The Name Game

It's finally that time of year when the bulbs in the garden start to force themselves to the surface and roses begin to bloom. 

Likewise, our gallant womenfolk also blossom during the process of producing beautiful babies.

During this wait, loving parents ponder the names they'll bestow upon their precious charges, but I'm afraid many slip up in this all too sensitive task.  

Too often, the poor little mites wind up saddled with awkward names, such as Bartholomew, Gaylord and Hortense. These unfortunate youngsters spend the rest of their lives trying to escape from these burdensome monikers.

Boys are more often faced with this dilemma and are accepting of nicknames at an early age.  However, this can also backfire when the nickname may be even worse.

I give you the case of "Pickle" Hunt.  Mr. Hunt senior was an industrious plumber who wasn't willing to spend his hard earned money on taking his son to a professional for haircuts.  However, not being an accomplished barber himself, by the time Mr. Hunt had finished a short back and sides, his poor son's head resembled a pickled onion. Let's just say Pickle was not proud.

Then there was "Jammy" O'Neil, who was a late riser.  Jammy could be seen most mornings racing through the streets munching on his breakfast of a slice of bread and jam in an attempt to avoid a caning for being late to school.  Problem was, when he'd sit down at his desk there would be a residue of jam around his lips and chops, so he'd end up getting the cane for his slovenly appearance.

Jammy was not alone in his quest for speed, which brings me to "Roller" Turner.  He was the proud owner of a pair of roller skates and used to roll around the streets to the threat of the general public.

Our gang was a sporting bunch.  Most streets in our neighborhood were cul-de-sacs and we'd play cricket, field hockey and footy in the middle of the road.  Local mothers would use our "pitch" to walk their babies around in their prams.

These considerate mothers would do their utmost not to interfere with our games. Then Roller would come careening by on his wheels.  If he got too close to the protective mums, they would pull an umbrella out from under the pram and give him a mighty whack.

When I first came to Canada in the early 1950s, I used to watch television expecting to see Roller on the ice in a hockey game.  Alas, he seems to have missed his chance and since he'd be about 92 now I doubt he'll be taking up ice hockey any time soon.


Lastly, there was "Comic" Friend.  He was a nice lad, but kids can be cruel and we had good fun at his expense due to his problem with the pronunciation of even the simplest words.

Still, we let him be part of the gang even though his dad bought him a large, very cheap, pocket watch for his birthday. You see, while the watch kept good time, it had a very loud tick.  In fact, if you were traveling on a double-decker bus you'd always know if Comic was onboard, even if you were sitting upstairs and him down, because you could hear that god-awful ticking.

Attending school was hazardous just before World War II broke out, being that teachers were not as kindly as they are nowadays.  Apart from caning youngsters for the most minor of offenses, some teachers were just downright mean.

It was a mixed class of boys and girls, with boys on the right hand side and girls on the left.  Our teacher ran a strict ship.  If a lad offended, Sir would creep up behind the boy, grab his ear tightly, pull him out of his seat and drag him across the room to be plunked down at a girl's desk.

While the teacher thought he was handing out a punishment, it was actually a pleasure.  Sometimes you'd find yourself sitting beside the lovely, albeit unfortunately named, Sybil Grit.  Not only would Sybil help us with grammar and division, but she'd happily slip us a couple of sweets from her mother's candy store upon our arrival.

It was almost worth a sore ear!

Ed Pearson