Surnames

Seven hundred years ago in rural Britain, a man called John lived in a thriving village. John was a fletcher. One day, he decided to buy some bread. He sent some money with his neighbour to the bakery. The neighbour bought some bread, and asked the baker to deliver some bread to John, too.

“Which John?” the baker asked, aware of a few different Johns in the vicinity. There was the John who lived by the church (Kirk or Kirky). There was the John who was Matthew’s boy (Matthewson). There was the John who had red hair (Reid/Reed). And there was the John who was a fletcher.

“John…y’know…the fletcher”

“Ahh…John Fletcher. Got it.”

Eventually people decided to take their father’s surnames, and so for the next 25 generations all his descendants (in the patrilineal line) were called Fletcher.

Isn’t that wonderful? There was a generation or two of people whose jobs, locations, or idiosyncrasies gave themselves and their descendants names (seemingly) eternal.

My surname is Sharpe, which I’m led to believe is because one of my ancestors from this time was renowned for being witty. How fun would it be to meet them, and let them know that their quickness was to be immortalised?