Public servants and politicians, deserving and undeserving, have had schools, bridges, stretches of highway, sewage treatment plants, etc. named for them. And legions of ordinary folks have children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews bearing their name in some form. But not I.

One of my Swansboro readers even has a sandwich named for him at a local restaurant. I sampled it. It was quite good.

When I once had the temerity to ask my daughter why she didn't name my only grandson for me, she looked at me as if I'd been standing in the sun too long and said, "Daddy, you must be teasing!"

Literally dozens of nieces and nephews, many of whom have expressed a fondness for me, have never deigned to lay my moniker on one of their offspring. How can I blame them?

My father, a staunch Republican, named his several sons after Republican presidents. So when I came into the world with the help of old Dr. Stone, who came out to the farm from Dobson to do the honors, my dad proclaimed that I would be called "Calvin Coolidge Snow.'

"He will not!" my normally soft-spoken, submissive mother declared with finality in her voice. And from the womb, I'm sure I also squeaked, "No way, Hosea!"

Vermont born, Calvin Coolidge was a colorless cuss, known for his lack of humor. He once confided to actress Ethel Barrymore, "I think the American people want a solemn ass for president, and I think I will go along with them." He did. In spades!

He was so laid-back that when, at the sudden death of Warren G. Harding, he became president, his father, a notary public, went to the family farm and awakened his son to administer the oath of office. Coolidge then promptly went back to bed.

Only once, in the book "Presidential Anecdotes" by Paul F. Boller, have I encountered any hint of levity in Calvin Coolidge.

President and Mrs. Coolidge were touring an Iowa poultry farm. Mrs. Coolidge, a spirited sort, upon noticing a rooster romancing a hen asked, "Does he do that often?"

Informed that the rooster performed dozens of times daily, she quipped to an aide, "Tell that to the president."

Upon hearing the message, the president asked whether one or more hens were involved. Upon being told, "Oh, yes, many," the president said, "Tell that to Mrs. Coolidge!"

The caustic Alice Roosevelt Longworth once said that Coolidge had been "weaned on a pickle." When he died, wit Dorothy Parker wisecracked, "How can they tell?"

But back to my naming. Eventually a compromise was reached. Dad middle-named me Calvin; my mother came up with, from what source she could never recall, the awful name of Aubert. All my life I've wished my father had prevailed.

Throughout childhood, my name became my albatross, mispronounced "Agbert," "Ugbert" or worse, until I finally decided to answer only to "A.C." On a recent trip to Europe, I almost yelled "Say again!" when the Amsterdam tour guide reading our passport names, addressed me as "Aw-Bare," the correct French pronunciation.

The heretofore is history. At long last, I have a namesake. A tomato!

Last summer after writing a column about tomatoes, my favorite varieties, etc., I became acquainted with Dr. Craig LeHoullier a recently retired, still consulting, Glaxo chemist whose passion is developing new varieties of tomatoes, including my favorite, the Cherokee Purple.

Dr. LeHoullier invited my wife and me to his North Raleigh home for a tomato tasting at which we sampled some 21 varieties from his garden.

Then, a few weeks ago, to my surprise and pleasure. Dr. LeHoullier informed me that he has named a new variety "Dwarf Mr. Snow." Already tested in Australia this past winter, it is said to be exceptionally succulent and will be listed in seed catalogs beginning in 2010.

Long resigned to never knowing an Aubert Jr., much less an Aubert III or IV, I realize one could do worse than having a tomato for a namesake.

No, it's not a bridge or a sewage plant. But a good tomato, the chief ingredient of a delicious BLT, is a nice enough memorial to a life well and happily lived. Thank you, Dr. LeHoullier.

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