Author: Eddie

Darling Sylvia,  Our marriage, like my football,  is a participatory sport.    Neither is a game for the timid.  There can be no half way measures. In our marriage, we wholeheartedly participate. Our marriage  is a participatory sport. No watching from the stadium seats is tolerated.

Last Saturday’s 50^th reunion of Alma College’s 1967-68 Conference Championship Teams was a sight to behold.  Twenty-five of the forty members attended.  They were very pleased to see that teammates were still vertical.  Their memories of events 50 years ago were more vivid than what had happened the previous week.  Some of the stories were even true.

During the drive home to Georgia, I kept thinking of what had been told.  It’s amazing that I came up with the notion that what I learned as a member of the squad is used every day in our marriage.  The first issue was commitment.  I was all in for the team.  Commitment to our marriage is not half way.  Being a member of a team or marriage means that it is more important than self.  Sometimes you lead and sometimes you follow.

In our marriage, I need to speak for self and listen for understanding.   In Robby’s Raiders, the kickoff team, we knew the rules and stayed in our own lanes.  On the defensive team, I needed to know where Dillingham, Shrope, Roger, and Zinns were at all times.  Their chatter told me where they were and what they were going to do.  As a couple, we have had to learn skills and unlearn habits in order to keep our messages clear.  We have learned to trust each other’s intent and actions.

In football, we practiced our actions until they were automatic.  Practice did not make us perfect, but it did make us better. In marriage, the practicing of speaking and listening skills is fundamental. We never lose the need to practice both.  Practice is hard work, but it does make us better.

On a brisk fall football Saturday in 1969, I saw your tears. You were looking out of the window of the laundry across the street from the University of Minnesota Golden Gopher Stadium.  They were playing Michigan State, and the crowds were gathering.  You asked, “Don’t you ever want to go to the game?”  Not for the first or last time you mystified me.  I replied, “No, football for me was a participatory sport. I was on the field or on the bench but never in the stands.”   After all these years, I am so glad that you have made our marriage a participatory sport.  You have never allowed me to move to the stands.

Love, Eddie Bert

Darling Sylvia, Living in the moment and intentionally putting ourselves in position where miracles can happen are skills that we have honed together.  They are gifts you gave me that keep on giving.   Forrest Gump said, “Life is like a box of chocolates.” It has been a summer of sweet surprises, but when you returned from 8^th grade open house last night, I knew any lazy, hazy days of summer were over.

For real, our days this summer have been anything but lazy. With your guidance, we put ourselves in position to make memories with our three grandchildren.  We have intentionally invested in our grands and in we two.  Our time at the lake was lived fully in the moment and will be remembered to tell and retell.  We watched our boy’s canoe being hauled across the lake by his first big  large mouthed bass.  We stood in awe when he cleaned the bass and discovered the blue gill in its stomach.  We baked silver turtle pocket meals in the fire pit and feasted.  We celebrated that this year our baby could swim like a muskrat. She and her brother played freighters and tugboats instead of battleships, and big sister sang the score of Hamilton while treading water just for the heck of it.  We caravaned to Attica for ice cream at the Chilly Cow accompanied by the harmony of silly bus stop songs.

And then, there was Greenfield Village. In 1957, you went to a Girl Scout overnight there. While courting in 1967, you took me, and you gave me Luther Burbank’s Garden Cottage library list one Christmas.   As young parents, we visited with our children and your mother. This year, we once again went to the roundhouse and rode the train with its steam locomotive belching smoke. Afterwards, I watched Big Sis pick cinders out of your hair and wipe a sooty moustache off Little Sis’s face. Like the Grinch my heart doubled in size.  I rode in the back of a 1928 Model T and listened as Mr. Mechanic in the front seat with the driver asked questions about H frames. We rode the hundred-year-old carousel.   I listened to our kids, who know everything from books and television, rave about our visit to the Wright Brothers’ Bicycle Shop and Edison’s Menlo Park Lab. Greenfield Village became part of who they are.  In our sharing, we are connected in our experiences. You put us all in position to link past, present and future.

At five-thirty this morning, while letting out Peter the cat, I discovered the light from the red moon was so bright that I could see my moon shadow on the deck.  This summer, our moon shadows became part of our grands. I hope they will have those gifts for as long as they live.

