A Rose by Any Other Name

Bloom from the rosebush planted in my mother's memory, called Purple Tiger.

Sometimes you just aren't quite sure if you remember a person's name. I am terrible at this. People introduce me to friends and co-workers but I promptly forget their names. It happens all the time and no, I can't really blame it on my advanced years. This has been a problem since the early days. Take work, for instance. I see people in the halls I've met at one time or another. I smile, say hello, how are you, then pass by with a puzzled look on my face. Now, what was her name again?

Speaking of work, recently we switched our email servers. As part of this modernization, all state employees were thrown into a common algorithmic pool. Where previously we had been separated in such a way that kept us sorted neatly along agency lines, we suddenly were thrust upon one another and quickly discovered how many of us shared similar or identical names. This proved enough of a disruption that I was forced to notify co-workers about the discrepancy, asking them to check closely before writing to "Debra" (the wrong person) instead of "Deborah" (the right person... or rather, me).

All this got me thinking, what's in a name?

Mom named me after Debbie Reynolds, whose wistful rendition of the song "Tammy" from the movie "Tammy and the Bachelor" left my mother yearning for a daughter who would embody the purity and goodness of that lovely young Hollywood icon (at least as she was portrayed in this particular film).



Years later, I discovered that Miss Reynolds' name wasn't even Debbie; it was only a stage name. No matter, the damage was done. By this time thousands upon thousands of little girls shared the same name. Between Deborah Kerr and Debbie Reynolds, suddenly there were little Debbies everywhere you turned.

Mom chose to spell my full name with the traditional, biblical version of "Deborah" rather than the modern, trendy "Debra." My middle name is Ann. Most everyone called me Debbie, but heaven help me if I ever heard one of my parents belt out "Deborah Ann!" It was never good news.

As an adult entering the world of work, I chose to use the shortened nickname "Deb" but will answer to anything. Quite often people call me "Bev" seemingly choosing a hooked-on-phonics version of my nickname.

How envious I have been of those whose names are uncomplicated, without nicknames or multiple variations of what someone might call you... like a "Linda" or a "Karen" or a "Joyce."

Of course, none of this can compare to mom's struggles with her own name.

Written on the back of this photo:
"Babe on Painted Lady, 1944"

Her given name was Florence Loretta, yet everyone called her "Floretta." It wasn't until she was much older, upon seeing her birth certificate for the first time, that she realized "Floretta" was only a nickname.

And it wasn't her only nickname, either.

Being the youngest child for a few years earned her the nickname "Babe" and this one stayed put, long after a younger brother was born. She told me that sometimes as a young woman, she was embarrassed by that nickname. Brothers and other relatives might pass her on the street and call out "Hey Babe!" She always worried that passers-by might assume there was a whole lot of flirting going on. But that nickname stuck, and until her dying day nieces, nephews and grand nieces on her side of the family all called her "Auntie Babe." Some of them never even knew her real name.

By the time mom and dad were introduced, she was calling herself "Loretta." Dad chose a shorter version--"Rett"--as his personal nickname for her. Eventually that became the name adopted by dad's side of the family.

Most of our Colorado neighbors also knew her as Loretta. Mom was a seamstress and made draperies in our basement on a contract basis for a company called Empire Fabrics. They called her "Flo" (don't ask me why). Sometimes I'd accompany her to deliver the completed orders. We'd trek all the way down to southeast Denver, then head inside to pick up new orders, searching the warehouse for rolls of fabric marked with big black letters: FLO.

The only time she was ever called "Florence" was at the end. The nursing home where mom spent the last few months of her life insisted on using the name on her birth certificate. Even though I asked them to change her nameplate, they never did.

Mom always favored the first name she knew as hers: Floretta. Someone once told her it meant "little flower" and she loved that idea.

So to honor her preference, and to give her one final name to call her very own, we inscribed her headstone with the one she secretly loved best.

All the while knowing that each of her names smelled every bit as sweet.