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.

Birthday Cheers and Jeers

On this, my Day of Days, I ask myself, What is the importance of a birthday? I think of my 21,185 days of living (including Leap Year days) in the context of the wide variety of people I’ve met who have, to one degree or another, influenced my decisions and actions.

This is not a day of melancholy any more than I allow it to be on Holidays. I reserve those thoughts for every other day of the year for, if I should lump them all in one huge bundle of sorrow, floodgates might open and, as with most aspects of life, I prefer not to go with the flow. Which is not to say there are no periods of waterfalls. I might reflect on a few moments of the past but looking through the rearview mirror of time I’m assured that what is left behind is thoughtfully preserved for clearer visions of the future.

To whose standards are my “successes” put to judgment? Opportunists would discount my accomplishments for a single chance to claim their own perceived successes that they may gain from my materialism. In contrast, others would think of my life an insignificant existence as compared to theirs. But it is I who ultimately assesses my degree of worth.

Disappointments? People. Among those I’ve met, there are many whom I hadn’t the opportunity to really know - sometimes an acquaintance who was intended to be a friend remains a stranger. But I don’t regret having crossed paths with people who may have done me emotional and/or physical harm, without which I would have learned fewer lessons and taught me less about my inner-selves. Adversaries play a part in the development of a person’s attitudes just as much as those who have proven to be of positive influences.

I am who I am. I will be whoever I allow myself to become. I will continue to have experiences instead of dreams, fulfillment rather than regrets. If I were a different person, I might mistakenly regret that I have fewer “things” than others. That which I encounter, I cherish as lessons learned in the school of life, from which graduation comes in the form of a death certificate, not a certification of life.

Many of life’s instructors, including Guilt and Jealousy, have taught me that I have much more to learn. I’m so grateful that community players of my childhood implanted in me values whereby my subconscious dictates my actions.

Music has also molded many of my emotions and enhanced my awareness. It continues to take my mind where I would otherwise not visit; melodies give me rhythm, lyrics give me insight to philosophical dilemmas. I am not a singer. I am not a songwriter. I am an accompanist.

Regardless of my biological age, my spirit remains as youthful in mind as in the past. Wrinkles mark my age to others, but the reflection I see in the mirror discounts their importance for I accept the genetic footprints that have structured the wear and tear that life has dealt to my mind and body, if not my soul.

What’s the importance of my birthday? That I shall live on for an unknown period of time. That I am more a statistic than the person I am, have been or will be. That within a pre-subscribed number of years I will be on Social Security and given whatever benefits Medicare will afford my health. That the count of candles on the cake seems more indicative of my age than the two-digit numerical figure.

What of the future? I fear not the unknown because today is indeed the first day of the rest of my life. I accept that which I have no control over, yet take control and thoughtfully consider the challenges I may encounter that will change the course of my remaining years.

I travel along a road named Ronald Alan Rae – by design, a one-way dead end street. There have been no detours. I have traveled along many side streets, some mired with hazards, and made many stops to get my bearings on which direction to proceed so as to keep me on a journey filled with adventures. Compromises are made out of brotherly love. Sacrifices are mine to make.

Death has the right of way. My Creator has eminent domain. I have the rest of my life to travel along whatever avenues that fate will allow. I am alive, so I shall live and reserve the future past tense for others to acknowledge.

Excuse me, but my birthdays are but momentary landmarks in time. I’ve gotta move on…. I’ve still gotta lot of livin’ to do!