Monikers earned and well kept

Small towners’ ‘go bys’ reflect true essence

It probably happens up north and on the east and west coasts, but I can’t speak to it. I only know it happens a lot in the lower Midwest and the South, and often to people I know.

It also tends to happen with regularity in small towns that have a particular sign — either hanging from the population sign at the entrance to town or painted in 8-foot-tall letters on the water tower — showcasing a football championship from the 1960s. It’s not a faded sign either. The townsfolk keep the letters pristine in homage to those great moments which sprang from them and theirs over half a century ago. I don’t know for certain whether that’s due to chance or causality, but I’m not one for believing in coincidence.

It happens to other things, too — not just people, but things like meat-and-cheese trays. I never knew they were called charcuterie trays until Bentonville got bougie. My grandfather and I shared many a Hillshire Farms summer sausage and a block of cheddar over the years, having no idea we were eating something we couldn’t spell. ’Course, ours was served on a melamine plate with a butter knife, washed down with sweet tea in jelly jars, not fermented on a mango wood platter served with stinky cheese and wine from Italy. That might account for the $100 word choice.

“Go-bys” (not drive-bys, thankfully) are a common occurrence where I come from, as in “his name is ‘James,’ but he goes by ‘Poker’.” They are more than fleeting nicknames — they are handles that last a lifetime to the point that most folks don’t recall, if they ever knew, the given name until the funeral.

“Red, did you hear Flossy passed last night?”

“Oh, Cotton, I hadn’t heard. I hate that. She was lookin’ a bit peaked at the church social week before last, but I didn’t think it anything serious. What happened?”

“Don’t know. All I know is Tater found her by the tub with her nylons ’round her ankles. Looked like she was gonna take her a bath and that was as far as she got.”

“Tater will be lost without his mama. That woman was still raisin’ him now on 50 years. Splat ain’t much better. I better call the boys and remind them not to put their mama’s real name in the obit. If she knew ‘Agnes Nell’ was printed in black-and-white by her photo in the Clay County Courier, she’d haunt ’em every night.”

I have known Tater, Red, Flossy, Splat and Cotton — and none of these names were on their birth certificates. Funerals are ripe for stories as to how the go-by came to be, often by some entertaining turn of events when friend or foe bestowed a moniker and it stuck, or even defined the person.

“I better go tell Splat now. He’s not the sharpest tool since he was quarterback in the championship.” “Splat was quarterback?” “Yep. Says so right there on the water tower.”