Name Calling

“Does anyone in your family have a regular name?” My young husband’s nerves are frayed from the constant bouncing on dirt roads. The shotgun incident probably didn’t help.

This is his first trip into the West Virginia back woods and he’s already had one shotgun brandished at him. It was his own fault. I told him not to stop and take a picture of a front yard speckled with gnomes.

We bounce along Pigeon Roost Road on our way to the family farm reunion. I can’t wait to show off my new son to the aunts, uncles and cousins. We’re passing a few solitary clapboard houses with folks watching from front porches.

“Which one runs the farm?” Hubby asks.

“Uncle Dink,” I say. “They all have regular names. But no one uses them. Dink’s real name is Dencil.”

“That is not a regular name.”

I roll my eyes.

“Why doesn’t your mom have a nickname?”

“She’s the youngest of ten kids. They probably ran out of nicknames.”

I point out the May Place, the closest house to the farm. My husband nudges the car across a creek. I see my aunts and uncles walking off the porch to meet us.

I introduce him to Aunt Peannie, Aunt Tillie, and Aunt Sunshine, along with Uncle Junior and Uncle Dink. The aunts exclaim over the baby and argue who’s going to hold him as they walk up to the farmhouse.

“Can I take out my teeth now?” Dink asks. He turns to Randy, my husband. “Sunshine made me put them in for you. Mostly I keep them in the chopper hopper.”

Randy recoils, then follows my aunts up to the house. Uncle Dink hangs back, watching him go.

“What did you say was your young feller’s name again?”

“Randy,” I say.

“Randy.” Dink crosses his arms. “Kinda an unusual name, isn’t it?”