While I readily acknowledge that not all people are fans of the nickname, I myself am not one of them. I readily hand out nicknames to all people near and dear to me (and sometimes to enemies). Aside from enemies, it has always been my hope that no offence will be taken to the nicknames I have assigned to friends and family and they will see them as a sign of love and affection.
Until recently, I had given very little thought to this nickname habit of mine. Like most people, I assume everyone thinks much like me and it, therefore, came as quite a shock to realize that not everyone hands out and makes use of nicknames as readily as myself. Why would that be? Where on earth would I have gotten this habitual nicknaming thing from? A quick little trip down memory lane reveals the answer. As my counselor once said – “It’s your parents’ fault”. Or in this particular instance, my father’s.
For as long as I can remember, my father has had nicknames for the majority of his friends and family. In fact, he rarely, if ever, calls anyone by their real name. And oddly enough, his nicknames have no real rhyme or reason. I suppose some can be broken down into geographical categories, while others are more visual. And some are just down right inaccurate. Take for example, One Armed John. Pretty straight forward right? Not so much. Despite his name, One Armed John actually has two arms, but only one hand. At the end of his other arm is simply a rounded stump. He is a very religious gentlman that has lived down the road from my parents for as long as I can remember. When I was a child, he taught our bible study class, but everyone was too freaked out by his stump to pay attention. Consequently, I know none of the disciples’ names and am likely doomed to a hot and fiery eternity. Oh wait. John. John is one of the disciples right? There. Not so bad.
In the visual category, there was Porky – a gentleman whose real name remains unknown to me to this very day. He operated a forest and marine supply shop in town and was called Porky by EVERYONE in town. Although no one ever specifically said so, I suspect the nickname had to do with his stocky stature and somewhat pig like appearance.
In the racist category, we had German George. This one at least made sense. George was in fact his real name and he was indeed German. German George also lived down the road from my parents and was known for being notoriously cheap and crabby. His wife apparently couldn’t stand him and would often tell my father so when he would deliver gravel to her husband. Dad was a big fan of German George’s wife, who would bake him untold amounts of German baked goods. I never knew her name. Dad only ever called her German George’s wife.
In the odor category, we have Stinky Willy, an elderly gentleman who lived in an utterly filthy trailer – you guessed it – just down the road from my parents. Despite his filth, my father was fascinated by Stinky Willy, who would often write long and detailed letters to him on the back of old cereal boxes (aka garbage) and tape them to his gate. From what I recall, he lived primarily off of spam and other canned goods, and although he claimed to have once had a wife, this fact remains very suspect.
In the same name category, we have two sets of competitors – Big Jerry and Little Jerry, followed by Forty Acre Kelly and Ten Acre Kelly. Big Jerry is actually my uncle (Although not really. He’s one of those people who has known your parents forever and for some strange reason that made your parents insist on you calling them “uncle”. For the record, I think this only serves to confuse children and makes family tree building very complicated. “Uncle” Jerry is married to “Auntie” Marlene, who has the longest and fanciest fingernails I have ever seen. She also has a large selection of Moo Moos, which she actually wears into town, and prides herself on having achieved the highest score EVER on Nintendo’s Bubble Bobble). Anyways . . . . some 50 years ago, “Uncle” Jerry had a baby boy. And, as people so often do, he named him after himself. Accordingly, it became necessary to differentiate between the two Jerrys and Big Jerry and Little Jerry were born. Little Jerry is now a 50 year old 300 plus pound man and the name “little” no loner really fits. That’s the funny thing about nicknames. They don’t change when the conditions do. Once a nickname has been assigned, it sticks.
Forty Acre Kelly and Ten Acre Kelly are new to the fold, but at least their names make sense. Forty Acre Kelly lives on 40 acres down the road and Ten Acre Kelly lives on 10 acres down the road, but in the other direction. My father has recently stopped using the name “Kelly” and "Acre" altogether and now refers to them as just “Forty” and “Ten”. Sometimes I phone my mom and when enquiring after my father’s whereabouts, am advised, “Oh, he’s having coffee with Forty. Ten’s on the way.” Surely this is not normal.
As mentioned above, I too have a number of nicknames for friends and family. And upon further reflection, it would appear that my names make no more sense than my father’s. I have named people after their attire, their resemblance to animals and their behavior at parties. I have shortened last names and made them into first name nicknames and have added onto first names to make them into a food item nickname (aka “The Timbit”). When it comes to enemies, I am particularly creative with the nicknames. The top recent names have included the Mahogany Q-Tip, Trasha, the Change Room Stick, and the Quail.
In my opinion, Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary should seriously consider changing their definition of “nickname” to “a usually descriptive name given instead of or in addition to the one belonging to a SUFFICIENTLY BELOVED OR DESPISED person place or thing.”
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