An encounter Thursday, in a pharmacy waiting line of course, brought this to mind from a while back. As true now as then:

“Jimmy Butler!”

When I hear the Jimmy I know without turning that it’s being said by someone I’ve known most of my life and probably haven’t seen for more than half of it, as was the most recent case.

In all likelihood, it’s a high school classmate, surprised to see me at whatever venue we are in, he or she recognizing me by my unchanged profile — ears of Dumbo, nose of Ceaser, as stooped now as then.

And before I turn around, I almost always recognize the voice I haven’t heard for decades. Voices stay pretty much the same, appearances are another matter.

From Day 1 until shortly after taking my first newspaper job I was Jimmy to all who knew me.

I became a Jim only after the city editor said he had to shorten Jimmy to Jim to make the byline fit the column width.

Didn’t matter what my mother thought – I would be Jim to most from that point on.