My grandchildren refer to me in different ways. 

Hadley, the oldest, calls me the traditional “Grandpa,” usually said in great exasperation when we’re playing basketball outside her home in Boise and I constantly refer to myself as Michael Jordan. 

“Michael Jordan scores again!” 

“Michael Jordan grabs the rebound!” 

“Michael Jordan steals the ball!” 

Finally, having heard enough, especially because she’s almost always winning in our one-on-one battles, Hadley will proclaim, “Grandpa, you are not Michael Jordan!” 

Then, she’ll add a bit of trash talk to drive home her point. 

“Be careful you don’t break your brittle bones, old man,” she’ll say with a smile. 

Her brother, Holden, refers to me simply as “Gramps.” 

“Hi Gramps.” 

“Gramps, let’s play basketball.” 

Naturally, he talks a bit of trash, too.

“Hey Gramps, don’t fall over and hurt yourself. I’ll have to help you get up.” 

And then, there is Harrison, 4. He simply says, “Papa Bill.” 

“Hi, Papa Bill.” 

“Papa Bill, try to catch me!” 

“Papa Bill, do you have any dinosaurs for me?” 

Next, we have Beau, 2. He's cut from a different mold. He cuts right to the chase. No nonsense. He’s not playing around when it comes to what to call grandpa. He knows my name and isn’t afraid to use it. 

“Bill.” 

No Grandpa in there. Just Bill. 

“Bill,” he yelled as I carried him near McEuen Park on a recent sunny day when he wanted my attention.  

When I didn’t react quickly, he shouted again: “Bill!” 

On the phone, his dad will say, “Beau, say hi to grandpa.” 

Then, I’ll hear Beau’s voice: “Hi Bill.” 

The other day, he let out a shriek, followed by, “Bill.” He got my attention. 

Growing up, I referred to my grandmother as “Grandma.” Uncles and aunts always had that descriptor in front of their name when I greeted them. 

Uncle Frank was Uncle Frank.  

Aunt Vivian was Aunt Vivian. 

Aunt Helen was Aunt Helen. 

Aunt Edna was Aunt Edna. 

You get the idea. 

That didn’t change when I grew up. I never considered calling Uncle Frank just Frank. Aunt Vivian was never Vivian. It seemed wrong. They were, to me, forever Uncle Frank and Aunt Vivian. 

We grew up in a different time when kids didn’t really converse with adults unless spoken to. I certainly never talked trash to them. Had I ever done so, I would have been promptly put in my place, which would have been my father swatting my butt. 

My father, by the way, usually referred to me as “Billy Boy” when I was older, and my mother never called me as anything but “Billy.” I never graduated to Bill. 

One nickname I liked, a cousin came up with. She would call me, "William Wallace." I don't know why. But I liked the sound of it.

Perhaps Myles, our youngest grandson, will call me what I think would be nice, “Grandpa Billy.” But that's quite a mouthful for little boy.

So, plain, old Bill will be just fine.

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Bill Buley is assistant managing editor with The Press. He can be reached at bbuley@cdapress.com