Archives 2019

Dearest Sylvia,  For Love, over the last 54 years, you have helped me to experience many firsts. At 72 years of age, I thought, until this morning, I was running out of new experiences.  Once again, I was wrong.

It was 5:45 in the morning. I had gotten up and prepared breakfast burritos for the grands.  I replayed the last conversation of yesterday in my befuddled before-coffee brain.  I had asked you what was going to happen tomorrow and what my responsibilities were.  I realized you mentioned car-pooling the girls to Ladies Aide at 9:30.

But, I had committed to shopping at Aldi’s Grand Opening at 9:00.  OMG; the consequence of the carpool was I would be in line for the Aldi’s Grand Opening alone.  The little boy from Grayling that hid behind Mom’s corner china cabinet when visitors came went into a full-blown panic attack.

I ran through my entire kit bag of lame excuses.  I realized I was really scared to go alone. It was useless; I had trapped myself into committing to go (they gave away $100 store gift cards to the first 100 customers).   For Love, I pulled on my big boy panties and pretended to be brave.

At 8 (the store opened at 9), I started my truck, scanned my shopping list, and drove to Canton. Of course, the line started to form at 7.  I was shopper 143, the first 100 got $100 store gift cards.  I got a key fob which has a slot for the quarter needed to rent a shopping cart, a reusable shopping bag and $15 worth of store coupons.

I missed on the third dozen eggs but otherwise did find most of the items on the shopping list. For Love, I did bring you half a dozen roses.  To be very candid, they were as much my reward  for once again going outside my comfort zone.  Yes, Virginia, old dogs can learn new tricks. If we have to.

I love you more than Martha Washington Geraniums, Eddie B.

P.S.  I really enjoyed the event; I was an old rooster in a line of friendly hens.  The ladies doted on me.  I, of course, loved the attention.  Next Grand Opening, go with me.  We can count it as a date.

Dear Eddie, I am crazy about our two night minimum getaways; we have adopted a formula that works. In the past, we have prioritized periodic getaways for the two of us, yet, many times, we have found ourselves still exhausted when we returned home. A few years ago, we realized that we were tired out from the stress of getting there, wherever “there” might have been. And, likewise, we were beat by the time we returned home. We needed at least two nights away. We decided that we needed to plan at least one two night minimum getaway every quarter. We write those words down as a goal on our Marriage Growth Plan, and we follow through.

When we plan for a two night minimum getaway, we have a chance to enjoy actually being together in a new or cherished place. We can breathe.  We can arrive, check in, and recover from the stress of traffic or navigation. We can collapse and search out supper or search out supper and collapse. When we plan this kind of getaway, we can wake up when we choose. We can spend at least one whole day doing as we please. We can stay in bed or not. We can be pretty sure that not even our cat will appear at the window, meowing to be let it in. We can enjoy sunrise or not. We can go new places, eat new foods, be lazy or energetic. We can change our minds.

But, so often, the obvious times when we can get away are when we also have responsibilities to others. We might be going to a marriage enrichment conference, for instance. Those events always sound like they will be good couple times and they are, but we usually have some leadership work to do, some stress to bear, other people’s stuff to honor. Thank you for helping me to remember that we need the getaway, too. That means planning so we can stay over and chill after the work is done. That means paying attention to our own marriage growth. That means remembering that our two nights away need to leave time for us to play, talk, and rest.

Emphasizing two night minimum getaways has made the times we can devote to the two of us much more enjoyable. We spent time on the North Carolina Outer Banks before a big conference in Raleigh. We tried out my new knee and explored Waco and Magnolia before the Texas conference.  We played on the beach and ate shrimp at Daytona after spending fine kin-keeping time with family. We explored back roads in the Alabama mountains before a conference site visit.  And, of course, we just run away by ourselves on occasion, like to our college reunion. You are my favorite play mate. I hope we don’t ever forget the magic of the two night minimum. What shall we plan next?

