Darling Sylvia, Yesterday, while getting dressed for church, it took me four tries to tie a Windsor knot. I was in a macho mood and decided to wear a tie. I delved into my ancient collection and found the perfect tie (a gray with pink stars) to match my new pink oxford cloth shirt. It was almost Easter, and I was about to surprise you with my refined sense of taste.
I stood in front of mirror, and the morning disintegrated. I had forgotten the Windsor. I was humiliated. I had been taught the art of the Windsor by Stanley Joe in 1957. No more clip-on ties for me. He told me, that in learning the Windsor, I had reached the first level of Robertson studliness. It took me until the middle of the Palm Sunday sermon to decide to reframe my earlier humiliation.
I had forgotten an insignificant skill, but I realized how vividly I do remember the taste of our first kiss in front of Newberry Hall and the carving of our names in the sugar maple at Lumberjack Park. I remember the first (and unfortunately not the last) time you found it necessary to lecture me about my attitude. More importantly, I remember the moment you walked down the aisle on your dad’s arm, and I realized what a drop-dead gorgeous woman I was about to marry. I remember you holding me after the recess of my PhD prelims. I remember the moments of the births of Charity and Nate. I remember you arriving in the Pinto to the Mobil parking lot after I had been fired. I remember holding you tight at your dad’s funeral. I remember tears running down my cheeks as that red shit went into your arm and I realized I might be losing you. I do remember.
To hell with the Windsor; There are more important things to remember.
Loving you – Eddie Bert