Archives 2020

Dear Eddie:

When I was growing up, I was Big Sister to three little brothers. Mom would tell them to do something, and I would immediately repeat her words. She would get ticked. Dad would say, “Peat and Repeat.” Mom would say, “Peat is perfectly adequate.” I would attempt to shut up. Repeating was not my best trait.  Lately, however, I am mindful that many things do bear repeating. Sometimes, that means repeating words, but often it means repeating actions. In this holiday season, our ritual repeating grows and celebrates our memories. It is part of the glue that makes us a couple and all of us into a family.

We repeat as we prepare and celebrate holidays together. We are stubborn about celebrating Thanksgiving before beginning Christmas preparation. Our pumpkins mix with garland and lights in the first weeks of December. We hang the greens at church and at home, we set up the Advent wreath, and we follow the liturgy each week. Our grandchildren expect that we light candles as well as eat daily chocolates. We repeat the stories that surround the things and practices. The liturgy comes from Bartlesville FUMC from Christmas 1980. The kids acolyte at church and problem-solve that, even though the refillable candles don’t burn down, the first purple candle is opposite the third pink Joy candle. There is the proper way “we” do things.

You and I first, then our children, and now our grands see that our traditions are tied to memories and shift to include new members and new memories in the repeating. Little Bear and his family have resided in the quilted “house” on our kitchen door in the month of December for many many years. Little Bear has looked for Christmas over and over again. Grown kids afar may be told or ask where Little Bear looked for Christmas on any given day. This year, Little Bear went walk-about. He was missing when Aryn went to move him on December 22. We looked everywhere. I tried not to panic, or as you well know I can, “go Freaknik.” I made up a silly story in my head about what his parents were thinking. I pondered sewing a new bear.  Thankfully, Little Bear was found in the laundry room in the back of the house, collapsed face-down on top of the sunflower seed bucket. Go figure. We all speculated about what in the world happened.  I do know that Little Bear’s wanderlust will repeat in Christmas story-telling for another generation. We will laugh together in the repeating.

So, in the afterglow of Christmastide, I ask of you darling partner, please keep repeating that you love me, keep repeating and rehashing our trips, our holidays, our giggles of our many years. I love you.

Sylvia

Darling Sylvia,

I feel the need to slow down in order to make our moments last. I remember the moment in the fall of 1966 in front of Newberry Hall,  when I wrapped you up in my arms and kissed you for the first time.  Last Saturday, at Pitchtree Café, as we waited to sell the first of Doctor Rob’s Garden Bouquets,  I realized I was feeling the same flush of emotions that I had felt so many years ago.  You were snuggled in my arm pit with the blanket wrapped around your legs.  It felt oh so familiar.  I was amazed and am still amazed at how your body fits perfectly into the curve of mine.  I wanted to slow down and make that moment last.  In this incredibly fast paced world we live in, our moments of closeness pass all too quickly. I desperately need to slow down and savor each one.

Moments ago, I held your hand as you gave birth to Charity and Nate.  It was only a moment ago, when you held me after we got the phone call from Joe that Dad had died in the car accident.  It was only a moment ago, when we stood outside the maternity window at Saint Mary’s and were introduced to Abby, our first grandchild.  It was only a moment ago,  that we soaked our feet in the volcanic hot spring in Tuscany. Moments pass quickly; I want to slow down and notice them.

I want to appreciate those moments, at the grocery store, at church, at Wally’s World or waiting in line to vote when I am aware of your presence beside me.  I want to slow down and  live every moment with you in the now.  Our now is very good.  Our bodies may be wearing out, our time may be limited, but, when we cuddled Saturday, in the chilly October morning air of that parking lot, it felt even better than the very first time. I want to slow down and celebrate more moments with you.

Love you,   Eddie Bert

Dear Eddie:

I heard you singing. I was chilling in the gazebo one morning in July and harkened to your voice coming up from the garden. “And a partridge in a pear tree.” I chortled; you lifted me up, yet again. Your singing expresses your “glass at least half full” approach to life. You are not Pollyanna, but you are positive most of the time. I am thankful for your gift.

I am thankful that your singing family traveled to Grandma’s with hymns and choruses since there was no radio. I am thankful that in your all in one small town k-12 school Peg Milnes was in charge of chorus, glee club and talent shows—your repertoire is awesome. Added was that Mrs. Milnes expected all Methodist teens to sing in the choir at Michelsen Memorial with her and their folks.

I am thankful for the singing in our parenting and grandparenting years. You give us repeated lines, bursts of joy, seldom whole compositions. “Little Champ” from your cornet audition for band, “Choke a cholo cholo cha laylee,” “Mares eat oats, and does eat oats,” “Beautiful Blue Eyes,” “You are my Sunshine.” All the camp choruses resound and set a day’s tone.” This is the Day,” “Revive Us Again.” At how many 6:15 am Cline Store bus stop mornings did you rouse our pack of three, and probably the whole neighborhood, with “Rise and Shine and Get those children out of the muddy muddy?” At least one of the kids would get into it, complete with motions, while the older ones at least grimaced and sometimes deigned to join you. You and I might have dragged up that hill in the dark, but we handheld back home with the sunrise behind us.

