We had three little girls by the time I was twenty three.  We had them fast and furious because Ken was nine years older than I was, and he wanted a family.  Which was fine with me.  We decided on three children.  I saw no reason to wait.  But when our third daughter died, there were only the two girls so we decided to try again.

The entire time I was pregnant, I argued with Ken over what we would name the baby if it was a boy. I wanted to name him Kenneth Scott.  But Ken said there were too many Kens in his family and was adamant that we name him David Scott.  We had decided to call him Scott anyway.

It was a boy.  And since I was the one who filled in the birth information, I named him Kenneth Scott.   Who looks at a birth certificate anyway.  So for a few weeks, everything was huncky-dorrie.  Until the certificate came in the mail and Ken opened the mail.

"Strange," he said.  "Someone, I wonder who, got this boy named the wrong name.  And since I'm sure it wouldn't have been my sweet wife, I guess I'll just call him Sam."  And he did.  For the rest of his life, everyone called our son Scott except Ken.  Ken called him Sam.

Years later, when Scott had his second son, he named him Sam and told his dad, "Dad, this is Sam now.  And I am Scott."

Ken looked at his new grandson and said, "I guess I'll call him Sam Junior."  He never called Scott anything but Sam.

Ken never said anything to me about what I had done about the name.  One of the requirements that he had for a wife (Yes, he had a list) was that she be able to stand on her own two feet.  I could certainly do that.  I think a boy should be named after his father.  Our oldest son is.  Kenneth Scott.