You Can Call Me Fernsnickle

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Some people call me Fern, some people call me Snickle, and some people call me…well, you don’t want to know about that. But my real name, the name I like to be called, is Fernsnickle. Fernsnickle Hooves. 

My parents named me Fernsnickle for two VERY important reasons. Number one, they wanted me to grow up with some spunk. To not get crushed by the first person who told me I couldn’t do something that I knew I could. And to not lie down and die the first time I lost some battle that I desperately wanted to win. I think you know what I mean. They wanted me all thick-skinned and resilient. A bouncer-backer kind of girl. Not a quitter-quatter-whatsa-matter cry-baby girl. You know the type. 

The second reason they named me Fernsnickle is that my parents knew it was going to be ESPECIALLY important for me to be a bouncer-backer kind of girl since they were pretty sure they wouldn’t be around too much after I was born. 

See, as much as they loved me, which is a WHOLE LOT, they were just NOT cut out to be everyday kind of parents, and the truth is that they had much BIGGER fish to fry. So, for that everyday kind of parent stuff, they’d have to count on Grandma Rose, and I’d have to count on Grandma Rose, too. But, because Grandma Rose was already super old when I was born, they knew that in not too many years, the only person I would have to count on would be me – ALL BY MYSELF. 

I mean, if you knew that about your kid, you’d wanna name her Fernsnickle, too, wouldn’t you? Well, if you never thought of it before, I’m telling you now that I highly recommend it. Getting teased about my name, and having to stick up for myself and not let it get me down, has been the story of my life. And believe you me, my skin is about as thick as an alligator’s these days.

So, anyway, when my parents brought me to live with Grandma Rose, I was only about two months old. Mom and Dad and I had all been living in a homeless shelter, which was my parents’ base for some very top-secret operations. Which is why Grandma Rose gets very angry when she hears anybody call somebody a “homeless person” or insinuate they’re all crazy, or weird, or scary or lazy.

Grandma Rose says, all those people living in tents downtown, or sleeping in the gutter by the Pick and Pay, are just people like you or me. They are not “homeless people.” They are just people who are experiencing homelessness. Some of them lost their jobs or got sick and didn’t have health insurance, and the doctor bills basically sunk their ship. Some of them don’t have any family to make sure they take their medicine, and without it, they just can’t think straight anymore. And then other people, like my mom and dad, are undercover agents for the CIA on a mission to save the world. And what better way to hide out than to have no address and always be on the move? 

You probably think I’m crazy for telling you all this because I could basically blow their whole cover. But I’m not worried because nobody ever believes me. Because I’m a wiry, hyper ten-year-old girl with crazy-long, wiry-red hair, eyes as big as two pancakes, a grin that would give the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland a run for its money, and, on top of all that, my name is FERNSNICKLE. You see what I mean, right?

So, anyway, back to me in diapers, coming to live with Grandma Rose. My parents brought me to Grandma Rose in the middle of the night, and it was a very top-secret mission, too. See, Grandma Rose lives in a strictly 55 and over trailer park in Carbunkle, Arizona. All the old folks in the “resort” are constantly on the lookout for anybody breaking any of the rules. And the biggest rule of all, the numero uno, the topper of all toppers is absolutely NOBODY, SNOWBODY, FOEBODY under 55 years old is permitted to even breathe the air of the Paradise Cove for 55 Plus for more than a three-day visit. Period. And the absolute worst offender of all is a child, any child, big, small, sour, or sweet. Grandma Rose likes to say, “Unless it’s wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger, a baby in Paradise is cause for a full-blown ten-whistle red alert.” So, Maude and Archie Hooves, my mom and dad, brought me undercover in a secret mission to deliver me permanently to live with my Grandma Rose.

Grandma Rose was glad that I came, of course. She had been very worried about me, as you can imagine, a tiny baby living in a shelter, and sometimes in a tent, and sometimes in an abandoned house. She knew that moving me to Paradise was for the best. For everybody. But, she was a little worried about her neighbors, to say the least. If they EVER got a teensy, tiny, itty-bitty little hint that I was living in Paradise, they’d rush to the Chief Officer of the Paradise Rule Enforcement Committee and have the two of us thrown out - on our ears. 

So that night, after my parents kissed me and left, Grandma Rose sat down, held me in her arms, and we had our very first serious talk. Of course, I don’t remember the whole thing. But I do remember thinking, "My, what big teeth she has.” Grandma Rose likes to tell the story over and over and over again, so I’ve heard it a million times, and I know all about the rest. 

Legend has it, as they say, that Grandma Rose looked me straight in the eyes and said, “Fernsnickle, I need you to grow up REAL QUICK. All that normal baby crying in the middle of the night and all day long is NOT going to fly here. I’ve got nosey neighbors with giant ears on either side of my trailer walls. If you make even one little teensy, weensy, baby-sounding peep, they’ll be all over us like butter on a hot potato.” 

That’s when Grandma Rose said I burped and smiled, and she knew I understood. And that was it. I never cried or made a fuss, and that’s because, according to Grandma Rose, I’m the absolute, smabsolute smartest girl in the world. And I didn’t want to be thrown out on my ear. So, keeping me a secret when I was a baby turned out to be a breeze, but the bigger and bigger I got – well, that required a whole new strategy.