1955- Names

From Butchie to Mark, with some help from the Penguins

Being the oldest grandchild, I was saddled early with the nickname Butch. I suspect this was courtesy of my grandfather Harrison. Nicknaming boys was a thing in the ’50s, Buzz, Biff, Buck—all of us little tough guys. Of course, it could have been worse; I did know a Skippy. Unfortunately, my toughness soon evaporated as Butch morphed into the incredibly irritating Butchie.

Butchie Busha—good grief.

Back then it seemed as though everyone, including adults, had a nickname. The old Ferndale neighborhood was a mixture of immigrants. Grannie Harrison was French Canadian; her neighborhood friends were simply “the Polish lady” and “the German lady.” I don’t recall ever hearing their actual names. One wonderful memory is of Grannie singing in French as she went about her day. I sometimes wonder, was my grandmother the “French lady”?

It wasn’t just in the old neighborhood. My parents belonged to a time when folks maintained close friendships. They had a large circle of old and close friends, who gathered for the monthly pinochle card club and other social events. For us kids, every adult in that crowd had to be addressed as Aunt or Uncle. This was a monumental task of memorization. The few I saw often, like Uncle Don and Aunt Marilyn or Aunt Ilene and Uncle Fred, were easy, but the rest of that horde? Endless, and potentially embarrassing, stress. Heaven forbid a name was forgotten—or worse, mixed up. My folks grew up with these people, but they were all new to me.

Things changed when I entered first grade. It was Catholic school time, and the nuns weren’t having any of this nickname nonsense. Tim became Timothy, Maggie (my first crush) turned into Margaret, my buddy Dick was now Richard, and Butchie became Mark. Thank God—or at least, thank the penguins.

Unfortunately, the name business was the only thing I could be thankful for. The next several years were hell, or at least a constant reminder of it.

But that’s another memory.

—Mark