What's In A Name

What's In A Name

In My Bloodstream: Lisinopril,  Amlodopine,  Omeprazole, Tamsulosin
On The Stereo: When The Red Red Robin: Al Jolson

When I talk to my older friends, I am intrigued by the fact that so many of us are not known by our given names.  My own mother was born Agnes Farrell Sanders, married my dad, and was known by all as "Nan".  Of course I called her Mum and my kids knew her as Nanny.  Her sister Elizabeth was called Betty, and my dad, after arriving in Canada, was known by all his friends, as Scotty.  Presuming his accent was the catalyst.

Our current neighbors almost all have newish designations.  Many were as a result of their military paperwork.  Lowell Hopkins, an author of golf history, had his name changed to Ken on his induction.    Kenneth was his middle name.  He had no idea why they chose to ignore his first name.   But, after 18 years of living as Lowell, he remains Ken, to this day.  Now only his wife and I call him Lowell.  It makes him smile.  I believe it gives him a reason to reach back and remember a time in his life, so many years ago.

I was born James Mullen.  When I was very young, perhaps four or five, I was Jim or Jimmy.  My mom referred to me as wee Jimmy, to differentiate me from my father.  In our house, whenever she shouted "Jim", I would come running to see what she needed.  She would tell me that it was my dad she was after.  When I did not show up when she called, she would give me grief, because it was me she wanted.  The conundrum needed repair.  And I was just the boy for the job.

One exasperated day, I had had enough.  Don't call me Jim, or Jimmy, any more.  That is what I told her.  Now, I understand that most of you would think that the indulgences of a four year old have their limits.  But for many reasons, some of which I have discussed in the past (sickness, only child, removal from grandparents and family), I was a pampered little boy.

What would you like to be called then?  I have often told people that I was named Robin after Robin Roberts, the great Philly pitcher, but in truth, I had never even heard of him at that age.  And my parents, until their death, had never even seen a baseball game.  So that story was just that - a story.  I was embarrassed at the truth.  

Truly, my discomfort was always, and remains, perplexing to me.  I am not sure if my chagrin emanates from the fact that I chose my own name, that my parents acknowledged the change, or the inconceivable way I made the decision.  Quite simply, I was looking at a bird, sitting outside a window.  

                                                 And that was that.  I was forevermore, Robin. 

Well, that is not quite true.  When I played youth hockey, almost everyone had a nickname.  And almost all the names ended with an "ee" sound.  Think of Gordie Howe, Bobby Orr, Davey Keon.  You get the picture.  When you wanted the puck, you yelled Louie, Freddy, Dannie and on and on.  When I heard Mullie, I knew it was me that had to act.  Robbie, too, from time to time.  This will bring back memories for many of you who played the game.  None of us kept our regular names when we were on the ice.  A 

Canadian birthright.

When I joined the workforce for real, the first of my life problems hit me between the eyes.  My birth certificate did not include the name Robin, and that was who I was.  I was asked if I wanted to return to my given name, or legally, and permanently, make a change.  

I had been Robin Mullen on innumerable documents.  School records from grade school to college, for a starter.  None contained James as my name.  I was Robin Mullen.  It must have appeared that I was stealing someone else's life.  So CIL's on-site attorney had me sign an affidavit, officially changing my name.  I became, legally, James Robin Mullen.  And that solved my problem.   But even being Robin did not last long.

In those days of the early '70's, in big business, and particularly in sales and marketing, I quickly learned to answer to "JR".  We all did the "initial" thing.  One of my early bosses and mentors, Donald Wiley Young, was "DW", or, to his better friends, sometimes Wiley.  Names took a bashing.  And everyone was comfortable with it.  Several of my oldest business friends, to this day, still call me JR.  (A tip of the hat to Dickie Frenz, as one).  

So, when we moved to Tuscaloosa, there was a  Southern expectation for office staff to refer to a superior as mister or missus so and so.  I was immediately introduced and and it was expected that I be called Mr. Mullen.  That was a new deal for me.  I had been called lots of things in my life, but Mr. Mullen was my dad, not me.  Understanding it was meant as a respectful title, I really preferred to be called by my self-chosen name.

