My grandpa was born nine years after the start of the 20th century. He went to be with the Lord 10 years before the end of it.
My mother was his “baby”. I don’t mean she was his youngest. That honor went to my Uncle David. “Baby” was her nickname and how she came by that nickname is one of those “guess what my kid said the other day” kind of story. A story one wishes their parents would stop telling every time kin folk come to visit.
My grandpa was the one who woke up my Mom and her siblings for breakfast every morning. One morning he was late about doing it. My Mom yelled out, “Daddy, come get your baby.” If she had known before she said it that she would never live “baby” down, she might have thought twice about saying it and just gotten out of bed.
That was how and when her nickname was born. My Grandpa loved to tell the story. As for my Mom, well, she didn’t like him telling it all that much when she was growing into a young lady. But now, she would dearly love to hear her Daddy tell that story one more time. As time goes by, the more precious the memory is to my Mom that she was her Daddy’s baby.