The View from a Drawbridge

My last name is Abelhauser. There are only 10 of us left on the planet. I haven’t met most of them. All but two are older than me, and I’m no spring chicken myself.

One of the younger ones is a male of child-bearing age, but I haven’t seen him since he was very young, and I’m quite sure he doesn’t remember me. I don’t know if he intends to have children. He has very little internet presence. I’ve attempted to reach him through his sister, but have had no luck. It’s not as if I can pressure him to carry on the family legacy, of course. But it would be nice to know exactly how endangered the family name is.

It’s a bittersweet feeling, being this unique. Being easy to find on the internet is both a blessing and a curse. I do love to be different, but it comes with the knowledge that one day, not a single person on this entire planet will know there ever was an Abelhauser. (That’s almost the case now, if I’m honest.) Even the Dodo bird gets more recognition than that, and they’ve been gone since 1662.

There are a few headstones out there, and two books authored by Abelhausers. I did put our name on the immigrant wall at Ellis Island. But all this will crumble to dust one day. Everything is so temporal.

It’s estimated that somewhere between 200 and 2000 species go extinct every year. It’s safe to say that most of them are not self-aware enough to realize their soon-to-be-gone status. But my heart still breaks for the very last one of a species. Imagine, for example, a bird calling out for a mate and never getting an answer. Lamenting the disappearance of my last name pales by comparison.

So I humbly launch this blog post into cyberspace, like an electronic message in a bottle. Inside the bottle I place these words: There once was a family named Abelhauser. We were here. By the time you read this, we’ll most likely be gone. That is all.

In a last ditch effort for Abelhauser immortality, I reached out to the International Commission on Zoological Nomenclature to see if they know of any creature out there that still needs a name. It could be a worm, for all I care. Just so the name lives on. Things don’t happen unless you ask, right?

Their response was not unexpected, but it was disheartening. The scientist that discovers a creature gets to name it, and if they name it after a human, it’s usually a fellow scientist who worked with that type of animal, or worked in the region where the animal was found. However, animals have been named after people who have made large donations, too, so perhaps I could look into that.

Uh… let me check my couch cushions to see what funds I can come up with, and I’ll get back to you. (Oh well. It was worth a shot.)

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