I joke that when I was young, I used to think my name was Beverly, Nancy, Lois, Ted. I never doubted that my mother knew my name, but she would occasionally go through the names of my older siblings before getting to mine. Actually, it didn’t happen very often, and I don’t remember her going through the whole list when referring to our youngest brother. What I do remember is that, unlike my siblings, a stern reprimand involving the use of my middle name wasn’t much different than simply calling me by name. I don’t have a middle name. I do have an initial, and I was occasionally called Ted E., but I was also called Teddy sometimes, which sounds the same and was often used by one of my aunts when she spoke to me. Another beloved aunt, whose name was Verneva, was known to us as “Aunt Teddy,” so being called Ted E. seemed like a good thing, mostly.

My two oldest sisters have one-syllable middle names, while the one next to me has three syllables. She got the most syllables of all of our parents’ children. I got the fewest. I don’t, however, ever remember reflecting on that fact or feeling somehow left out because of my name. People would sometimes ask me if my “real” name was Theodore. Some people named Theodore are indeed called Ted, but I was named for my Uncle Ted, whose name was Edward. Everyone called him Ted. The family story is that my father said, “If you’re going to call him Ted, why not name him Ted?” It makes sense to me.

There was, however, one day when my name caused me distress. On the first day of first grade, when the teacher asked me my middle name, I said, “I don’t have one.” Looking back, I’m sure she probably said to me gently, “When you go home for lunch, ask your mother what your middle name is.” Somehow, I interpreted the teacher's words as a rule that required me to have a middle name to return to school after lunch. I ran home in tears and announced to my mother that I couldn’t go back to school because I didn’t have a middle name. What I was saying didn’t make any sense to my mother. She wrote a note to my teacher, and I returned in fear, sure that I had “flunked out” on my first day of school. The teacher read the note, and I heard nothing more about my middle name for the rest of my school career. I ended up with a couple of college degrees, so I guess it wasn’t an impediment to my education.

Names aside, one of the blessings of my life was growing up in a family with sisters. My mother was one of five daughters in a family with no sons. My father had one sister and four brothers. All of my aunts were strong women.

There was privilege in being the oldest son. I often joke that my father was so glad to have another male in the household that he was always partial to me. I did get to go to work with him more often than my sisters, and in our family, hunting was something that men did without women. I felt honored to be a part of the hunting trips.

When I got married, I was the first son-in-law in a family with three daughters. I always felt at home in my wife’s family. I have thought of my wife’s sisters as my sisters for all of our marriage.

The sisters are together for a few days this week. They try to get together each year for what they call a “Sisters Retreat.” They rotate hosting the gathering, and this year it is our turn to host. When they come to our house, I’m included in the conversation and enjoy having the sisters as much as they enjoy being together. Occasionally, I tell them that my father used to comment about my mother and her sisters, saying, “Every one of the Lewis girls is a good cook and efficient in the kitchen. When they are together, however, it takes twice as long for them to produce a meal. When there are three, you might starve waiting for dinner.” It wasn’t literally true. We ate well and on time when my aunts were around.
On the other hand, when my wife and her sisters get together at our house, I do plan to do some of the cooking. Their time together is valuable, and I can give them more time by doing a few household chores. Besides, they are very complimentary of my cooking, and I enjoy the compliments.

I’ll have plenty of time for my own projects this week. The sisters have planned adventures that don’t require my participation. There will also be plenty of times when I’m included in the conversation and have a good time. I may not have learned my lessons thoroughly, but my sisters certainly tried to teach me that there are times when I should keep my mouth shut and stay out of their business. And, since I’m doing some of the cooking, I don’t have to worry about starving while waiting for dinner. I think my father, who wasn’t much of a cook, would be supportive of my role. And I know that I learned some of what I know about cooking from sisters who, despite my complaints, did sometimes include me.