The Southern Wild

Anyone who knows me well enough knows that my blood is as steeped in the South as tea is brewed in Britain. I'm of the deep, deep South, the Scarlett O'Hara South, the South where azaleas always bloom in March and April and the smell of jasmine coats your nosebone like tourists slather on suntan oil. I'll even heartily admit to being every so slightly redneck at times, as I have guzzled a few PBR's out of a can on occasion while playing pool in a smoky barroom. And if this offends any of my Southern kinfolk, well, you can kiss my ass, because if nothing else, we Southern gals are to the point.

Which brings me to my latest rant: nicknames.

I watched "Beasts of the Southern Wild" recently and fell immediately in love. The Mississippi/Louisiana/Alabama bayous are not my stomping grounds but I understand them all too well. There is a magic potion in the air over there, with the smell of rich, deep muck and the moss-covered oaks. And when I heard the little girl's name was Hushpuppy and her daddy's name was Wink, that's all it took to bring me back to me.

Growing up, our family wasn't what you would call close. Dad was always out in the garden or repairing something and Mom was in the kitchen cooking or sitting on the sofa doing her needlework. I was racing around outside in the woods with my dog, my little sister was picking flowers and the big sister was off in Germany with her husband, who was in the Army. We did eat at the dining table, we did discuss events of the day, but we all had our own things to do. Everyone had their own agenda, so to speak. But, as far as I know, I was the only one who had a bonafide Southern nickname.

It was Birddog.

My Dad slapped the moniker on me because, as he put it, I didn't "let things ride." I always wanted to know why, where, who and what, so it's perfectly natural that I majored in Mass Media Communications, with a minor in Journalism, and that I worked with a newspaper for 18 years, albeit in the capacity of a graphic designer and illustrator for most of that time.

Yep, when my Dad would counsel me in the garden about the best way to grow okra, or the reason you always fed the chickens ground oyster shell at least once a month, well, he would say, "this is the reason, Birddog." I wasn't sure of what a bird dog actually was, but he told me about that, too. He said a bird dog was a very special animal, trained to seek out the most elusive of critters, to find them and to lead the hunter to the prey, all while being patient and quiet and most agile.

I cannot say as I have lived up to that nickname, as I am certainly not patient or agile, but I got another nickname along the way. My former husband called me Doodle, to reflect my drawing talents. Neither one of these nicknames have stayed with me over the years, with Birddog dying with my father and Doodle fading with my divorce.

But, I do recognize nicknames in others, and they make me smile. They are as strong in Southern heritage as watermelon and boiled peanuts. A person just isn't a person until they have a nickname.
So, when you're traveling in the South, listen for those names. There are stories behind them, and they are as rich as butter pound cake and they will let you into the soul of what makes "us" Southern.