We lived in a small town in North Carolina for a while and everyone had a nickname. Sometimes even a first name sometimes sounded like a nickname. There was Uncle B.B. who was known to family members as Pork Chop. His brother to those who knew him well, was Ham Bone. Nicknames can be an endearment — or can just as easily be something demeaning, I suppose. My childhood nickname was Pinky and occasionally Mimi, though no one calls me either of those now. My brother Charles was Toddy, my sister Sara was known as YaYa. What happened to those little people? I bet they’re there, inside of those grownup people. In Neil Gaimon’s “The Ocean at the End of the Lane”, one character tells another that there truthfully are no grownups in the world. They are all still small children, who just happen to be locked inside bigger bodies.