Musings of a Muddled Male

By Bob Stevens, The Muddled Male

 

What's in a Name?

      When I was in Jr. High School and living in Devils Slide with my parents, my bedroom was a small room just off the kitchen.  The room had been converted from a pantry, and it was barely big enough for my twin size bed.  It didn't have a door, and I suspect that was so that my parents could keep an eye on me..  At the foot of the bed was a little cubby hole where I hung my clothes, and above the cubby hole there was a large flat area where I kept all my treasures.  The most important of my treasures was a catcher's mitt where I hid the notes that I received from my girl friend Ann, who is now Ann, my wife. 

      One night I was laying in bed re-reading a few of her especially good letters when I came upon one with a scribbled note that had been added in handwriting that was not Ann's.  The handwriting was my dad's and the note said, "I liked this one best of all."  Now I'm no dummy and I knew immediately that my dad had invaded my catcher's mitt.  My space had been, to use a common phrase, violated.  Worse, it had been a joint effort between my dad and Ted London, his friend and accomplice.  So to protect myself from future trespassers I placed some small posts along the edge of my treasure storage area, strung strings between the posts to form a fence, and hung signs along the fence saying, "PRIVATE PROPERTY, NO ENTRY, R. L. STEVENS."  I used "R. L. STEVENS" instead of Bob because I wanted the sign to appear authoritative.  As you may have guessed, the signs didn't carry nearly as much authority as I had intended, but the name stuck.  From that day until he died of old age, Ted London called me R. L. 

      I'll bet your mother was the same as most mothers.  When you weren't in trouble she called you softly by your first name, or your nickname.  But when you were in trouble she spoke crisply and used both your formal first name and your middle name.  Isabelle Ann, instead of Ann, or Robert Leland, instead of Bob.  I was reminded of this when my friend the Math Professor called to tell me he was concerned for my well being.  Well, I assumed that he was referring to my former profession since he is a purest-numbers-man and has always had to bite his tongue when he says the word that stands for a practical-numbers-man, "Engineer."  But then he explained that he had been talking to Ann, my wife, at Church and she referred to me as "Robert" in a rather crisp way. 

      Now I too am concerned about my well being, and I have moved into the garage with the door locked and signs on the door that say, "BOB'S PLACE, NO ENTRY, R. L. STEVENS."  I am needing to hire an official Taster to make certain that the food Ann slides under the door is not tainted.  If you are interested in applying just knock three times and then whisper, "R. L., R. L., it is me your taster."  I really need a taster if Ann slides M&M's under the door and claims they are a treat.