I’d like to distract you with a story about my mom, whose name was Sydelle. Or so she thought.

The name Sydelle has been out of fashion for decades, but pre-war, it was a very popular name, and was considered to be sophisticated and elegant.

When my parents were in their early 60s, they started to plan a trip to London. My mom didn’t have a passport, because she’d never traveled outside the U.S. or its territories. To get a passport, she needed a copy of her birth certificate, which she didn’t have.

My mom grew up in Queens, NY, so she called the vital records office, gave them her name and date of birth, and asked to have the certificate mailed to her. The trip to London wasn’t far away.

The clerk she spoke with took the information and my parents’ address, and said she’d have the certificate within two weeks. Two weeks passed; no birth certificate. Three weeks passed. Still nothing.

My mom, in an agitated state, calls the vital records office again and asks why they haven’t sent her birth certificate. She gets put on hold for a little while, and then a different clerk comes on the phone.