Your singing is part of garden season for sure. You are up and at it at daylight. When I get up to fix breakfast, I am often greeted with snatches of song from the twilight. You are out there happily planting, weeding or cutting. At random times of day, I will hear some random sound, and realize Eddie’s singing.

I love you, songbird. You lift me up.

Sylvia

Darling Sylvia,

Thank you for teaching me the names for feelings.

Taxonomy is the science and the art of assigning names. Dr. Kapp at Alma taught me that yellow flowers are not all the same.  The hue and saturation points of the yellows of marsh marigold, Caltha palustris, and black mustard, Brassica nigra, are different.  Those differences allow a pollinator or a neophyte botanist to tell them apart at fifty yards. Dr. Eyer taught me the songs that separate the ordinary Pine Warbler, Dendroica pinus, from the extraordinary Kirtland’s Warbler, Dendroica kirtlandii.  Dr. Sloan taught me the color and textural differences between a fossiliferous brown roofing shale and a lignite. The differences in the rock make for distinctive pollen and spore floras. The names and their meanings that I absorbed from my professors made and make my world more colorful, filled with joyous tones and more physical textures to experience.

Over the last fifty-five years, your lessons in the names and the meanings of feeling words far out rank any learned from my professors.  Names have changed my behavior. When you tell me, “That pinched,” it tells me that I SAID OR DID SOMETHING THAT HURT YOU.  I have to ask myself, “Was it intentional or was I just being stupid?” CLEANING YOUR FISH says that I honor you and that a lady does not need to ruin her nails if a man who cares for her is near.  Your dad always cleaned your mother’s fish; it was not about entrails, but a value placed on his woman.

Grayling’s 501 Ottawa Street men’s dormitory was the Sahara Desert when it came to the names and meanings of feeling words.  Mad or glad was as nuanced as it got.  I had no clue until you came into my life that feelings had color, sounds and textures just like the qualities of the natural things in my world. I had feelings; who would have known?  More importantly, you had feelings that I needed to recognize, honor, and try to understand.  I need to learn and keep learning who I am and who you are in order to know and to be known more fully.

Sylvia, you ring my bells. — Eddie Bert

Dear Eddie: I have always known that you have a special relationship with dirt. I have always enjoyed your being my garden boy and the beautiful things you grow. At the same time, I have done my share of griping about dirt, mud, tracks, and all. Today, I realized that something had shifted in my attitude about you and dirt. (yes, I know it is soil).

Two dirt related things happened this morning. I was fluffing last night’s load of clothes before folding. I knew that load would be followed by yet another day’s load. There would be one set of my clothes and at least three sets of yours. It is plant the garden, get ready for Farmers’ Market season. One set of wet stinky work clothes follows another. They may be too wet even for your taste, but you are also thoughtful enough to decide that they are too muddy to come in for lunch or reposo. Icky clothes; yet, I smiled. And, then, right there inside the back door, between the door and the mat, I spotted one perfect, very distinct, size 11 shoe print on the champagne carpet; yet, I laughed. You are totally comfortable with dirt. I have decided that comfort with dirt is one of your most endearing characteristics.

When I got you, I got Tom Robertson’s greenhouse child. When our two-year-old son was selling “million-dollar petunias,” at Dad’s greenhouse, Pete’s Auntie Ruth said, “Well, Eddie was always the dirtiest little boy in Grayling.”  And so, it continues with you and dirt. When we were courting, I remember a trip to Aunt Nellie’s farm to “get a load of dirt.” It was my first time to really watch you and dirt. No bags from the garden center. You cut sod, broke the blocks apart with your fingers and shook out the dirt. You were patient, meticulous, enthralled. Year after year, I have watched you condition flower beds, lifting bulbs, trenching in compost, planting again. Last week, we took apart the sand box in our yard and moved it to our daughter’s home where the kids reassembled it into a raised bed. Two shoveled Mighty Max bedloads of compost, one of garden dirt and another of sand followed. You tilled it all to uniform consistency ready for planting. I texted our grandson that Papa had brought him dirt for his birthday, and he responded, “Yay!” Auntie Ruth’s jibe hurt your feelings a little bit, but you and dirt are really something wonderful to behold.

I asked myself why I am so much less grumpy about you and dirt. Heck, I’m grinning about you and dirt. I think that growing and sharing beautiful things is a way you care for my love languages. It takes dirt. You make our home beautiful. In the big orchid bloom, there were orchids on the mantel, orchids in the bathroom, orchids in the kitchen. In the vases on the back of the kitchen sink, chives and mint have made way for roses and daisies.  And I experience all of that beauty as your gifts of service, of appreciation, of love.

Our family knows their gifts of dirt, of potting soil, vermiculite, and peat pots never disappoint you. The seedling mixture with coir was perfect for your winter greenhouse babies, and you have repeatedly said so. You and I have been basically at home for seven weeks due to Covid-19. The closest to a quarantine crisis we have had is needing Potting Mix. Trying to limit social distance, I heard you say, “I’m cutting myself off from dirt.” Sure, that really lasted; we stopped for three more bags this morning.

