True confession time.

Before I was born, my Mother and Father wanted to name me Peter, after my Grandfather Rasmussen. (Never mind that I found out long after I was an adult that Peter was his middle name... his first name was Lars.) If my parents had asked me at two minutes old, which of the three names I liked, I would have been screaming bloody murder if they suggested "Jerry." Peter would have been cool, and Lars even cooler, yet.

At that time, my oldest sister Marilyn was five years old and had a terrible crush on a boy in the neighborhood. They tried to tell her she was too young. Too young to really be in love. But, you know that when love gets it's hands around your throat, you can't eat or sleep. The only relief Marilyn could find was to pester my parents mercilessly to name me Jerry. They finally relented and caved in to her. I mean, it's painful to see your five year old daughter pining away to nothing out of unrequited love.

And so I am Jerry, through no consent of mine. And what happened to my sister's love of her life? He ran off with Edna. The last he was seen, they were walking away from the sandbox, hand in hand.

Yours truly,

Lars Peter