Archives 2021

Dear Eddie,

I was wrong. Yes, again, for sure. Oh, how I hate to be wrong, much less to own and say the words out loud. There was no way around the fact. And, crap, if I didn’t again learn something new about how can we repair breaches in the pleasure of our life together.

I was wrong—undeniably so. There was a half loaf of bread—the kind that is 4 WW points a slice that had to go to the grand kids and out of our house. There was also a bag of Hungarian Hot Wax peppers that had to go to their house, too. It was a hectic day. I asked the kids to stop by and collect said bag. Grandson popped in, made a pit stop, and a snack stop, and looked for the bag on the counter—no bag, so he said. I asked/sent you to the kitchen to help him find the goods, and neither of you (guys) could find it. I swooped into the kitchen—fussing that everyone was helpless—what in the world was their problem? No bag—nowhere—nada—dematerialized. I was puzzled but I was Not Nice, and I was wrong. I hope you both took my apology but the episode bore some scrutiny.

I needed to think about what I actually did and said. I needed to repeat to myself, “I was wrong.” Like Balki in the old sit-com Perfect Strangers, I needed to grovel on the ground and repeat, “I am lower than pig sweat.” I needed to tell you that I accepted the responsibility for my actions, being very specific about my shame, and expressing my heartfelt regret. You just laughed this time. You love me. But there are times when there are big deals.

I thought about times when you have been wrong, and you have thought long and hard about the issue and about your behavior. You have revisited the details, the underlying feelings, maybe the fears, and you have shared that information with me. I always appreciate the simple “I’m sorry,” but I experience being cherished when you thoughtfully consider the whys and your wishes to behave differently.

Repairs are not excuses. I always want an explanation. I felt better when I figured out the mystery. I had taken the bread and peppers to the car to take to the kids when I picked up Granddaughter for Girl Scouts. Girl Scouts was cancelled. Next morning—Voila! But explanations are for me. The thinking and voicing is a gift for you and for us. Thank you for the attention you give to fixing the times when you are wrong. Thank you for giving me room to dig myself out of the dog house and find the real issue, whether plain old tired or fears or pinches.

We learned long ago that when there is way more heat in an interaction than the facts warrant, we better look more deeply and not just change the subject. My new learning is that I feel very loved by you when you examine a wrong incident and share your learning with me. I hope I show you that you are very much loved when I examine my own wrongs and believe my mea culpa. I know every breach doesn’t need the full treatment; we would be exhausted. I do know, however, that we are worth much more than the embarrassment of my bad behavior over a vanishing grocery bag. I love you.

Sylvia

Darling Sylvia,

“Deliver the letter, the sooner the better.”  In a time long ago, in a northern Michigan town called Grayling, a twenty-year-old Eddie Bert was driving home after work from a summer job with the USGS.  The point was to get to the mailbox before his dragon lady mother (Ruth Elizabeth) snagged the letter from you.  Your letters were special.  They looked different, felt different, and smelled wonderfully like you.

It was a far away and ancient time when phones were rotary, postage was six cents, and Bill Gates had not yet been potty trained.  The first had come on June 12, 1967. It was the summer between our sophomore and junior year at Alma College.  You were two hundred and seventy-eight miles away in Grosse Pointe Park and I was exiled in the northwoods of Crawford County.  I snatched the letter from Mom’s grasp and went to my den to treasure it.

          I read your letter and then responded.  The letter meant everything.  We were an item.  I wrote and received twice and sometime three times a week that and the following summer. I found the box containing both your letters and mine last week in the closet.  I really did not remember that you saved them.  Fifty-five years of loving you, documented in a Rapallo shoebox. Years ago in an old trunk I discovered Dad’s 1936 letters to Mom. He was in the northwoods of Michigan at Fife Lake CCC Camp, and she was in Mars Hill, Maine.

          Writing a love letter is an ancient art form.  It takes a lot more thought than a tweet or a text.  It starts with chit-chat; I am on the porch, the sun is shining, and I was dreaming of you.  After the introduction, I proceeded to hopes and dreams (what are my values things). The third paragraph was filled with the scary things called feelings.  You were teaching me that I actually did have feelings. The fourth paragraph got mushy; How much I wanted to hold you in my arms at that moment and show my love to you.