Love you, Eddie Bert

Dear Sylvia: I had been proactive and given Charity my old tux to be refitted.  You asked me if I had spoken to her about it. I saw the words shoot out of my mouth.  I was not incompetent.  I was not stupid. I had taken charge. I was proud of myself. My reply was hot and mean.  I meant to hurt you, and I did.

In response to my anger, you calmly walked out of the closet with my old tux in hand.  I had sent my new suit to Atlanta. It was apparent that this Grayling boy did not know the difference between a tux and a suit.

Last July, I inadvertently mixed up my Round-Up and Malathion sprayers.  I proceeded to spray my prize roses, hollyhock and Althea with herbicide.  I realized my mistake too late.  Three weeks later, you commented on how the Althea flowers were deformed.  I was forced to give up my pride and admit what a dumb thing I had done and how stupid I felt. After all, Forrest Gump stated that stupid is as stupid does, didn’t he? With nine years of university training in botany, I had made a fundamental mistake.  I failed to read the sprayer label.

Once again, in the case of the tux, I resorted to the old habit of defending my mistakes when I feel stupid. It would have been one thing not to admit my mistake, but I went on to attack with intent to hurt. True to Mom’s dictum, my pride preceded my fall.

In my seventies, I still really do want to be a better man than I was in my twenties. I wish I could unlearn old habits more quickly. You deescalated the tux conversation by not responding in kind. Thank you. We decided that “stupid” is most often a feeling; well, most often. Will you please continue to help me to more quickly admit when I am wrong and to ask forgiveness if I hurt you? I still want to unlearn old habits and to learn new ones that allow me to show you better how much I love you.

Love you – Eddie Bert

Darling Sylvia,   Bluebonnets, Mariposa Lilies, Indian Paintbrush and Starry-Eyed Grass welcomed us back to a Texas spring.  We had made a mistake in our flight plans and found ourselves at Love Field rather than DFW.  As we exited Love in our economy rental car, we were dumped onto Mockingbird Lane.  The familiar name of the road triggered two very different sets of memories.

I thought of being fired at Mobil. Dallas was 41 years ago, and the events of the summer of 1977 traumatized our early years.  The gritty gray industrial flavor of Mockingbird Lane brought back my memories of my failure and the guilt of losing a job that put my young family at risk.

You, on the other hand, thought of our home on Willow Crest Lane.  It was where you nursed and weaned our Nate.  It was a beautiful house and a hopeful time in our life.  We were making a lovely home.  Your dad had given his seal of approval.  He wrote to you that I had said we would be back in the States by Christmas, and we were.  He could trust that I was a man of action and could care for you. We bought the house in the springtime.

We used the Navigator to find our home.  The house and yard were smaller than they were in 1977.  We had to sell seven months after buying.  I had been fired, lost a home, and made the future scary.  In our need, we reached out for help to Charlie Standifer,  our Methodist pastor.  He patiently listened to our pain and then calmed us by telling us the truth,  “Listen guys. It sounds like you both love the Lord, each other, your children and have between you five college degrees. You just need a job.” 

At Baylor, we met with our Better Marriages family.  Among the conference attendees were young Masters Degree Social Work Students. They were pretty babies with so much to learn about life ahead of them.  Reflected in their faces were the kids we once were.  In my mind, our pair was as vivid as the bluebonnets.

We had our dialogue, and we forgave the kids we were for the mistakes we made and the ways we hurt each other so long ago.Thank you for forgiving the child I was, and for helping me become the man I am today.

Love you – Eddie Bert

Darling Sylvia, We were friends that became lovers. It all started when we were assigned as lab partners in Dr. Potter’s Bonehead Chemistry Lab.  You were bright, hot, and safe. I was with ‘her,’ you were with ‘him.’ We could be flirty friends. Winter Bust Out in Tyler Auditorium occurred. ‘She’ was at home. You were leaning against the stage.  “Why, hello there, sweet young thing.  Do you want to dance? “

“Goodbye for the summer.” Another fall football season and “have a nice life, Joanna.“  “Hello there, Sylvia. How about a hayride and a movie?” “You don’t kiss on a first date? Well I DO.”  At Christmas, it was time to get rid of Mitch! “Make a choice–him or me?”  I gave you a Christmas gift as a token of my feelings. What was I thinking? You came back with the Tiger Eye necklace around your neck and a smile that clearly told me that it was me.  What had I done? We were very special friends; why would I ruin that? In spite of the risks, we were friends that became lovers.

