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ALEX IN WONDERLAND 3/5/2011 7:24:29 AM
Back in the Dark Ages of the 1930s, medical science had neither the know-how nor the equipment to determine if a pregnant woman was carrying a boy, a girl, or an assortment of each. Old wives tales notwithstanding, the sex of an unborn child remained a mystery until that marvelously fateful day: “By Jove, it’s a _____ baby and I shall raise it as me own!”
My mother had determined that if I turned out to be a girl I would be named Elizabeth Jane. A boy, according to my father’s wishes, would become Arthur Alexander Mills, Jr.
“In your dreams!,” said my mother, or Depression words to that effect, enamored as she was by Robert Taylor, a current idol on the silver screen.
When I was born with outdoor plumbing, my father shrugged and said, “Aw, what the hell, Liz, call him Arthur Robert if you want. But there’s no way I’ll hang Robert Taylor Mills on ‘im!”
Unfortunately, Arthur Robert did not set well with me past the age of seven. Arthur was out of the question, and A. Robert was too pretentious. As soon as I attained the age of reason (eight) I changed it forever to Robert A. (As far as I’m concerned, the “A” stands for the same as the “S” in Harry S. Truman: nothing.)
My own son was to become Robert A. Mills, Jr. but my erstwhile wife said, “No way — it’s either Paul Robert or Robert Paul — MY father’s name has to be in there someplace!”
I shrugged and after a hour’s manly haggling acquiesced to Robert Paul.
Two years later, when my first daughter came along, I put my foot down and said, “Hell’s bells, I want her named Barbara Brett!” and Barbara Brett it was (“Brett” was after Lady Brett Ashley in Hemingway’s THE SUN ALSO RISES). ) Barbara grew up, of course, and to this day detests her middle name.
When my second wife and I learned the advent of daughter No. 2 was imminent, I was informed she would be labeled Alexandra Elizabeth. I had no misgivings whatsoever this time. Elizabeth was my mother’s name, and Alexandra was the “feminine of Nicholas” — sort of — my wife’s father’s name. And if you were addicted to Russian monarchies, which of course everyone was, Alexandra, the last Czarina, was a fait accompli.
I was ambivalent. Too me, Alexandra sounded precisely like what she would become: a prima ballerina — which to me she was. At least, until college.
Now an elementary private school teacher and married to a burgeoning DDS, she has just given birth of their first child, a boy, proudly dubbed HUTSON MILLS FAUCETTE.
In honor of my own name and in deference to a long standing Faucette family name, the lad’s middle nomenclature is the same as our sur name — but his Christian name will be Hutson or Hut or Hutty or Hutsut-Ralston-on-the-Rillarah-and-a-Brawla, Brawla Suet or some such — but only we and Mills Lane, the preeminent boxing referee, will know (or care) that he is endowed with an exemplary middle name.
Of course, should Hutson, unlike any of his ancestors, become internationally famous as an illustrious household name, renowned from Nashville to Istanbul, his legal moniker will serve him well. HUTSON MILLS FAUCETTE. What Ph.D candidate could not recall that name as the Nobel Prize Winner, circa 20--, for ---------------!
Despite his arrival in Memphis at 4:47 AM CST on February 26, weighing in at 6 lbs 6 ozs, we cannot help but wonder if he will accept the handle laid upon him by his parents or their advocates?
I personally have always felt my name was much too short and ordinary. Bob Mills. Sounds like a soggy cardboard box full of wet diapers dropped off a five-story balcony.
Robert A. Mills is better — but not much.
Flagnon Wintringham Pangborn is the name I would choose if choice were an option. Seven syllables, seven vowels and nineteen consonants. Now, there is a name! A designation to contend with!
Obviously, however, we cannot reach into a hat and pick our own names, any more than we can be dark or fair, fat or skinny, muscular or whimpish — or for that matter, brainy or dull. If we could, just imagine what a routinely similar bunch we’d be!
