A Bronze Bird And A Burst Of Bliss
How the glimpse of a little statue fires the one synapse that contains an entire story.
I live in an apartment in a building that was built around 1700. That’s 325 years ago (math!) It is the oldest building I have ever lived in. It is only weird when I really think about it. Like now when I’m writing about it. This building is in a neighborhood that is at least that old which, in turn, exists in a city that is celebrating its 750 year anniversary this year. The point being: I’m dealing with some old stuff.
This building, being drawn up a good 200 years before air conditioning was invented, made no accommodations for such methods of controlling the climate. It wasn’t like the people in 1700 weren’t concerned with making living spaces as comfortable as possible, they simply had to use what they had available to them, namely fresh air - both bringing more in when temps got hot and limiting it when temps got chilly. To that end the architect placed a bank of large windows on one side of the apartment (in the living area) and another bank of windows on the other side (in the bedroom). When we open those bad boys up, woosh! We get a sweet, sweet cross-breeze. 325 year old air conditioning.
Then, knowing that heating a smaller space is easier than heating a big space, the architect placed a door between the living space and the hallway that leads to the bedroom. Close that and one only needs to heat the space where one is at the moment. Brilliant! This “heat only what you need” door is lovely. It has glass panels in it as does the sidelight next to it. I don’t know if the door itself is also 325 years old, but it ain’t new, I can tell you that.
Recently, on a rather pleasant day, wifey-pants and I had the windows open on both sides of the apartment to take advantage of the aforementioned sweet, sweet cross-breeze. Welp, the aforementioned 325 year old door with the lovely glass panels, being a very mechanical on/off switch, decided to go into heat mode and slammed closed. Scared us half to death.
I am perfectly capable of handling a conversation with my landlord about how I inadvertently smashed the glass panels of her 325 year old door, but I would rather not. It would be best for all involved to avoid that conversation if at all possible. The short-term solution was to fill an empty wine bottle with water and place it in front of the door. Yes, we could have put an un-emptied wine bottle in front of the door just as easily, but an un-emptied wine bottle isn’t going to last that long around here especially when there is a sweet, sweet cross-breeze. We needed a longer term solution. We needed a door stop.
Near(ish) to our apartment is the Albert Cuypmarkt. It is a large street market that sells everything: food, clothing, furniture, bikes, and (crucially) bronze statues. A bronze statue, we reasoned, could certainly stand in place of a water filled wine bottle. Now, keep in mind, these aren’t like giant, guy-riding-a-horse type statues. You do not need a hand-truck and a thick dude wearing a tank top saying, “where you want me to put this thing?” These are statuettes. You can put them in a bag and carry them home yourself.
A door stop, I figured, had to have one of two qualities: either it needed to be heavy enough or wedge shaped enough to hold back the force of a sweet, sweet cross-breeze on a 325 year old door. I am not well versed in thermodynamics, aerodynamics, or any other dynamic that might be in play here. I do know that “heavy” and/or “wedge” would reasonably do the trick. It’s not that we needed to stop the door from slamming closed, we needed to stop the door from starting to move in the first place. Did I overthink this? I don’t know. Maybe.
We looked at several possible contenders. There was a gorilla - not wedge shaped, but it had a decent heft to it. There was an octopus that seemed sufficiently wedge-y. There was a little frog that was probably the most wedge shaped, but then there was also a lobster that had weight and a wedge-shaped tail. Decisions, amirite?
Nothing was really speaking to us, and then we spotted this goofy little malapert:
This little bronze bird thing looked up at us with its little bronze bird eyes and said, “I can do it!” And we believed it. Was this thing heavy enough? Didn’t seem so. Was it sufficiently wedge shaped? Not really. But, dang it, it made us giggle and that was enough for it to get the job.
On the way home we were overwhelmed by the deep understanding that this thing needed a name. This wasn’t some random chunk of rubber we were jamming in a gap for purely utilitarian purposes. This bird had a personality. A je ne sais quoi. A vibe that required formal entry into our family. You do that by bestowing such things with an official moniker by which to address them. Like a dog, or a baby.
“Francis” jumped out for whatever reason and it just kinda stuck (it’s gender neutral and that felt right1). But, that wasn’t enough for such a majestic creature. It needed a title. Something regal. We tossed out “Dutchess” but didn’t want to ruin the gender neutrality by giving it a gendered title like that. It had to be more mysterious. And it needed a longer name. Something that makes you question what corner of the world it hails from. Like it had already had a life full of the kind of intrigue and chicanery that an accumulation of names reveals when said out loud. We landed on:
Frances Glimmend Butée de Porte
Sounds pretty fancy, doesn't it? Like, ooh, what's a Butée de Porte? Is it like an Earl of Sandwich or a Viscountess of Winchilsea? Nope. It is literally French for door stop. Our new door stop’s name is literally Francis Shiny Door Stop.
Frances (English for "Frances"2)
Glimmend (Dutch for "shiny")
Butée de Porte (French for "door stop")
Yet it sounds regal and inscrutable. Also, it sounds funny when you say it out loud.
Now, every time I walk into the living area from the hallway, I say “Hi, Francis!” Or, if I feel a heightened sense of protocol is required, I will say, “Goedeavond, Frances Glimmend Butée de Porte!” (assuming it is evening). When I glance over to Francis they are always standing there with their head slightly cocked and (what’s that?) a shit-eating grin on their face doing the job they were hired to do. More than any of that, though, is this “glimmend butée de porte” can, in an instant (a millisecond), remind me of all of this. This entire ridiculous tale triggered by a bronze door stop.
And I get a little burst of joy from it.
IF YOU LIKE THIS
please press the ❤️ at the top or bottom of this page,
click the 💬 to leave me a comment (I’d love to hear from you),
or if you want to go nuts, hit the 🔄️to share this on your own socials.
All of it helps others to find this post, and me to find other readers.
I know. Francis is the masculine and Frances is the feminine, so gender neutrality gets tossed right out the window (this from a guy named Danny, not Dani). When said out loud, though, it is indiscernible. Rarely will I be putting that name in writing (this from the guy who just wrote a whole article about it).
I know. Francis has Latin roots meaning “free man” and Frances has Latin roots meaning “from France.” My middle name is Frank. People will often remark “oh, short for Francis?” Nope. It’s Frank. Technically, it is short for Francis. Frank is the nickname for it. No one uses the nickname of their middle name for their middle name. It’s just not necessary. All of this to say what we are looking for here is the translation of the name, not the etymology of the name. Francis (or Frances) translates to Francis (or Frances) regardless of language just as Frank translates to Frank even though it is derived from Francis (or Frances). Is this way too long of a footnote? Yes. Did I do that on purpose? Yes. Thanks for getting this far.