Much love, Sylvia

Darling Sylvia,

I am gift challenged.  I do not know how to choose  gifts. In June, I was in a full blown panic attack over what gift to give to you to honor our fiftieth anniversary.  You deserve diamonds and pearls but married a Grayling boy whose jewelry sophistication was based on looking in the windows of Davis Jewelry. I did not have a clue.

At Key’s Fine Jewelry, we worked with a very friendly lady to build a pendant based on your mother’s canary diamond.  When she finished, she quoted the price.    You turned and looked up at me with a timid smile that softly asked “Can we afford it?”  I swallowed hard; the tears flowed, not because of the price, but, because you were so beautiful.  You were more than worth it (definitely a ten-cow wife, according to Johnny Lingo).

Jewelry costs money but other gifts may be more important. Today I want to add some gifts.  I give to you the gift of paying attention to my health as I age.  I will keep my weight down, take care of my pacemaker, and monitor my blood pressure.  I will remain physically active in order to keep my mobility as long as I can.  I pledge to you that I will do my part in continuing to grow our marriage.  This is a time in my life when you are my most important priority.  I will be present in the moment and continue having fun.  I promise, ala Dr. Seuss, to learn new things and to take you wonderful places where you have not been before.

Love you, Eddie Bert.

Dear Eddie,

Here we go again, planning another gathering at our home. This time, it is to celebrate our 50^th Wedding Anniversary. The wedding planning website where the invitation is posted is counting. Every time I open the site, it tells me how many more days until the party. The site is counting down to the Big Day.

I remember counting down to our wedding day. There was the previous Summer, waiting for the engagement ring to come from the mail order house that your brother, Joe, and his best friend, Larry, had used for the diamonds for Mary Ellen and Lewie. There was a dress to be bought and bridesmaid dresses to choose.

That Spring, there were showers for kitchen and home; there were blood tests and licenses from the right county. There was the upstairs apartment in the Grayling house to paint.  And, for you and for me, there were final exams and graduation at Alma College and being accepted into graduate school. So, we walked for graduation with our family in attendance, you said, “See you Friday,” and we were counted down to the Big Day.

That counting was over on the first day of Summer, June 21, 1969. We had arrived. We were finally married. We were our own twosome. We got there. And, we were off to our future together.

As we prepare for this celebration, I am very aware that we are counting, but I am not counting down. I am counting up. I am so very grateful that we are able to reach this occasion. We have so many friends who have not had the opportunity. I am enjoying the projects of preparing our home, inviting our loved ones, and getting ready. I am enjoying the play of remembering and planning. I am counting up these days as cherished.

I want you to know that I will be counting up every day we are given. Our grandkids link their playlists to our car stereos. There are lyrics I could do without for sure, but a lyric I really like says, “I like me better when I’m with you.” I really like you, and I really like me when I am with you. Our dads barely made 70. Both pairs of our parents were excellent couples who enjoyed life with their life mates.  It was a shame that our moms and dads did not get more years to enjoy life together. Every day can be cherished, whatever it brings.

I will take every day we are allowed together. I will count up those days with you as the very best I can imagine. I love you. Happy Anniversary, darling.

Sylvia

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

_{Darling Eddie, There, you did it again. You made something beautiful; more accurately, you made something else beautiful in my world.  are dependable to show appreciation of me, to be there when I need you, and to look toward a future together and participate in making that future. Today, I find you dependable to bring beauty into my world.}

_{I don’t know anyone who has as many beautiful bouquets in their house all year long as we do. Who has orchids in the bathroom, snapdragons in the kitchen, blooming cacti on the mantel?  We do. I know that when you see beauty, you want to share it with me. I have been hearing about the swelling Catylea buds for days; I can’t wait until you bring those plants to the house to share.}

_{We have had a WET Winter and Spring. We thought it would never stop raining. And then the mud. Oh, the mud. Now, finally, some days of sunshine.  In spite of the rain, you have brought beauty into this yard. Maybe because of the rain, the bulbs you planted last fall have put on a gorgeous long-lasting show. We have had weeks of daffodils, weeks of yellow, purple and white crocus, tiny new blue hyacinths to join the old-fashioned grape hyacinths along the drive. Now, the tulips are in gay profusion in front of the house. Yesterday, I found those tiny red tulips with the white daffodils by the pond. I laughed. I remembered the bag with that set of colors that was one more Eddie Aldi impulse buy along with our groceries.}

