America is not exactly teeming with them. I didn’t make any of these reader

responses up, I swear. Well, maybe one:

“My last name is Nelle, pronounced the same way as ‘Nellie’, but often

mangled by people in a number of forms (variations like Neely, Nell, etc.)

Well, one day my wife and I are sitting in a Sunday School classroom,

listening to the pastor’s wife speak about the power of words. At one

point, the pastor’s wife was making a point about not living in fear, and

said ‘Don’t be a nervous Nellie’. About half of the room chuckled at that

(knowing that we were there), I turned and gave a half smile at my wife in

apology and amusement, and the pastor’s wife, after about two seconds of

wondering why she got that response, realised what she had said and quickly

amended ‘Now, I don’t mean The Nelles’.”

“John: I was named Nellie, after my father’s mother, a French woman who

died when he was a child. People always ask me if it is short for

something, but that’s my real and full name. I’m sure they’re out there,

but I’ve never met anyone else with the name, even as a nickname.”

“My name is Arvo Palm-Leis, and I once inexplicably turned my head by

mistake when some said, ‘Nellie.’ Is this adequate for mention in The

Corner?”

[I don’t know, Sir. Derb proposes, Kathryn disposes.]

“My parents named me Eleanor, so everybody, like, thinks they are fans of

that ugly woman who hung out with that president who, you know, was in a

wheelchair and won that war and stuff. In fact my Dad is a foam-flecked

reactionary who spends all his time sending blog posts to some outfit called

National Review Online. He, like, hardly ever speaks to us, just sits there

hunched over his stupid computer all the time, not even playing Sims or

anything, like, *fun* — just doing this ‘blogging.’ And oh my God, every

second Monday he goes into New York City for something called an ‘editorial

conference,’ then spends all afternoon in bars with his old friends & comes

home drunk & falls asleep on the couch. Anyway, I am writing in because he

calls me ‘Nellie.’ When he can remember who I am.—Disgruntled, Long

Island (age 12)”