On the day we are born we are provided with a very unique gift, a name that we will carry until our very last day. This name we provide will coincide with our last name also acquired at birth. Sometimes the name is a good match and sometimes it is quite questionable, but we have what we have from that day forward. As we grow and enter school, we sometimes embrace our names and sometimes we just do not. Everyone reading this story can relate to that one individual that we knew in childhood that simply did not like their name, so they conveniently changed it.
There is a process for changing our names, a legal process. As young boys and girls we do not venture down the legal avenue, we simply tell our friends what we want to be called. Welcome to the age-old world of nicknames, this place we go when we want to use a different name requires much thought because sometimes those nicknames also travel through time until our last days and then some.
Some of us are provided our names in a very common manner, a boy might be named after his father while a little girl might be named after her mother, grandmother or a special aunt. I carry my father’s name and one of my sons carries my name. My great-great-grandfather arrived in Concord in 1850 with the name Martin H. Spain. A good Irishman, he married an Irish woman and proceeded to name his son Martin H. Spain. This went quite well for the younger Martin so he decided to name his son Martin H. Spain too. Soon the neighbors up on North State Street witnessed three Martin H. Spain’s walking about town and assigned their own version of nicknames to distinguish them apart. My great-great-grandfather being the senior Martin kept his name, simply known as Marty to his friends working with him at the quarries on Rattlesnake Hill. My great-grandfather looked like his father, that dark complexion we inherited from our homeland in Ireland, commonly known as Black Irish, dating back centuries. Great grandfather Martin H. Spain became known simply as Black Martin, a nickname that worked well for him and he carried it proudly until his days did end. My grandfather Martin H. Spain was fortunate to have a brother named Francis Spain. As children we find Martin and Frank constantly battling in childhood antics, both with each other and the other children living in the north end neighborhood of Fosterville. Martin and Frank earned some wonderful nicknames; one was called Donkey and the other consequently Mule. A couple of stubborn boys that wore their nicknames in honor, nicknames that are still spoken about within our family and often debated, imagine that.
There are other times when adolescent acts dictate a nickname. The young boy that swam courageously back and forth across the strong Merrimack River in Concord was affectionately called Fish for the remainder of his life. I know many of these names having grown up in the shadow of my parents in Concord, some times we like our nicknames and sometimes we simply do not. I was given a nickname as well as my brother and sister. My wife and I affectionately assigned nicknames to each of our four children, names that maturity erased and I certainly will never mention to preserve my inner peace and tranquility.
Sometimes these nicknames arrive accidentally or because of local circumstances, events or sports affiliations. Other times our nicknames are associated with our jobs, such as the old steeplejack that worked the many steeples dotting our community, I recall hearing his name might have been Jack. There are times when names are assigned in reproach or disgrace, but they too become time honored and revered for their various reasons.
There was a time well over a century ago when names were quite interesting and now obscure, they were given in time honored manners and the nicknames associated with them were both known and accepted. The nickname for all of the Jonathan’s from the past was simply Jot, and every old Henry was called Hal. Alphus was nicknamed El while Josephus was called Seph. Oliver was called Nol while Sarah was actually Sally and Mary was known as either Molly or Polly. Lest we forget, Margaret was Peggy and Martha was Patty. If we travel back a few more years we find little Mehitable being nicknamed Hitty or Kitty. My very own Nana was Mary Emily, Millie to her close friends, though they could in fact have called her Amelia.
There are people we knew growing up that were left-handed, hence the name Lefty, and there also people that walked with a bit of extra confidence and we knew them simply as Lucky. There are some nicknames that could be given to a boy or a girl in the masculine or feminine sense; Allie could be a nickname for Alice, Albert or Alexander while Albert would also be nicknamed Bert. The combinations and variations are simply endless.
During some of the earliest years of our country names tended to follow the names found in the scripture. I am a product of a very old Irish-Catholic family and when family gatherings occurred over the years each and every Apostle was represented very well. The earliest years in America held a great deal of patriotism too, children born when wars did end and heroes walked the streets of small towns across America. There was once an abundance of George Washingtons, Henry Clays, Patrick Henrys and additional names steeped with patriotism. Often times this worked very well but at other times the burden of famous names was too much to bear requiring the young man or woman to enlist the services of a solid nickname.
As I walk the Old North Cemetery in Concord this overcast morning, I am surrounded with some of our earliest ancestors. There are many names on the many gravestones, formal names lacking nicknames, given at birth and recorded in stone for the sake of each legacy. Regardless of your name, title, occupation or interest, a name is to be guarded and used very carefully. This honored title that we carry from the day we are born until the last day of our life will follow each and every one of us into history.
Vintage Views is a local history column that explores Concord and its surrounding towns. It runs every week in the Sunday Your Life section. The author is a historian and not a member of the Monitor’s staff.