Many years back Dirt, one of our friends and I put on a sheep show for the 4-H kids in western Washington. Sheep show-ers are always looking for more practice before their county shows and definitely before State Fair.
My friend and I were very diligent in giving the children a terrific experience on a budget that came from a barn sale I had that summer and modest entry fees. We hand made beautiful rosette ribbons, we rented the neighboring county’s fairgrounds for two days, we scrounged up old trophies and turned them into trophies for our sheep show. I printed fliers and … suffice it to say we worked our tales off.
Part of the splendor was going to be that we would hold a dance on the night in between the two show days. Everyone knows that a dance has to have a disco ball. We had enough money in the coffers to rent one from City Rents. So I called.
“Hi, I’m LeeAnn Vick and I would like to reserve a disco ball for the weekend of July fifteenth.”
“Okay, can I get your name again,” the nice middle aged man’s voice replied.
“LeeAnn Vick.”
“LeeAnn Dick,” I heard him repeat.
“Uhm, no. LeeAnn Vick, V, like violin, i-c-k.”
“Okay, LeeAnn, what day would you like to pick it up.”
We concluded our business, I marked my calendar to pick up the disco ball on a Thursday, as on Friday I would be busy hauling stuff down the opposite direction.
When that Thursday came, I drove down to the funky business area between the entrance to the tide flats and Fife, found City Rents and went in.
“Hi,” I say to the nice young woman behind the counter. “I am here to pick up a disco ball. My name is LeeAnn Vick.”
“Vick,” she repeats back.
I affirm that it is my name as she scans down a book in front of her.
“We only have two disco balls and both are going out this weekend. Your name is not on either.”
A crisis has just come upon me. I must have that disco ball. Not really, but I told people we would have one and I must not disappoint my people.
“Are you sure?”
Firmly she assures me. “Yes, your name is not on the book for this weekend or any weekend in the near future. Are you sure you called us?”
Now I was being nice in assuming that she meant was I sure that it was their store that I called not that I made up in my head that I called someone to rent a disco ball.
“Yes, I am positive I called here.”
“Well I am terribly sorry but I do not have a disco ball for you.” She tries to end the clearly uncomfortable conversation and is willing me out the door to cry in my disco balless beer.
“Uh, could I look at your book?”
“Sure,” she says, knowing full well I am just dragging out the inevitable and she will be the victor.
As she slide the book to me and I spin it around, I see it, my new name. “Dick Violin”.
In disbelief she howls as she fills out the paperwork after I tell her how I came to be renamed. I’m thinking that the distracted man might not be answering the phone anymore when they are short handed.
This story is one of our good friends favorites. He often calls me by my new name. And because his brother-in-law is now my son-in-law, I am never to far from a random reminder of my new name. As when my grown children were out last Sunday, encouraging me to get a facebook account which meant opening another e-mail account, they suggested that I use dickviolin.
Dear reader if you are in disbelief, I understand. But I can scan the receipt for that transaction that has my new name boldly pre-typed into the “renter” space. The date is probably remember incorrectly but the rest is well burned into my brain. I would have to clean out my office and remember where I put that treasure, that wouldn’t take more than a week. I should put it in my treasure case in my kitchen bar.
