What's In A Name?

I was contemplating a name change 35 years ago. I definitely was ready to marry Mr. Randy Fritzemeier, but I wasn't so sure that I was ready to give up my easy, five-letter last name for his 11-letter monstrosity - especially when it came to newspaper bylines.

As luck would have it, The Hutchinson News published a special bridal section that was delivered in the Sunday paper the day after my Saturday, March 28, wedding. As one of The News' lifestyle reporters, I wrote several stories in the special section. I also wrote a column called "Name's like an old friend; it's hard to give up."

Today, Randy and I celebrate our 35th wedding anniversary. For one, I can't believe it's been 35 years. For two, I can't believe I actually found the newspaper supplement in my boxes of "stuff." For the record, I'm glad I changed my name, both personally and professionally, even though it's rarely spelled correctly (which is a big deal to a newspaper reporter/editor). Just for chuckles, here's what my 23-year-old self wrote back then:

It's a traumatic experience to lose your identity. For 23 1/2 years of my life, I've been Kim L. Moore to my family, to teachers, to the bank, to credit card companies. 

My parents obviously like the name. They gave it to me. And I've never been one of those people who complain constantly about the lifetime affliction branded upon them when their parents gave them a "John Henry" of their very own.

I'll admit it: I've heard often enough, "Your real name is Kimberly, isn't it?" To which I always replied, "No, just Kim. My parents don't believe in nicknames." And, with my unisex name, I've received a few letters addressed to "Mr. Kim Moore."

But, all in all, I've grown fond of that name. It's mine.

But not anymore. Kim (just plain Kim) will stay the same, but the last name underwent a big change. Literally. It jumped from five letters to 11 in a single half hour. I married a Fritzemeier yesterday, March 28. For another time in my life, I'm vastly thankful my parents don't like nicknames. Kimberly Fritzemeier would take too long to sign on anything.

I realize women change their names all the time. It happens hundreds of times per day across the country. My situation is a little different. My professional identity is tied up in my name. For a year and eight months, people have been reading stories in The Hutchinson News by Kim Moore. I "sign" every story with it through my byline. A teacher doesn't have her name stamped on a child every time she teaches his something. A librarian doesn't have her name stamped on every book she checks out. But my byline is an integral part of my story. It's there, front and center, for everyone to see. 

People tell me quite often they look for my name. My name is linked every week to my "Cook of the Week" feature and to "Herman," the sourdough starter. Will readers know to look for a new name?

I have no qualms at all about being Mrs. Randy Fritzemeier. Well, truthfully, I'd rather be called Kim Fritzemeier so I don't lose both my names. I'll use the name with pride and pleasure in my private and social life. My credit cards will change, as will my checking account and post office box. That's fine. I'm prepared. 

But I wanted to remain Kim Moore for my professional life. Randy doesn't agree. He said anyone who knows us will know about the change anyway. And he said the people who don't personally know us are smart enough to figure out that the Kim Fritzemeier now writing the "Cook of the Week" is the same person as Kim Moore.

I understand how Randy feels. Fritzemeier is his name; he's used to it. I don't have any quarrel with the name either. The name's fine, though one of my pet peeves is having names misspelled. 

Randy and his parents say with a name like Fritzemeier, you're bound to have you name misspelled at least half the time. In fact, I had to give my own family instructions on adding enough "E's" in all the right places. 

By the time this appears, I've already lost my name. It's hard saying goodbye to an old friend who's treated you well. 

***

Happy Anniversary to the guy who is responsible for my name change all those years ago. I'm still blessed to be your wife.

Love to Last

Wedding photos by Stan Reimer, Pratt

It was 33 years ago today that we walked down the aisle of the Pratt United Methodist Church and started a life together. We had no idea what we were getting into. I was 23. Randy was 25.

His Farm House buddies put milo into the vents of his old car. Thankfully, we were only driving it to my parents' house, where we picked up my car for our honeymoon trip to Colorado. I don't suppose they realized that the milo had Randy coughing and sneezing for hours, long after the 15-minute trip to the farm.

I tell Randy that he's lucky we survived the honeymoon. He took me skiing at Keystone. He had been skiing before. I had not. He was smart enough to know that he shouldn't try and teach me himself. I took lessons the first day. I was miserable. It was late in March, and despite the snow all around, it was fairly warm, especially when repeatedly picking myself up from yet another fall. I had on ski overalls, a ski jacket, a scarf and gloves. I had too many layers for as hard as I was working. The warmer temperatures made the slopes icy.  By lunchtime when we met, I was drenched in sweat and totally discouraged.

It was his first introduction to my aversion to things I'm bad at doing. I admit it: I hate being bad at things. It was true as a high school sophomore in Algebra. It was true 33 years ago on a ski slope in Colorado. It was true when I tried to learn golf. I know we can't be good at everything. But I'd sure like to be.

