What's In A Name?

Yesterday’s blog got me thinking about Mum.

She and Dad were of a much more formal generation; being born in 1918 and 1916.

He was a “24 year man” in the RAF.  She became a WAAF in early 1939 and was a Sergeant in Bomber Command when she fell pregnant with our oldest sibling (born 1943).

Unless they were relations, everybody was Mr or Mrs or Miss or, if necessary, Doctor, Vicar or Father (the wives of Doctors or Vicars were often referred to as Mrs Doctor or Mrs Vicar).  Some close family friends or neighbours got the honorary title of Auntie or (less frequently) Uncle.  So in my childhood there was Auntie Ray, Auntie Raddie, Mrs Vicar Williams and Auntie Griffiths: the latter being the widow of Grampa’s best friend Griffiths the organist.  My OldestBestFriend’s parents were always Mr and Mrs Evans, and in adulthood I never felt truly comfortable calling them Tom and Mary.

When we moved ‘back’ to Wales in 1958 Mum became friends with the mother of a primary school friend of Middlesister.  Mrs Price lived near the school at the top of the hill; we lived half a mile away at the foot and the bus stop was at the bottom of our field.   On her shopping day Mrs Price would get the early bus into town, the mid-morning bus back and come to our house for a coffee and a chat with Mum.  

From 1972, when Mum started work as the lunch supervisor in the two room primary school, the ladies would then walk up the hill together.   

When Dad retired he would give them a lift up in the car.   

And when both Mum and Dad were retired they would all go up in the car together and the parents would collect their pension from the little sub-post-office next to the school.

This continued well into the 1990s and in all that time they were always Mrs Price and Mr and Mrs Boyd.

Dad sometimes called Mum by her given name, but often affectionately “Mac”.   

This was in part an abbreviation of her maiden name, but also in fun of some American servicemen’s wartime habit of calling each other Mac.

All this is leading up to a phone conversation I had with Mum sometime before Alzheimer’s took her away from us.

Mum “We had a newly ordained priest in church this week?”

Me “Oh yes …”

Mum “So we all got blessed by him after Mass".

Me “Were his holiness batteries stronger because he was fresh out of the box?”

Mum “Heathen child!  Anyway, we all lined up and when I got to the front of the queue he asked me my name and I said ‘Mrs Boyd’.  And he said ‘No dear, what’s your first name?’  Dear!” the last word spat out with some distain.

Me “So what did you tell him?”

Mum “I told him ‘My Christian name is Elsie, but I am called Mrs Boyd.”

I like to think that God calls my mother Mrs Boyd.