“Just* J”

someone always is

misspelling my name, starting

with the birth-room nurse*


  • (I had this story from the culprits two themselves.  Cut-upon mom – for the second time, no less! – was perusing her purchase in what the mid-twentieth century was passing off as swaddling when the neo-natal nurse came breathless to the room and asked: “So, whatsishisname, again?” Jay? Or John Junior.”  Obviously she had been listening at the door as the pair inside produced trite old arguments. Dad: “Not gonna have no dam junior wandering around getting into fights and all because of his middle – which I will not divulge – name or even that damn junior-shit.”  “Well,” moderated mother, “Why not call him J?”  That’s when the nurse got involved, thinking these two pair-of-gones were capable of sober reasoning and conventional outlooks.  “Sowhatsitgonnabethen,” she was alleged to have uttered, when Dad settled the issue: “Just J, Period,” he peppered the stew.  When the nurse came back with the document all typed up there appeared a J. – or in layman’s terms, Jay, Period! Mom giggled. Dad guffawed.  I did not squall, contrary to later versions of the tale. But when I finally learned to read (but twelve seasons later) I found I was saddled with my father’s brother’s middle name. Go ahead, I dares ya! Say J Kirk real fast three times!  See!  And those two parents were so bemused they did not send said nursee back to correct her type-o-graphical error and remove The Period!  What use have I of periods, I asks ya?  ‘Scuse: I hafta go fight Jimmy Ellis again: seems he doesn’t cater to being called JimAlice! Tough!)

16 thoughts on ““Just* J”

      • But which one, m’dear. There are several faves and a few old standbys. Not rue if I rile: love that turnphrase: here’s one YouBeOneDumFukInAsshole, J – Jshit; MisterDunderfull! PigPen; Wildman – given to me by my Outlaw Motorcycle Club now-deceased pal Ratt! Bushmaster – by a fellow USMC combat correspondent in VietNam – NoFukkinWayJ – by another Marine pal. Ad infinitum, ad nauseum!

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      • Asshole. which is not to say it’s my favorite because my favorite is a ditty taught to me by my high school and freshman and later (after Vietnam) sophomore year pal who went on to become rich and wise and many-patented pilot Chemist Stevens W. Pearce: “Damn, Damn, Double-Damn, Triple Damn Shit! Asshole Bastard SonOfABitch! Sung as a round by three or more it fairly swings. Disgustingly so. I mutter it sotto-voce not all but many the time. ‘Nuff?

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      • Gonna go ‘way now: got garden chores – and it’s ‘sposed to be near freezing Thursday morning: will have to get mixed lettuces – can’t spell mesclun! – peppers and tomatoes seeds 2nd germinations, swiss chard, snowpea, carrots, radishes and kholrabi seeds soaked for a day before getting ‘put’ to beds – which reminds: I must turn in the compost in the big bed, weed and turn out the next two beds and prepare a half-hundred pots with leaves as bottoms and composted soil amends for the new stuff. Oh, chore me. See you Wednesday around 3 post meridian.

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      • It did freeze, too, but only on the North side of the house: found a quarter-inch of ice in an impromptu birdbath – upturned garbage can lid filled with water – but none on the other cardinal points. The Florida native hibiscus cuss me as I walk past: will have a chore of cutting frozen branches, but they will return even better: some of the Sleeping HIbiscus stalks were more than 10 feet tall, competing with the Bald Cypress for primacy. Now I have a new chore: submitting a stolen license report and going through The Hoops to get a replacement. Bother.

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