Mom would have been 93 today. In honor of her birthday, I’m letting her write the blog. This is A Walker in the Suburb’s first guest post, and it’s a posthumous one. Read it and know why I wanted to be a writer when I grew up — and why I miss her so. 

I was the third daughter born to parents who seemed desperately to want a son. All three of us girls were supposed to be Edward, named for each of my parent’s oldest brothers. The son arrived three years after me, but wasn’t named Edward after all. It seemed that my dad decided there might never be another boy and he thought tradition should be upheld. So my little brother was named Martin Joseph III.

Dad was right, of course. Our family of four was complete. Tradition had been upheld. Tradition had been upheld, too, when my older sisters were named. The first was named for my mother’s mother, Margaret Donnelly, and the second for my father’s mother, Mary Scott. When I arrived, another girl, there seemed to be quite a dilemma about what to call me. They had run out of grandmothers.

Dad suggested they call me Anne after my mother. But that didn’t suit her. I have wondered why they didn’t use Edwina, the feminine version of Edward. I’m certainly glad they didn’t!

In the end, and in spite of Daddy’s objections, Mother named me Suzanne for a nice lady who lived down the street, Suzanne Burk. I have often wished they had given me her full name, but they didn’t. So I had no middle name until I could choose one when I was confirmed. I chose Rose and used it proudly whenever I could. I guess I thought it made me more complete.