What’s in a Name?

Plano, TX

For several years we lived in Plano, Texas. Back then it was a relatively small town in the Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex.

Every Sunday at church and during the Prayers of the People, a section of the prayers were for local clergy. One petition called for prayers for “Woody our deacon.”

I was what they call bi-vocational clergyperson. Electronic Data Systems, Inc. was my employer and primary means of support. As far as our church was concerned, I demanded they pay me $1.00 per year because I did not want them to take advantage of me and my services.

At the end of my first year at that church I was thanked for my service and then given an accounts payable check for $1.00 made out to “Woody R. Deacon.”

Boise, ID

One week in February, 1989, I made a sales call to a prospective client in Idaho. Boise was dry and cold that day and evening, as I recall. While eating dinner with my client in a fine restaurant  – my sales manager had not yet arrived because his flight was delayed – my nose began dripping. I kept using my handkerchief but never looked at the transferred content of my nose drippings.

Finally my client asked me to go to the men’s room to stop the bleeding. What? Oh, no! Blood. After more than 15 minutes leaning over a newly red-colored sink bowl, my client came in to find out what was happening. “I’ll call the manager,” he blurted out after seeing my face and the sink. Anyway, the restaurant manager called 911.

The next thing I knew I was on my back bouncing around on a rock-solid stretcher in the rear of a speeding and loud ambulance. Besides the driver there were two other paramedics who attended to my condition, and unsuccessfully so. We arrived at Saint Alphonsus Hospital. It was now 11:00pm and I was taken to an ER area and placed on what looked like a bed-table combo. Not very comfortable.

After a while a physician came to my side, a fine fellow I might add, and diagnosed my problem. He began “packing” my nose. "Packing" is not a very stylized medical procedure. He chuckled. "The dry air did it," he advised. "Many thanks, Doc!"

An administrative person came in to talk with me while I was being “packed.” She wanted to know if I had an insurance card. “Yes, it is in my jacket pocket there hanging on that hook.” She reached into my jacket and then gave me my wallet. I opened it and gave her my blue EDS Insurance card. The name on my card read “W.E. Norman.” She asked “What does the ‘W’ stand for?” Being a humorous person and trying not to act overly concerned about my “packing” procedure, I said “Worth, as in Fort.”

At home about two weeks later I received an invoice in the mail from Saint Alphonsus Hospital. The invoice had the correct street address, but the addressee name was“Fort Worth Norman.”

Birmingham, AL

When living in Virginia, North Carolina, Illinois, and Texas, no one ever got my name wrong. But when I moved to Alabama (and make no mistake, I was glad to be back in the South – Texas is Southwest, you know) people could actually read and learn my real name that was printed on my driver's license and what-not, which is Worth Norman. My name always seemed backward to these Yellowhammer folk. “Hello, Mr. Worth. How are you today, Mr. Worth?” I get it. It’s like “Driving Miss Daisy” – sort of.

But, I can take it. When I was in the Marine Corps I was called “Normfats” and my personal physical condition during those years was in no way reflective of that moniker.