My grandfather, former mayor of Moab and member of the Utah state legislature, was famous for using nicknames long before I came on the scene. I can remember him calling me “Amos” when I was really young. He called my bother, “Finlander.” I was jealous because I liked Finlander better than Amos, probably because it had more syllables. Later in life, I asked my aunt about my Amos nickname, and she told me Grandpa called lots of people Amos. It didn’t feel so special after finding that out.
When I had kids of my own, I nicknamed them as soon as soon as possible. I called my oldest son, “Oopus,” and my youngest son “Mogli.” It doesn’t stop there; my oldest niece was “Oofy,” and her sister was “Winky.” Winky didn’t like her nickname so she called me “Marty Farty.” To my daughter’s chagrin, I still call her “Snitter” occasionally. Then my daughter had a daughter; it doesn’t make any difference what my granddaughter’s real name is because she picked out a toy at the store that was too perfect a fit not to be divine, so she’s got her new name from now on.
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