The Stories Hidden in Our Names

A name can be more than something printed neatly on a birth certificate—though, in my family, “neatly” may be giving us too much credit.

It can carry family history, preserve a memory, honor someone who came before, or create a mystery that generations will continue discussing at reunions until somebody finally says, “Well, that’s not what Mama told me.”

My grandfather is a perfect example.

He was born Michael Sievers, but after he was adopted, his name was changed to Herbert Meyer. Simple enough—except, of course, it wasn’t.

Over the years, our family has developed a small but determined disagreement over his middle name. My research says it was Michael, carried forward from his birth name. The documents lean toward Michael. The paper trail says Michael. The records, as far as I can tell, are waving little flags and whispering, “Michael”

But some relatives remember him as Herbert Mitchell Meyer.

So now we have two camps: Team Michael and Team Mitchell.

I have learned that in family history, documents may be official, but memories are passionate. A birth record can say one thing, while an uncle who knew him for more than fifty years can look you straight in the eye and say, “No, sweetheart. It was Mitchell.”

And honestly, who am I to argue with an uncle who has a long memory and is absolutely certain he remembers it correctly?

Perhaps the disagreement is fitting, because his grandchildren have carried forward both names. Some were named Michael in his honor, while others were named Mitchell. In the end, both names became part of his legacy.

So rather than start a family feud over a middle name—and because I would like to remain welcome at family gatherings—I simply call him Herbert Meyer. That was the name he lived with, the name his family knew, and the name woven into our family history.

Names have played an interesting role in my own life as well.

I was named Carol because I was expected to arrive around Christmas. My parents apparently thought, “A Christmas baby! How perfect. We’ll name her Carol.”

It was sweet. It was festive.

Then I decided to ignore the schedule.

Instead of arriving in time for Christmas lights, carols, and holiday photographs, I waited until the middle of January. By then, the tree was probably down, the cookies were gone, and everyone was wondering why this Christmas baby had failed to cooperate with Christmas.

Still, I ended up with a Christmas name—just without the Christmas birthday. I suppose that was my first indication that I would spend my life doing things on my own timetable.

Growing up, there were two names I didn’t care for: Lance and Greg.

Lance had a reason.

When I was little, we lived in Nebraska, and there was a neighbor boy named Lance. During a photo session, my adoptive mother decided it would make a sweet picture if I kissed him.

Apparently, I was not consulted.

The photograph is now hidden away in a box somewhere. I have to admit, it is adorable—but I did not enjoy the experience at all. For years afterward, my family teased me about kissing Lance, which only ensured that the name would never have much of a chance with me.

Carol Meyer, Bellevue, NE, circa 1970

Greg was different. There was no neighbor boy, no forced photo-session kiss, and no particular childhood incident. I simply did not like the sound of the name. Something about it just bothered me. No explanation. No evidence. Just a firm childhood opinion: no thank you, Greg.

Looking back, I probably should have paid more attention to those feelings.

Apparently, the universe heard my opinion and thought, “Oh, this will be fun.”

When my first child was born, my husband chose the name Dustin Lance.

There it was again: Lance.

The name connected to that Nebraska photo session had returned—this time on my own son’s birth certificate. I had not chosen it, but apparently Lance was determined to become part of my story whether I approved or not.

Then came Greg.

Eventually, I married a man named Greg, and he broke my heart.

Now, I am not saying every Greg is trouble. There are surely wonderful Gregs in the world. I am sure someone somewhere hears the name Greg and thinks, ‘What a wonderful man.’ 

But in my life, Greg became a painful chapter.

Looking back, I sometimes wonder whether my childhood dislike of the name was my intuition trying to send me a warning. Maybe little-girl Carol did not know why she disliked Greg, but perhaps she was picking up a signal from the universe.

Of course, we rarely understand warning signs while they are happening. Hindsight has a way of arriving late, carrying a flashlight, and saying, “Well… now do you see it?”

And then there was Garth Brooks.

Like many women of my generation, I had a celebrity crush. I was completely infatuated with Garth Brooks. At some point, I decided I wanted to be Mrs. Brooks.

It was a harmless dream—one of those fantasies that belongs somewhere between country music, teenage daydreams, and singing into a hairbrush microphone.

Naturally, I did not expect Garth himself to come knocking on my door.

Years later, though, through no grand plan of my own, I became Mrs. Brooks.

Not Garth Brooks’s Mrs. Brooks, of course.

But still—Mrs. Brooks.

Somewhere, I like to think the universe paused, looked over my life, and said, “Technically, she did ask for this.”

That is the thing about names. They have a way of circling back. They show up in family records, in old stories, in marriages, and sometimes in the names we thought we would never choose.

So here I am: the little girl who was supposed to be a “Christmas Carol.” The girl who disliked Lance because of one unwanted Nebraska photo-session kiss. The girl who simply did not like the sound of Greg. The mother whose first child became Dustin Lance. The woman who married a Greg and learned a difficult lesson. And eventually, the woman who became Mrs. Brooks—just not in quite the way her younger self had imagined.

Maybe that is why names matter so much.

They begin as something chosen for us, written down in careful handwriting, or passed along to honor someone we may never have met. But as life goes on, they collect stories. They gather memories, family disagreements, old photographs, heartaches, surprises, and the occasional celebrity-crush plot twist.

Herbert Meyer’s name may always carry a question mark between Michael and Mitchell. My own name will always remind me that I arrived late for Christmas. Lance will forever bring to mind a Nebraska neighbor boy and a photo-session kiss I did not request. Greg will remind me that sometimes our instincts know something before we do. And Brooks will always make me smile, because somehow the teenaged girl who dreamed of being Mrs. Brooks eventually got her wish—just not with a guitar-playing country star.

So perhaps a name is not simply what people call us.

Perhaps it is a small container for the life we have lived: a place where the people we loved, the choices we made, the mistakes we survived, and the stories we still laugh about are all kept together.

And if the names in our family continue to cause a little confusion, a little debate, and a few good stories at the dinner table, that is all right.

A family name is more than a name. It may identify us, but the stories attached to it are what make us family.

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All primary source information referenced was obtained from a variety of published and archival materials, including books, historic newspapers, U.S. census records, vital records, probate files, and land documents. These sources were accessed through leading genealogical platforms such as Newspapers.com, Ancestry, FamilySearch, Find a Grave, as well as through local, state & federal archival repositories, libraries and private collections. Interpretive narrative may also include Carol Anna Meyer Brooks' personal experiences or family stories shared with her throughout her lifetime.

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