First or last name, it’s not the same

Pop was among the very few Bauman House summer residents who was known by his last name. He was always Mr. Bauman. I don’t know why, but that’s how it was.

Of course, he was the ba’al ha bayit, but I hardly think that was an auspicious enough position to warrant the formality of his title. And he never looked formidable, dressed in an old shirt and an even older pair of khaki pants, all clean of course, since he was meticulous and somewhat of a germaphobe as well, but clearly not executive-looking. He was indeed the chief executive but always walked around with tools and shmatas to make repairs, since he would do the work without a fee, and any professional handyman or carpenter would charge more than BLB Equities, Bauman Litwak Bauman, the fancy incorporated name, was willing to spend.

Only on Shabbas would he dress up with an actual white shirt and tie and more decent pants, bottoming out with black socks and shiny shoes. No jacket, however, since the little shul in town depended on opening the windows and capturing the fresh mountain breezes to keep it cool, and no one ever thought, in those long-ago days, to put in air conditioning, or even a fan. The shirt and tallit always sufficed.

The only other person at the Bauman House who never had a first name was Mrs. Lipschitz. I fancy that she’s still alive and that by now, in 2025, she must be at least 150 years old. After all, if I’m 85 — and I am — and she was older than my grandparents, including Pop who died in 1960 at 77, she’s got to be way up there by now.

I assume she’s still alive since no one ever reported her death, at least to me. But if she died it would certainly have been due to tripping over her dress and collapsing on the floor, killing herself in the process. She always wore a dress. The thought of Mrs. Lipschitz walking around in a pair of jeans is totally beyond the pale. Never would happen. But her problem was that her dresses, amorphous, really shapeless creations, always hung below her ankles. I never saw her shoes. How could a woman of her age, her advanced age, in the 1950s, when I knew her, stay aloft in dresses that were so very dangerous? I tsitter — I tremble — just thinking about it.

But it was Pop, Mr. Bauman himself, who wound up with the broken hip that I always thought would befall (notice the fall in befall!) Mrs. Lipschitz.

That too had a Bauman House connection, since his fracture and unsuccessful surgery followed a curse from a tenant, Raizel, who was never known to be a witch but who apparently kept that feature of her personality quiet. (Nothing else about her could ever be considered quiet.) She cursed him to become a cripple, and then he did, a few short months later. I don’t know why she cursed him, but there it was, the actual proof, the broken hip! Raizel, by the way, was never called by her last name like Pop and Mrs. L. She was just Raizel, a character in our family’s lives who deserves a book rather than a mere mention in an opinion piece.

Mom, my mother, was the real COO of the Bauman House. She was in charge of everything except the repairs. She was the peacemaker whenever major or minor arguments broke out among the clientele, the rental agent, the advertising whiz who dutifully sent out postcards to all the expected returnees, virtually everyone, touting whatever was toutable, which was very little; things like hot and cold running water, proximity to the village of Parksville, Adirondack chairs (which I dutifully painted annually for at least 10 years worth of summers), a handball court that was actually the side of a building, and creature comforts like a bit of indoor plumbing; beds, albeit with backbreaking mattresses, in every room; refrigerator space, and two burners on the stoves in every kitchen. There were places to play mah jong and poker — and that was about it. Nonetheless, there was rarely a vacancy. Business was good, and my mother worked hard. Absolutely everyone called her Ida, except my sister and me. To us she was Mom.

I recollect all these memories because of my own permanent paranoia vis a vis names. I’ve often shared with you, my friends, how much I dislike my own first name. It sounds so goyish, and no one ever gets it right, at least not at first blush. I’ve been called everything that starts with an R, plus the Hebrew version Shosh, which is still used by some, especially in Israel, but hey, my name is Rosanne — and I don’t like it! Within our family I’m called Ro by everyone, even the babies, who especially like it because it’s pretty easy to pronounce and everyone ma,kes a big fuss when their baby first hollers out Roooooo. Older friends often call me Rosebud. My father always called me Rosie. My mother, actually responsible for the name, always used it, never any of its derivatives. Like it or not, it is my name.

I especially don’t like my name when some people appropriate it and are too informal about it. I’m thinking about you, doctor! I’m always totally proper when I go to a doctor (an act in and of itself that I actually hate to do). I say I’m Rosanne Skopp and the good doc often answers I’m Dr. Cohen, Dr. Mandelbaum, Dr. Reddy, Dr. Gupta, or whatever. It’s the doctor’s next line that gets to me. “How are you today, Rosanne?” Them’s fighting words. These days I’m no doubt older than the doctor and I’ve called her by her last name, Dr. So and So. Where does she come off calling me by my first name?

I interrupted an ophthalmic surgeon last year while she was doing cataract surgery on my left eye. I had said no to any type of general anesthesia so I was wide awake when she asked me a question, something like could I move my head to the right a bit. She addressed me as Rosanne. I responded using only her first name. She was a bit stunned. I didn’t apologize. I didn’t see the need. She’s a considerably younger woman. I’m happy that she earned an M.D. degree, but I learned from the best, my Rutgers professors, that with names, parity prevails.

As a college student for four years I was known to my professors by my last name. I was Miss Litwak, and then for my senior year, newly married, I was Mrs. Skopp. Not one of that esteemed group ever called me Rosanne. These were educated people, just like my ophthalmologist. Yet there was a tacit agreement between us that first names were just too informal. Always. I reciprocated, of course. To wit, Professeur Jewel taught me French, and Dr. Pollak taught me music theory and harmony. To this day, almost 70 years later, I don’t even know their first names.

Hence, while I don’t really like my name, you, old friends, can feel free to use the informal first name, whichever variant you choose. I only ask that you not use it in vain!

Rosanne Skopp of West Orange is a wife, mother of four, grandmother of 14, and great-grandmother of nine. She is a graduate of Rutgers University and a dual citizen of the United States and Israel. She is a lifelong blogger, writing blogs before anyone knew what a blog was! She welcomes email at rosanne.skopp@gmail.com

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