What’s in a Name?

My mother always called me Johnny, seldom John, or John Melbourne, but never, I believe Son. As a kid all my other relatives used Johnny. After all, I was a skinny kid and being puny Johnny seemed to fit.  As for the old man, he never used my name when talking to me. I was always rove, chief, or Murgatroyd. Until he died, I never heard him address me by my name. He of course, used John when talking to others, but never to me. But then, he often told strangers that he wasn’t my father, but my Uncle Charlie.

As a result, I don’t remember calling him father, dad, daddy, or pop to his face. Even when I became his caretaker during his last four years, that facet of our relationship never changed. I simply found ways to speak with him without referring to our filial relationship. Those of you who may have read my earlier pieces know that I always refer to him as the old man. 

In my relationships with women, they generally used John, or some form of endearment. Of course, those sweet nothings ended on the brink of my several divorces, when my name was replaced by bastard, son-of-a-bitch, asshole, and from wife #2 – Mr. Ineffectual.

As far as my children were concerned, when they were small, they called me daddy. With puberty that evolved to dad or perhaps father. My sons decided on Daddio, which has stuck to this day. My three daughters have adopted the tactic I used with my father. The eldest does not address me at all. The vituperative nature of her communications are not enhanced by any paternal affection. This pattern is followed to a lesser degree by the second oldest, but then again, she seldom communicates. My youngest daughter still calls me Daddywhen she chooses to reveal any glimpses of her life. I should point out that all the girls (two in their fifties) live over a thousand miles away. Just as in frontier times, one must rely on only the rarest text or call. 

That leaves the three granddaughters. At their births I had offered that they call me Pop, as that was what my grandfather had been called by his kids. I always called him Grandpa. But as with my children these girls live far away and as time goes by and the imposition of travel constraints caused by the COVID pandemic, I have not seen them for over three years. Even the odd Facetime has become decidedly infrequent. No one is to blame, but as time goes by the connections fray.

So, I have begun to wonder if I have achieved the status of a septuagenarian irrelevance. That being so, I was intrigued by a term of identification that I recently uncovered in the Mick Herron spy novels. As I read further, the references to the grandfather in the stories, who coincidentally has been estranged by his daughter, were that he was the Old Bastard, or O.B. Now, that struck a chord.

I think I should offer up this as what we in the navy call a spoon. A spoon is the term for a name, generally a nickname or first name that a senior officer permits a junior officer to use in private conversations. That said, it might be easier and perhaps even somewhat satisfying for my children to simply refer to me as the O.B. Why not?

After all, if I am indeed, as several of them have expresses a reprehensible bastard, son-of-a-bitch, or asshole, why can’t I offer them the spoon of calling me The O.B.? Seems to me I am making things easier for them while ensuring my place in the family folklore.

Yes, O.B. it will be from now on. I have nothing to lose that has not been lost before and given the rate at which contact with my offspring is declining, I think I had better act now.