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