          Last week, I sat down to revive the art and wrote you seven days in a row.  Because postage is fifty-five cents for one ounce first class, I left them at your breakfast plate.  I loved you then and love you even more fifty-five years later.

Love – Eddie Bert

Dearest Eddie,

You moved a lot of flowers today. Specialty cut flower grower is a descriptive mouthful but I prefer to call you a purveyor of smiles. As I watch our teenaged granddaughter climb the silks this evening, you may still be asleep in your chair. You earned the nap after cutting flowers for 12 hours yesterday and being the face of Dr. Rob’s Garden at our farmers’ market all day. I would bet though that you got up and went back to your garden. Why?

You told me you were mentally reframing your why as you worked this week after Mint scolded you for overspending your Seeds budget, again. I know that little Eddie loved the plant hustle of Robertsons’ Greenhouse of yore, and Papa Eddie is not raking in the bucks. I am happy that you are occupied with something you love, organized in your days, and, certainly, exercised—all good things. Watching you, I have decided that smiles are your real why.

Flowers make you smile. I love to hear you call from the garden, “Come see.” You delight in bringing smiles to our life. Orchids to the dorm, corsages to dances, calendula in Calgary, caladium in Dallas, the fence rose war in Bartlesville; flower memories are part of our glue. Now, it is orchids on the mantel, roses in the kitchen, larkspur in the bathroom, and even zinnias in cut glass in the “event quality” porta-jons at our anniversary bash. Flowers and your smiles go together in my life, and I am grateful!

Your flowers make many people smile. In our market community, people react emotionally to the beautiful things you bring. Even if they don’t always buy, they stop, comment, enjoy, share memories. We hear tales of “my grandmother’s spider plants,” “my dad’s glads,” “the dahlias we had back home.” Your flowers access the flowers of memory, and people smile. Little kids get freebies from Dr. Rob, and often they return, calling you by name. Customer families come by the garden to visit and pick. Former students appear with mates and kids and dogs. New residents make friends around the flower stall. People with whom we taught VBS many years ago show up and share smiles once more.

Your flowers allow your customers to gift others. “My grandma will love these; she raised me.” “I’m decorating for a wedding.” “It’s dance recital day.” “My cousin loves flowers, and she can’t garden anymore.” “My wife really loved the bunch I bought from you last week.” “I’m getting one for my neighbor and one for me.” And they smile.

I am delighted that smiles have become what you would call a worthy why for all your hard work.  I am sure we will still count our dollars like you did the quarters in the box when you were a child. We will still be scolded by Mint. We will still lament the greenhouse propane bill. But we have a new shared understanding that the smiles generated by the beauty from your garden are  a perfectly adequate why for all the dedication you give. I love you, purveyor of smiles.

Sylvia

Darling Sylvia,

You were then and are now my only one.  It was in the fall of 1967, standing with you in my arms in front of Newberry Hall, that I first realized I had found my only one.  This incredibly beautiful, bright, strong-willed girl loved God, her family, nature and, most amazingly, me.  You were my only one.

Last Saturday night, we took ourselves out for a post-Covid ’20-’21 date; the Rome Braves were meeting the Bowling Green Hot Rods at State Mutual Stadium. It was a perfect evening for us to try playing in a crowd once again. The anthem was sung; fireworks were on deck for post-game. The sun set through pink clouds over the river. The musical chairs kids got dizzy, and the protesting coach was ejected from the game. We were surrounded by multigenerational families, groups of friends, and other couples enjoying being together again with the Great American Pastime. The temperature was warm, and everything was chill.

And then, wham, we had one of those Holy Ground, take your breath away, moments. “The Circle of Life” began to play, the Simba Cam panned the stands, and, all around us, mothers, dads, and grandparents lifted babies and toddlers overhead, presenting them to the world as princes and princesses. There was a catch in my throat when I realized what they were doing. The humanity of it all! I reached for your hand and looked into your eyes and found tears that                                                              matched mine running down your cheeks. After 54 years, my tender-hearted Alma Lassie, you still are my only one.

