I stood with my aunt over my father’s grave after the funeral service. The first thing I noticed on his tombstone was that my father died exactly thirty years and three days after my mother died.
For years the only sign was the little metal one left by the funeral home. That bothered me, but I knew better than say anything to Dad. He moved in his own good time. Eventually he bought a wide stone with three names, Mom’s, his and my oldest brother’s. My brother had his own set of problems so Dad knew he would have to take care of his final arrangements. Of course, Mom’s birth and death dates were carved in, but Dad’s and my brother’s only had the birth dates. Again this bothered me but I said nothing. On this particular day all three death dates were now carved in stone.
The second thing I noticed was his name on the stone: Major Grady Cowling.
His first name was not Major. He never served in the Army. He had only one eye so they didn’t even want him in World War II. Actually, he was named for the doctor who delivered him, a Doctor Mager. Dad did not like that name. He insisted on being called Grady. His signature for legal documents was M.G. Cowling.
I couldn’t blame him for that. I would have hated being named after the doctor who delivered me, a Doctor Thayer. I had a lisp and a problem with saying “r”s. People would have thought I was saying “Sarah” instead of “Thayer”. It was bad enough that I said “Jeh-wee”.
No, my father didn’t like his first name because when he was a boy playing war with friends they never let him be the general because he was “Mager”. Even when he was too old to play war any more, he still resented still being “Mager”. I only knew this story because mother told me. Dad didn’t like to talk about such things.
After I grew up, moved away and came home for the occasional visit, I noticed letters and bills at his house were addressed to “Major Cowling”. When I asked him how come his name was misspelled, he replied, “Aw, they can call me anything they want. It doesn’t make any difference.”
“But Mom told me your name was Mager with a ‘g’.”
“It doesn’t make any difference.”
He even signed his Christmas cards, “Your Father, M.G. Cowling”.
I had always mistrusted my own memory and judgement. Maybe I just dreamed my mother told me that story because every place I found his name in print it was listed as “Major.” My mother, father and brothers did have a habit of lying to me about things because it was so much fun to see the look of surprise on my face to learn something unusual. Also it was easier to tell me a quick lie than to explain the difficult truth. For example, when I was fourteen I overheard my father on the phone telling his sister that Mom had cancer. When I asked him about it, he told me I misunderstood him. After she died three months later I asked him why he lied to me. He said he didn’t know what else to do. Even now I’m pretty darn gullible.
It wasn’t until the last few years when I had to get a copy of my birth certificate for something or other that I saw an official State of Texas document with his name as “Mager Grady Cowling”. I had to admit, it was quite a relief to have it confirmed. When he said, “It didn’t make any difference,” he literally meant it didn’t make any difference to him.
How terribly sad to be so beaten down by life that my father had no spirit left to fight for his own name. He accepted the spelling that was easiest for everybody else, even though he hated it.
I don’t really know what life lesson there is to be learned by this. If anyone figures it out, please tell me. I’m so gullible I’ll believe anything you say.