Remember my long-rumored book, Still Chasing Rainbows, that I announced I was writing three and a half years ago and never quite seemed to finish? Well, I’m done crying wolf. For that matter, I’m done crying Wolf Blitzer. Pinch yourself, people, because 304 pages of howling trade and camp blanket fury is going to be in your hot little hands in May of this coming year.

I’ve been working on it night and day for months; fueling myself with mountains of food and, truth be told, I’m gotten a little plump. That hit home yesterday when I visited an old friend and he invited me to pull up a couch.

Never mind my weight. I want to talk about my middle name…Ronald. I’ve never liked it and never understood why I’d been given the name. At age 50 I vowed to find out. Naturally, I reasoned, my parents could explain it to me.

Let the record show that at the time this issue was raised both my parents were of completely sound mind and body. Not a hint of memory loss or any form of impairment at all. Healthy as horses. For fun they’d both whinny.

“Dad, why do I have the middle name Ronald?”

“No idea. My best advice would be to ask your mother.”

“Mom, why did you name me Ronald?”

“Have you asked your father? He’d know.”

“He doesn’t know. He said to ask you.”

“Oh, boy. That’s a tough one.”

“Seriously? You don’t remember why you gave your oldest child his middle name?”

“Well, Barry, you know the Jewish family tradition. You pick a baby’s name that starts with the first letter of the name of the last family member that’s passed away.”

“I think that’s for the first name, Mom, but I’ll play along. Who died before I was born?”

“Your Uncle Abe.”

“Mom, Abe starts with an A and Ronald….”

She finished my sentence. “…yes, starts with a R, so that’s not our answer.”

I tried valiantly to help. “Maybe you named me after an actor. Ronald Coleman, Ronald Reagan?”

“No…no…we didn’t do that.”

“So you really have no idea at all why I have the name Ronald?”

“I’ll ask around.”

“Really? You’ll ask around??? Who are you going to ask? The mailman?”

“That’s ridiculous, Barry. The mailman wouldn’t know.”

Flash forward a dozen years. My dear mother; my younger brother, Kenneth Charles Friedman; and I are in a car together when Kenny raised the subject of my middle name.

“Mom, did you ever figure out why you gave Barry the name Ronald?”

“No, that remains a family mystery. Thank God I didn’t give you a middle name at all.”

“My middle name is Charles.”

“Oh, it is not!”

“Let me repeat. My middle name is Charles.”

“I’d need to see some verification. Why would I give you a name like that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe after your father…Charles?”

“You two with the sarcasm. Anywho….”

“And one more thing,” my brother said. “We’ll obviously never know why you named him Ronald, but why’d you name him Barry?”

Wow!!! I had never thought to ask that!!!!

“Hmmmm,” my mother mused. “That’s a stumper!”

I may not have a clue who I am, but fortunately I can accurately identify our beloved Blanket Of The Month. I haven’t selected a cotton camp blanket for awhile so I’m rectifying that oversight with this late 1920’s Esmond Mills blanket from the Sharon and Wayne Ritchey Collection. My mother loves this blanket, but can’t remember exactly why. She’ll ask around.