“… What is the name of that geranium on the windowsill, please?”

“That’s the apple-scented geranium.”

“Oh, I don’t mean that sort of a name. I mean just a name you gave it yourself. Didn’t you give it a name? May I give it one then? May I call it——let me see—Bonny would do—may I call it Bonny while I’m here? Oh, do let me!”

“Goodness, I don’t care. But where on earth is the sense of naming a geranium?”

“Oh, I like things to have handles even if they are only geraniums. It makes them seem more like people. How do you know but that it hurts a geranium’s feelings just to be called a geranium and nothing else? You wouldn’t like to be called nothing but a woman all the time. Yes, I shall call it Bonny. I named that cherry tree outside my bedroom window this morning. I called it Snow Queen because it was so white. Of course, it won’t always be in blossom, but one can imagine that it is, can’t one?”

——by L. M. Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables, Chapter IV Morning at Green Gables

I named trees when I was in elementary school. My friend and I often picnicked under those trees during class breaks. We greeted each tree by the name we gave it every morning. It was like a ceremony to begin a day.

Viola, May 10^th, 2017 morning in Austin