It may be time to go back to the future for baby names

Who is the youngest person named Doris? Or Marvin?

Is there anyone in elementary schools with those names? Anyone under 18? Anyone under 40?

It seems likely, but who knows? Popular names change over time and we tend to have group think about them. Do you know someone named Ashley or Justin? They were probably born in the 1980s. Someone named Barbara or Dennis? They're likely old enough to receive Medicare.

But wouldn't it be great to go into a kindergarten class and meet a bunch of 5-year-olds with throwback names? Betty. Shirley. Beverly. Ralph. Norman. Earl.

I'd want to meet those parents and congratulate them for either being traditionalists or being the first wave of parents who use those names again.

The thing is, there was a time when kindergarten classes were filled with Shirleys and Normans. It was the 1930s and 1940s, but still . . . names that we associate with seniors were once given to newborns. As time passed, names changed and many returned. Consider the renaissance in the past decades of girls' names such as Abigail, Emilia and Lily – all popular names a century ago. But where are the Ethels and Gladyses and Mildreds?

(It's always risky to make gags about names, because just when you ridicule a name, you find out that a friend named their child that–because it's the name of someone who made an indelible impact on their life. So I apologize in advance. When I say that it would be funny to meet a 5-year-old Doris or Marvin, I don't mean that your child or grandchild has a goofy name. They're different.)

Along with everyone reading this, I'm sensitive about this subject. I realize I have the most white bread name possible – both my first name and last name sound like the entitled son of a wealthy country club member in a 1980s teen movie (which might be the case. Or maybe not). My sons' names ranked 76th and 133rd in the 1990s and my three granddaughters all have names that rank in the top 150 for the decades in which they were born.

In other words, I can't blame people for running with the herd on names. My kids and granddaughters are the Marvins and Dorises of their generations.

By the way, according to the Social Security Administration (your source for baby names and retirement benefits), the five most popular names in 2024 for girls were Olivia, Emily, Amelia, Charlotte and Mia. For boys, they were Liam, Noah, Oliver, Theodore and James. One hundred years ago, the most popular among those names was Charlotte (78th in the 1920s) and James (still third!).

So if you're getting ready to have a child and want to be a forerunner in the what's-old-is-new movement of baby names, allow me to make some suggestions among names that were popular 100 years ago and are ready for a return (although it may be difficult to find a bicycle license plate with that name, if that's a thing anymore).

Here are five suggestions for girls' names: Betty, Gladys, Hazel, Gertrude, Bertha. For boys: Howard, Clarence, Herbert, Elmer, Harvey.

The classics are classics for a reason.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.

A gratitude list, from Thanksgiving football to flush toilets

I've been writing newspaper columns for nearly 40 years. I've been writing this column (not this specific one, but the Sunday Daily Republic column in general) for nearly 25 years. For nearly a half-century, I've been able to do one thing: Read a calendar.

There are 52 Sundays per year and it's difficult to come up with 52 good column ideas (which won't surprise anyone who regularly reads what I write). There are, however, some obvious choices: Holidays.

Some are better than others. It's hard (but not impossible) to find a clever topic related to Arbor Day or even Valentine's Day (I've written the "I hate Valentine's Day" column and the "Mrs. Brad loves those awful chalky heart candies" columns).

The next holiday on the schedule? Fairly simple. Thanksgiving is not only one of the greatest holidays in America (ranked No. 2 by your intrepid author in yet another column, 10 years ago), it's a great time to express gratitude. And the Sunday before Thanksgiving is a great time for a columnist to reflect on gratitude and offer up some things for which we should be thankful.

