What's in a (store) name?

A few weeks ago, a news article caught my attention: Donald Fisher, founder of The Gap stores, had died. Long ago, I worked for The Gap for a briefish stint, trying to save up enough to finish my last year of college (I learned a lot at The Gap, too; definitely part of my education). So I knew the origin of the company's name, and certainly knew the company ad jingle, a catchy bit that still sometimes replays itself in my head, ad nauseum (if you're more than, oh, about 30 years old, you know "Fall in-to-the-Gap..."). I had even shopped at the original store as a teenager. It was odd (in that "I knew them when!" way) to see this one, simple idea grow into a mega-chain.

Interesting to note that Mr. Fisher originally planned to call the store "Pants and Discs" with a subtitle of "Levis, Records & Tapes." [Ahhh, 1969. How quaint.] His wife, Doris, came up with the far better name "The Gap." Do you think the store would have become the powerhouse it is with a name like Pants and Discs? No possible way. Forty years later, The Gap has stood the test of time, and is ingrained in our brand consciousness. Whether or not you shop there, you know exactly what it is.

On the other hand, we get used to every oddball name that thrives or goes mainstream. Kinko's was named for the wild, kinky hair of its founder. I bet he did it as a lark, never imagining that it would grow into a national chain. Never imagining that some of us would call it Stinko's.

One of my favorite stores (other than my own, oh yeah) is called Tail of the Yak (Berkeley, CA). There's just so much wrong with that name, starting with "yak." But mention the name to anyone who's ever shopped there, and it doesn't matter. Your heart still skips a beat and you get this warm fuzzy feeling about the Yak. Or how about Bell'Occhio (in SF), another fabulous, inspiring, beautiful shop? Unless you're Italian, you probably can't say it or spell it (and good luck finding it, too). But, it doesn't matter. They went with a name they loved (it means "good eye" in Italian), and bucked all odds to become one of the most luscious (and loved) little boutiques anywhere. You mustn't miss it if you go to San Francisco, but you better do a google map search first, because I'm not kidding: you'll never find it otherwise.

Then there's our own little Pomegranate. When we took over the location nearly twelve years ago, it was called Ice House Trading Post. Well, I'm just not a trading post kind of girl, so that had to go, and even though "Ice House" has a connection to the property (Bend's oldest ice house is one of our three buildings... but no ice anymore), it had its own issues. Although we relied on our small but growing group of sweet, dear and wonderful customers to know what we were all about, the words "Trading Post" and "Ice House" led some people to think we had pemmican and stuffed squirrels and cheap beer. The phone rang all day with such inquiries. Not exactly what I had in mind.

So the search was on for a new name. We had pages and pages and pages of names we had brainstormed. It had to be just right. Not a name someone else already had (I love "Nest" in San Francisco, but it's really bad form and bad business to copy a name, even from a different state). It has to be memorable, spellable, and most of all, fit your image. It has to sound good (or at least, not sound weird) when you answer the phone with it. If you call for Directory Assistance (or google a name search), can you at least get the first four letters right? [That's one small reason why I hate names like Kountry Kollections – oh, don't get me started!] And, does it work graphically when you start thinking about logos or labeling?

As we were in the throes of picking our new name, we ended up taking a long road trip, entertaining each other with stupid name ideas, and pretending we were answering the shop phone ("HellOOoo, Poopsie's!" – that was Robert's idea, shouted out in a high falsetto). My mother was with us for part of the way. She came up with Pomegranate, and it fit. She has wild pomegranate trees on her property, and we were always filling the car with them for decoration at the shop and at home. At the time, pomegranates were still an unusual and exotic fruit. Way before the time when they became part of our diet and vernacular. Before they became part of our cocktails. Pomegranates connect us to the Mediterranean, which we love. And they are ripe (pardon the pun) with spiritual, mythical, and religious iconography, which we learned about later.

Not that Pomegranate is the perfect name. It has its problems. Spelling, for one. We get mail addressed to Pompgranite, Pomogranit, Pamagrante, and every other possible variation. It's also a long name; the whole logo process is challenging (like right now, I'm finally putting a Facebook page together, and if you want to use your logo as your one image, it better fit into a small square, otherwise you're outta luck). For a vertical outdoor sign, I had to use a different font, condensed and squished to fit across. And now, there's the whole issue of popularity: unrelated Pomegranates are popping up all over the place, including another one in Oregon, which should be illegal, but isn't (it's just morally illegal). It just adds to the confusion and brand dilution, and means that sometimes shipments get mixed up and vendors make mistakes. Vexation occurs.

But it's okay. We're just doing our little thing in our small corner of Oregon. Micro mini business, compared to some. We're not going national anytime soon (okay, not ever). Heck, even having two stores was more stress than I could have imagined. Which brings me back to The Gap. To grow like that, to be successful at retail (3,100 stores!), takes money, focus, determination, passion, and really, really good systems. Oh, did I mention money? We definitely have focus, determination, and passion. So there you be.