Singing Our Whine-Song

Not talking about a drinking song here. Every generation has something that drives them crazy about their mother. I call it the whine-song.   

My blessed mama probably won’t read this. And if she does, she’ll laugh. Because she knows there was one thing about her that drove me crazy. Her favorite theme was the twenty-seven years she went without a new coat. It was true. I was there and I saw her, always making sure her brood was fed and clothed—even if it meant doing without. 

Most of the time she was happy to serve. But every now and then something would remind her and out would come the pathetic coat story.  

Funny how things work out. Her lack of coat became a theme for my abundance. In college the family I cooked for gave me a beautiful red poncho that I wore through three years of college and another three pregnancies. On my first married Christmas, my brand new in-laws handed me a gorgeous Bullock’s box. In it was a fawn-colored faux-suede pants coat that made my heart sing.

In the intervening years a friend gave me her mother-in-law’s elegant emerald green overcoat (a serious East Coast wool garment.)  One Christmas I sewed five down jackets for Christmas presents. I live in Central California and it isn't even cold here! 

What is it about my mother’s lack that the Universe overcompensated with me? Was it some erratic force laughing at us? My mother-in-law left coats hanging in every closet. She hoarded them, child of the Depression that she was, and after her death I filled my car with them and distributed them to a homeless shelter.

So what’s my whine-song? Naturally it has to be different from my mother’s. And my daughters will have to find different yet. I think mine is the poor-me-I-don’t-eat-enough-to-be-this-damn-fat song. Yeah, that’s the one my daughters will remember. With a chorus of, “why me, why me.”    

They won’t remember the coats. Why should they—their closets are full of them. It’ll be something else, maybe plastic grocery bags or—here’s a good one—the unequal distribution of household chores.   

And, so the beat goes on.

What’s your whine song? Have a theme you’d care to share with us?  Come on--you know you want to!

Maiden Voyage

WHY BLOG?
Every writer needs a blog. Writers cling to the belief that they have something to say, and if they spend enough time honing their craft, then someone will listen. (At last count there are rumored to be more readers in the universe than writers, although this is changing daily.) And since I'm as opinionated as the next writer, this is my first, awkward, attempt at going public.

WHY NOW?
Since I have no followers, this is the perfect time. It's like singing in the shower--no one is around to hear me.  


WHY ANNE SCHROEDER
In the spirit of introducing myself, I'll share why I added an "e" to my name. I used to be plain Ann, and it pains me even to type it here. Always I felt unsophisticated, sturdy, unfinished. I remember the day I made the decision to "e." I was driving to work and a near-death experience changed my life.


I was following a tanker truck carrying gasoline, and suddenly it began fishtailing across the lane six feet ahead of me. But Providence provided. It was my good luck to be following the world's best driver, a trucker with the presence of mind to put his turning indicators on so I knew he was swerving for a reason. Hypnotized by those blinking lights I made a split-second decision to follow him off the shoulder of the road. 


As my tires hit the dirt, the tip of a rolling twenty-foot Christmas tree brushed the side of my car. The potentially lethal tree flopped and settled in the middle of the lane--my lane. Other cars, whose drivers had the benefit of seeing it coming, maneuvered around it. On the inside lane a pickup truck with red twine hanging from the overhead racks was backing toward the traffic. I hope the driver managed to pull his Christmas tree from the road before he got run over, but I didn't stick around to see. Neither did the gasoline truck driver.   


Technically the incident might not have meant certain death, but in my mind it was close enough to qualify. Close enough to remind me that nothing's for sure, and most people are killed within fifteen miles of home. The day was December 31, 2000. I remember the radio talk station debating the point about whether it was the last day of the old millennium or whether that day would occur in 365 days. For me the new millennium had already begun, a new beginning, the day I redesigned my life. 


That near-death experience seemed to be the sign I had been waiting for, I gave myself a New Year's present: the letter "e". Ann became Anne. 


I was surprised. Once I made the decision, the universe cooperated. I expected to feel self-conscious, but the world was graciously accommodating. My husband Steve teased me for a while, calling me "Anne with an 'e'." My daughter sent an e-mail to ask, "If Ann was Mom, does that mean Anne is now Mome?" She sent me a coffee mug with my new name, a gift that warmed me more than the morning cup of tea it often holds.   


So that's it, the story of my "e". Part of my memoir, Ordinary Aphrodite. It's a gift I gave myself when I set down to record the joyous events of my life in my belief that, if we search hard enough,  everything in life has a shred of humor in it. 


See you next time. I'll post once a week, on Sundays unless something comes up.