What's In a Name?

I’ve met a ton of people over the years who didn’t much like the name they were given.  I’m not too happy that when the doc asked my mother what my name would be ten minutes after I was born, she said, “I think we’ll call him Danny.”  That’s exactly the way it went down on my birth certificate.

When I questioned the rationale of such a name, I was told that they really meant my official name to be Daniel.  Great, so much for good intentions, but that’s not my major beef.  It's what they chose for my middle name that I hated most when I was growing up.  I’ve puzzled over that one for many years, getting different answers from different people.

My mom thought it was “cute.”

It’s my Aunt Mattie, though, who triggered what would become my secret cross to endure.  At the time, a worker on her farm had an adorable little boy who played around the house and endeared himself to her.  So again, when Mattie showed up just after I was born and suggested it to my mother in her weakened state, she latched onto it.

At school, I would face instant death before I’d reveal it to my classmates.  Inevitably though, I was busted by the girl who worked in the office at high school and had access to things like that.  The sting softened over the years.

A few years ago I struggled at a potter’s wheel.  “Loosen up,” my mentor said.  It was true; I would try to force the clay to do my bidding and then put my block initials on the bottom before it went into the kiln.  One day I totally lost control of the clay, but instead of starting over, I thought, okay let’s just see where this will end up.  To my surprise, it wasn’t bad.  So deciding that this was the new potter, who needed an equally new personality, I quickly carved my middle name on the pot, with a bit of a flare and a certain amount of pride.

Elloy