How We Named The Farm

At its worst, a farm name signals pretension (“Apotheosis Acres”); at its best, a “wink-wink” sort of whimsy (my favorite is “Happy Now?” Farm). But regardless, since it’s going to end up incised by a DeWalt 7-amp Corded 1-¼ HP Max Torque Variable Speed Compact Router on an expensive slab of HDU, it is not an unimportant choice.

Woe to those who, having named boats, cars, children and dogs, think “Oh, I’m good at this!”

If you’re linguistically inclined, start with the Signified (the conceptual ideal form) and the Signifier (the conceptual material form expressed as words on a page, an image, or a leering tilt-of-an-eyebrow Emoji).

Make columns of descriptive words like “mountain/highland/valley/crest/hill/view/vue/vista/creek/river/rock/ridge” and “beautiful” in 10 languages.

I forgot to say, first decide whether you are a ranch/farm/acres/grange/manor or cottage. Then combine these into lilting two- to three--word phrases.

After saluting yourself for welding sound to sense, Google them–and learn they’re in use by the neighbors (Mountain Valley Kennels, Crest Hill Farm) and hit Register.Com to see their urls are already spoken for (although some can be put back in play for thousands of dollars).

Now do what you should have done first: tromp around your land with eyes and ears open, and nose, tongue and dowsing fingers quivering for “sign.”

Mine had been before me the whole time.

After 1,825 days of showings, my forbearing realtor, like Sherlock to Watson, ended our tour of Last Chance Acres, with: “Perhaps you’d better look in the barn.”

Okay, sure, why not. “Say, aren’t those twin silos neat? We could make these into fun little observatories, with spiral stairs. telescopes and the whole deal!!”

In a little side window looking up into the tower, the seller’s agent (also the farm owner) stuck her head in and said, “There’s an owl up there!”

“Really?” I said excitedly, and craned my neck up but couldn’t see it.

My age but with better eyes the seller/farm owner said, “There are two owls!!”

“Darn” I said, and periscoped my neck even further up the drafty tube. I was just turning away in doubled petulance to say “I CAN’T SEE th…” when, pleuh, plop, plath, I was doused in milky white owl slime, the fancy sauce-smear to what every schoolchild knows as owl pellets.

Viewing my fallen state as Dante hunched among the Proud on the First Terrace of Purgatory, I shit-faced grinned (now we know where that expression comes from) as my Virgil ran to the car returning with paper towels and Sani-Wipes. Little did she know how, in the seconds she was away, using all my powers of cognitive dissonance, I had transfigured my incident honteux into a redemptive shimmering Baptism: Lost became Found, Fool became Sage, and Timid became Bold.

A few weeks later, my wallet several thousands of dollars lighter, I was Bravo-ing myself and bleating the story of How I Bought The Farm, when, like the owl poop, it hit me: the name.

First, I tried “Twin Owls.” But after researching Tyto Alba, the scientific name for barn owls, I concluded it was highly unlikely these particular owls were twins. Far more likely: mother and child, husband and wife, or some other Tytonidae-esque duo.

Then my husband came up with the killer idea: what is Two Owls in FINNISH? (He had just spent time in the land of the Sauna and the Suomalainen.)

My attempts here were darn close, with the best being the umlauted Pølløpari. In Finnish, this sounds like “Pullet Party” or the Gallicized “Poulet-Paris” (accent on the first and third syllables).

But in typical American English it sounds like “PortaPotty.”

I believe in KISS (Keep It Simple, Stupid–and I had those traits nailed–so, Da-Da:

TWO OWLS FARM.

I rather hope the two owls are husband and wife. Barn owls mate for life. A wooing male Door-Dashes his intended with second and third helpings of mice. To keep her happy, there are no lengths to which he will not go.

Which begs the question: should I have named the farm “Happy Now?”?

And then there’s the name inscribed on the Christmas gift mugs from our waggish son:

OWL SHIT RANCH.

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