Suppose you investigate a cultural domain, or category, with many things in it — samples of the color pink, forms of the letter T, pieces of flatware, hybrid tea rose plants, and so on. It will turn out that people distinguish a (large) number of different subtypes, or subcategories, within that domain — different shades of pink, different typefaces, different patterns of silverware, different cultivars of hybrid tea roses. And then they will need labels for reference to these subcategories. These could be given code numbers of some sorts (and for some purposes such coding is entirely adequate), but people, quite reasonably, want memorable and at least somewhat meaningful names, in a language. Flamingo pink, a Times typeface, a Shell silverware pattern, the Mr. Lincoln rose, that sort of thing.
In the real world, especially for commercial purposes, the number of subcategories in a domain can be immense, reaching into the hundreds in some domains, and (in some of them) ever-expanding. So names will have to be coined by the barrel, churned out by the yard, and often the best a name creator can do is pick a name with positive associations. It would be entirely possible for there to be an Imperial pink, an Imperial typeface, an Imperial silverware pattern, and an Imperial rose.
Every now and then, I’ve commented on this blog about the profusion of names within some domain. Most recently, in my 12/3/23 posting “Waxed amaryllis” (with lists of some named amaryllis cultivars). You can find some meaningful themes in these lists; plenty of the names for solid red cultivars are associated with Christmas (with its red and green) and Valentine’s Day / love (with a red heart). But then there are Hope, Miracle, and Grand Diva. For solid white cultivars, Amore and Festive Parade. For red with white stripes, Ambiance. For white with red stripes, Besties. At some point, names will have to be plucked out of the air.
Which brings me to Karen Schaffer posting on Facebook on 9/13 about the melons in her garden.
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