So, here goes. Here are 15 sometimes-overlooked things for which we should be thankful in 2025:

• NFL games on Thanksgiving. We're now in the three-game era, but for most of our lives, Thanksgiving featured two games: A morning game in Detroit, and afternoon game in Dallas. How many other holiday sports traditions are there? Maybe NBA games at Christmas. Maybe the final round of the U.S. Open men's golf tournament on Father's Day. Thanksgiving is better. When I was 10, the Lions hosted a Thanksgiving morning game, the Cowboys hosted the afternoon game. When I was 60, same thing. A great tradition.
• We can stream music and podcasts on our phones  A music service gives us access to a library of songs that is 10,000 times greater than any of us – even the most devoted musicophile – could collect. I often take this modern miracle for granted.
• We still listen to the same 100 or so songs, because as much as we'd like to say we have diverse tastes, most of us have narrow tastes. That's fine. Enjoy what you enjoy.
• Grocery stores have virtually every food you need. Fresh vegetables. Good meat. Canned foods, boxed foods, snacks, healthy food. They also have paper plates, pens, shampoo. And we can put all those things in carts with wheels that we dutifully return to their corrals after using. We may (and do) complain about costs, but think how life would be without a grocery store nearby.
• Even when we have something wrong with us medically, the other 99.99% of our body  functions correctly. How does my leg know how to step onto a sidewalk without me thinking about it? How does my kidney know how to function correctly? How does my skin repair itself when I get a cut? It's amazing.
• Cars last decades now, not just 100,000 miles. I expect my cars to go 300,000 miles, which was unfathomable even a generation ago.
• Showers.
• Egg cartons haven't really been improved. They work perfectly.
• Winter and summer last just long enough that many of us are ready for a change when it comes.
• Flush toilets exist.
• We can wave our credit card by a machine and it somehow works.
• Our body sleeps daily and keeps functioning when we're unconscious. Isn't that amazing?
• We can communicate with medical professionals by our computers. There's still plenty wrong with medicine, but being able to ask our doctor a basic, non-emergency question via a website is a tremendous step.
• Top Ramen, the most reliable food ever.
• When I need a column idea for the Sunday before the fourth Thursday in November, I can write about gratitude.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.

Simpler times, when Northern California had just five area codes

If you told me your phone number area code in the 1980s, I knew generally where you lived. Because there were only five such codes in Northern California.

I grew up in the northern end of the 707, as we say now, which made it remarkable when Mrs. Brad and I moved to Fairfield and were still in the area code of our births. We were 707 for life!

However, we were aware of the other area codes (especially during my sports editor days, when I made and received calls daily from coaches): 916 was for Sacramento to the Oregon border, 415 was around San Francisco, but encompassed most of the Peninsula and East Bay Area; 408 was around San Jose; 209 was Stockton and south around I-5 and Highway 99.

That was it. That's all we'd ever need. Your area code mattered.

It was a simpler time, when we had three TV networks (before Fox arrived) and two colors of clothes (black or white).

We also had other oversimplifications to explain our childhood to people born decades after us: Life was simpler. We were happier. Our mothers were depressed and our fathers drank a lot, ignored us and often had affairs (Wait. That didn't happen to everyone?). But dang it, the world was better! There were only five area codes in Northern California!

It turns out area codes were relatively new when many thought they were permanent. Area codes began in 1947, which is a long time ago now, but wasn't that long ago in the 1960s. California originally had three area codes–213 for Southern California, 415 for Central California (which included the Bay Area) and 916 for Northern California (including my hometown of Eureka). In fact, the entire nation had 76 area codes, covering all 50 states (well, 48 states in 1947. Alaska and Hawaii were standing in the lobby, so they didn't get area codes).

The 707 was created in 1959 to commemorate the death of Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens and the Big Bopper (Editor's note: That is not confirmed. In fact, it's wrong) and things stayed the same for decades and decades.

The Big Five area codes remained in place until the 1980s and the arrival of more phones, fax machines and girls whose hair was really tall in front (perhaps not related to phones). The volume of phone numbers grew quickly and new area codes came. The East Bay spun off the 510 area code in 1991. Six years later, the Peninsula became 650 and the northern part of 916 became 530. The next year, the 925 area code split from the seven-year-old 510. In the past decade or so, it's grown on steroids: a bunch of new area codes were "overlaid" to existing area codes. You may not realize this, but Northern California now has area codes 279, 341, 350, 369, 628, 669 and 837.