I knew you were bright, but suddenly I realized you were also drop dead gorgeous.  Your eyes, your smile, were no longer niceties but had become necessities.  Becoming lovers was the last thing I wanted.  How could I run away from my best friend? I did not run away and was surprised to learn that I did not want to escape. On the way back from Dr. Kapp’s spring field trip to canoe the Manistee, you met Mom.   Another summer with lots of letters (no texts or Skype). Meeting you with your family at Wert’s Lone Pine Restaurant was a surprise.  A private kiss out of your brothers’ view sealed the deal.

You take risks with real friends. You become truthful. You share your soul.  Your soul is beautiful, and you loved me more than I loved me.  I could no longer be the best me without you at my side. Best friends became lovers. In June of 1969, we became husband and wife.  As we grew together, we added trust and forgiveness to our repertoire. This June, we will have been lovers and friends through 49 years.  You have graced my life.  I do not know what the next years will bring, but I do know that we will only become better together. Our marriage is an ascending staircase, and it grows more intimate every step of our way.

I am so very grateful to Dr. Potter for the Fundamentals of Chemistry. That class changed the path of my life forever.

Love you, Eddie Bert

Darling Sylvia, No earbuds were in my ears.  I was a half a mile into my daily walk and realized that I had left my ipod behind.  I admit that I resent exercise.  I was livid when my skinny, anorexic cardiologist Doctor Battey poked my bulging Robertson belly and told me to lose it or get diabetes.

Without earbuds, I was aware there were sounds around me.  I heard elm leaves skittering across the dry concrete driveway in front of me.  Each serrated tip along the margin of the leaves created a low keyed pleasant sound. I heard leaves, felt the moist chill of the morning air on my bare arms, and smelled late fall and the earth around the recently planted pansies.   I need to leave my ipod behind more often.

I actually was aware enough to acknowledge the courtesy shown me by the hooded landscape worker blowing the leaves off the Cardiac Clinic’s parking lot. I was glad to be alive and without earbuds to filter out the present.

I thought about what a gift in my life you are. I delight, after all this time, to be in the moment with you. I do not tire of checking out your profile.  You have a way of smiling at me when we meet that brings sunshine into my life.  I love to look straight into your eyes and hear your concerns, hopes and dreams.  Your voice can be so soft that I feel the need to lean forward and touch your hands when you speak.

Too often, I forget to lose the earbuds.  I am on automatic and fail to savor the moment with you.  Time is fleeting; the present is becoming more and more precious.  I love my life with you.  Without earbuds, I can be more in your presence, in the moment with you.

Love You – Eddie Bert

Darling Sylvia – I love we two moments. Hidden in the weeds beside the Polly Ann Trail, we spotted bottled gentians (Gentiana andrewsii) and turtleheads (Chelone glabra). The delicate blue gentian and the creamy pink tinged white turtlehead ten feet away were exquisite. The flowers became the signposts of a precious moment we two shared.  We were hand in hand in the mild fall “Pure Michigan” morning. I shared a story of my dad selling a bottled gentian for two dollars to Hubbardston’s Dr. Gibbe in 1929 for his wildflower garden. It was a story of Dad that in our 50 years together you had not heard.  We learned the botanical names in 1968 at Alma College. We were both grateful that Dr. Kapp took the time in Vascular Plant Taxonomy to give us a shared language of flowers.

Shared memories of special moments fill the landscape of our life together. We say to each other, “This deserves to be a memory.”  We want to keep this experience. How do we capture the magic of we two time?  We have learned to take the time to intentionally stop, look, listen and celebrate.  We sense the colors, see the shadows in the sunshine, hear the rustle of aspen leaves in the gentle breeze, feel the texture of the air, and smell the odors of the season. Together we give the experience a name.

 Our day to day living is busy. It’s a good busy. We gladly interact with our family and our world. Sometimes, we forget to notice the we two moments.  Precious and too few are the moments we two can share. I am glad that when those we two moments occur we have learned to recognize them.  We save the memories and savor them together over and over again.

