didn't know if I needed one at the time of this discussion. Both of the Thunderhacks immediately read my (always revealing) expression as I listened, too.

   "Those are very, very big words, Ellis. Neither 'Lord' or 'God' mean any one thing, at least not to us, anyway. Some days they mean everything. Some days not so much," Mrs. Thunderhack hummed. "The beauty of it, rest assured, is that they always mean something. So, then, if you can think about it this way: you are of the name of a soul who sees all the "somethings". You are keen. Your questions are vibrant, your observations are like lightning. You see the "God" (it's just a word, really) in just about everything. And appreciate that it's all there..."

   As I sat there, feeling completely flattered (and strangely/mightily important), I was still not sure where I stood on this "God/Lord" business. I might suggest, too, that especially as that summer became autumn (and as my early teens became my early twenties, later on), that uncertainty about those 'higher powers' remained. George latched onto  that piece of my mind that August in a jiffy.

   "Don't worry, Ellis. You're allowed to ask too many questions about everything. It's OK to try too hard sometimes, too, but not hard enough other times. My Father said that a lot. But what is cool about you, Ellis, is that you always pay attention. Even if you hate what you see, you look. I noticed that the first day we met," George seemed to have summed me up soundly, against my better wishes about the situation as it had traveled. I was only 12. My suspicion was that I noticed very little very often. Until these people moved in next door, that is.

   At home, I told Mother a bit about my day. Just a little about me, this sudden "Elijah" (I'd have told her everything, but young lads find some sort of power in those things that they keep from their parents now and then; and I was still only a kid, after all.)

   I boldly told her about 'Adam Allergy', too ... which confused her completely. While she casually seemed to absorb my tale in order, some two hours later she was adding the cucumbers into the salad and suddenly started to giggle (I'm certain she had put the pieces together properly by then). Funny thing, in retrospect: she never corrected me that day.

   "Etymology" is a weird word, though. All that mattered was what it meant...