The Philospophy of Naming Babies

   I never know my what my name is from day to day. Not the last name, which would imply memory failure, but the first, which is still a nuisance. To follow this important matter, you need a little background.
    My parents bequeathed to the world four sons. (My wife prefers the phrase "unleashed upon," but she's prejudiced.) Mom and Dad had strange notions about naming kids. The eldest they designated Donald Gene; the second (me) James David; the third, Dennis Michael; the last, Clare Richard. But in daily life they referred to James as David, Dennis as Mickey, and Clare as Richard. As you can see, Don got off easy except when he had to explain that his middle name was not Eugene.
    All was well until we started school. Then we faced administrators who insisted on first name, middle initial. This requirement followd us in every endeavor. Imagine one of my brothers being known as "Clare" in the Army. Mike seemed to have the least trouble, answering with equal cheer to Dennis or Mickey his whole life. However, in later years he's insisted on the more dignified Mike or Michael.
    Even today I'm burdened by my parents' peculiar theory of names. When I answer the phone, I have to look at the caller ID to see whether it's a friend or businness  If friend, I'm David. If business, I'm James. When there's no ID, I sometimes answer as James David, which sounds pompous even to me.

   Usually I say Dave, which often leads to two or three minutes of explanation. Though nowadays I leave out the story about my brothers.