No picture to accompany this story, told to me by a woman who is the HR and operations manager of a shoe retailer in Western North Carolina.
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She walked out to greet us. Still wet from the cold rain, not yet warm enough to remove our coats, we stood to greet her. The initial steps of the sales call dance began: introductions, handshakes, a funny comment, and an awkward reminder of who we are, and why we were interrupting her busy day.
Pleasantries aside, the appointment began. Now my habit is to refer to the appointee by both their first name and their formal name, but at different times. "Celeste, how many pay periods do you have?" "Ms. McKinney, approximately how many folks are covered on your health plan." But her card had this other name: Doshey. I kept thinking: "what the hell does that mean?"
Her office was pretty plain, very 1970's both in design and decoration. She was utilitarian in her work environment: a old desk, what appeared to be a minicomputer on her side table, the biggest damn printer I had seen this side of the 1980's filling the sidetable. Her office was dominated on one wall by an open glass window in an area filled with admin folks -- the kind of space that would have been filled by typists 30 years ago. And while her success was a clear reflection of her dedication, her history and her smarts, Doshey, err, Ms. McKinney's role was a clear sign of her importance within the company. She carried herself well -- her intelligence and analytical nature reflected in her questions and comments. Her heart shone through with her commitment to the way things were, and preserving relationships. In short, I already admired her.
The sales call took its usual path -- slow, rising to a crescendo and then closing with a whimper -- never my greatest strength in the delivery. And I was surprised to hear a request for more information; I had already mentally written this opportunity off because of her body language when she spoke about her current vendor. But then the moment for why I was there presented itself.
I collected my bags and we all stood, my colleagues and I preparing to walk back out in the cold rain. Then curiosity took hold, and I looked down at her card. The question could not stay in my head any longer, my lips unable to hold back my tongue's desire to make the inquiry that had nagged at me since I had first read her card. When I turned to her, she seemed to recognize the look on my face, and, I interrupted her as I asked: "What is the meaning of Doshey?"
As soon as it was asked, it was clear that this was a question she seemed to get nearly every time someone heard her called by this name instead of her given name. She started to tell the story, and I could tell that name was something of which she was very proud, and defined her in a fundamental way.
"When I was born, my grandfather decided that my nickname would be 'Doshey.' No one understood why, but there was something about that name that was at the foundation of our closeness," she started. She gently swung her leather chair from side to side as she spoke and she shone brighter with every fragment.
"My granddaddy and I were always close. While he had many grandchildren, he always treated me different, yes even, I would say that I was his favorite." Her tone had shifted, with an odd mixture of both arrogance, and embarrassment as she shared this fact. "We would do everything together -- he taught me to drive, took me hunting, would buy me whatever I wanted. But I never understood why, other than that blessed grandchild's lifelong understanding that I could expect it."
But then a subtle darkness took over for just a moment: "And while my fellow grandkids never seemed that upset about it all -- and I guess some clearly must have -- my relationship with my grandmother was always cold. It almost seemed that she was the maddest about my status with my grandfather. As much good as he did, she seemed to counter it with disdain or anger or resentment. At one level, she almost seemed jealous of our relationship."
As she spoke, I remembered the scene in "Yaya Sisterhood" where Vivi's mother confronted young Vivi about the ring that her father had given her, almost suggesting an inappropriate amount of love between them. Remembering her anger, and the near drunken assault on her daughter to take back the "exhorbant" gift, only to have to be humiliated in front of her daughter and her daughter's friends by her husband made me feel uncomfortable to imagine how Doshey felt in those times.
"So I moved through my life, feeling overwhelming love from my granddaddy and the opposite from my grandmother, and learned to accept that it was the way it was." Wistfully, she looked up at me to make sure I understood the confusion, pain and pride that made that cocktail of emotions in her life. She still sat, and I just stood, mesmerized by this backstory.
"When he died, I was very sad. We had stayed close -- maybe not as close as I would have liked, but he was still so important in my life. By this time, I was in my late 20's, and his death was a great loss to me," she said, oddly emotionless about this man that meant so much in her life. But I felt something in her tone reflected that his death had been something that was peaceful, and necessary, when it finally arrived. "And at his funeral, there was an older woman there, someone that I felt I knew, but could not place. She seemed to be a neighbor, or a family member that didn't sit with the family. She appeared and disappeared with the same ease, and I was perplexed.
"'Who is that?,' I asked one of my grandfather's friends. 'Oh, that's his friend, Doshey, who he grew up with...' And my world stopped spinning. My thoughts were lost, all I could think of was 'who is this woman?'" The confusion of the moment still seemed to echo in her eyes, and her tone, as she shared this recollection.
"I asked around about her and the story I got made the rest of it make sense. My grandfather had dated her in school, but for some reason, they never were able to be together -- to fulfill their love. So he carried her in his heart, and when I was born, her nickname became my nickname, and the love he had for her, while different, was shared with me."
The understanding came across my face. "So that's why your grandmother..." "Yes, that's it. Her attitude toward me was lingering jealousy, or resentment, that my granddaddy ever gave me that name, and that she now was stuck with another Doshey in her life, and not one that she could ever hate like she did the other. So she punished me in a different way.
"And while I could have been mad at her for blaming me all these years, I wasn't. I finally understood why he loved me above all others, and that I was his one connection to his lifetime love. I was blessed by that love my whole life with him, and every day since."
And with that, she stood, for the first time, and shook our hands, waiting for me last. She looked up, and with this look in her eye of sadness, mischief, and cockiness, she nearly mumbled, "And that's why my nickname is on my business card."
It was the hereditary crown in her blessed, and loved, life. I admired her even more.
A collection of photographs today, starting with one I took actually last August in Dallas at Dealey Plaza. Was a nice morning of cool air in that hot-as-hell town (especially in the middle of summer), and had a pending trip to Hawaii (not mine) weighing heavily on my mind. But there is something mystical about that place, where JFK was murdered by LBJ... I mean, by the Cubans and the Mafia... err, I meant Lee Harvey Oswald. Yes, I know the Warren Commission concluded... anyway, brief distraction: I loved this flag flying in this place that seems still haunted by Kennedy's death, and eerie to be in after seeing it so many times on TV.
The last three were photos I took today, all around my parents' yard. Each offered something different as a perspective on this day. The dill made me think of salmon cakes at Elmo's with extra dill sauce. 
The pink peony was particularly intriguing with its diversity of folds, and one little looping petal coming up to greet the sky a bit above the others. They smelled wonderful (another failure of the senses) and they were particularly nice in the early morning light. 
Finally, these dried leaves from the table on the deck were particularly apropos for the day. Two years ago, she reached out and brought me into her life. Today, to be here – better, stronger, but without her – still feels bittersweet. 
The last three were photos I took today, all around my parents' yard. Each offered something different as a perspective on this day. The dill made me think of salmon cakes at Elmo's with extra dill sauce. 
The pink peony was particularly intriguing with its diversity of folds, and one little looping petal coming up to greet the sky a bit above the others. They smelled wonderful (another failure of the senses) and they were particularly nice in the early morning light. 
Finally, these dried leaves from the table on the deck were particularly apropos for the day. Two years ago, she reached out and brought me into her life. Today, to be here – better, stronger, but without her – still feels bittersweet. 
