My guess is that when my obituary is printed, my first name will be spelled incorrectly. I would also bet that where ever my body or ashes end up for what is suppose to be eternity the name recorded to tell the world that I, Eliott Jeffrey Florentine IV, lived and died in Savannah, GA will also be misspelled. To her credit my mother’s original intention was to name me Elliot; spelled correctly. The way my mom told the story to me and countless others during my childhood is that the attending nurse who completed the birth certificate the morning of my birth did not realize her mistake until my mother, Charlotte Florentine, had written out the Charl in her first name. The nurse stopped my mother immediately during mid signing, and apologetically pointed out her error. Whether it was the medication, or post birth hormonal fluctuations, I’ll never know, but my mom decided she liked that spelling better. She told the nurse, and nearly everyone she came in contact with over the course of her life that, “It will set him apart. It’s unique, and people will always remember that name because of its spelling.” I say over the course of her life, because she passed away six years ago at the relatively young age of sixty-three. A brain aneurysm as she napped in her favorite recliner. As for the name, it turns out she was right about people remembering it, but it’s got nothing to do with the spelling.
At one time my family was considered one step removed from southern royalty. Boy, times sure have changed. My great-grandfather, the first Elliot Jeffrey Florentine, used to own and operate five very successful family style restaurants throughout Savannah. He even had one in Beaufort, South Carolina, and in what would eventually become Garden City. Like thousands of businesses across the country the Great Depression of the early thirties wiped him out. The restaurants closed down and grandpa skipped town. He was just too embarrassed to stand in line at the very soup kitchen he used to send the restaurant’s leftovers and out-of-dates. Well…if I’m being honest, and at this moment I guess it can’t hurt, that is only half the truth. It is indeed true that the first Elliot, spelled correctly, did skip town, but despite what many members of my family still like to believe it had nothing to do with his embarrassment. The truth of the matter is that good’ol great grandpa was a shrewd businessman with his pulse on the free market. He could sniff out a changing economy quicker than a bloodhound could locate a bloody glove that was two feet in front of it.
Unbeknownst to the rest of the family, including dear sweet great grandma, the first Elliot, spelled correctly, sold off all the restaurants six months before the market crashed. He skipped town days after the bottom fell out with a buttload of money, and not one, but two of the waitresses from the old River Street location. A short time later the man who purchased the restaurants from great-grandpa tied two tire rims to each of his ankles, and threw himself into the river for which that very street is named. It wasn’t until his body washed up in South Carolina three days later that the mystery of what my great grandpa had done was revealed. Personally, I believe those events led to my family’s undoing for generations to come, and in many ways likely have a lot to do with why you’re now reading this.
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