The name on the door: the warmth of wood, and whose room it is

In our house in Zonguldak five sisters slept in two rooms, and nothing was written on either door. Then one summer my father brought a scrap of wood in from the garden, sanded it, and cut five small notches into it with a nail. Five sisters, five notches. He nailed it above the door. There was no name on it; but that day the room became “ours”.

Years later, hanging four names on four doors in my own home, I thought of that piece of wood every time.

Why the door?

When a baby’s name comes home it gets written on most things: the blanket, a box, a frame. The door comes last and stays longest. A door is the boundary of a room, and a name on that boundary says “from here inwards is theirs”. The baby doesn’t know. The one who knows is whoever opens the door: mother, father, visitor, and later a sibling.

Our first door was in Konya. Süleyman Taha’s room was really a corner of our bedroom; it had no door. So Abdullah hung a small piece of wood on the wardrobe. “If he can’t have a room, he can have a door,” he said. That piece is on Mehmet Emde’s door now — its fourth.

Why wood?

There are dozens of ways to put a name on a door: paper, fabric, paint. But wood is different, and I think the reason is simple: the door is wood. Wood on wood looks like part of the door — not stuck on, but grown there.

Then there is touch. At three, a child finds the name on the door with their hands, tracing the raised letters with a finger. Wood is warm, smooth, and it smells. Years later, taking the name down, it is the same: it has weight in your hand.

Wood has a flaw too: the colour turns, the edge wears, somewhere gets scratched. Not a flaw, really — a record of how many years that door opened and closed.

Four doors

There are four doors in the house now, and a name on each. Süleyman Taha’s is the oldest and darkest; it came from Konya. Muammer Esat’s is a plain board from the tuhafiye with letters Abdullah burned into it. Hamza Bera’s was made by a carpenter the year we moved. Mehmet Emde’s, as I said, is inherited from the wardrobe.

All four different. All four wood. Walking down the hallway I look at four doors and see four separate years.

How to make one at home

• A piece of wood. From a carpenter or the nalbur (hardware shop): beech, oak or lime. Lime is soft and the best for a first attempt. Fifteen to twenty centimetres wide is enough.
• Sandpaper, three grades. Coarse, medium, fine. Round the edges — a child’s hand will touch them.
• Three ways to make the letters. Pencil them in and paint with acrylic (easiest); burn them with a pyrography pen (Abdullah’s way; ask for a pirografi kalemi); or carve them (leave that to a carpenter).
• Oil, not varnish. Linseed oil or a natural wood oil suitable for a nursery; let the wood keep its smell.
• Ribbon, not nails. Hang it on linen or cotton ribbon, so when the door changes the name moves with it. That is how our wardrobe piece has travelled four doors.
• Choose the height with the child. Once they walk, at a height where they can find their own name with their hands.

If there is no time for sanding

Not every home has sandpaper and a pyrography pen; ours wouldn’t either, if Abdullah weren’t the tinkering kind. A wooden name can still hang on the door.

A new friend for their room

The room you prepared has a new little friend: a plush bunny with their name on its chest.

Add their name

Five notches

The piece of wood my father nailed up is still in Zonguldak, above that door. Five notches. No name. But five sisters still look up as they pass through. My sons’ doors carry names; years from now they will look up as they pass, too.

— Merve Çokal Doğan