Candy Land

I wonder when I changed from being “Candace” to “Candy”.

When I was growing up, I was always called Candy. In a bit of defiance, and to prove that I was different from everyone else, I decided to spell it different than the norm. From junior high to high school, I was “Candé”, as if all of a sudden I’d turned French.

Round about the time I started college, I decided that Candy was either too little-girlish or made me sound too much like the happy hooker. So I went back to going by my full name, Candace.

Nowadays, except for those few friends who have known me for decades, I am known as Candace.

Except here in my new home in Arizona’s White Mountains, that is.

For some reason, everyone here shortens my name to that childhood nickname of Candy. I introduce myself as Candace and at the end of an encounter, my new friends and acquaintances are saying “Nice to meet you, Candy.”

Even complete strangers do it. The propane delivery driver handed me a handwritten receipt for my tank fillup. It was made out to Candy Morehouse. My neighbors call me by my nickname, so do people at church, and even the checker at the grocery store.

I gave up trying to correct everyone a long time ago. I guess up here in the rural outskirts of town, I have gone back to living a simpler life, in every sense of the phrase. First it was my name, then it was the chickens I bought. I’ve got my eye on a goat to add to our farm animals but I just hope he doesn’t eat the vegetables I am growing in my garden with my own homemade mulch. What’s next? Riding a horse into town, grinding my own flour, and fermenting my own wine? Sounds good to me.

Until next time, yours truly, Candy