Superheroes typically come with origin stories that contain a moment or event that defines their being. Alas, my unerring ability to earnestly state the blatantly obvious at the most ridiculous moment, in a manner completely devoid of irony, does not make me one. Thankfully, that means I’m not required to wear tights with my underwear on the outside. Fashion choices aside, us normal folk are usually more complex than superheroes, and very few of us have one key story or noteworthy event that encompasses our essence. However, I am lucky in that I possess a backstory that explains why the moose is my rightful token spirit animal. My self-identification with the moose didn’t result from a childhood obsession, nor did I engage in geeky fanboy behavior by taking inspiration from the end credits to Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Rather, it’s the result of one man: Pops.
Pops was my maternal grandfather. Because my parents separated when I was still a toddler and lived roughly 180 miles apart for most of my upbringing, Pops played just as pivotal a role as my dad when it came to raising me. Pops registered me for Little League baseball and volunteered as a coach for a couple of my teams. Pops repeatedly brought my brother, cousin, and me to the Smithsonian museums via the Metro, and he even took me to my first baseball card shop. Most impressively, Pops—a licensed pilot throughout his adulthood—frequently assisted my parents by volunteering to fly my brother and me back and forth between them. I should note, however, that he wasn’t just helping my parents by shuttling the two of us between the Maryland foothills and South Jersey shore—he loved any excuse that gave him reason to go airborne.
He also clearly loved showering affection upon his young grandchildren. I have plenty of memories of him gathering two or three of us into his lap while grabbing one of his airplane magazines. After we all settled into his chair, he would read to us and show us pictures from those pages. Even though he passed away over 11 years ago, I can still easily recall the scent of his cologne mixed with the aroma emanating from the generous application of Vitalis required to straighten and plaster his incredibly wavy hair into a standard part on the side. That smell is so deeply interwoven with those memories that I am unable separate them. Looking back, it’s clear that we were likely the only audience at the time that appreciated him sharing this information. However, that’s likely because the amount of affection and attention he gave to us while doing so made us completely unaware that this just happened to give him an excuse to indulge in one of his passions.
As part of his way of making connections with us, Pops enjoyed endowing his grandkids with nicknames. He called my cousin, Lorraine, “Honeybunch,” and my brother, Justin, “Tiger.” Meanwhile, I received the moniker “Little Rascal,” but somewhere during my transition from toddler to preteen, I don’t recall exactly when, my handle changed. By the time I was playing in Little League, I became “Moose.” As evidenced by my inability to recall when the transition occurred, it took me some time to realize that a change took place. Even when it did finally register, I thought little of it. I clearly intuited that he meant it as a term of endearment, and that’s exactly how I took it. Looking back at pictures of myself around that time, I can see why he made the switch. I was big for my age, a little overweight, and built like… well, you get the picture.
Unfortunately, I eventually became a teenager, and with that change came the inevitable surliness over a nickname used while I was just a “kid.” Well, not just that. I came to feel it was also an unflattering, derogatory nickname—regardless of the intent behind it. I don’t recall any of the details regarding the exchange, but I know that I actually asked him to stop using that name. Despite my inability to remember his reaction at the time, I cannot help but feel that some twinge of sadness must have crossed his face as he understood why his oldest grandchild rejected the nickname given to him when he was less “mature.” Although I saw him an average of once per week throughout my teen years and continued to see him frequently until his passing, I never again heard Pops call me, “Moose.”
After Pops died, I quickly found myself feeling wistful for the old term of endearment. I wish that the nostalgia returned in time for me to mention this to him when I still had the opportunity, but I cannot admonish myself for lacking the self-awareness necessary to express such a sentiment before his passing. However, when I decided that I wanted to transition to a pseudonymous journal from my original online journal, which I plastered my name all over like broadsheets on the walls surrounding a construction site in lower Manhattan, I realized I possessed the opportunity to both posthumously honor Pops and express my fondness for my childhood nickname. As a result, I adopted an online moniker that incorporated the word “moose” and developed a look for the journal that did justice to the name.
In a similar manner, when I recently decided to put serious effort into becoming a writer and create a new site to showcase my work, I harbored no doubts about incorporating “moose” into the title. My only real concern centered upon how to do so. I settled on “Road to Mooseville” primarily because while I view life as a never-ending journey with numerous destinations, some locations seem to frequently serve as nodes for many of those paths. Over the past 10 years or so, I encountered a few different moose-themed tchotchkes bearing the word “Mooseville,” and given the path I’ve taken in regards to the nickname Pops gave me nearly 35 years ago, Mooseville certainly feels like one of the key intersections in my life.
Thank you, Pops.
The Road to Mooseville 
You made me cry, Matt. Man, I miss that Pops smell. His birthday just passed, and I always talk to him on his birthday and tell him Honeybunch, Tiger, and Moose are doing well, but we would be better if he were here. He stopped calling you Moose out of respect and understanding. He was proud to see his grandchildren grow up, don’t worry about that. He referred to you as Moose when he was talking to me, though. 😉
Thank you for passing that on to me. I had no idea that he did so — I don’t remember him referring you to as “Honeybunch” or Justin as “Tiger” during or after our teen years, so I didn’t even suspect that he referred to me as “Moose” to others. I’m glad he still did to you, at least.
I understand the coming-of-age need to leave behind a childhood nickname. I went through that myself around age 12 when I dropped the diminutive -y ending from my familiar name. It confused my friends in high school when the one or two people who’d known me since elementary school used the diminutive name. “Why does he call you that?” they’d ask.
I don’t see that “Moose” is a childish name, though. I’ve known a few other adults with that moniker. One of the adult leaders in my Boy Scout troop had the nickname Moose. We boys didn’t call him that; he was Mr. Pierce to us. But we heard the other adults call him Moose, and he had a small stuffed moose toy on the dashboard in his car.
One of my teachers in college was also nicknamed Moose. Again, we students didn’t call him Moose; out of respect for his role we addressed him as “Dr. Land”. But he was dating a university administrative employee I visited once or twice a week, and she always had some funny story about what Moose had done recently during their… extracurricular activities.
I don’t see Moose as a childish name anymore either. I know of plenty of adults who use the name, and if Pops were still alive I’m certain that I’d love it if he called me Moose again. Hell, I know that by embracing it again the way I have on this site I am potentially setting myself up for people using it to refer to me, and I probably wouldn’t have any problems with that.