With the Father’s Day celebrations taking place today I am reminded that it has been 35 years since my father was here to enjoy them. Although I was an adult when he left us and made his transition, I will always feel like I was robbed. When thinking of him, I realize that it’s the little things, so often forgotten, that continue to put a smile on my face.
My father had two careers where he wore a uniform daily: the US Navy and that of a correctional officer at a local prison. He never held a position in law enforcement proper and I shudder to think what might have happened if he had. He had a propensity for giving nicknames to those around him and I am afraid to think of how an All-Points Bulletin might have read if he were given the opportunity to pen one. Criminals would have donned new and distinctive aliases.
His ability to produce unique monikers came to him honestly. His father, Newton Levigger, answered to the name Pat. If there was a story behind the origin of his nickname, my grandfather took it to the grave with him. His sons, my father and his brothers, followed suit by giving each other animal names. My father was named Rooster as his hair was said to resemble the comb sported by the fowl. No photographs exist from his youth so I rely on my imagination to picture his curly hair standing at attention. I am relieved that neither the name nor the hair style remained. My one uncle was not as fortunate and he carried his name throughout his life. I never thought it odd that I had an Uncle Monk. I would have thought it strange if he had kept the full name of Monkey but apparently his nickname was given a nickname.
It is not unusual for a couple to have pet names for one another. I can still hear my father’s lingering southern accent refer to my mother as Sug, short for sugar, of course. Within our home my mother was not the only one to answer to something other than her given name. I bore the name Miss Priss while my youngest brother was referred to as Hambone. No one was safe from my father’s creativity as my brother’s friend, Jeb, would be greeted upon arrival with a boisterous “Jethro”.
You may wonder at this point if my father, whose flair with nicknames was so prolific, had one himself. Indeed he did. As a young man enlisting in the Navy he became Blackie, a name he would carry with him his entire life. Other than his family, I don’t remember anyone calling him anything other than Blackie. His given name, Henon, was unusual and often mispronounced. My mother, in humor, would call him He – non occasionally, but the usual was Blackie.
Although given this fine example from my father, the names bestowed upon my son were seriously lacking in many ways. Once, while on vacation, we saw a bounty of Milkweed plants. His father and I kiddingly began calling him Milkweed. It was a name that made him, as a teenager, cringe upon hearing it. It has become more of a joke and now brings a smile as opposed to a grimace. There is nothing I can create that rivals the name my father often called my son. It was never meant to offend and was spoken as an endearment. Since my father has been dead for over three decades no one since has uttered the nickname conferred upon my son and it might be for his benefit. I doubt seriously he would want the name Shit Bird to follow him through eternity.
Harvesting Life 