Finding Eugene

A name is a funny thing. It is with us before we are even fully aware of our surroundings, and it follows us to our death. Yet, many of us are unaware of the historical importance that a name carried. In the Ireland of past generations, names were not half as creative as they are today. Everyone of a certain vintage will likely have uncles or parents named Mary, John, Patrick, Catherine, or variants thereof. This is not a coincidence. Back then, it was an unwritten rule to name your children in such a way that honoured the families of both parents, even if they would rather have called their children ‘Shakira’ or ‘Beyonce’.

The ‘rule’ essentially worked as follows:

• A family’s first son was named after his paternal grandfather (his father’s father)
• Second son was named after the mother’s father
• Third son was named after the father
• Fourth son was named after the father’s oldest brother
• Fifth son was named after the mother’s oldest brother
• Etc.

For girls, it was similar:

• The first daughter was named after the maternal grandmother (the mother’s mother)
• Second daughter after the father’s mother
• Third daughter after the mother
• Fourth daughter after the mother’s oldest sister
• And so on

There were, of course, exceptions. As with any unwritten rule, some families did not follow it to a tee. However, this could often be attributed to other circumstances. For example, sometimes couples named their eldest daughter for the husband’s mother, because maybe she was living with them, or perhaps she had recently died. And in cases where the parents shared a name with their own parents, the couple reverted to a brother’s name earlier than expected. This was the case until not very long ago. My parents, born in the sixties, exemplify the rule with their siblings. It was also not frowned upon to reuse names within a family. In fact, first cousins would often share many of the same names within their peers. Sometimes, a single family unit would also reuse a name, in the sad case of childhood deaths. The idea behind this was that God would not be cruel enough to take a second child away.

Looking at these ‘rules’, you are likely thinking that couples never had the chance to name a child what they wanted. In reality, they found creative workarounds. ‘Marys’ became ‘Mollys’, ‘Margarets’ became ‘Maggies’, and ‘Patrick’ took on a wide variety of possible options – from ‘Paddy’, to ‘Pat’ to ‘Packie’, and beyond. In many cases, the child’s given name was ignored completely, and they instead went by their middle name. In my own family there is a well-known story of how my uncle could not find my grandmother’s passport when he went to collect it for her in Dublin. Frustrated, he had a strongly worded discussion with her wondering where it was, before she mentioned offhand that her name was not, in fact, Theresa, as she had been referred to her whole life, but rather Mary. Mind you, that uncle had no right to be annoyed. He goes by Mike, but his real name is James.

It was very, very rare that a name just came out of the blue. How could it? Irish families were big, and the chances of having enough children to outnumber the combined headcount of both sides of a family were miniscule. But somehow, that is what happened on my father’s side. Through a sad set of circumstances, both my grandparents had just one sibling each. This meant that, by the time they reached their fourth boy, they were all out of names. So they had a choice. And they chose to call him ‘Eugene’, or ‘Gene’, as we call him.

Gene’s name was never the subject of discussion when my grandparents were alive. In a big family, there was not enough moments of silence to ponder these things. However, it was something that began to bug my dad and I increasingly as our family research continued. Where did the name come from? It is an unusual name. For the time especially, a very unusual name. How could they have picked it? Did it have any special meaning?

It was a long time and a lot of hair-pulling before we made the connection. The confusion was caused by a missing marriage certificate which almost resulted in a dead-end, but more on that in a different post. Suffice it to say, we had our work cut out for us to be able to trace back beyond my father’s grandparents, with whom he had grown up. He knew the names to get us back a generation further, but before the start of the 1900s, that line was a mystery. That was until, through a very fortunate, and frankly, astounding discovery, we found the missing puzzle piece – the original birth cert for my great-great grandmother, Honora Hynes, born 1869 in Kilrush, County Clare.

High on the excitement of this breakthrough after so many dead-ends on that side, we were quick to trace Honora’s family back further. She was born the fifth of ten children to parents John Hynes and Honora Shannon. Her father was a fisherman. Some of her brothers would go on to serve in the local militia, where evidence suggests that they may have caused more trouble than they prevented. Many of her other siblings emigrated for the far shores of America and Australia. It is thought that there are many living relatives there on that side.

As the third girl, Honora was named after her own mother. But the real surprise was the name of Honora’s oldest brother. Christened Owen, he later went by the anglicised version of the name – Eugene.

Imagine our shock at this discovery. That a name from an obscure uncle two generations ago, in a different part of the country, and with whom no one was thought to have any further contact, found its way into a new generation. It found a new life. Although the connection to the past may not have been obvious to my father’s siblings, it was evidently present in my grandmother’s mind when she chose the name for my uncle. But the most amazing part was the timing of what happened next. Having discovered online that Eugene is buried in Kilrush, we made our way there to search for the grave. Right as we found it and were preparing to take a photo for our records, we got a phone call. It was from present-day Eugene. As though he sensed our closeness to his namesake in that moment. It was almost spooky. Of course to Gene it was just another call, preparing to deliver some pallets to our house. But to us, it was as though the spirit of that long-lost great-great-granduncle had come back again. Maybe even to say thanks. For being found.