Velda unfurls like a sunlit veil across the rolling vineyards of Tuscany, a name for a daughter born of Old High German Wald, “forest’s sovereignty,” yet spoken with the lilting warmth of an Italian madrigal. Pronounced VEL-duh, it conjures the hush of ancient woodlands where dappled light pirouettes on emerald leaves, and the promise of quiet leadership glimmers in every syllable. Velda carries the poise of a Renaissance portrait—strong-browed yet tender-eyed—and the lighthearted charm of an impromptu gelato shared beneath a honeyed sunset. Rare and radiant, she feels both timeless and intimate, like a cherished family recipe passed down through generations, infusing each newborn girl with a sense of grace, authority, and dreamlike wonder.
| Velda Jones-Potter - |