Met anybody with a colorful nickname lately? And no, Georgia’s esteemed governor doesn’t count. I’m not talking about public figures, and I’m interested in nicknames a little more exotic than Sonny or Bubba.

A while back, I posted a piece about the great, ongoing Southern tradition of family-name first names. I talked about growing up in south Mississippi among men and boys whose names sounded like law firms or brokerages, fellows like Houston Graves, Partlow Tyler and Lampkin Butts. But I also grew up alongside men – and a few women – whose given names had long since been eclipsed by sobriquets bestowed upon them by family or friends. They were best known by their nicknames.

There was a well-liked  banker in my hometown, a skeletal fellow by the name of Boney Childress.

My Dixie Youth baseball coach was Snerd Wooten, so named for his resemblance to ventriloquist Edgar Bergen’s dummy Mortimer Snerd.

My mom played bridge with sparrow-like Birdie Petrosky, and one of my   schoolmates’ mom was called Beanie,  apparently because she was tall and lanky.  I have no idea what her real name was.

Just down the road from them lived Booboo Rawson who, thanks to his youthful haplessness, got stuck with that moniker before Yogi Bear’s sidekick ever appeared on our black-and-white Zeniths. Another neighbor boy named Burgess was known as Bucky. He had prominent front teeth like a certain toothpaste-pushing beaver on TV.

I knew a passle of Reds and Buddys, a Champ and a Spec, a Squeaky and a Moon. The latter’s last name was Mullins. Almost every guy back then whose last name was Mullins got called Moon because of the comic-strip character, just as guys named Rhodes ended up Dustys.

My hometown’s crack police force included an imposing constable named Hamburger Harrison and an officer everybody called Dago Lee. People thought he looked Italian.

The owner of Nub’s Steak House, as my mother reminded me and my brother many a time,  had lost his left hand because he drove with his arm hanging out the window.

One of my uncles, a used-car dealer barely 5-feet tall, was known as Shorty, as was the most successful pharmacist in town.

What I’m curious about is where all the nicknames went. Granted, it may just be that I don’t get around like I used to. The Southeast may still be crawling with guys everybody calls Fats or Blackie or Skeebo (and yes, I do know a Skeebo). But I suspect not, and my gut instinct, given that so many of these appellations are related to a physical trait, is that it has to do with our having become more sensitive to people’s feelings in the past few decades.

Anybody got any other ideas, post away. Just call me Nosey.

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Noel Holston

Noel Holston

Noel Holston, originally from Laurel, Miss., is a freelance journalist, songwriter, storyteller and actor who lives in Athens, Ga., with his wife, singer-songwriter Marty Winkler. In a previous life, he was the TV critic at Newsday in New York and, before that, a critic and feature writer for the Minneapolis Star Tribune and The Orlando Sentinel.