A Name By Any Other Name

"Now, what's your mom's name?" This is a question that throws me into the realm of wondering if the inquisitor is ready for the much needed verbose answer that will explain my mother's name. Like going to the corner store, nothing is ever simple and straight forward in the South. I take a breath and exhale, "her name is Linda but everyone calls her Estelle (the emphasis is on the first syllable)."

This is where the befuddled gaze begins.

My mom has been Estelle for over 20 years; everyone calls her Estelle:

Her sister

Her sister-friends

My dad, her husband (those are not synonymous in the South)

Her parents

Her friends at church

My friends

Her employees

Everyone, including the sheriff of Laurel Park who after pulling me over for going 37 mph in a 35 mph zone, recognized me and warmly replied, "Well, how is Estelle?"

All 5'3 and one hundred or so pounds of her is Estelle and we have a mildly developmentally delayed, recovering addict to thank for it.

During the Reagan era and before the advent of cell phones, my mom was a social worker assisting and coaching developmentally delayed individuals, battered women, runaway teens and recovering addicts with functioning in daily life. Needless to say, the doors to our home were always open and our dinner table never dull. It was during this time that the phone calls began.

"Uh yeah, how you . .is Estelle there?" the graveled voice would quickly ask. "I'm sorry but there is no one here by that name." The caller would hang up before I could finish the sentence. My dad and I would exchange many complaints about the annoying requests for Estelle. I was convinced it was an evil junior high prank and my dad concerned it was a wayward church goer or unhappy employee.

One evening during dinner my mom was counseling a recovering addict on table manners and body language when the phone rang. Seeing that her lecture in cloth napkins would be disturbed by no act of God, I answered the phone.

"Uh yeah, how you . . is Estelle there?" again the voice barked.

I began my usual, "Please stop calling there is no one named Estelle . ." Before I could finish my petite mother was jumping up, grabbing for the phone and proclaiming "Oh that is me, that's me . . "

My dad, the addict and I were shocked as my mom began a phone conversation that was akin to comfortable chatting with her summer pool friend Patsy Jane. The bigger shock came moments later when we heard "Yes you must come for Thanksgiving. We would have nothing less" The mysterious graveled-tone voice would be joining us, my always and very proper grandmother and extended family members involved in the holiness church for Thanksgiving.

To get ready for Thanksgiving, most mothers make shopping lists for the grocery stores and gather recipes from various sources. My mother prepares by gathering the most eccentric and woebegone characters to be present around the table. How many people can say they have broken bread with a preacher, prostitute and an octogenarian fueled by a life-line of oxygen around the same table?

With the feast only minutes away and footsteps sounding on the basement stairs, I anticipated that the mystery caller would soon be revealed. This was akin to tuning into "The Love Boat" weekly to see who would be setting sail on the Pacific Princess for fun, love and mayhem. Except this particular episode found Charo on hiatus and in her place a wiry, African-American, middle-aged, developmentally challenged woman, with thick, round glasses, large braids, a rather ill-fitting Norma Kamali hand-me-down from my mother and a noticeable proclivity for scratching her neck named Melody.

My mother was famous for whisking in her guests moments before dinner service. My aunts' speculation attributed this timing to my mother's aberration of cookery. I always suspected it was an avoidance of any social interaction with family. Simply, fainting great aunts, tongue-speaking revivalists and drug addicts do not always mix well given long periods of parlor talk. This Thanksgiving was no different. Our family began to gather for a traditional prayer of significant length before gorging on creamed corn, fried turkey, biscuits and dressing when my mom slipped into the circle with Melody. My delight was seeing my mom squeezing Melody next to my great Aunt Narlena who surely thought this was a savage that her ladies missionary union was so fervently determined to save.

Even though my great-grandfather softly called, "let us bow our heads," my gut said no way. I wasn't missing this for the world.

"Dear and Glorious Heavenly Father, "his voice roared with an echo of saints whispering "yes, yes, Jesus."

"We are once again gathered Lord and thankful to be with all these children . . " My eyes were fixed on Melody and her twitching between my mother and Narlena. Being around addicts from my mom's profession and thrice-removed family members, I knew Melody's spasms were from a substance not so heavenly.

My great-grandfather's prayers were masterfully inserted with dramatic pause as to let the empty spaces be filled with choruses of "touch him Lord" and "yes, yes, hallelujah."

"And Lord before we begin this bounty we want to pause and thank you for all these undeserved and fruitful blessings." This is a pause, in retrospect, I am sure my great-grandfather wish he had not taken. In this long, seemingly forever frozen moment Melody started a twitching in her leg and right shoulder that indicated either a severe seizure or a true touching of the holy ghost. As the Kamali dress writhed like a cheap dancer in one of those bars down on fourth avenue, Melody's voice let out a shriek and the room fell silent.

"Uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu Estelle . . . . .I FARTED."

Within a moment, my mom defused the situation by holding Melody closely, calming her torrid movements and whispering "Don't worry. Me too."

It was from that moment on that my mom became Estelle. Linda really never fit. It never showed the caring, the bravery, the power, the humor or the humility. Estelle sums it up succinctly.

Some of us are lucky and are born with names that really fit who we are. Some of us, over time, grow into our names. A few of us are lucky and have our names given to us from the most unlikely of people. The next time when a near crazy person calls your phone and asks for someone whose name you do not recognize, instead of harshly cutting off the caller just politely say,"hold on and let me see if she is here."