But . . . my hometown (Eureka) and Fairfield-Suisun are the OGs. They remain 707. An area code, a famous airplane, a lifestyle.

Who knows what will happen next? Will we continue to split area codes or will technology make it needless (mobile phones exploded but fax machines went away, partly offsetting the increase, I presume).

Sometimes I look back at the good old days when there were just a few area codes. When all we had to do was dial 11 numbers (one, plus the area code, plus the number) to make a long-distance call, which was expensive. Dialing such a number incorrectly resulted in a charge on the phone bill. Back then, your parents urged you to talk quickly to grandma because it was a long-distance call (made on a Sunday night, when rates were allegedly cheaper)!

I think back to when we had stickers on the phone with the number of the fire department, since there was no 9-1-1 system. When life was . . . 

Wait a second! That doesn't sound simpler, that sounds harder. Our phones were attached to our kitchen walls, long-distance calls cost a lot of money, you had to dial numbers, there were no answering machines and there was no 9-1-1 service.

Let me change my story. Back when I was a kid, life was so much harder. We had to dial numbers, our moms were depressed and there were just five area codes in Northern California . . .

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.

The Dictionary.com Word of the Year is 6-7, which is so 6-7

If you ever forgot that teenagers want to be different, you're probably 6-7.

Don't know what that means? Neither do I. But of course, neither do tweens and teenagers who made that term so ubiquitous that it's Dictionary.com's "Word of the Year" for 2025.

Forget that "6-7" isn't a word. Forget that there's no definition. Consider it an exhibition of the power of teens.

That's so 6-7.

To the uninitiated (which is most of us), 6-7 became a common (overused) phrase this summer among school-aged kids, launched by its repetition in the song "Doot Doot (6 7)" by Skrilla (fun fact: Skrilla's real name is Fred Skrillakowski and he's a 54-year-old truck driver from Iowa. Fun truth: That's not true).

Dictionary.com wrote that 6-7, "is a viral, ambiguous slang term" that is largely nonsensical. Some say it means "so-so" or "just OK," or "maybe this, maybe that."

In other words, if kids wanted to be clear, they could say "so-so," "just OK," or "maybe this, maybe that." Or maybe not. There's a mystery to the meaning – and as always, there's a suspicion among adults that it has to do with drugs or sex.

That's so 6-7.

However, there's a possibility – maybe a likelihood, if you're a sports nerd and know players' heights – that 6-7 really grabbed people's attention when the Skrilla song was used frequently on video clips of LaMelo Ball, a player for the NBA's Charlotte Hornets who stands . . . are you ready? . . . 6 foot 7.

LaMelo Ball is 6-7! Although I'd suggest he's more than "so-so" or "just OK." LeMelo Ball has a reasonable chance to be an NBA All-Star.

But there are other possibilities.

The official Wikipedia entry says, "Some have connected it to 67th Street in Skrilla's hometown of Philadelphia or to 67th Street in Chicago. Linguist and African American English expert Taylor Jones has speculated that it may refer to '10-67,' the police radio code used to notify of a death. ... Skrilla himself has stated, 'I never put an actual meaning on it and I still would not want to.'"

After saying that, Skrilla got back into the cab of his 18-wheeler, called his wife Judy back home in Iowa, and asked if she could cook meatloaf for the first night when he returned. (This is called "continuing the bit," which is 6-7.)

Ultimately, the "Word of the Year" award holds up about as well as the Heisman Trophy in terms of predicting the future. Just go back 11 years, for instance: The Word of the Year was "exposure" and the Heisman Trophy winner was Marcus Mariota. The best you could do to suggest either had a lasting impact is to say, "Marcus Mariota seemed OK until he got exposure and we realized he's a 6-7 quarterback."

Is 6-7 worth remembering? It depends on who's in your life. If you are around a group of 13-, 15- and 17-year-olds, maybe. If not, it will probably fade into obscurity, only to be revived in 20 years when they're in their 30s and complaining about how kids are dumb.

Kids aren't dumb. They want to be different than adults. They want their own thing.

