My quest to be called “Old Man Turner”

A little neighbor boy told me his name.

He was standing on his porch, across the street.

I said it was a good name.

Then he asked me for mine. I told him my first name, and spelled it.

His mother looked down at her son and said “He’s Mr. Turner.”

I should have suggested that I prefer neighborhood kids to call me “Old Man Turner” or “Mean Old Man Turner.”

Maybe next time I see him, when I don’t have to shout.