Come to think of it, there was a family I once knew who had an abundance of kids — as many as twenty. After the eleventh, they ran out of names, and to come up with suitable baptismal requirements, they began drawing names out of a hat. Kid number seventeen was forever known as 6 & 7/8ths.
No, I’ll have to be content with Bob Mills — as you must be satisfied with Pete Rose and Babe Ruth; Joe Salk, Hank Ford, Dick Rhone; Dale Burke and Dick Gere; Jim Dean (he was dumb enough to drive like a maniac but smart enough to make sure his friends called him Jimmy,) Al Gore and Frank Crunt — etc. We cannot all be as lucky and euphonious as Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Barack Obama or Nikolai Andreyevich Rimsky-Korsakov.
OUR names are destined to be as plain as unglazed donuts, as tasteless as yesterday’s bubble gum — as lifeless as voodoo zombies cavorting on Conrad Aiken and Johnny Mercer’s graves in Bonaventure Cemetery, along the Wilmington River in Savannah.
Speaking of Hemingway and Lady Brett Ashley (I did, didn’t I?) THE SUN ALSO RISES was named by a Biblical student who also happened to be the author’s publisher. Hemingway called his book FIESTA, but the eventual title was taken from the first chapter of Ecclesiastes: “The sun also ariseth, etc.”
What that has to do with Lady Brett Ashley only my eldest, Barbara, knows for sure. Hutson Mills Faucette, now one week old, could not care less.
What are we going to do if there’s a long-lasting NFL lockout? We here in Atlanta — similar to folks in all American Big League cities — have no interest in anything but SPORTS. If it isn’t the Atlanta Falcons, it’s the Braves or the Hawks or the Thrashers — or even the Atlanta Force, or Georgia Tech or UGA — or, God help us, NASCAR. We don’t really care. If it’s a game, we want to see it played — everything from the Tennis Complex to the Atlanta Speedway to high school Friday Night Lights.
The economy, unemployment, education, unions — not even whether McDonald’s still loves Ronald — nothing other than sports matter to us. The fact that the Falcon’s quarterback and tight ends and running back earn six hundred trillion dollars a year means nothing to us. That Chipper Jones and his catcher are worth nearly as much is of no consequence. We don’t give an ant’s rasp what they cost — we just want to see them out there playing their game, as often as possible.
And give Arthur Blank his due. Here’s a guy who started out as a hardware store clerk, and now he’s worth more than our next twelve presidents and all Nobel Prize winners combined. If, as owner of the Falcons, he makes more than GM and Ford’s entire workforce, so what? We just have to have the assurance that every Sunday afternoon his ball club will keep us mesmerized in front of the TV or glued to our $500 seats at the Dome (except for those frequent excursions to the food court for obligatory $12 hot dogs and $9 beers.)
The media in its infinite wisdom has labeled the NFL lockout negations “The Billionaires vs. The Millionaires.” Well, lah-dee-dah. Just because everyone sitting at the table has to pay taxes on incomes averaging more than the value of the cities bearing their logos does not make them any less red-blooded Americans. Remember, these are the same guys who had they gone to Korea, Vietnam, Iraq or Afghanastan would have come home with a footlocker of Silver Stars, Purple Hearts and Medals of Honor.
But no. Most of them opted to stay home and provide us common folk with the thing we want most — TEAMS! SEASONS! PLAYOFFS! FINALS! SUPER BOWLS! WORLD SERIES! U.S. OPENS! DAYTONA & INDIE 500s! STANLEY CUPS! . . . PRO BOWLS?
So what’s the bottom line? Without these so-called Millionaires and Billionaires and subsequent Championships, we would be reduced to NOTHING. Dust. Grime. Filth. Vaccuums. Truly, the Great Unwashed. We need the NFL, MLB, the NBA, the NHL, the ITF, the PGA, NASCAR, the SEC, the BIG 10, 12, 46, 75, Pop Warner, the National Anthem badly sung — all the etcs.
Take them away and what’s left? Books? History? Government? Politics? God spare us!
