Jonnie Garstka Columnist I’m pretty sure the only reason our parents gave us middle names was to let us know when we were in trouble. A call upstairs to “Jonnie,” would be met with the cheerful response, “Coming Mom.” A call upstairs to “Joan Mary,” would be met with frantic whispers to the nearest sibling, “Did you tell Mom I broke the (fill in the blank here). . .?” Or, in the same breath, the hissed, question, “Does she sound mad?” If Mike heard the name “John Michael,” wafting up to the second floor, he would run down the back stairs and out the side door.