When it's Kronmueller, carrying family name is overrated

You've probably read by now about the column changes taking place at the paper. If so, you have also seen my last name and thought, "What?"

Being in this business, I get that a lot, especially when leaving messages. "Just tell them Heather from the Southeast Missourian called," I say, trying to avoid the madness that is almost sure to follow.

"What's your last name?" the person on the other end says.

Many times I am tempted to give a false name or say, "look in the paper," but it always ends with me spelling it out.

"K-R-O-N," I begin, stressing the N sound and then the M. "U-E-L-L," here's where it gets ugly. I have some sort of northern accent that confuses people in Southeast Missouri. "O-O?" I hear them ask. "No, L-L," I say.

"O-O?" they ask again as if I didn't hear the first time.

"OK, whatever you want, then E-R," I finish.

When I was younger, I felt bad for my father. He had three girls, no one to carry on the Kronmueller name once we all married. I think he'll understand if we don't hyphenate. I can just see it: I'll marry someone with a name worse than mine and become Heather Kronmueller-Hofenschmoogle or something.

My oldest sister, Jenn, did it right. She married a man named Michael Burnett. Short and sweet, just as it should be.

Jenn, who is 31, and Mike live in Kansas with their 8-month-old son, Ryan. He was the first baby born in our family since me 22 years ago. It's taking some time, but the feeling of neglect I've been having since being dethroned as the baby of the family is beginning to wear off.

My other sister, Stacey, who is 27, lives in Kansas too, but still bears the Kronmueller name. Someday soon she will find Mr. Easy-To-Pronounce.

We're all from St. Charles, Mo., where we grew up in the same house that my parents, Don and Joyce, still live in today. Boy, if those walls could talk. Four women in a house with only one bathroom sure does lend itself to some memories.

Even our dog was a girl. When Jenn married Mike, it was like a whole new life for Dad. Finally, he had someone to watch football with from dawn until dusk on major holidays. The days of watching hours of figure skating were over.

The male bonding had been a long time coming for Dad. After years of choir concerts and dance recitals, he was relieved to have another guy around -- although I must say, I did my best to be like the son he never had. I was a tomboy and played a lot of sports. While my sisters spent their time in high school singing in the choir, I spent my time in the pool and on the volleyball court.

In August 1997, I moved to Cape Girardeau to attend SEMO -- it was still acceptable to call it that. My first year was filled with the usual freshman chaos. I joined a sorority, skipped a lot of classes, dropped my education major and picked up journalism.

At graduation, I moved to the thriving metropolis of Dyersburg, Tenn., population: not enough. I worked as a reporter at the State Gazette, a small daily paper also owned by Rust Communications.

I no longer liked the real world. Living alone two hours from friends and four hours from family, I quickly discovered it was my responsibility to kill any bugs in my apartment.

My parents got many calls that went like this:

Me: Ah! There's a spider!

Dad: So kill it.

Me: I can't. It's HUGE! And I don't have any bug spray.

Dad: Spray some hairspray on it.

Me: OK, hang on ... Now it's sticky and ticked off!

Eventually, I decided to buy a fearless protector. I envisioned a burly beast who would attack the bugs so I wouldn't have to. Instead I got a cute little kitten, whom I named Jake, who was just as afraid of the bugs as I was.

I jumped at the chance to come back to Cape Girardeau and mix my first love, writing, with my second love, education.

Also, Cape Girardeau doesn't seem to have as many bugs. I've only seen two since I've been back.

Heather Kronmueller is a staff writer at the Southeast Missourian.