_{Today, you are once again out in the garden. You have prepared the soil with bone shaking days with the tiller. You have built this year’s addition in the continuing war with the deer who munched your roses. The electric fence will or will not help, but not for your lack of trying. You are setting out the first transplants from the greenhouse. The bare dirt is going to bring forth color for the farm market. You will see that we have a beautiful world until first frost next fall. I will enjoy every bit of your contribution and our granddaughter will once again exclaim, “I love it when the garden is full of color and we can see all of the beautiful butterflies!”}

_{Thank you, sweet beauty provider. I love you.}

_Sylvia

Darling Sylvia, I heard moans as I got out of the car.  I looked around and realized the sounds were my own.  I am 71 and not 22.  I had been day dreaming about our escape to Red Wing in February of 1970.

We had been snowbound in Minneapolis for weeks.  Cabin fever had set in.  We were looking for adventure on the first sunny Saturday morning in a month.  We drove south to Red Wing and discovered the confluence of the Chippewa and Mississippi.  The turbulence caused by their joining created the only ice free zone for miles.  The oxygenated waters were filled with swirling carp and suckers.  The eagles from eighty miles around had joined to harvest the fish.  I had never witnessed a flock of twenty plus bald eagles in a fishing frenzy.  It was a marvelous moment, and I was sharing it in the now with you.  That I had it to share with you, not just the eagles, was what made the moment magical.  I could taste what glorious adventures we would share in the years to come.

          Being 71 and not 22 is under rated. This morning as you drink the barium shake (that tastes like mocha–NOT) in preparation for your kidney scan, I am 71 and not 22.  This is not the type of adventure I had anticipated.  I am glad we still have other kinds of adventures.  But this morning, there is no place I would rather be than here with you.  At 71, the fact that I still have moments to share with you makes the time in this waiting room as precious as watching eagles fish.

 Love You, Eddie Bert

Dear Eddie: We have a wonderful dining table. We have probably spent years of our lives at the table. We discovered the table in your parents’ basement the summer we married. It was dusty and covered with Contac Paper. We were told it was a hand-me-down from the Puffer’s parsonage. We later determined that it was a product of the Robbins Table Company, founded in 1873 in Owosso, Michigan, and was fashioned of oak with an ash top. For us, the table was not an antique but the beginning of “our” furniture. We loaded it on our U-Haul trailer with Aunt Nellie’s rollaway bed and the barrel backed chair from my home. In years to come, the table traveled from Minnesota to Alberta, to Texas, then to Michigan and back to Texas and Oklahoma, moving finally to Georgia over 30 years ago.

At the table, you and I learned about cherishing and appreciating each other. We learned about sharing each other’s days in evening conversations. We had a few memorable “Hair in my Soup” fights at the table and learned how to repair those fights and even how to avoid some of them. We made “family” around the table for holidays when we lived far from our biological families. We welcomed high chairs and, very quickly it seemed, high schoolers. Around the table, we have hosted family birthdays and Christmas Eves, youth groups, church picnics, and countless college student gatherings. In the last few years, there are six or seven very much loved people at the table. On most days, our multigenerational family begins its days with vitamins, allergy meds and breakfast at the table. We enjoy the less busy evenings when we all can gather for supper together.

I had been puzzled and a little annoyed by your insistence on downsizing the table when the kids left for the weekends or school breaks. I somehow thought it was a bother or felt devaluing of the larger family. Because you were adamant, I kept pretty much quiet and thought that at least it made a good excuse to vacuum between the table legs. But, now, I get it. You value our larger family group, but you want to honor our twosome as well. You clarified for me, and I can hear you. I can get excited about setting our space as we did for the years before and between kids. We eat at the table together, corner-corner with me to your left. We don’t default to eating in front of the TV. And, when the gang is expected, we happily anticipate by adding the two leaves that have been hidden inside our special table.  I love you, Eddie Bert. See you at the table.

Love, Sylvia