And we made it so.  It took a while.  I had long-believed that we all held different jobs, but that an enterprise would and could not exist, if any of us were derelict in our duties.  We all deserved the same respect.  We all were different, but equal.  I loved the informality.  I somehow expected it to help evoke honesty.  Titles may vary.  We still needed each other.  Rightly or wrongly, I believed that ideas were exchanged and lessons were better taught, if we created trust, and an informal atmosphere was more conducive.  

Which brings us to today, and our family.  Stephanie Anne has always been Stephanie, or Steph.  The very odd time, when she was in trouble, it might have evoked a full "Stephanie Anne Mullen".  But almost too few times to even mention.

Kristin Elizabeth's name came partly as a result of Stephanie' desire for a "Krissie baby", a rag doll, she had carried with her for as long as she could remember.  We did not want her to resent her new sister, so Kristin was our compromise.  (What parents do.)

Early on, I called her Little Girl.  My term of endearment.  However, she actually was very tiny for her first few years.  She was on the edge of being given growth development drugs by our doctor, when she suddenly had a growth spurt, which did not end until she was in her late teens.  I still call her Little Girl.

That continued and continues.  She introduced Kath and I to Doug Tyson, who, one evening, was singing at a Tuscaloosa bar.  We knew she was smitten with this guy.  When he sang "Margaritaville", he changed a line of the lyric from "my little Mexican girl", to "my little Canadian Girl".  I was sold.

From that night on, I have always referred to Doug , as "The Boy".  Neither of them has ever asked me to change.  They know my love for them both.  Little Girl and the Boy.  That is how it was.  And how it is.

And this brings me to Kathleen Mary Mullen (nee Tompkins).  My assorted names for her take the cake.  You have read some here, but they merely dot the surface.

Kathleen, Kathy and Kat are likely the most used, but The Child Bride is one of her favorites.  She has long been socially distancing her age from mine.  In the company of men, I call her The Sheriff.  She has also been the Chancellor of the Exchequer.  I have occasionally called her Little Girl, when my daughter is not present.  She likes that as well.

She has been my Baby or Babe.  Sweet Girl.  Good night Gracie, you might recognize from an old TV show.  And Alice has been oft-used on the golf course.  You might believe you know why "Alice", but you will be wrong.

Bob Hare, an old friend of ours, bought a little dog for his family.  And he named that puppy Alice.  There was a little gathering at our house in Toronto, and Bob was telling his story about Alice, who used to greet him at the door, when he returned from our office.  The dog would jump on his leg and pee on him.  Again and again.  One night,  Bob and Jane had recently had a baby boy, whom Alice was barely tolerating.  They left Alice at home, while the three of them went out to dinner.  When they finally were preparing for bed, they pulled back the top cover, and under a pillow, a gift had been left for them.  Alice had moved the pillow, had a doggie dump, and replaced the pillow.  This was not an accident.  This was a premeditated act of vengeance.  Dog to human.  Get that baby out of my house.

Nant Roberts's wife was listening intently to the story.  Why, she asked, did you call your dog Alice?  Bob told her that Alice was the most awful name they could think of.  Nant's wife calmly told him that Alice was her name, too.  She was not particularly amused.  Bob had stepped into the poo again. 

 

And that is why my bride is called Alice.   Quite often.  It keeps funny old memories alive.

Both Robin and his wife have been a bit forgetful, from time to time.  The real reason that I use so many different  names should be obvious by now.  When I eventually forget completely, her name, she will not be suspicious, and will take whatever name comes to my mind, as just another term of endearment.  She will be none the wiser.  A plan of sheer brilliance.  Thank you very much.

I am ignoring my cancer and my health today, as I write this piece.  I called a former business friend of mine earlier this week.  He writes regularly and thanks me, a gift for which I am most appreciative.  He and his beautiful wife Margaret, have just turned 85 and celebrated their 65th wedding anniversary.  John says they are feeling well and thanks God for the life they have.

John has had lung cancer for 37 months, has been treated with chemotherapy through an oral pill.   And is surviving without complaint.  I know he is suffering dreadful bouts of illness due to the drug's side effects. But John chooses to live on the bright side.  Our conversation elevated my week.  In the middle of all that is wrong with our planet, his grace made a small but important piece of my world better.

Today is our 46th anniversary.  Not much has happened to distinguish it from any other day.  We are still undecided about a celebratory dinner out, but who knows.

My time with old what's her name has been alright.  We are tough.  We are fighters.  And we are blessed with family and friends that have made the difference.

Love from Florida.

Thank you.

jrobinmullen@gmail.com