The last thing they want to be is 6-7, if my understanding is correct.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.

My most miserable academic experience was a college science class

Always do your homework, even before enrolling in a class. I learned that in the most humiliating educational experience of my life.

I was midway through my college experience. I didn't live on campus (I lived in town). I had few friends who were in college with me (most of my friends were co-workers, from church or from high school). And then there was Mrs. Brad (who wasn't yet Mrs. Brad).

I was on my own to pick classes. I was a journalism major, but unfortunately, I was required to take other classes. I liked history. I tolerated psychology. I enjoyed radio.

We were required to take multiple science classes. I was terrible at science. It made no sense to me. In high school, I survived because it was a general class and I could memorize well enough to regurgitate facts for a test (while not understanding the subject).

It turned out that strategy didn't help in college. I registered for botany.

Confession: I had no idea what botany was and in the pre-internet age, the only way to find out would be to look it up in a dictionary or encyclopedia. Or ask someone who knew. I didn't do either: I needed a science class and the botany class fit my schedule. How hard could it be?

Very hard, it turns out.

I walked into the first day of class and got a sense of impending doom. I attended Humboldt State University (now Cal Poly Humboldt!), which had a large forestry program. Most of my fellow students were wearing flannel shorts, boots and had beards. And that was just the women (rimshot)!

Botany is the study of plants, it turns out. The class I was taking was a general education science class, but it was also required for those forestry majors who loved science and plants and flannel and beards.

I'd figure it out, I thought.

The botany class was three days a week at 8 a.m., which was a terrible time for someone who worked until midnight several days a week at a pizza parlor. Each Monday, Wednesday and Friday, I'd get to class, sit in a massive lecture hall with 100 other students and the teacher would turn off the lights to show slides. The next moment, the lights came back on, it was 9 a.m. and I'd slept through class. Oh no.

The worse part? There was a lab requirement of two three-hour sessions a week, which seemed impossible. I didn't know what to do, other than to use a microscope to shatter a dozen cover slides (slide covers? Who knows?) per session. I couldn't figure out how to make the microscope work, while my fellow students were talking about chlorophyll and cell walls and nuclei. While wearing flannel shirts and stroking their manly beards.

The most memorable part of the class may have been the persistent gag by Paul, of my co-workers at the pizza parlor. He would occasionally ask me what class was giving me problems. When I'd say, "botany," he'd say, "not lately."

It was dumb, but the fact that it was the highlight shows how terrible the class was.

By the midway point of the quarter, I was failing miserably. My average was in the mid-30s and the lowest D required a score in the 60s, so I went to visit the professor. I could talk my way through this. I was trying! It wasn't my fault! I went to high school with his daughter! (I hoped the last point was the tiebreaker.)

He listened to me, then said there was a great way to ensure I passed the class: Get my score up to a 60 for a D-minus. 

For me to raise my average to that point, I'd need to average an 85 or something the rest of the quarter. How was that going to happen?

I thought I could dig my way out. I'd pay attention in class. I'd solve the broken cover slide problem. I'd understand what chlorophyll was and maybe even wear flannel. Well, not that extreme, but maybe I'd figure it out.

The rest of the quarter was . . . more of the same. I went to class, fell asleep and woke up an hour later. I went to the lab hours and continued to shatter cover slides. I took tests and failed miserably.

I failed the class badly. I wasted an entire quarter by getting up early three days a week. I spent six hours a week learning to hate microscopes. I realized that people with beards and flannel shirts are smarter than me.

The most important lesson? Don't sign up for something you don't understand.

Ultimately, I compiled my science units by taking what were still casually called "bonehead" classes, those intended for students like me, rather than the whiskered, flannel-wearers.

The final class? Biology, taught by a professor who acknowledged that most of us were there for the credits, so he tried to make it interesting to us. And I had a friend who went to college and took the class with me: Mrs. Brad. We were engaged by that time and it was our last quarter of college. A biology class seemed perfect. We both passed.

Decades later, my main memories of college science, though, are of being tired and breaking cover slides.

Botany? Not lately.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@outlook.com.