Author: Eddie

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

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 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

Darling Sylvia, It was a frigid fall morning in Georgia, and I fell on the slippery  ice.  The bank had not turned off its automatic sprinklers, the sidewalk was uphill, and I was double stepping to get my heart rate up.  I noticed the water, and I thought I was being careful but I missed noticing the slippery sheet of ice coating the sidewalk.  I went down in a flash.  My reflexes went into gear, and I threw my right arm backward to cushion my fall.  I  went down on my right side.  It hurt like hell, and I flashed back to my fall from the balcony when I smashed my hip.  I was scared as I rolled over and carefully got to my feet.  I didn’t think anything was broken.  The pain subsided.  My back hurt, but I was upright, and I could breathe. This Michigan boy had forgotten how slippery ice can be.

Like falling on the ice this morning, l sometimes fall back into old habits with you when I feel threatened, tired, cranky.  Last week, when we were putting together the steel arbor, I heard your suggestion as bossy.  I forgot to slow down the action and figure out what you were really saying. I made an ugly comment.   You were wounded, and I saw it on your face. I escalated and became uglier. You made a repair attempt. I refused to recognize your attempt. I am not attractive when I pout. Not being honest about my pinch and instead being hurtful is a habit I thought I had unlearned eighteen years ago during a remarkably vivid interchange on a trip back from the Smithsonian.  Once again, I reverted to my early caveman.  Like forgetting to watch out for slippery ice, last week I forgot to look for the source of my pinch and reverted to escalation. Evidently, the course between old and new habits is also slippery. You deserve better.  I am so sorry.  I am grateful that you view me as a worthy work in progress.   Love you more than peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

Eddie Bert