THING

Thing

Mamoo, my maternal grandmother, whose name was Mamie, had exactly enough grandsons, me, Walt, Bill, Chuck, Lowell, Paul, to be her pallbearers, and we were. But as we and she got older she had trouble naming the one she was speaking to, and she would go through a string of increasing frustration and building agitation -- “Bill, Wilbur, Walt, THING” she would shout, no matter which one of us it was.

Sometimes I call Ryan “grandson,” but it’s OK because he’s been sort of my extra-that for the past thirteen years plus his mother started introducing me as “Ryan’s grandfather” a dozen years ago. When people ask, “Grandfather on which side?” I just reply, “Whatever you say.” Sunday I caught myself calling Christian “Buddy,” which I must not do, because there’s a scriptural element of “claiming in naming”, but also a hint of “bonding” that eventually becomes painful. Anyone who thinks “bonding” with a child is not excruciating has never seen a son go off in the Army or dropped off a daughter at her college for the first time. The child gets through it, the parent never.     

My daily morning email scan with coffee always includes a look at Anu Garg’s word for the day. All are interesting, most of them are familiar, though I don’t work them into a sermon or blog post too quickly lest people realize, “show off, he didn’t know that word, he got it off Wordsmith.” But as well as learning or rekindling great words, it’s good for entertainment and also for Anu Garg’s “thought for the day.” The thought for yesterday was classic, “The best music is essentially there to provide you something to face the world with. - Bruce Springsteen, musician (b. 1949).” So, in the car I listen to “Pops” on Sirius XM. In planning worship liturgy, I always try to choose a closing hymn that folks can hum on the way home, and Sunday afternoon, and maybe hum to make Monday morning tolerable, "to face the world with," as Springsteen says.

Today’s word got me. One never knows what one does or is that there’s a term for. When first daughter was little I called her “Ladybug,” that is, until the day -- she must have been a teen, as a teen she was quite the one to deal with, especially for her mother, the two of them were eternally at it over everything under the roof including daughter would buy a new pair of jeans and immediately take them downstairs to the laundry, throw the one pair of jeans into the washing machine, pour on top of them a full box of Morton’s table salt unless we had ice cream salt in which case it was a box of ice cream salt, turn on the water and fill the tub, and so wash them before ever wearing them, I think it was to “season” them roughed-out looking or something -- this would be called a lost antecedent except that I’ve tried to recapture it -- the day she was mad at me and raged, “I wish you would quit calling me ‘Ladybug,’ I’m not a bug.” Which stunned me because I had meant it so tenderly, but I never called her a pet name again and that was over forty years ago, in biblical terms, a very long time.

For my son, it’s been “Bo.” But also Jody, then Joe, but still “Bo” as he heads for his 53rd birthday in six weeks. For the next daughter, pet names beyond count though I always tried to be sensitive to whether she would protest as her sister had, but she never objected, maybe she always realized it was sheer doting adoration and I couldn’t help it. For a grandson, “Bud,” which sort of flowed over onto the next grandson as well. And I've called Ryan "Bud" from time to time. 

Daughter/Granddaughter, again, pet names without number. Next two granddaughters, one is named for me which I love so stick strictly with her given name; so her sister, just her name also, no hypocorism.

Hypocorism?

(hy-POK-uh-riz-uhm)

When I went to bed last night I never heard of the word, couldn’t spell it, much less pronounce it, couldn’t have defined it, and this morning I wake up and find out I are one. 

Bubba

Tom

Father

Papa

Honey

Mr. Safety

Dad

Uncle

Pop (Joe only)

Thing+