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Is my First Name not Enough?

Kenneth, born and raised in the South, resides in Hamilton, Alabama. He enjoys sharing his unique perspectives on life through his writing.

Truth be Told

I don't mean to be rash, rude, or coarse. Not even boorish. And certainly not living on OCD. I am just a guy. An average American guy who is a retired private citizen striving to be as obscure as one human possibly can. So you should understand the narrative I am presenting below. Thanks, Kenneth.

"Hey, Wilks! Your chute isn't packed!"

"Hey, Wilks! Your chute isn't packed!"

When I was first introduced to the noun, "Hell," it was from my mother, who did a swell job of teaching me about the two locations that our souls will reach. One is Heaven, if that soul has followed The Lord's footsteps and grew to know Him in a closer, daily basis and the other of course, is Hell. In my older years I learned that Hell is a Hebrew word, "Sheol," meaning, "the grave." But when you are five-years-old sitting on a wooden pew hearing an older man talking loud about "going to Hell," you suddenly start feeling fear creep upon your back and become afraid to look around.

Then when I did more Biblical studying, I found out that the one place we should do everything we can to avoid is: The Lake of Fire – it's as horrible as the title indicates. I won't get into the various arguments of "Pro" and "Con" of Lake of Fire because I don't argue with people. I just do not have time.

The aforementioned event was a true event held on one sunny summer morning circa 1961, when my mom and dad carried me to a little church and it was there where I heard my first preacher doing a good job of preaching God's Word. Speaking truthfully here, this man scared the living daylights out of me. But as he finished his fire and brimstone message he confused me by saying, "this sermon was all in LOVE!" I knew better than to ask my mom why I suddenly felt stupid. First I get told to get sin out of my life (and me only five) and if I didn't, I would end up in Hell and then hear that this preacher who spoke so sharply LOVED me.

At that time, I could only find resolve by thinking to myself that all of the time when Jesus walked the earth, He raised his voice twice: once when he cleansed the temple of money-changers and again when He raised Lazarus from the dead. Not at any time when He taught in the temples and synagogues did he pound his fist against the furniture and shout in the faces of those in attendance. I am not that preacher's judge or anyone ease's judge, so I will leave this alone for now.

Now that I am 64, (what? No party, Paul McCartney?) and someone on TV speaks something about Hell, I chuckle to myself, but not (at) the person speaking. They are, I guess, talking about Satan dressed in black with fiery eyeballs scorching poor sinners who rejected God. And when Satan gets bored of punishing people, he unleashes huge alligator-looking beasts with big, sharp teeth to bite the poor people's scorched butts and Satan, who is smoking a cigarette (pun intended) and laughing like there is no tomorrow – and really, there's not.

Would you really want to spend Eternity in a place so awful? No. And no sensible person would. What I am leading up to is another thing that I used to encounter when I was out in the public and sometimes in the church where my wife and I worshiped. I would be talking to a friend and I would overhear another person say hello to another man by calling out the man's LAST name. Kinda like in the Armed Forces. In fact, to prove this point, I saw a lot of War movies on the TV package that I once had and each War film I watched, the star, John Wayne, who was always a Colonel, Major or someone in charge, would say: "Hey, Shavers! Get the lead out! We got a job to do, so you and Johnson there, get the lead out, and shake a leg!" I never heard so many euphemisms in one sentence! The get the lead out, shake a leg, and we got a job to do was fine and I absorbed that, but NOT the men being called by their last names.

To me, that was then, and is now, just stupid as stupid can be. Pardon me for the straight-forward approach to this ignorant custom, "Hey, Nichols! How's tricks?" There it goes again! A man's last name followed by an ignorant euphemism. It never stops--and just keeps on going like the argument between Zin Buddhists who teach that Life is but a Perfect Circle and when we die, we arrive in another ring or area in The Biggest, Most-Enlightened Area of the Circle. Please, Elton John. Don't start up on me here.

What if, and I am almost angry here, (could be the coffee), husbands referred to their lovely wives as: Avery? My wife's last name. But if I really wanted to get her ire up, all I would have to do is say: Hi, Avery! How's tricks? Then she would kill me for even implying that her character is shady and promiscuous. So when any of you want to visit me, you are welcome. I will provide you some coffee, homemade teacakes (that Pam makes), but I will be doggones if I say, Avery, please refresh our guests' coffee. Instead, I might say, "hello, HubPages guests. This is my lovely wife, Pam." Neat, huh? And correct.

But back to the using men's last names for a minute or two, I can really believe that when our soldiers fought in all of our country's wars, the soldiers' leaders had to instill a hardness of the men's hearts in order to keep them from breaking-up in battle. So a tough, Hey, Andrews! Are you a jackass or something? Get that fuel loaded to the B-29, might have been the reason men got used to calling other men by LAST names.

I can be as tolerant as Fred MacMurray's role, "Stephen Douglas," of "My Three Sons," when I watch in-field sports reporters who cover important games and interview the winning team's locker room – the Hey, Stricklin, Dunway, and Darway! Nice teamwork! I said I "can" be tolerant of that sort of using a man's last name.

But in daily life? Not on your Aunt Bess' Cadillac sitting up on blocks. I am not about to jump on the "Using Men's Last Name Bandwagon," so stop wondering, I ain't going that route. Please! No more, Look out, Brewster! That guy has a gun! The people who are strangling the Grammatical Base of America are playing with fire, my friends. The awful day will come, and God forbid, one day in the cashier's line at a bank, one of "these" people who demand the usage of a man's Last name be used everywhere, will say, Watch out, Denver! That guy has a knife! And the guy named Denver Denver will be severely injured--and no. Denver Denver will not have to go to court to agree to having his name changed. This is a Free Country, the last I checked!

I may be trying to fight the air we breathe and lose in my presentation of this topic. Me losing is not a new thing for me in the least. But if something is not done about the Past Middle-aged Guys riding the Testosterone Train will one day, God forbid, die and when he gets to the Pearly Gates and begins to walk inside Heaven, he will see Our Savior, God's only son walking by and this man will have such Kahunas to say, "Hey, Christ! Come over here! Shake a leg! And shake my hand!"

I don't think so. Not now. Not then. Not ever.

© 2018 Kenneth Avery

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