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Genesis asserts the universe was created in six stages. If I accept this account, then the Garden of Eden qualifies as the earth's first subdivision. Strictly speaking, the tenants violated some sort of unwritten lease or covenant agreement, resulting in their eviction. Since then, real estate may have evolved but precedents have been established.

I have no light to shed on these Biblical arrangements, but I would like to say something about the subdivision itself. What perplexes me is that anyone would choose to move away from The Garden, especially when immortality comes with it, a perk nobody can live without.

When I compare what's marketed today, however, to that first subdivision, I confess I am a little disappointed. It's the sin of unoriginality that depresses me. Current developers lack the imagination to come up with any decent names for their communities.

More than likely, once the county commissioners approve a landowner's request for a permit to build the subdivision, I suppose the major partners in the deal buy an undisclosed quantity of beer and sit somewhere nearby, conjuring all sorts of images to chisel into a stone slab beside the entrance gate.

"Whadaya wanna call this place?" Adam Jr. asks.

"Sure got some purdy views," Evie replies.

No doubt they stare at the sky where a vinyl window will one day materialize, remembering their mothers' names, their favorite sports teams, their best dogs, or even their first loves. In the end, though, it comes down to a generic, uninspired agreement not to rock the boat of clichés, the predictably predictable nomenclature of subdivisions.

I'm still imagining this, but I suppose a building code requires developers to use two roulette-type wheels, with a limited vocabulary painted on plywood. After the first six-pack, the wheels are rotated. One of the wheels, at least based on the subdivision signs I've read, lists an array of organic nomenclature, like flowers, plants, shrubs, or trees. On the other wheel, an armada of geologic formations appears. When both wheels are nudged simultaneously, they spin and the jackpot spells out a two word combination. After a 12-pack, it must read like an inspiration.

Piñon Hills, Cedar Mesa, Cottonwood Butte. The platitudes coat the tongue like sour milk. Piñon Butte, Cedar Hills, Cottonwood Canyons - clichés, exciting as warm spit. Of course, the intellectuals add verbs and get combinations like Whispering Pines, Echo Canyon, or Rolling Meadows. Believe me, if I had to live in a subdivision that people referred to by any of these trite names, I'd feel morally obligated to sneak outside late at night and rotate their signs. I mean, really, if these are the signs of our times, then these times are destined to be studied by future generations as the Pathetic Era.

A good name offers a place in its soul. If profit margins and marketability are the major motivations behind creating communities in the West, then I understand why I'm living in a landscape of transients, a collection of unsettled wanderers searching for a place that feels like home. When I lived in England, I marveled at the Brits' ability to litter their lives with clever identifiers. I ate dinner at The Whim, consumed Bubble and Squeak, drank beer at The Quiet Woman (illustrated on the marquee by a headless woman, holding her head under her arm), and tried not to sigh while standing on the Bridge of Sighs. I came away from my international travel experience believing a culture can possess the power to bestow significance by choosing proper and witty names.

Of course, living with a woman who can't buy a toaster without christening it hasn't hurt. I'll admit that not every name she chooses strikes me as perfect, especially when her label-maker is pointed at me. I have been (lovingly) referred to (in public) by pet names that include pooker puppy, bunny rabbit and snake lips. These synonyms for my name twist off her tongue as sweetly as red licorice, but I've also watched many eyebrows raise as people who thought they knew me stare at me in a new way.

I know it's not simple to find the right name. Sometimes you have to wait for the name to come to you. When I moved into my house 20 years ago, my neighbor, an old farmer, came to my door dangling a 4-foot bull snake by its tail, telling me how it was the solution to my infestation of rattlers. I cautiously thanked him and asked him to let the snake go, which he did, and it slithered away under the trailer. I wondered how he managed to catch it.

"Up here on Turkey Buzzard Hill," my neighbor said, "ya gotta be quick." And he smiled, turned and headed down the driveway toward his home.

Later that evening, I told Pam how our neighbor had delivered our property's name along with a bull snake. She nodded, unintimidated by snakes, indicating the name would suit her fine.

"Is it male or female?"

"The neighbor?" I asked.

"The snake!"

"I didn't have the courage to check," I admitted.

"Then we'll call it Herman," she said, "a name befitting the undisclosed gender, one word containing two names, both female and male."

I nodded, indicating the name would suit me fine.

"That is," she replied, "until you have the courage to check."

David Feela is a teacher at Montezuma-Cortez High School. View his webpage at www.geocities.com/feelasophy.