My oldest offspring, Austin, turns 30 this month.
There was a time he professed not to like his first name, which resulted because of my fondness for Jerry Jeff Walker music. The outlaw troubadour, Walker, was synonymous with Austin, Texas. Luckily for my son, Jerry Jeff didn’t hail from Poughkeepsie.
Austin Saalman sounded like a pretty cool name – much better than Poughkeepsie Saalman.
Besides, who wouldn’t want to be named after a singer-songwriter who made the song, “Up Against the Wall Redneck Mother” famous?
Eventually, I believe he came around to appreciating his name – especially when he learned about the alternative name pitches being made when he was otherwise known as Baby X during his nine-month holding pattern in his mother’s belly.
The story goes this way:
In 1994, gently, I broke the news to Dad at The Carriage Inn. “We’ve been thinking about names for the baby,” I said.
He stopped chewing his pizza, just left a glob in his mouth to soak, anxiously awaiting the good word about a future namesake.
His hopes were high, and I felt like a heel.
I wasn’t going to tell him what we were going to name the baby – we still don’t have that answer. Instead, I was going to tell him what we weren’t going to name the baby.
“Dad, if it’s a boy . . .”
His smile stretched the width of three pizza slices.
“. . . look, Dad . . . I mean, well . . . the name Marion stops with me. OK? There will not be a Marion the Fourth. I refuse to sustain this tradition of terror.”
He didn’t even flinch. Dad chewed his soggy pizza. If he was disappointed, I couldn’t tell. He isn’t one to get too worked up about things.
Until first grade, I didn’t even know Marion was my real first name.
Marion III, to be exact. I was called Scott until then, my middle name. A kinder, gentler, male-sounding, monosyllabic name. And though my classmates were able to rhyme Scott with “rot” and “snot” and “pot” in their daily playground poetry, I could still live with the name Scott.
I remember the first day of first grade, that very first time I participated in that necessary evil known as roll call. From A to R, Mrs. Phillips’ roll call went without a hitch. Then came the S’s, which I anticipated with grand excitement because I would get to raise my hand for the first time, to be the center of attention for once, thus kicking off what was certain to be a stellar grade school existence.
“Marion Saalman,” she said.
No one said anything. No one raised a hand. Everyone, including me, glanced around the room looking for the mysterious Marion Saalman. Maybe she was a cousin of mine I had not yet met.
Finally, Mrs. Phillips informed the whole world that I was Marion Saalman. Talk about shock. My body had sunk so low that even with my hand raised, all you could see were fingertips above the desktop.
There were snorts and giggles as I oozed to the floor in front of my normally named classmates. I imagined my first day of life in the Perry County Memorial Hospital nursery. All around me babies were laughing at the identification tag on my wrist. “He’s a Marion . . . wait until we get him in first grade . . . ha ha ha ha ha ha ha,” said the James to the Joes, the Joes to the Janes.
Before Mrs. Phillips could read the next S, I regained my composure just enough to utter a stock phrase that followed me to seven more years’ worth of first day of school experiences: “Call me, Scott.”
I explained all this to my dad – Marion II – at The Carriage Inn.
“There’s nothing wrong with Marion,” he said. Then, in a flash of desperation, he said, “John Wayne’s real first name was Marion.”
“Yea,” I rebutted, “but he was so traumatized by Marion that he made people call him The Duke. Look, Dad, you tell people to call you M.J. instead of Marion, and heck, you’ve never even called me Marion once.”
That seemed to shut down the subject.
Then Mom and I batted around a few hundred baby names over pizza. Dad listened, and only once did he attempt to participate.
“Thor,” he suggested.
Just to be a wise guy, I guess.
Thor didn’t sound half bad. The god of war, thunder, strength and chest hairs. Still, I couldn’t imagine Thor holding a Crayola without accidentally breaking it in half, due to all the testosterone that his name implied. With a name like Thor, he’d likely hurt the other children.
Dad took the news far better than I feared. He even paid for the pizza. I think he even admired me for taking a stand, something I think he lacked the courage to do when I was born; hence, the existence of an actual Marion III. I only hope it goes as easy for him when he shares my decision with Marion I.
I think I’m doing the right thing. I honestly do.
But why do I feel so bad?
I’m the last of the Marions.
Marion III.
Call me Scott.
This story appears in slightly different form in Scott’s latest humor collection, Quietly Making Noise, which is available on Amazon. It’s the perfect Mother’s Day gift.