About Singing Toes

Hi, I’m Betty Anne Walton!

Having a name is a rather strange concept when you really think about it. It’s YOUR name. It belongs to you. Yet, somebody else chose it for you. And by the time you’re old enough to learn you have a right to change your hideous name, your life’s already so screwed up because of it, it almost seems pointless.

As far as given legal names go, I think I got lucky. I like my name. Elizabeth Anne. I think it’s pretty. And it sounds royal. Her Royal Highness, Elizabeth Anne. Or, Elizabeth Anne, Duchess of Lauderdale. Yeah, I like that.

Elizabeth’s such a great name because you can do so much with it. You can break Elizabeth down to Liz, Lizzie, Liza, Eliza, Beth, you name it. But for some biz-arre reason, I don’t know why, maybe my head was too big and I hurt my mother at birth and she just wanted to get even, for some inexplicable reason, my mother chose to call me BETTY ANNE.

What ever was she thinking? You take a perfectly good, respectable name like Elizabeth Anne and sadistically twist it to BETTY ANNE?
What made matters even worse was that I happened to have a truckload of brothers and sisters. I felt like such a hick! “Hi, I’m Betty Anne Walton, and I have five brothers and two sisters, and I’m a goin’ fishin’ in the crik to see if I can catch me some mo’!”

For years, I spoke with a dumb hillbilly twang. Then, I learned that I was born and raised in New York! I had never even been further South than Staten Island. I thought it was oddly confusing. So, one day, I asked my father about it.

“Say, Pappy? How’s come I’m tha only one in tha in-tire fam-ly who sounds like one o’ tha Walton kids?”

My Daddy, he just slapped me upside the head and said, “What the hell are you tawkin’ about? Go ask ya mutha, and lemme drink my cawfee, will ya?”

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