When Aisha and I started thinking about names last winter, we thought it was going to be tough. We each had our “veto” card out and ready. Since we weren’t sure if it was a boy or a girl, we had to be prepared with two names. We threw around a few names, but laughed them off. No way we were going to name a baby boy Mort. And the chance of a girl named Prudence was out of the question.
We finally decided to get serious. We threw out a few more before Aisha said, “What about Gunner?”
Hmm. I loved it.
See, it’s not just a catchy name, not just one of those we-have-to-be-different kind of names. The name has some meaning.
When I was born, my dad thought I was a bit of a pistol and since he was a Navy man — having just returned from a tour in Vietnam — he started calling me Gunner. It was a variation of the Navy term gunner’s mate, who was charged with the operation of guided missiles, gun mounts, small arms and the like.
And suddenly, I had a nickname.
My dad called me Gunner for years. Still does, every now and then. What makes the name even more special is the fact that my Uncle Lewis called me Gunner all time. Even called me Gunner the last time I saw before he passed away last November.
Sure, our little Gunner has a unique name. He has a name that not a whole lot of people have heard, but for more than 40 years, it’s a name that has been very familiar to us and very special to our entire family.
No “veto” cards needed. As soon as we said it once, we knew we had a name if we had a son.
Gunner James.