Keep playing in the dirt, darling one. Love, Sylvia

Precious  Sylvia,  We are always better together.  It was in the late summer of 1969; these two recent Alma grads were in a junker with bald tires and a U-Haul trailer in tow. It was a fourteen-hour drive to a place we hadn’t been before. We were scared and hopeful at the same time.  You and I were sure that whatever the future would bring it would be always better together. Grayling was my only frame of reference. Needless to say, it was not sufficient. Together, we shared Sharon Avenue, University of Minnesota, Minneapolis, Saint Paul, and snow that seemed to last forever.  I loved your bravery and belief in us.  Together we laughed, loved, cried, fought and learned the joy of making up. In the first three months, we discovered three-dimensional tic-tac-toe, Milborne, and cribbage.  At Christmas, we broke down and bought a thirteen-inch television.  We watched the Super Bowl and Luscious Lars Anderson of the American Wrestling Association from Aunt Nellie’s rollaway.

Five years later, we left for Calgary.  In the U-Haul truck were a cat, a dog and a four-month-old Charity Jean.  The roads across Saskatchewan showed the bumpy effects of frost heave.  Once again, we were brave but knew that it was going to be always better together.

It is day 20 of social distancing. Today’s excitement was old people’s early hours at Aldi’s.  Among our purchases of essentials were seven rolls of landscape cloth and two bottles of sangria.  The garden is tilled, the greenhouse holds 127 flats of flowers to be planted for the coming season at the Waleska Farmers’ Market.  Our attic is orderly, and the refrigerator spotless.  We have almost acquired the knowledge needed to Zoom with our three grandchildren.  I miss the noise and chaos that they bring into our life.

I am mindful , now more than ever, of how much your smile and sounds bring light and joy into my rather dull life.   Sunday, I told you  about a memory of being nine years old and recovering from viral pneumonia.  I was sick, lonesome and locked inside.  I was looking out the raindrop spattered window of the old white house on the corner of Chestnut and Ottawa and singing “Rain, rain, go away; little Eddie wants to play.”  This crisis will pass. The sun will shine, and we will go outside and play.  I know it is always better together.  Especially if the together is with you.

Love,  Eddie Bert

Darling Orchid Boy:  Yes, my dear Eddie; you are forever my Orchid Boy. What eighteen year old boy, especially back in the days of our beginnings, loved orchids? So it was Spring of our Sophomore year at Alma College. You were dutifully going home every weekend to work the greenhouse and the USGS, paying tuition for the terms that were your financial responsibility, not on the folks or your scholarship. And late on Saturday, you would come back to school so we could see each other. I was the girl with a choice of corsages for every dance. Bronze mums, carnations, sweetheart roses with trailing arbutus. I would choose, and your frat brothers who took the others would look really good to their dates.  I knew you loved plants, but I did not yet understand how that love of plants would impact our life together.

Then, one Saturday, I was doing the ritual girl in my day thing of drying my “hair down to there” in the big pink bonnet over the huge brush rollers. I was not yet ready for prime time viewing. The intercom speaker blasted over my head. “Sylvia, Eddie’s downstairs and says to get down here.” As independent a woman as I was, I responded, “I’ll get there when I get there.” A few minutes later, the freshman on the desk was back on the intercom. “He left, but, oh my goodness, come see what he left.” That got my attention. And to my wondering eyes did appear a full spray of pale purple Cattleya–the whole spray,  five of them. And we laughed, and I learned you were an orchid boy. You had your own aquarium home for your orchids. And you have had them ever since; and you have been my special orchid boy ever since, too.

In fifty plus years of living and loving with you, we have also lived with orchids in one way or another. We have visited a zillion botanical gardens. When you were teaching at Reinhardt, you had wide shelves built as window sills in your lab to accommodate your teaching collections and your orchids. As the big cattleyas came into bloom, you would bring them to live in my office. The most blooms at one time was 16 huge white blooms. Sometimes, the whites and purples would bloom at the same time. The students would say, “Dr. Rob loves Mrs. Rob.” I would think “Orchid Boy.”

Now, your orchids reside in your backyard greenhouse. The collection has grown; the orchids summer out under the oak tree, and come into the house to grace the mantel, the kitchen sink, the bathroom counter… We factor orchids into decisions about how to play. We have enjoyed Orchid Daze at the Atlanta Botanical Garden, but our new favorite stop is at Peach State Orchids. You found them while looking for baby orchids on the web. They are a delightful spot right in our own county. We wrote their name on a list of dates we promised to each other. How lovely to go there with you. We ooh and ahh. We shop for gifts. You come home with a box of small, not blooming, question marks, and you baby them and wait for surprises to share with me. Daily, we check out the Facebook page where Danielle posts beauty after beauty. And, we enjoy together. You and me Orchid Boy.

I love you. Thank you for playing with me. Thank you for having an Orchid Boy soul.

Love, Sylvia