Back in 1927, when my father was born in the bedroom of his parent’s modest home in Bristol, TX, he was given the name Ted. In this oft-told legendary tale, Granny Stilwell recalled the moment she delivered her 3rd son. She mentioned Theodore as a name, and definitely remembered telling the doctor in attendance she wanted the baby boy’s middle name to be Waylon. Unfortunately, the name that followed my father throughout his rich life was, in fact, not Theodore Waylon, but the hastily etched physician hen scratch Ted W. Yep, he didn’t even get a middle name, only an initial. He went on to have 2 sons before the age of 24. So, he used Waylon for one of their middle names, right? Wrong. In fact, my half sibs share rhyming middle names: Randy Ray & Sandy K. See what he did there? The lone initial lives on. There was a sister in the mix, but tragically, Nickie Gayle died of SIDS before she would see her first month in this world. When my parents married and my mother convinced her older husband that he did, indeed, wish to be a father one more time, I was named after my mother’s favorite 50’s era socialite turned actress, Dina Merrill, star of such movies as Operation Petticoat & Butterfield 8. Yet, somehow, when it came to middle names, my dad decided that if rhyming was good enough for his sons, it would be good enough for his daughters. That is how I became (deep sigh + eye roll) Dina Dale. Yes, like a double entendre nightmare, it rhymed both with sweet Nickie’s middle name and our last name, Stilwell. As if that isn’t shameful enough, I dated not one but TWO boys in high school whose middle names were also Dale. My friends had middle names like Marie, Kay, Lynn, and Michelle. Meanwhile, Dale here was commonly asked if it was for Dale Evans or, like, the farmer in the [dell]. Life is cruel.
So, what are middle names for, anyway? No one on the Mayflower had a middle name. Very few of our founding fathers had middle names. Out of our first 17 presidents, only 3 had middle names. Why use them at all? The answer is multi-fold. To get there, we have to go all the way back to Medieval Times, the period, not the restaurant where you eat with your hands. In England, middle names were reserved for royalty. In fact, it was a punishable crime for a non-noble child to be given more than 2 names. And, since our earliest settlers were from England, and definitely not royal family members, they came sans middle names. That all changed, however, when the Germans struck out for America in the mid 1700s. The Germans loved their middle names. Historians think that trend started with the popularity of German composers like John Sebastian Bach and George Frideric Handel. Once American colonists rebelled against the British aristocracy, that all changed. Like an ultimate nose thumb from this newly independent country, we said, “Phooey on your dumb British rules,” and began middle naming American children with abandon. Plus, it really helped separate fathers from sons and grandfathers and uncles and cousins, as did the use of designations like Junior and Senior, another version of nobility-based labeling of kings by numerals. By 1900, the middle name was commonplace in this country, often used to honor a close relative or pay homage to a mother’s maiden name. Genealogists recognize the dodged bullet that would be the added difficulty of researching familial lines without a middle name to fall back on. Otherwise, there would be a lot of, “Wait, who moved to Georgia in the 1920 census? Was that Harold the grandfather or Harold the son or Cousin Harold?”
Shakespeare may have penned “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose/ By any other name would smell as sweet,” but, as a longsuffering Dale, I beg to differ. Tween Dina, upset over the tiniest perceived wrongs, once whined to her mother about the other names she surely considered in place of Dale. “Well,” mom said, “Your greatgrandmother’s middle name was Valena.” Dina Valena? The injustice doesn’t stop. At least, the rhyming names are a thing of the past in this family. We’ve even tried to right some old wrongs. A few years ago, my son called from the hospital to tell me his son, Ezra, had made his grand appearance. “Hey Mom,” he asked, “One more thing. How would you like us to spell Theodore? That’s his middle name.”
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