Hello Mrs. Eskridge. So… I was reading Sirens and Other Daemon Lovers last night and turned to page 270 and nearly had a heart attack. The Eye of the Storm by Kelley Eskridge. I couldn’t believe it. Eskridge! You see my last name happens to be Eskridge.
I read your story and enjoyed it very much. Because the name Eskridge is not as common as the names Smith and Jones I really got excited. I’m a freshman at Smith College in Northampton, Ma. and I truly enjoy writing. I’m also taking several acting classes this semester and I read that you studied theatre. For the past several years, my sister and I have been curious about our last name. Unfortunately we haven’t been able to make any sense of the history connected to this mysterious surname. When I saw that you shared this unusual name, had a career as a writer and was familiar with theatre I thought it was just too many similarities to pass up.
Well I guess that’s all I wanted to say. I thank you for taking the time to read my question… comment rather.
It turns out there are more Eskridges in the world than you might imagine. I can tell you a few things about us, at least my part of “us.” My family probably came to America from the north of England. If you look at a map, in the northeast part of England you’ll find a town called Whitby located on the River Esk. It’s hilly country there, and it’s an easy guess that some of the people living on the ridge over the river became Eskridges. Actually, Nicola informs me that there are two or more rivers named Esk in the UK, but this one is my favorite. Apparently river names are some of the few surviving words of Celtic (as opposed to Anglo-Saxon) origin: esk comes from uisc, which we think means life, and if it doesn’t, it should. It’s also the root word of whiskey.
Edited to add in 2008: It turns out that we Eskridges are historical! George Washington’s middle name was Eskridge. Here’s why. (/edit)
We Eskridges also have an entire town in Kansas, which tickles me. Imagine, a place where we never have to spell our last name for anyone.
I hope you’re enjoying Smith College. One of my first paying jobs was at the Tri-County Fair at the Northampton Racetrack. I was fascinated by the horses, the jockeys, the self-contained world of racing. Watching jockeys was one of the first times I remember actively noticing how someone moved. And I liked Northampton. This was about a thousand years ago, so I’m sure much has changed, but I hope that you can still lose a few hours in an old house with small rooms and no right angles that has been turned into a secondhand bookstore, and then go have a grinder and a beer.
The naming of things has a certain power, doesn’t it? I find it peculiar to be called Mrs. Eskridge, and in fact even if Nicola and I did marry, I still wouldn’t want to be called Mrs. It’s too much of a possessive, and while I don’t mind giving, I prefer not to be owned. I also hate sharing my name. For a while my stepbrother was married to a woman named Kelly who took our name, so there were two Kell(e)y Eskridges in the family. Then my dad and stepmother adopted a dog named Kelly, at which point I had a polite tantrum on the phone. There wasn’t much I could do about the sister-in-law, but I figured the dog would have to be flexible (she became Chloe, and lived a long and happy life). It was interesting to find myself being so territorial about it. But names matter: not just our given names, but the ones that people hang on us, the nicknames or category labels. These things give or take away social and cultural and personal power. What we call people, what we call ourselves, makes a difference.