I did get a little bit better at skiing the next day and the day after that. As long as we stayed on the green slopes, I stayed upright ... most of the time.

To make the honeymoon even more challenging, I ended up with a horrible toothache one night. We had driven to Aspen for supper. By the time we got back to the condo at Keystone, I was ready to yank the tooth out myself. It was just the first of a long line of teeth problems. (I had my first root canal after we got back from the honeymoon.)

He should have examined my mouth for soundness prior to marrying me. (Yes, I know he does that to cows now, but he was wise enough not to comment about that while on the honeymoon. He did make a reference to calving during our first labor and delivery experience. For you newlywed farm men: That's probably not the best choice of words to a wife in labor. Just a little free advice for you!)

But, we made it through the honeymoon and through the myriad of ups and downs that 33 years of marriage brings. Life and death. Joy and pain. Success and failure. Hospitals for celebrations, for surgeries and for saying goodbye. 

I couldn't have chosen a better father for my children.

Kinley is breaking him in as a superb Grandpa.

He's a good provider and an even better sport.

One thing we never thought about as young newlyweds was being named to the Class of 2013 Master Farmer Master Farm Homemaker by K-State Research and Extension and Kansas Farmer magazine. Farm couples have been chosen for this honor for their commitment to agriculture, family and the community since 1927. We were humbled to be chosen as one of six couples from across the state. Our family was there to help celebrate during the March 14 banquet in Manhattan.

Eric, Jill, Kinley, Brent, me and Randy

My parents, Bob and Janis Moore, were part of the Class of 1989. We are fortunate we've had their example and that of Randy's folks, Melvin and Marie Fritzemeier, upon which to base our married, professional and community lives.

Yes, we've had our share of successes and some challenges, too.

But, I made one of the best decisions of my life 33 years ago, and I feel blessed beyond measure. Happy Anniversary, Randy!

Fore Better Or Fore Worse

"For better or for worse."

That's what I promised 32 years ago today at the Pratt United Methodist Church in front of a church full of family and friends who had weathered a torrential rainstorm to be there.

Photo by Stan Reimer, Pratt

I didn't realize at the time that I was also promising "fore" better and "fore" worse. When it comes to golf, Randy is the better, and I am definitely the worse.

A little more than eight years ago, Randy decided he wanted to try golf. Shortly thereafter, he bought a used set of left-handed women's clubs for me.

He's on his second set of clubs. I am not. And I will not.

But, when you think about it, golf and marriage aren't so far apart. It takes a lot of patience, time and commitment to get better at golf ... and at marriage. I guess the difference for me is that I'm willing to invest the time in my marriage. It's why I tagged along in the golf cart March 16, when Randy was finally able to golf again. He broke his right wrist after a run-in with a bull in September, then he had back surgery in November. In mid-March, he was cleared to play golf, and the weather was tolerable.

His inaugural golf swing after a 6-month hiatus

So, I was there when he swung the golf club for the first time in months. He's not sure whether I went with him to celebrate - or to make sure he behaved.

He may not have played so well that he got a hole in one, but he made it through 18 holes of golf and was still smiling when he left. It was probably the company, right? (It might also have to do with the fact that he didn't hurt as much. The surgery seems to have been a success, for the most part!)

I was smiling, too, but it had nothing to do with golf and everything to do with him being happy. Learning to look at things and people with different perspectives is a valuable lesson to learn in marriage. Some fancy brochure at a Nebraska golf course we once visited included this quote:

In its purest form, the flight of a golf ball carries
the human spirit with it.
Soaring hopes. Rising aspirations. Lofty goals. 

You could say the same about a marriage. When you're 23 and 25 - like we were on our wedding day in 1981 - you walk down the aisle of the church and have the same:  Soaring hopes. Rising aspirations. Lofty goals.

But life happens. Sometimes you end up in the rough. You might be searching ... whether it's for a missing ball or a missing bull or something else that's missing - literally or figuratively. There are hazards along the golf course and along the marriage journey. We have to tee it up and try again. (Maybe this analogy thing isn't working out the best, since I've given up on the golf game. But I'm not giving up on marriage or in going along for the ride.)

The conditions the other day were far from perfect. Randy's home course is the Stafford County Country Club. It's not a country club in the sense of Augusta National Golf Club or even our neighbor to the east, Prairie Dunes.

The gallery is formed by the horses in the pasture to the west and the cattle to the east. With the Kansas wind blowing its way toward spring, the creaky windmill made a mockery of the "please-be-quiet-I'm-putting" etiquette on the golf course.

But the country surroundings suit us - whether on the golf course or in life.  Even if the greens aren't always so green, it's been quite a journey - together.

Happy Anniversary to my favorite golfer. Phil Mickelson doesn't even come close.

Photo by Stan Reimer, Pratt