Category: Family Stories

Family stories hold a special meaning. They offer invaluable insight into the lives of our ancestors—their journeys, their struggles, and sometimes their sense of humor. Yet not every tale is entirely reliable. Some stories wander a little off course over time, and those who hear them must sift through the details to decide whether they are listening to fact, fiction, or something comfortably settled somewhere in between.

While exploring my family tree, I discovered that one of my great-great-grandfathers had shared a few less-than-truthful tales with my mother about his experiences immigrating to America and about the life he claimed to have built once he arrived. When I later researched those stories, records and documents quietly refuted many of his claims. Still, I couldn’t help but chuckle when I imagined him spinning those tall tales for his granddaughter, perhaps with a twinkle in his eye and a storyteller’s flair.

And that brings me to family names.

Behind many names in a family tree are stories just as colorful as those old tales. Sometimes there is more than one version of how a name came to be, and occasionally the decision itself sparked debates, raised eyebrows, or left parents quietly stewing over what to name their precious newborn.

When I was pregnant with my daughter Leslie, I had a strong feeling the baby I carried was a girl. Her father, Dave, felt the same way, though we wisely kept a backup name ready just in case. If the baby had been a boy, we planned to name him Brandon Raymond. We both wanted to include family names, and Raymond was the middle name of both Dave and his father. We also liked the Irish meaning of Brandon—prince or brave.

Although we spent most of our time considering girls’ names, we could not agree on the perfect one. The middle name was already settled: Marie. That name carried a quiet family tradition. It had begun with my grandmother, Elva Marie, passed to my mother, Dorothy Marie, and then to me, Ann Marie. Passing it on to another generation felt important.

But the first name? That proved far more difficult.

Dave didn’t care for most of my suggestions, and I wasn’t fond of his choices either—especially the day he casually suggested the name Mary, which happened to be his ex-wife’s name.

I remember slowly turning toward him and giving him what could only be described as the look of death. Dave immediately realized what he had said and burst out laughing. Then he began stuttering, trying to backpedal his way out of trouble, insisting it had nothing to do with his ex-wife.

To this day, I still try to remember whether he slept on the couch that night. If he didn’t, he probably should have.

Eventually, after much discussion—and perhaps a little marital negotiation—we settled on the name Leslie Marie. When she finally arrived, pink-faced and perfect, the name suited her beautifully. Later, when I discovered the meaning of Leslie—a peaceful warrior—I felt even more certain we had chosen well. The Scottish name seemed just right for our baby girl.

Naming the children in my own family had its share of shenanigans as well.

My parents believed strongly in honoring family names, but that didn’t always mean they agreed on which names should be used. More often than not, my father had the final say—except once, when my mother decided she had waited long enough and took matters into her own hands.

I was the first child born and the only daughter. Both of my parents wanted to carry on family traditions, but they had very different ideas about what that should look like.

My mother wanted to name me Aimee Marie, inspired by a beloved cousin whose married last name was Aimee. She thought it sounded elegant and meaningful.

My father had another plan.

He believed I should be named after two of my maternal great-grandmothers: Anna Strassburg and Tamer Anna (Ann) Peyton. His solution was simple.

Ann Marie.

Years later, when I was a teenager, my mother discovered that my father had once had a fiancée in Georgia named—of all things—Ann Marie.

I decided it was best not to dig too deeply into that particular family mystery. Still, I suspect that discovery might have earned my father at least one night on the couch.

Two years later, my world expanded when my first brother arrived. According to my mother, when she told me she was pregnant again, I became quite determined about what the baby should be. I began carrying one of my dolls around the house, calling it Tommy, and confidently announcing that my baby brother would soon arrive.

As it turned out, my prediction wasn’t far off.

The new baby was named after his two grandfathers—Tom Allen and Wilson Reeder—so Tommy Wilson received his name.

Right on schedule, two years later another brother arrived: David. His name didn’t cause much debate. He was named after a kind uncle who had married my dad’s sister, Betty, and after a pioneering great-great-grandfather who had once moved his family from Ohio to Colorado in search of a new life. His middle name, LeRoy, came from my father’s own middle name.

The third son appeared a little later than planned, arriving about six months after my mother’s carefully spaced two-year timeline. Keith Allen carried on another family name, as Allen was my mother’s maiden name. My father chose the name Keith, though to this day I’m not entirely sure if it had any deeper family connection. It’s one of those small mysteries I wish I had asked about when I still had the chance.

The final child in our family produced the most memorable naming story of all.

My father had already decided the baby would be named William, after his older brother. He was so certain of it that he had begun calling the unborn baby Billy long before the delivery.

But this time, my mother quietly decided she would have the final say.

When the baby arrived, she calmly filled out the birth certificate herself. The name she wrote was Daniel Harold—Daniel after one of her cousins and Harold as a small nod to my father, whose own name was Harold.

For three days after the baby was born, my father proudly introduced his new son as Little Billy, completely unaware that the official paperwork said otherwise.

Finally, my mother broke the news on their drive home from the hospital.

My father simply laughed. Still, for years afterward, he occasionally slipped and called the boy Little Billy anyway.

Family names carry pride, tradition, and history within them. They connect generations across time, linking grandparents, parents, and children through a shared story.

And while I cherish the traditions behind those names, I have to admit that I still smile when I think about the debates, surprises, and small bits of mischief that helped shape them.

As generations come and go, I hope our family names—and the stories that travel alongside them—continue to grow and branch out, just like the family tree itself.

Family names carry pride, tradition, and history within them. They connect generations across time, linking grandparents, parents, and children through a shared story.

Yet behind every name lies something even more powerful—the people who chose it, the memories that shaped it, and the stories that refuse to be forgotten.

Because in the end, a name is never just a name.
It is a story waiting for the next generation to tell it again.

Spinning Yarns
And Baby Makes Five Part 2
The Land of Milk and Honey