A Little Awkie, A Little Big Man

What’s a “Little Awkie”? What about “Little Big Man”? Actually, they’re “who” questions. Both were nicknames given to me at one time or another. In both instances it took me years to figure out what the heck they meant.

Although they might sound like Indian names, they are not.

Dubbed Little Awkie by dad, it seemed quaint when I was a kid. Fortunately, it was only used in the presence of the immediate family. But I had never questioned or really thought about its importance until later in life.

The affectionate nicknames dad gave my two younger sisters were apparent. Susie was “Susie Q”. The baby of the family, Sally, was “Brat” because she was “always there” in your face chatter-talking. By the age of five, the four of us other kids had so often told her to “Shut up!” that she developed an ulcer. Imagine that! A family full of brats.

Other of my siblings had their own nicknames, all of which came from dad. “Brat” became the affectionate name for the baby in the family, Sally. The name fit perfectly. Born seven years after the next youngest family member, her presence became an annoyance to the rest of us four kids.

Sally was "always there”, chatter-talking, always wanting attention . She usually got her way because there wasn’t much anyone could do about it. It became so bad that at some point we started telling her to “shut up”, and yet she was the most loved member of the family and got plenty of attention without her intruding on our privacy for what seemed every moment of our days.

Although we reminisce about it now as a fond (?) memory and joke (?!?!) about it, Sally developed an ulcer, and I say this with guilt, at the age of five years old. Imagine that! A family of brats! Needless to say, we effectively became respectful to the needs of the Brat as dictated by mom - we had to "grin and bear it". An amount of annoyance was still there; we just didn’t yell at her anymore.

Although Susie, the closest in age to myself, was called “Susie Q”. Since Dale Hawkins had made the song of the same name in 1957, when Susie was five years old, it wasn’t entirely unique. There was also an affectionate expression that whenever Susie fell asleep with a child’s exhaustion after a long day of activities was a takeoff of another 1957 song by the Everly Brothers, “Wake up little Susie, it’s time to go to bed.” Then she’d be swept up in dad's arms and carried off to bed with hardly a stir of awareness to what was happening.

I don’t remember my older sister, Nancy, of having a nickname but as she became a young adult and brought one of her boyfriends, Roger, to family gatherings dad would refer to him as the “big dummy”. The name fit so perfectly but never used in his presence. I don’t remember dad ever calling the man by his Christian name.

Since he had a good tinge of red hair, my older and only brother, Russell, was simply called Rusty when he was little and Russ as he approached adulthood except for mom who never gave up using his given name.

It wasn’t until after dad passed away that I pondered the significance of being Little Awkie. As I thought back to when I was but a little runt, I had a tendency to be “awkward”!

The single incident I vividly remember was when, ignoring mom’s oft-said directive, “Don’t run in the house!”, I whacked my head on the wooden base of what seemed a monster of a living room chair. Now barely noticeable, a one-inch scar on my forehead is a reminder of that summer afternoon when I bawled. Even then I hadn’t learned my lesson as I went running to mom for comfort. She tended to the gash as she scolded, “I told you not to…..”

There’s another scar at the base of my chin from falling off my bike and scraping a few layers of skin onto the sidewalk. Doctor Pauley said I’d never be able to use a straight razor. Many years later, I proved him wrong when I tempted fate. I didn’t bleed to death.

What does “Little Big Man” portend? When living in Orlando, Paul, my next-door neighbor’s son, gave a friendly wave from his dad’s driveway when he name-called me those words.

Having spoken to Paul on various occasions, although he had a full head of dreadlocks, which might imply social profiling on my part, he spoke as a more intelligent communicator and a better educated professional than myself. So the labeling confused me, thinking “little” was somehow derogatory. A few years later, when I was lifting this and hefting that while landscaping the front and back yards of my home here in Spring Hill, it dawned on me how I was always doing some pretty strenuous yard work.

On one occasion Lenny, Paul’s dad, saw me struggling to uproot a monstrous, sickly, ugly ligustrum bush. Lenny came over welding a machete to help, leaving me to finish the job on my own. I accomplished the task without being a Little Awkie about it. So, although small in stature, I constantly tackle jobs that others might consider too big to handle, saving themselves time but at a cost. Well, I’d rather do it myself! Another mystery solved.

Although neither Little Awkie or Little Big Man are Indian names, there’s still a bit of American Indian in my views on life and death.

Some twenty years ago I had wisely set up a living will with instructions that in the event of being in a coma, or some other life threatening condition where I’m left unconscious, rather than pulling the plug, don’t plug in the contraptions to begin with. No going “totally tubular” for me.

Indian names or not, I’ve long envisioned myself following the American Indian tradition whereby, as I grow weak in body but still sound of mind, I should walk with nature through the wilderness along a path of Mother Earth toward oneness with the universe to rejoin the Great Spirit, or My Maker, the center of all being.

Okay, I admit the scenario might only be a fanciful myth scripted by writers for the big screen. But, to me, the idea has a certain attraction.

No last minute decisions, no end-of-life consultation, no pointless hospital charges that would take away from leaving my beneficiaries whatever life-side possessions I may have accumulated. In other words, no going “totally tubular” for me. Becoming a natural part of the food chain seems right.

I should have no regrets. There should be few tears from anyone, save in the event of an untimely, accidental death. Just remember the good times. As mom used to philosophize, “When it’s your time to go, it’s your time to go”. My dear mother was kept alive on life support until I arrived to take part in the pulling-of-the-plug ceremony. Pointless. She was already gone.