Those of you, Dear Readers, who remember old television commercials might remember the title phrase from a Tombstone Pizza advertisement. The answer was always something to the effect, “Pepperoni and extra sausage.”
My youngest half-brother Jerry Sampson was thirteen, almost fourteen, years old when I was born. He gave me my first name, Ronnie, for his best high school friend, Ronnie Brantley. I was never to actually know Ronnie Brantley, but I did come to know and appreciate his sister Imogene Munsey, long-time Union County school bus driver.
My middle name was given to me by my mother, who chose the same middle name as her father, “Papaw” Charlie Lee Sampson. Papaw Charlie was the only grandparent of mine who was alive when I was born. Whenever I think of him, the word “gentleman” comes to mind. Papaw was seventy-six when I was born, and he lived to be ninety-seven. I remember Papaw as a quiet, patient man who never got upset at anything. He could hear hardly anything at all, but he would make eye contact and say, “Yeah.” There were times he should have said “No,” but we who knew him understood.
Of course, my last name I proudly inherited from my father. The only person I know who might have been prouder of the last name Mincey was my father’s oldest sister. It was spelled “Mincy” about one hundred years ago, and Dad’s oldest sister Duskie once questioned how the spelling got changed. Duskie’s sister, my aunt Vallie, said she added the “e”. Duskie asked why, and Vallie replied that she thought it looked better with six letters than five. Duskie retorted, “You oughta left it alone!”
During my last visit to Cincinnati, my niece Drama Denise Mincey Shell’s husband Greg traced the Mincey family ancestry by computer back to the 1500s in England. Aunt Duskie would have been thrilled to know that little piece of family history. I always look with pride on the engraving on her tombstone—Duskie Mincey Jones. Duskie’s daughter, my cousin Bertha Jones Lay, told me that Duskie actually had nothing to do with the way the name was engraved—according to Bertha, it was all Bertha’s doing. Nevertheless, I am happy with the acknowledgment of the family name cut into stone.
In high school bus wait an older student called me Mr. Rogers. He wasn’t exactly being complimentary. Interestingly, that same guy held the door for me and my girlfriend once in college. Also in high school, a friend of mine used to call me “Frank”, which was my father’s name. When my father died, this friend never called me by Dad’s name again. I suppose he was afraid he would hurt my feelings, but it would have been fine. Even at age sixty, I still run into people who have known my family for years that tell me Frank Mincey will never truly be gone as long as I live. I find that gratifying.
When I graduated with my teaching certification from Lincoln Memorial University, one of the gifts I received was a name plate for my desk. The name was listed as Mr. Ronnie Mincey, with the explanation, “You’re going to be called Mr. Mincey for a long time.” That name plate has been on every desk I have occupied for the entire time I have served as a Union County educator.
But not everyone was appreciative of my ancestry. I once had a student removed from my class just before lunch because a parent figured out that my father was an alcoholic, and she didn’t want her child taught by his son. (It is interesting that the reason this parent knew my father was an alcoholic was because her brother was one of my dad’s “drinking buddies”.) During lunch, the child went to the principal and cried because she was being moved. After lunch, the principal moved the child back to my class. I told the principal that the parent would most likely protest again, and I was told not to worry about it. There were no further issues.
Occasionally, I have been given friendly nicknames. I have been called Mince, M & M, Mr. M., Doc and Dr. Mincey (by some even before I had a doctorate). Now Ms. Murr always calls me Dr. Mincey. A worker in a local restaurant once told me that I resembled Adolph Hitler. From that moment, he called me Hitler every time he saw me.
I was recently told by a cashier at Ollie’s that I reminded him of cartoon character Hank Hill.
Of course, as an educator it is impossible to have kept every person with whom I have interacted happy. I can remember the first year I taught that the high schoolers waiting on the bus would call me “Pee Wee” (after the character Pee Wee Herman) when I got out of my car in the morning. I remember an incident in which a parent accosted me at the flag pole at the end of the day, and those same high schoolers urged the parent to “hit him!”
There are other incidences when terms of derision have referenced me. “Mince” has been used both positively and negatively “to my face”. I had the privilege to once serve as principal to an employee who had previously called me “Mince” in a falsely joking manner when I was a teacher. Interesting how this same employee was more respectful to me when I was her supervising principal!
That woman I married calls me Mr. Mincey when she is in good humor with me. When she calls me Ronnie, I know something’s rotten in Denmark. For the most part, I have been called Mr. Mincey professionally. Even Ms. Carolyn Murr, one of my former teachers for whom I have the highest respect, called me Mr. Mincey when I returned to the system as a teacher.
When I was in Lincoln Memorial University’s doctoral program, there was a fellow student from Georgia who appeared to struggle. I, along with fellow Union Countians Lauren Effler and Jason Bailey, tried to help this lady. Another highly intelligent student in the program was a native of Iran who came to this country as a single mother and spoke no English. She taught herself English and pursued higher education after her daughter was raised. The Iranian asked me one day, “Why do you waste your time on her [the Georgian]? She is not going to make it.” I explained that perhaps if I helped the Georgian that someone would help me in the future when I had need. The Iranian replied, “You a nice boy, Ronnie. I call you Jesus.”
Never before or since . . .
I remember once walking through a graveyard and coming upon the grave marker of a former teacher. As I stood there I thought, “I hope people don’t remember me being as hateful to them as you were to us.”
What will people say and think of us when they happen upon our gravestones? These words from William Cullen Bryant’s Thanatopsis that I first encountered in Kennith Venable’s high school junior English class are frequently in my thoughts.

So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, which moves
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

So, Dear Reader, may that be the final destiny of us all.

ANSWER TO QUESTION OF THE WEEK # 87
Why did the spaghetti tell the meatballs to go to bed? (ANSWER: It was pasta their bedtime.)

QUESTION OF THE WEEK # 88
How did the mathematician feel about negative numbers? (See the next “Mincey’s Musings” in historicunioncounty.com for the answer.