                                                  Love,          Eddie Bert

Dear Eddie,

Spring Break in St. Augustine! Even with Covid carefulness, we did not forget our dedication to a two night minimum getaway. We celebrate the couple time of shorter dates, for sure, but it takes that long for us to really relax. You insist that we set the quarterly goal, but you also insist that we follow through. Thank you for that persistence.

Spring Break took working together. Planning and carrying out a plan makes for conversations that are out of our ordinary interests. There is planning what to do together, there are the actual trips, and there are the shared memories to revisit. All three contribute to our shared history, our couple glue.  Our planning starts with joint idea popping. Then it is my turn as the dot and diddle girl to visit the websites, check out the maps, find the lodging, and survey possible things to do. Your job is to keep bugging until I get a plan. Your question is often, “How are we coming?” Then, we get to take off.

Spring Break fit our pattern. First, we got quiet. This time the quiet was in full amazement that we were actually “on the road,” not having been “off the corner,” as your mother used to say, since October.

On the road, our Spring Break chatter began and mixed new experiences  with old memories. The further south we got, the more south Georgia bloomed; the more the red maples and the yellow Jessamine winding in the treetops showed their faces. Do you remember?…the Savannah meeting, the Okefenokee field trip? On arrival, we had our expected last scuffle over traffic, directions, u-turns, all much simplified by GPS…and lightened by the memories. Do you remember?…San Francisco in the dark with the firetrucks at the hotel?…the Kleinschmidt Grade, and “Here’s Johnnie?”  And we did find our hotel, fed ourselves and chilled.

Waking, we activated our Spring Break plan with travel brochures, maps, and the weather app. In St. Augustine, we wanted to explore the Castillo San Marcos and the old town, and we wanted beach time and shrimp. We started with a city tour, your forever go to,—let someone else do the driving.  Do you remember?…D.C., Baltimore, Seville, Montelcino, Quebec                      ? Hopping on and off, exploring, chattering, eating, and, oh look, Sylvia’s forever go to, a cruise–a little history, a lot of sun and wind, and snuggling tight for warmth. We could almost hear harbor pirates growling, “Covid be hanged!” And off for the shrimp tacos. Waking again, we headed to the beach for more sun and wind, not warm, but, wrapped in jeans and jackets, we walked and basked and enjoyed a picnic with an expectant gull. Heading north toward home, we felt delighted with our experiences and with each other.

Thank you, dear heart, for prioritizing us. Yes, we have indeed checked off our two night getaway for winter quarter. I am looking forward to another Spring Break run with you real soon when Michigan comes out of the snow.

Much love,  Sylvia

Darling Sylvia,

COVID-19 has changed our language. Having a safe bubble and a safe pod have become the “new normal.” But what is so new about normal?  Having an Alma College lassie and a cat or cats in my bubble has been normal for 53 years.  I think that having a daughter, a son in love and three grands in my pod is normal, although I suspect that my sixteen-year-old granddaughter has slipped a boyfriend into my pod, but that is a topic for another old man’s rant.

Being in your bubble means living close to you. I like being close to you.  In fact, I have liked it a lot for a long time. I think reading detective novels in front of the fire, emptying the dishwasher, making the bed beside you, and having roses on the breakfast table is normal.  I think it is normal that at one o’clock I lay down for a reposo nap with a grandma on my right and a black and white tomcat on my left, both needing to be cuddled. I think that a cat at the door waiting to be let out and ten minutes later a cat at the window waiting to be let in is normal. I think that sharing orchids all year long is normal.  I think setting a pretty suppertime table is normal.  I have even learned that it is normal for me to need a 30-minute WW Walk to the Beat while you are exercising at Curves.

Some things are normal for me; other things are not normal.  Zumba in the kitchen at 9 o’clock in the morning still is not normal.  Zoom church service and Detroit Lions football with cardboard fans in the stands is not normal.  That you still love this seventy-three-year-old Delt Sig defensive end makes you not normal, but please, please, please do not stop now!

Love you, Eddie Bert