The Lost Surnames of My Grandmothers: Kathleen Kearney and Rosemary Powell

In genealogy, surnames are often treated as anchors. They help us trace lines, organize charts, and follow families through time. But for women, surnames are usually temporary. They are changed, absorbed, or slowly erased from daily use.

This is something I have come to understand not only as a genealogist, but as a granddaughter.

Both of my grandmothers, Kathleen Kearney and Rosemary Powell, carried surnames that mattered deeply in their own lives. Over time, those names became quieter in the records, even as the women themselves shaped generations. Their surnames may be harder to find now, but their legacies are not.

Kathleen Kearney: Confidence, Laughter, and Joy

Kathleen Kearney did not move through life quietly.

Her given name was Kathleen, but the people who really knew her knew her as Kate.

She loved people, and people loved being around her. Friends were constant. Sundays were routine. Every Sunday, we visited her, and those visits felt less like an obligation and more like a continuation of joy already in motion. She was confident, charismatic, and completely at ease being herself.

Being watched never bothered her. She thrived in it. She was great at the Mummers strut and loved performing at The Knights of Columbus parents’ shows, pretending to sing, dancing, and committing fully to the moment. She did not hesitate or shrink back. The stage was where she shined.

That confidence carried into everyday life. She dressed with intention and flair, often in a tracksuit layered with long necklaces and bracelets. She loved shopping at Kohl's and always seemed to find joy in the ordinary act of browsing aisles and racks. Even her quirks became part of the family rhythm. She always kept Neapolitan ice cream in the freezer, even though no one ever ate the strawberry part, and no one ever really knew why it was there.

She loved fun and made space for it. Dancing on tables to God Bless America with a lighter raised in the air was not out of character. It was quintessential Kathleen.

As a mother, she valued connection over rules. She and her daughter, Micky, would sometimes go shopping and have lunch out on days when Micky was supposed to be in school. As a grandmother, she was deeply present. She watched my sisters’ and my fashion shows with complete seriousness, as if we were on a real runway. She always made sure we had cups to catch fireflies at night. We used to play Go Fish, and she always cheated, but always blamed it on my sister. Hershey bars lived in the refrigerator just for the grandchildren, and sausage links somehow always tasted better at her house than anywhere else.

Her home was its own world. Little People toys waited in the closet to be rediscovered. There was an Irish room where we played, filled with pieces of her heritage. In that room was an Irish doll I begged her to let me have. She always said no. It was not until after she died that I learned she had left it to me all along. 

Some memories are small but unforgettable. Drinking Coca-Cola that was from the creepy basement, even though the family was a Pepsi family. Playing with her scarves. Watching her move through her space, always with energy and intention. Even the moment when a clock fell on her in HomeGoods and hurt her became part of the family story, so much so that I swore off the store entirely and made my family stop going there. 

Her surname may have faded from daily use, but her presence never did. Kathleen Kearney lives in confidence, in laughter, in Sunday routines, and in joy without apology.

Rosemary Powell: Kindness, Community, and Quiet Strength

Rosemary Powell’s presence was softer but steady.

Her name was Rosemary, but to the people who knew her, she was simply Rose.

She had a love of dancing from a young age and carried it throughout her life. She attended dance school when she was younger and later became an instructor, sharing the joy and discipline she found in movement with others. Dance was not just something she enjoyed; it was a passion. It was part of how she expressed herself and how she connected with people.

She was social, friendly, and deeply rooted in her community. Friends mattered to her. Conversation mattered to her. She could often be found sitting on the front porch, eating onion dip and talking for long stretches of time. That porch was a place of connection, where relationships were maintained, and stories unfolded naturally.

She was present in the lives of her children in quiet, consistent ways. She walked them down to the pool and went swimming often, turning ordinary routines into moments of care. There was reassurance in how she showed up and comfort in her steadiness.

Her sister, Joanne, described her as kind, sweet, caring, and generous. Rosemary shared with anyone, even when she did not have much herself. Giving came naturally to her and never required explanation. Raising four boys was not easy, and her sister once said Rosemary was a Saint for doing it. The word feels right. It speaks to patience, endurance, and a quiet strength that never needed to be loud.

Many of the grandchildren never had the chance to know her personally. She died before many of us were born. For a long time, she felt just out of reach, someone important whose story I did not fully know. Wanting to understand who she was and what she was like became one of the reasons I was drawn to genealogy in the first place. Learning about Rosemary was my way of feeling closer to her.

That connection has only deepened over time. Her brother Joseph, who was with Rosemary throughout her life, once told me how much I look like her. He said my smile is exactly hers. Hearing that felt like a bridge between generations, a reminder that even without shared memories, resemblance and spirit can still carry forward.

Rosemary Powell lives on in kindness freely given, in generosity without excess, and in the quiet ways love continues to shape a family long after someone is gone.

Where Their Names Still Live

Kathleen Kearney and Rosemary Powell lost their surnames in the way women of their generation so often did, quietly and officially, without ceremony. But in my family, their names were not forgotten.

My parents gave my siblings their mothers’ maiden names, Kearney and Powell, as their middle names. Those names were intentionally carried forward, embedded into the next generation, not as footnotes, but as continuations. 

To know these women is to know them through the eyes of their children, grandchildren, cousins, and friends. Each person knew a slightly different woman, but all knew the joy of their smile, their conversation, and their laughter. Even when records obscure women’s identities, families remember. Even when surnames disappear from documents, they survive in stories, habits, and love. Kathleen and Rosemary are not hard to find. They live in memory, in connection, and in names that were never truly lost at all.

Sources

• Personal recollections of the author

• Oral histories shared by family members across multiple generations

• Family stories and traditions remembered through lived experience

• Conversations with relatives, including Rosemary Powell’s brother and sister, Joseph and Joanne, and her son Michael; Kathleen Kearney’s daughter, Michele, and granddaughter Madison.

• Family naming practices preserving maternal maiden surnames