Names

I watched a royal wedding recently and I was interested to note the name of the groom. Prince William Arthur Philip Louis. His moniker evokes centuries of history- and a complex labyrinth of family relations.

My father’s name was Ewing Lee Robertson. I once asked my grandmother why she had chosen the name Ewing. Dad was her sixth son, and she said after all those boys she had run out of other names to use. She already had a Harry and a George and a Carl and a Glen and a Gaylon, so when she met someone named Ewing, she thought ‘That would be a nice name for a boy.’

Ewing was a fine man, honest and decent. He always left a place better than he found it. On his deathbed he said to my husband and me that he was glad we’d found each other and he encouraged us to continue taking care of each other.

As a young adult I wondered where my parents had come up with the inspiration for my name. My middle name is Ewing, and I’ve always felt privileged to carry a little bit of my father around with me. But my first name has no obvious familial origins. As a young adult, my politics began coalescing. And I started to worry that my parents had named me after a certain Ronald who had become governor of California. My mom reassured me that Mr. Reagan had never been a hero of hers. Long before him, she was enchanted with the name of another actor, Ronald Coleman. A film critic of his time said this of Coleman:

“For such a gentle man, he had a core of strength, an adherence to his own code of honor like steel - incorruptible and immoveable.”

Need I say more.

I believe that names carry a certain indescribable influence. They imbue a person with certain qualities and they radiate a personality before the person is fully formed.

Our niece and nephew, Jennie and Kevin, had a baby boy last month. He was their third child after giving our family two beautiful daughters, Ainsley and Hadley. I have to admit I was moved to tears when I learned they’d named the boy, Ewing.