The Nickname I Don't Want Anyone to Use

I have never been a fan of nicknames. I don't like to call people by their nickname or give anyone a nickname. I'm not actually sure why, but I just prefer calling a person by their given name. I'm even petty enough about it that I hate when people shorten my name to one syllable. It annoys me for absolutely no logical reason at all. So, I don't really have any nicknames. Even  when I played sports I was always called by my first name, because my last name was too long. I believe I was one of the only ones on my sports teams that wasn't called by her last name but rather her first name. I liked it that way. So, as a 24 year old, I don't have a nickname (at least not one I know of). 

The last time I had a nickname (and the only one I've ever had) was up until I was 9 years old. My papa gave it to me. Apparently when I was born he decided he would never be able to remember my given name, so he called me Pooh. 

I don't remember him ever calling me by my first name. To him, I was alway Pooh. I loved it. I loved that I had a special name from him. You see, he was someone I looked up to ever so dearly. I was his first grandchild, and we were incredibly close. 

That's him in the picture. He was teaching me to drive the boat. He and my nanny had a lake out their back door, and we spent as many waking hours out there as possible. To me, I was THE BOSS LADY whenever I was with him. He let me drive the boat, took me fishing, let me adjust the gears in his stick shift Nissan truck, and spent almost every Saturday with me. Many Saturdays he would pick me up, and we would go to the sale barn together. We didn't buy anything, but I learned to sit incredibly still so as not to accidentally bid. Haha I was 7, I had no chance of them thinking I was bidding. That was pretty clever on his part. Other Saturdays he would pick me up, and we would spend the morning hitting up all the local yard sales. Those were my favorite days. He always bought me tons of junk. 

The Christmas before he died, I remember him using me as his spy. He said, "Pooh, ask your nanny what she got me for Christmas then come and tell me later." Oh man, I was on the mission of a life time. I was trying to be all sneaky and find out what he was getting, only to have my nanny know exactly what I was doing and tell me a fake gift. We were both shocked when he opened up a hitch cover in the shape of a boat propellor instead of a fishing pole that folded up. Come to think of it, I may have been the only one surprised it wasn't a foldable fishing pole. He laughed so much, and I was so upset my spy mission had failed. I was quite the dramatic child. My nanny told me, recently, that when I was about four years old I called my papa and asked him to "come pick me up and get me out of this mess". I had a brand new baby sister and wanted a break haha. He jumped in the car and raced to my rescue. 

I am sure I'm guilty of putting him on a pedastool; I think that's easy to do when someone we love dies. But I sure loved that man. I was 9 when he was killed, and I was about 10 the last time anyone called me Pooh. It was just as well; I didn't want anyone to call me that anymore. It was special. It was mine and his. I became protective of the nickname, and didn't want anyone saying it ever. I guess everyone deals with losing someone differently, and I held on to him by the nickname he gave me. I use it now as a password, username, and other private things, but I don't want anyone else using it. I don't want to hear it. It breaks my heart, and it was too special to have it feel sour. 

Anytime I've been asked if I have a nick name I always answer no, but I know this one will always be dear to me. I just don't want anyone tainting it. 

Grief is a weird thing, and for that 9 year old girl, so many years ago, it meant latching onto the name he gave me and never wanting anyone else to use it. 

Sincerely, 

Miss