Winston? Smith? What's In A Name?

While Dave recuperates from his last week of arsenic chemo, please enjoy this story from the archives.

Brian Kaiser has been very intent for me to finally reveal the story behind my two last names, “Smith” and “Winston.” After 45 years it can, at last, be told. Legally, I was only obligated to keep the secret for 20 years. I kept quiet for a long time after that. But in the early 90’s, Oliver Stone kicked up a fuss with a movie that ignited people’s interest in things better left buried. So I have left them buried. Until now.

I was born December 9, 1963 in Reading, Pennsylvania. Up until two weeks before my family lived in Texas where my parents worked for a book company.

In November of ’63 my parents requested time off for Thanksgiving to visit family in South Carolina. November was a busy time in the schoolbook business with many orders coming in for second semester delivery. So my Mother, a billing accountant and my Father, the warehouse manager, would be needed for order fulfillment. Needless to say, they were disappointed.

Then, a week before Thanksgiving, the depository manager suddenly told them they could take the week off if they were back the day after Thanksgiving. It would be tight, but my folks decided to risk it. While packing, my mother realized she had, in her excitement forgotten to put the week’s checks on the boss’ desk for signature. And, being dedicated and reliable employees, they drove into work Friday morning to make things right.

The police had blocked off the street approaching the building, so my Dad parked in the railroad yard lot on the other side of the warehouse while my Mom went inside.

What happened while my Dad waited in the railroad parking lot by the little grassy hill overlooking the plaza and my Mom went to her office on the sixth floor of the book warehouse, I do not know. What I do know is that my folks never made it to South Carolina.

Over the weekend, my family packed up and moved From Dallas to Reading. My Father, George and my Brother, Ray were now called Wally and Wally Jr. My Mother Elinor now called herself Jean and my sister Dissy became Nanci. Only my sister Ellen was spared, she became “Ellyn.” Collectively, they became the Smiths. My Father would joke that the “feds” really got creative with that one. I was born two weeks later, David Smith.

After the 20 years expired, I was the only one of my family to reclaim the name Winston. But a birth certificate and a stubborn federal government keep me from making it permanent.

So that is why David Winston needs to have flights booked under the name David Smith. Even today, they are still watching.