Love you – Eddie Bert

Dearest Sylvia, My pacemaker is a small device placed in my chest that uses electrical impulses to keep my heartbeat going. I received my Medtronic pacemaker eleven years ago when my heart stopped, a cardiac syncopy in a Kentucky rest area on the way to our Michigan lake cabin.  The stopping of my heart made me black out, a condition undesirable for driving the I-75 corridor north. My pacemaker has made a profound difference in the quality of my life.  It keeps my heart from dropping below a beat per second. I sleep well at night.  My breathing never stops, and I have energy for living and loving in the now.

This morning at my checkup, I discovered that it is time to replace my device.  Its battery, unlike that bunny with the drum, is giving out.  Next Tuesday, I will travel to Atlanta for a replacement, a newer model with more bells and whistles, one that will last me into my early nineties.

You, darling bride of my youth, are my real pacemaker.  In the last fifty plus years, you have captured the electrical system of my heart.  You keep me honest, grounded in body, mind and spirit.  You lift me up when I am down and bring me down gently when I fly too close to the sun.  You believe in me and love me even when that love is deemed crazy by others. I don’t deserve your love, but breathe it in like the oxygen that keeps me alive.

You have access to my heart and, unlike the mechanical device, you do not need an upgrade.  You are flesh of my flesh and spirit of my spirit.  I can never express the joy and comfort that you bring to my existence. You are my personal pacemaker with a lifetime warranty.

Love you – Eddie Bert

Darling Sylvia, you are my only one. Beefsteak tomatoes 3 inches across, cut 3/8 of an inch thick, sandwiched  between leaves of curly red basil, topped with 2 strips of bacon on whole wheat bread slathered with mayonnaise, cucumbers in sour cream, sweet green (Big Bertha) peppers filled with sausage and rice, zucchini nuked in the microwave and topped with sour cream, bacon bits and salsa for lunch,–these are the scents and savory flavors of a mellow summer. Our children are safe. The grands are thriving. The other night, they wrote their names with glowing sparklers against a star filled sky. Fireflies in the backyard oaks blinked out the message – “Is there an unknown only one in the vicinity?”  Sylvia, we are in quiet waters in between life’s inevitable storms.  I am soaking up the peacefulness of the now.

Last week at Chamber House, I found the right bracelet to celebrate our 48^th anniversary. Getting the right gift to express how precious you are is a daunting task for me.  Your smile when you opened the box was my reward.  Your response was a lot more pleasant than your response to the box of my favorite chocolates after we started Weight Watchers.  You are one fine looking grandma.

In two weeks, we will both be seventy.  I never imagined that our seventies would be so good.  We have tickets tomorrow for the Rome Braves.  We will hold hands and watch this year’s 4^th of July fireworks.  I am so glad that 52 years ago I got fresh with you in Dr. Potter’s bonehead chemistry lab.  You were, and are, too much for this Grayling boy to resist. Like the fireflies in the backyard, I blinked, but I got lucky and found my only one.

I love you Grandma – Eddie Bert

Darling Sylvia, if it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well.  It’s early morning.  You are a slug a bug in bed.  Last night you couldn’t sleep.  I’ve just spent two glorious hours in the garden.  I fertilized the blueberries.  The Vigoro “Beautiful Gardens Since 1924” label on the fertilizer bag triggered thoughts of Dad.  If you do something, son, do it well.  Have some pride.  If it is worth doing, do it well.  I was guilty of leaving the Vigoro in the bag all winter.  Dad’s rules for life paralleled his rules for his garden. Fertilizer was not left in the shed all winter; it was spread in the fall.  A sprayer half full of Malathion was to be used.  It killed no bugs sitting in the shed.  The plants in the garden were to be tilled; otherwise, they would be smothered out by weeds.  A garden not watered dries up.  If you have a garden, son, tend it or don’t do it at all.

What I am talking about, of course, is our marriage.  Our marriage is our life’s garden.  Words of love not said, acts of love not completed, and the investment of time and energy not taken do not grow our marriage.  I want to grow our marriage. It’s worth doing well.

I love you because of who you are and the grace you bring into my life.  Since that moment at Lumberjack Park in 1968, when you said yes, I have known that you think I can become a better person than I think I can.  I love you because you always have my back.  Of course, your sleepy almost seventy-year-old body turns on my seventy-year-old body as much as it did when it was nineteen. You are beautiful when you sleep.

Love Eddie Bert, aka Garden Boy