What's in a Name
People always ask me what it was like growing up here in Park City. The question usually comes with a look that suggests the person is thinking, “Do you know that most people don’t live like this?” I guess growing up in a ski resort town through the ’70s, ’80s and ’90s had its drawbacks, but quite frankly, I can’t name one, other than the fact that I didn’t live close to a shopping mall—which, in my opinion, was a good thing.
Growing up in Park City, not only could I walk to the most amazing skiing in the world, but I also lived in an incredibly close-knit community. In fact, the other day I was marveling at the sheer number of people in town who have nicknames. Not that such terms of endearment in and of themselves are unusual, but we seem to have a disproportionate share of them here: off the top of my head, I quickly wrote down 52 nicknames that I use for people I know, or knew.
Take, for instance, the man we affectionately call Lurpy. Lurpy—or Brian, as he tried so desperately to tell people his name was—joined the Muckers rugby team soon after arriving in town some years back. He made the mistake of revealing that his nickname back in Colorado had been Lapo. Somehow, another rugger, Blacky, decided that Brian’s name was not Lapo, but Lurpy—and for the life of him, Lurpy could never shake that moniker. Lurpy moved out of town a few years ago; I have a feeling that no one knows him as Lurpy in his new place of residence. But as soon as he sets foot back in Park City, his name is ... well, you know it by now.
I think the nicknames in this town are part of what makes it special. It makes me feel in on something unique just knowing them. In conversations with out-of-towners, I sometimes get a kick out of mentioning names like George the Hack, Razor, Squid, Goose or Steakhouse. The confused reactions are priceless: “His name is what?” Or even if it’s just me running errands at the grocery store, there’s something affirming about when I call out, “Hey, Zukie! Peaches! Fish! Strawberry! Chicken! Carp!”—and it has nothing to do with what’s going into my shopping cart.
I suppose nicknames are a part of every culture, and in that sense we’re not so different here in Park City. Even at their creative best—I’ve known a Putt Putt, a Three Finger Ted, an O.D. McGee, Weird Steves (three or four of them—it was a club), a Tennessee Tuxedo and a Waterbed—we give each other nicknames because we care about each other in ways that words otherwise wouldn’t express. Giving someone a nickname says, “I know you, I care about you, and I’d be sad to see you go.”
Unfortunately, I never had a nickname myself—always wished I did. But it’s part of my personal story that I’ve come to know folks like Shorty, Kuby, Cappy, Dugby, Dusty, Rusty, Schwampy and Droofy. They may not all be around anymore, but their names will always belong to this small, funny ski town. I’m betting you know a few of these people yourself, and if you don’t, getting to meet them is a great reason to experience more of Park City.
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Reader Comments:
Don't forget Baggins.