So They Don’t Forget

I have gone by many names. My parents put Charles Thomas Morris on the birth certificate. Charles was my paternal grandfather’s given name. Thomas was my father’s, mother’s maiden name. Morris was my father’s, and his father’s, and his father’s, and his father’s surname, etc. Very patriarchal, surnames. I am surprised that surnames have not yet been cancelled. Give it time. I am sure “They” will get around to it.

My Mother called me Chuck, and it stuck.

My father called me Jabbo, Rooster Poot, and everything but lazy... which I am still proud of to this day.

My grandmother called me Chuck-a-Luck.

My other grandmother called me Chucky.

My older sister called me seldom.

My friends in high school called me “Sweetdaddy.” I had a lot of parties at my house, and when things got out of hand I would play Hank Williams’ “Lovesick Blues,” as a signal to get everybody out. There is a line in that song that says, “I love to hear her when she calls me Sweetdaddy, such a beautiful dream...” My buddies would yell, “It’s Sweetdaddy’s song! Party is over!” and everyone would go home (or get there asses kicked.) So many people called me Sweetdaddy back then that I was thrilled when I moved to Charlotte after high school and became Chuck again.

My wife calls me Honey, Sweetie, or Baby.

At work they call me often, and a few names behind my back.

And finally, on Prose, I am proud to be called Huckleberry_Hoo, a name I concocted myself, and my favorite of them all.

So there it is. That’s what they have called me while alive.

When I’m dead...go ahead and set it in stone.