Sathre as a Surname

     I have an ongoing inner debate about whether the internet is a good thing or a bad thing.   It was a good thing when I found a "no egg" cookie recipe the night that I had a sweet tooth but an empty refrigerator.  It was a bad thing when I had a minor back ache and self diagnosed myself with any number of scary diseases.
    And earlier this week it was a good thing when I discovered yellowpages.com and realized that I could throw out all those Yellow Books that seem to arrive on my doorstep in multiples several times a year.  I  probably could have thrown away all of my white pages too.  Except that I have a particular fondness for white pages.
     Every vacation when I was growing up, I had a mission.  As soon as we checked into a motel room, I'd pull out the local white pages and search for other people with the name of "Sathre."  I never found a single one.  And  I always felt a little smug about having a name that no one else had.  It was almost like having our very own family crest.
     According to our family lore, my grandfather made up our name when he immigrated from Norway in the early 1900's.  Starting the journey as Peter Anderson, he became increasingly upset to find that a large number of the passengers on the crowded boat shared his common Scandinavian surname.  Not wanting to start a life in a new country with a name that so many people had, he decided he needed a new one and, somehow, came up with Sathre.
     Since my grandfather died when my dad was seven, this account was never properly vetted.  But I loved the story and was certain that my grandfather had done a great job of distinguishing our family with a wholly original name. I didn't know a single Sathre outside of our immediate family, and there weren't any Sathres in the phone book of our small, southern Illinois town.  But since our town had only 3000 people and a phone book of a mere 34 pages, I wanted further proof.
     And I got it. On family trips to Springfield, Illinois, Kentucky Lake, Kentucky, Kingsport, Tennessee, and McCormick's Creek, Indiana, I'd check phone book after phone book to confirm my singular distinction as a Sathre.  I was never disappointed.
    But it was our trips to Chicago and Indianapolis and St. Louis that really made me proud.  There, right next to the Gideon bibles, I found phone books the size of booster seats with more names than even my grandfather could have imagined.  I nervously ran my finger down page after page of S's and Sa's and Sat's and Sath's, and to my great delight, never found a single Sathre.
     I was able to travel through childhood and most of adulthood without ever having to see my name in print next to someone else's address.  It played a part in my deciding to keep my surname when I got married and in giving "Sathre" to both of my daughters as a middle name. 
     This morning, like I do so many days, I got up, got on the internet and opened my Facebook page.  I had a suggested friend.  It was no one I had heard of before.  His name was Joseph Sathre.
     The internet is a very bad thing.