Pride in the Pennyroyal

The place where I was born has a number of "nicknames". I was born in Hopkinsville, which has often been known as "Hoptown." The area surrounding Hopkinsville and Clarksville was once called "The Black Patch" after the dark tobacco which was grown there as the main cash crop. The western region which lies between Bowling Green and the lands east of the twin rivers (Tennessee and Cumberland) and south of the northern Kentucky counties which lie along the Ohio River was called "The Pennyroyal" after the little flowers which grew in abundance in the area. This name was often altered to "Pennyrile" to match the odd pronounciation given to the flowers by the Scots-Irish inhabitants.

It is no wonder that I have had so many nicknames over the years. When I was born I was "Tommy." I am still Tommy to most of my family, which is fine with me. This is a very common Southernism, to call somebody by the diminuitive form of his or her name.

When I went off to first grade, I announced myself to the teacher as "Tom." I guess that was a small rite of passage for me. That nickname stayed with me for most of my life.

When I was in high school, I acquired a number of nicknames: TB, TEB, Tebby, Uncle TEB, Uncle Tebby, and Tuna (which is still strange). Variations of all of those stuck to varying degrees. Most of these nicknames were given by teammates and friends in football or basketball. They seemed to flow and ebb depending on the time of the season.

When I started playing football in college, Coach O'Connell, the linebackers coach, called everyone by the diminuitive of their name, so I became "Tommy" once again. I also became TB and "B" (so called by one of the linebackers, who was also captain in my Junior year). For awhile, I was "Moonpie" for Mike "Moonpie" Wilson, who was a lineman at the University of Georgia at the time. At the end, the coaches referred to me as "Too Tall" because I played defensive end and was considered "too small" to play in that position. The head coach would kid me about my size throughout the first part of the football season, but then started calling me too tall when I began to rack up quarterback sacks and pass blocks toward the end of the season. "Too Tall" started off as a joke and ended up being a badge of honor in the end.

When I came to Griffin, one of my friends heard my wife call me Tommy and he began to use it too. Soon, a lot of people were calling me Tommy. Then again, one of the judges always referred to me as "Thomas". That stuck for awhile. Finally, one of my clients referred to me as "Mr. Birmingham", being his mangled version of my last name. I have also been called "Mr. Tom" which is another regional Southernism.

Sometimes nicknames are the result of a joke. Sometimes they come from attempts at trying to pronounce your real name. Sometimes they are a colloquil term which places you in the region in which you live. The best ones are the ones given by friends and acquaintances which reflect a connection between you and the person imparting the nickname.

I have never minded any of them. And I must say that it is nice to come from Hoptown, which lies on the northern side of the Black Patch, in the Pennyrile Region of Western Kentucky. Today, I was looking at pictures of State Parks in Kentucky on the internet. I happened to chance upon a picture of the lake at Pennyrile State Park, where Momma and Aunt Meg used to haul all of the cousins to swim during Summer trips to Kentucky to visit our relations. It brought back fond memories of summer fun in the water despite the worries about snakes in the lake. I remember watching some men trying to catch fish with their bare hands in the lake, and wondering how many water snakes they caught instead. I remember one time when my Cousin Ed got his body or head stuck in the swinging entrance gate leading from the lake there, requiring the Park Ranger's assistance in removing him from the gate. And I remember one memorable time when we drove back from the lake in the afternoon to Hopkinsville, only to have the station wagen in which we rode to the lake explode from its carburetor and catch on fire when we arrived at Dee Dee's apartment in town.

Now, I know those kinds of occurrences are anxious disasters for the adults who have to deal with the results of such emergencies. But those things are really cool for the kids watching the fire trucks pull up into the driveway, sirens blowing and lights flashing, and the firemen jumping out to try to put out the fire. And it was especially neat for Frank and Ed and I, sitting in our prestige seats on the back steps of the apartment building, watching the whole conflagration.

What joy for little boys. What memories.