So, I promised earlier to tell the tale of my nickname “Stottlemeyer” as it was bestowed upon me by a mailman. And I keep my promises. Except when I don’t.
During middle school, a family living down and around the block adopted me into their fold. I spent a lot of time hanging out with two of the three brothers. One is a year older than me; the other is two years younger than me.
I haven’t kept up with that family as well as I should’ve in the past couple of decades, but I still hear from them.
The parents declared me the most favored son when I washed dishes after supper. I did it to show up the native-born sons who whined about having to do the dishes. (My friends could tell how I still wash dishes to shamelessly curry favor with people. But I digress.)
Anyway, the mom and dad in that family both worked for the U.S. Post Office. The dad was a rural mail carrier. He was very skilled at driving on the passenger side of a truck for easy access to roadside mailboxes. During my time around their home, my Adopt-a-Pop noticed I was a rather awkward and brainy little thinker or philosophizer. It didn’t take much for “Aaron” to become “Aristotle” coming for him.
But eventually, I had been “Aristotle” for so long the nickname had become bland. Things needed a little spicing up. So in good Germanic fashion (as befits the older South Dakota immigration patterns), I gained a Germanic employment surname as a new nickname. I was “Stottlemeyer”. (FYI, stottlemeyer means a tenant farmer or a wholesale merchant as best as I can tell.)
So, in the Spirit of Stottlemeyer, I leave you with these parting words. Ancient wisdom from philosophizers of old:
To do is to be.
To be is to do.
– Jean-Paul Sartre
To be or not to be.
– Billy Shakespeare
Dooby dooby doo.
– Frankie Sinatra
Scooby dooby doo!
– Scooby Doo
Yabba dabba doo!
– Fred Flintstone
Hey, hey, hey! Ay, Boo Boo?
– Yogi Bear