Even made-up names have interesting history

I have written in this column before about my fascination with names. That interest may stem, in part, from the fact that my family name is made-up, the fabrication of some nameless bureaucrat 94 years ago.

Before I go any further, however, let me say how sad it is to let family history slip away. My paternal grandfather has been dead for 32 years, and my grandmother followed him two years later. My father is having neurological problems and is frustrated in his attempts to recall details of the family’s past.

So, the particulars of my story are sketchier than they need to have been due to years of inattention on my part. There are so many topics that I recall bits and pieces of – snatches of conversation heard as a child, but I paid too little attention. Now I can think of few things more interesting than listening to those facts of our past.

What I do know is that my grandfather emigrated from Sweden when he was 17 years old. I don’t know why, however. He spoke no English and had but one relative, an older cousin, in America. That was in 1912.

When Grandpa set foot on Ellis Island, his name was Gustav Albert Soloman Lindsja, except that Swedish has three letters in it’s alphabet that English does not. The “a” in Lindsja is actually an a with two little dots, or an umlaut, over it, and is roughly pronounced “heir.”

Well, that nameless bureaucrat saw Gustav’s last name and knew that he was in for trouble. Grandpa pronounced his name something like “lind-sfw-heir.” I don’t really get it when Dad pronounces it, but he says that no one does. So anyway, the official scowled, wrote down Lindsay, and hollered “next.” But for all these years I’ve wondered why a Scottish name? And why the less common “say” ending?

Growing up, I recall having a Lindsay tartan hanging around, but we have no Scotch ancestors that I’ve ever heard of, so it seemed out of place. I’ve also been questioned numerous times about my nonexistent Scottish background.

I’ve always answered with the Ellis Island story, more than a little annoyed with the bureaucrat, although when I think about it I’m really quite grateful that I don’t have an unpronounceable, embarrassing name. But I have had to say “No, it’s sAy” umpteen thousand times when my name comes up in a new situation and whomever wants to spell it “sEy.”

Lacking a computer with that special “a,” I found researching our original name difficult. I did glean some interesting information, however. There were no rules in Sweden about names until 1901, when the Names Adoption Act began the requirement of a Swedish family name that would be handed down from one generation to the next.

Prior, everyone had just picked what they liked for a last name. People often went by the name of their geographic locality or by the name of the nobility that lived in the area. There were no real family names, as such.

There was a several-year transition period in which each individual could choose a family name. The problem was that a family of 10 married children could have 22 different family names – one for each parent, each child and each child’s spouse. As you can see, that makes tracing family lines in Sweden tricky prior to 1901.

Since Grandpa left Sweden not too many years after the Act, our original family name is probably of little historical value anyway. The common practice in deciding on a family name was for a Swede to choose something from nature that appealed to them. A tree and the sea would be good examples, as you will see.

The linden tree is a popular northern European tree, thus there are lots of Swedish names with the prefix “lind.” Lindstrom and Lindsja would be examples. As you’ve probably surmised, Swedish for sea is sja, with the umlaut. Thus Lindsja, with the umlaut, is “the linden tree by the sea.” Picturesque name, I’d say.

Whether by design on the part of a well-versed immigration official, or just by dumb luck, we’ll never know, but it just so happens that the Scottish appreciate linden trees, too. And their word for sea is “say,” or, more commonly, “sey.” So, Lindsay, or Lindsey, means “the linden tree by the sea.”

I’m really wanting to believe that the nameless bureaucrat was actually a rather clever fellow who loved his work. I’m thinking that in welcoming those tired, poor and huddled masses to their new home, he delighted in lifting one burden from the transition, that of a name that immediately and forever labeled one as foreign.

For years I saw my family name as a matter of whimsy at best, or arbitrary disgust at worst. Finally I have come to see it as the gift it really was.