As sure as a South Georgia boy shows up for the second grade snaggle-toothed, he’s going to be tagged with a nickname. I didn’t have to wait that long. Before Big Dink ever saw that I had blue eyes, too, I was destined to be Little Dink.
Monikers are as Southern as sweet tea. Just ask George Irvin Perdue III. You don’t know him? Sure, you do. He was governor of Georgia for eight years. He served as the nation’s secretary of agriculture for four years. And now he’s the chancellor of the University System of Georgia.
Sonny Perdue knows that he could have been dubbed Bo, Buster, Bubba, Booger, Bugs, Bull, Bully, Buddy, Buzzy, Rosebud, Hoss, Rooster, Pig, Catfish, Turkey, Foots, Coonie, Cooter, Chicken, Chicken Box, Pork Chop, Jet, Fuzzie, Skeeter, Speck, Slim, Cubby, Peanut, Toad, Frog or Turd. (Yes, I played high school football with a guy whom the coaches nicknamed for a bowel movement.)
I’ve known all of the above, and they’re good folks whom I’d like to see show up for my next pig pickin’. Considering the nicknaming possibilities, I suspect that our chancellor is happy with Sonny. And I’ve tried to change my name only once.
My birth certificate reads “William Henry NeSmith Jr.” I could have been William, Will, Willie, Billy, Billy, Henry, Hank or Junior, but my folks liked Dink. I grew to like it, too, but the early days were rough. Kids enjoyed toying with my name or were confused by “Dink.” Go back with me 70 years to Cameron Bennett’s barnyard to see what I mean.
While the grown-ups were sipping sweet tea and swinging on the Bennetts’ front porch, the kids were scrambling around looking for fun. We were having a large time, with one exception. None of the 10-or-so Bennett children could catch my name. After repeating “Dink” about a dozen times, I made a playground decision. I said, “Just call me Henry.” The problem was solved.
Temporarily.
As the sun slipped beneath the Wayne County pines, a Bennett lad dug his bare big toe in the dirt and asked, “Mrs. Margie, can Henry spend the night with us?” Puzzled, Mother asked, “Henry? Who’s Henry?” My playmate nodded in my direction and said, “That little boy over there.”
That was the last time I tried that change-my-name trick, but it wasn’t the last time that I had to explain the origin of my nickname. It’s not in cursive script in the front of our family Bible, but the legend goes back to 1922.
My grandmother’s sister came to see her new nephew, who had been born in a railroad section house in the remote Decatur County community of Recovery. Rocking the newborn, the aunt exclaimed, “Well, he certainly is a cute little ‘stinker.’”
Offended, my grandmother fired back, “How dare you! My baby is no stinker!” Her sister recanted, “Well, he’s a fine little ‘dinker.’” Dinker stuck. After a couple of years, the “er” fell off. So, when 1948 came along, I was automatically Dink Jr. But it could have just as easily been Bo, Buster, Bubba, Toad, Frog, and, yep, even Turd.
Fast-forward to 2025, and new acquaintances still squint when they hear my name for the first time. I am often called “Dean.” Some folks say, “It’s nice to meet you, Richard.” They aren’t sure they know me well enough to call me “Dick.”
It’s fun listening to introductions of my wife, Pam, and me. Many times, we’ve chuckled when folks get their tongues tangled and say, “I’d like for you to meet our good friends, Pink and Dam.”
dnesmith@cninewspapers.com
