A Rose by Any Other Name . . .

Like many women back in the pre-Depression years, my mom gave birth in the upstairs bedroom of our house. That is where I was born. The occasion was a happy one, even though I'm told everyone was hoping I would be a girl baby -- my two brothers were already approaching their teen years back in 1925.
When my parents couldn't agree on a name for their wonderful little baby boy, the family assembled to join in making a decision. In my case, aunts and uncles, brothers, Mom and Pop, all gathered with their suggestions. In order that everyone would have a fair opportunity to bestow their chosen name upon me, they wrote their suggestions  on  slips of paper, folded them, and dropped them into my pop's Fedora. Pop shook his hat for a proper mix and then coaxed me into picking the winning name from the hat.
I don't really remember this grand event, but I was told I finally picked the winner, which is how I came to be named Herbert  -- just Herbert, no middle name -- rather then Hans or Adolph or Fritz or Herman or any of the other suggestions in the hat. The picture above is how I  imagine the occasion, which became family lore, a moment of proud family history on the day of my birth, October 29, 1925.