I grew up with the handle, Bucky Sappenfield. At first glance, it does not appear too difficult, but there is something about the human brain that does not process my name. Any new person in my life has a tendency to butcher the name, bestowed upon me by my parents.
On the first day of the 1st grade, my new teacher was calling role, got to me on the list, studied it for a moment before asking, “BUDDY SACKERFIELD?” I didn’t know who she was talking about and finally she stared at me and said, ”Are you Buddy?” “BUDDY?” Where in the world did that come from? She looked at the paper a bit longer and said, “Oh…Bucky.” There is just something about that name.
We had a lady at the school office who insisted on calling me by my Christian name, George. Yet, I didn’t know who she was talking to and it caused me more than one “dressing down” when I would not respond in a timely manner.
My 8th grade Science teacher, Mrs. Tocquigny, insisted on addressing me as George. Her battle cry, “GEORGE, REFRAIN YOURSELF”, rang through her class and into the halls of Piner Jr. High, usually preceding a walloping with her board on my precious heiny. She was not impressed with my one-man stand up comedy routine and put up with no nonsense. For a little lady, she could swing that board like Roger Maris. She would take me out into the hall, I assumed the position and with my hands resting comfortably on my knees and “WHACK.” “George, you are not going to talk, ‘WHACK’ or continue with your inappropriate shenanigans ‘WHACK’ while I am teaching science and molding young minds!” “WHACK” When she finally tired herself out, I was willing to answer to anything she cared to call me. (Mrs Tocquigny passed on sometime ago. Before she died her son called and told me she was in a nursing home and was suffering from arthritis. She said, "I just can't get this stiffness out of my shoulder. But, if I could get George here one more time, along with my custom made, hickory paddle, I could work out a lot of the kinks in my arm.")
As I got older the “Bucky” became “Buck”, even though Bobby Ward said it sounded like the first name of a 3rd rate porn star. I went by Buck when I went to work for Melvin Simon and Associates. The principals and many of my friends were Jewish. I was also addressed by the Yiddish term referring to gentiles, as “The Goy”. With a “Jewish-sounding” name like Sappenfield, those assuming I was Jewish created a song, “Bucky the Jewish Cowboy,” to the tune of Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.
Simon was a sponsor of the Jerry Lewis Telethon benefitting the Muscular Dystrophy Association. Through all our malls, we raised over one million dollars and Herb Simon and I went on to present the check to Jerry Lewis.
Ed McMahon announced, “Here from Melvin Simon and Associates are Buck Sappenfield and company President Herb Simon”.
Jerry Lewis said, “Hello Herb, Hello CHUCK”. Herb stifled a laugh and made a brief statement about the company’s commitment to MDA. Jerry Lewis could not process someone named Buck. He smiled when Herb was completed and thanked him and CHUCK, one more time.
As Herb and I were walking off stage, Ed was chuckling and said “Jerry, it is Herb and BUCK”.
Jerry Lewis replied, “That’s what I said, Herb and CHUCK.”
In later years, when I was leasing shopping centers for Simon, I called upon the women’s French couture designer, Courreges at their offices in New York. I had aspirations to locate them in an upscale shopping center we were developing and had what I felt was a “fool proof” presentation. The individual I had to convince was a very formal, elegantly attired Frenchman named, Jean Jacque Vry.
I was introduced to Mr. Vry and launched into about a 15 minute soliloquy about the project, market, the consumer, blue skies and bright lights! He sat at his desk through my presentation with his chin in his hand, studying my face and listening. I wound up with a grand finale. (There was no way he could not be excited and would only ask, “Where do I sign!”)
Instead, Mr. Vry stared at me for about another 15 seconds, moved his hands to the desk in front of him and said very slowly, “Buck is your real name? Your mother, on the day you were born, out of all the names in the world, decided to name you Buck?” He was incredulous. I should have introduced myself as Pepe’ Le Pew or some other equally French-sounding name!
New York, as well as France, has a problem processing someone named Buck. Nancy and I moved to New York, when I assumed responsibility for the real estate and construction at ANN TAYLOR. Everyone was called in for a meeting and I gave a brief talk, asked for any questions and someone name Vito asked, “Buck is your real name?”
Yes.
“I once had a dog named Buck. I don’t think I’ve ever met a human named Buck”
“YEAH? WELL, I ONCE HAD A DOG NAMED VITO!”
The ultimate slam though came from a physician who lived on the same floor as Nancy and me.
She was from Pakistan, spoke excellent English and had no trouble remembering Nancy’s name. She and I were waiting for an elevator and she asked about Nancy and then said, “…and how are you today…?…Duke?”
I said, “My name is Buck.”
She chuckled and said, “On yes…of course. Forgive me. I knew it was some silly cowboy name.”
Once again, you've made me laugh out loud and start my day with a laugh!
ReplyDeleteYou have my sympathies. I had to endure the last name Breedlove. It was often changed to such things as Birdlove, Breadloaf, and Greedlove.
ReplyDeleteWhen I was young I told my mom that I was changing my name to Scarface Jones. I guess I thought that was manlier.
One girlfriend's mom used to refer to me as "that boy with the "NASTY NAME".
I was saved in college by the Hippie Movement. All of a sudden Breedlove was "way cool!" I made a poster that proclaimed: "Breedlove, not War!"
Later I made BREEDLOVE'S my company name and used it for 30 years.
What's in a name? Indeed!
You're still my hero, Buck!
ReplyDeleteMany people over the years have struggled with my last name. For a number of years I traveled a lot in my job, and getting checked out of a hotel was often a challenge. I would spell out my last name for them: "O W N B Y" when I checked in. Upon checking out, they never could seem to find it without going down their register one person at a time. Sometimes they would find it under "OWNSBY," or "OWEN," or "OWENSBY," or "OVERBY." Quite often it was listed under with the "H" section ..... "Hornsbey." If they couldn't find it under the O's or the H's, I'd have them look under the G's. "Ahh, there it is, "GUAMBY!" Of course, I didn't have nearly the trouble my uncle had. When checking in, they would always have him show an id or pay cash in advance. His name was John Smith.
ReplyDelete