Author: Sylvia

Dear Eddie:
You have a knack. What a funny word but the proper one. You have “an acquired or natural skill” at performing a task. You really have a knack with flowers, and you have a knack with me.

Dr. Rob’s Garden Bouquets is making regular appearances at the Waleksa Farmers’ Market. You provide a bright spot for strollers as well as for those who adopt your creations. Daily, you sweat through multiple sets of clothes weeding in the garden. Wednesdays, you cut so the flowers can “harden.” On Wednesday nights, you assemble color and filler. Zinnias, sunflowers, cosmos, and celosia are joined with mint, basil, pampas or whatever else looks pretty with them. One week, the palette is pink, another orange, another yellow.

You have a knack with flowers. You also have a knack for including me. I have never been required to sweat in the garden to have your attention. Sometimes, you like for me to sit and read in your vicinity, but, either way, flowers appear by the kitchen sink, on the mantel, in the bathrooms. I just add the “Ooo, Ahhh, Gee, Wow” factor. This summer, I am happy to be part of your market experience.

By 7:30 Thursday mornings, we are setting up the stall—the canopy, the table, the vases, the buckets of flowers. We started with two chairs, and then, one morning, you loaded the wicker lovereat instead. And that showed your knack for doing something different to connect with me. It happened to be an atypical cold, rainy August day. You cuddled me up to keep me warm and dry. We were not comfortable, but I was comforted. Now, the loveseat always goes to market, rain or shine.

Your knack for connecting with me changed an already joint experience into a romantic experience. Changing the loveseat for the chairs makes the 9 to 1 time block a long date. We get smiles from some. We are kidded by some. It is all good. We have learned that doing something different together turns up the romance. Who would have thought that something different could be a change of seating? Thank you, dearest.

Love, Sylvia

Dear Eddie, A great pleasure in my life is watching you. Over the years, cameras have repeatedly captured my rapt expression as I watch you carrying on. You could be talking to friends or students. The look on my face says, “Oh my, where is he going with this? But, ain’t he somethin’!” In the Dollar General the other day, I spoke to a former student. He asked about you, of course. He said, “Dr. Rob would start off talking like a normal person, and then the botanist would kick in, and I would not have a clue.” And, when the Dr. Rob persona kicks in, I sometimes wonder “What on Earth” And, I find you have touched a heart, eased a pain, brought a memory or a smile. I love watching you talk.

This morning at the cabin, in the cool after a long rainy night, you are asleep on the long couch. One cat is behind your knees; the other is balanced on your hip. You rolled over when I moved out of the cradle of your arms. I think of watching you piled up with grandbabies on that couch, and I remember you with our kids. I remember a baby CJ sleeping on your chest, and I remember a small Nate sleeping in your crotch with ABear and you saying you once slept like that with your dad in Walter Cronkite days. I smile, watching you sleep.

And I watch you work. Once it was rewriting lectures every summer. More recently, it is you working in the garden for hours every day since last frost. We joke about how many sets of clothes Papa sweated through today. We also have the prettiest flowers and the tastiest table imaginable. Facebook kicked up a memory of Aryn eating white raspberries out of one hand and broccoli out of the other. And you are playing with the Farm Market again this year. I adore watching you teaching Abby how to make garden bouquets with the right kind and number of stems and the fillers of mint or basil or oregano. Your mama taught you well. I love watching you work.

So, in this week which began with Father’s Day and includes our 49^th wedding anniversary, let me assure you that I am still watching you, and I am fascinated!

Love, Sylvia

Dear Eddie,  It is an invaluable gift that we learned to turn toward one another–often, daily, in joy, in fun, in trouble, in anger. Dr. John Gottman describes the turning toward behavior in his marriage research. I am more fortunate; I get to live it with you. Even though I know that I also turn toward you, I am most conscious of the many times you turn toward me. When you are reading and think something is thought provoking or funny, you tell me about it. If you find some incident with the grandchildren precious or hilarious, I hear about it. When your chicks down another feeder refill of crumbles in record time, I know it.  If you are feeling outrageous or “inappropriate,” I’m the one who gets to share. Those ways that you live your life with me are intimate and dear to me. I feel secure and cherished in those connections.

I know it is more difficult to turn back toward me if there is some distance or brokenness between us–from too much busyness, neglect, disappointment, or plain old mad. And, you do it anyway. I am so glad that you do. You may have to cool down, cogitate for a while, reframe, or find some starter words but here you are again, turning toward me—knee to knee, heart to heart—reconnecting.

I know we were taught the skill of turning toward each other. Fun stuff was easier, but turning toward was not always second nature, especially with hard emotions. We were told that deciding to deliberately turn toward or back toward each other would get us “where we wanted to be.” Now, we even like the words “turning toward.”  We get excited when we witness other couples doing the behavior, sometimes in our groups. We know that place of connection is where we can learn about ourselves and each other in safe space we have created together.

Thank you, sweet man, for every time you turn toward me.

Love, Sylvia

Darling Playmate, I have laughed often lately at how we play. We get the giggles in the kitchen. We get silly in the bathroom. We share jokes with each other that other family members would not get, should not get. We have been a thousand places together and shared thousands of experiences and laughs. When we play, we make memories together. Our memories are part of our glue. I am so glad.

It has been frigid in Georgia this winter. Too cold to play? As transplants from the northland, we know we have little about which to complain. This week, the cold brought back memories of a favorite Minnesota day in the Seventies. We were grad students with few pennies. It was a snowy Saturday, with sunshine sparkling. We took a road trip to Red Wing, south on the Mississippi. The heater in our little red Chevy II blew hard against the zero temps outside. We were totally cozy. We visited the pottery, saw the boot factory, and watched Bald Eagles fishing in the scarce open ice where the Chippewa met the big river. We had lunch somewhere, crossed into Wisconsin on one of the little bridges, and returned north via Siren, WI. You and Me.

Yesterday, we went out to play. Sandhill Cranes wintering in Tennessee called our names. The day was sunny; the high temp was 34. We bundled up and headed north. In Birchwood, we boarded an old school bus shuttle to the Hiawassee Wildlife Refuge. Thousands of beautiful birds did their thing while we admired them, held hands, and kept each other warm. We reminisced about our Sandhill times in Florida, Wisconsin, Michigan, Nebraska—Now, that was a frigid trip. I love you, Eddie Bert. Let’s go play again soon. And, let’s never stop laughing.

Love, Sylvia

Dear Eddie, change seems to be inevitable. Cornered by change? Blessed by change? Opportunities for change. Can’t get away from that word. We have just “fallen back in the fall.” In these early days of the time change, I really do not like driving in 6:00 pm pitch darkness, especially if wet, and that darkness will only get worse between now and Christmas. I also miss our grandchildren being babies. The pictures from the flip phone make me nostalgic. And I really hated feeling cornered into the decision to have the knee replacement last spring. And worse, I hated the recovery. Basically, I am hard headed and don’t give anyone authority over me easily—even change.

On the other hand, I do really like being able to see the sidewalk under my feet on our 6:50 am walk to the bus stop with our grands. That curb cut at the neighbor’s driveway is scary in the dark. I love having new adventures with the children, traveling, watching them play ball. And, I have to say that being able to walk without pain now is wonderful.

If I must deal with change, I am very lucky to have you as a partner. You listen to my rants. Sometimes, it takes me a while to realize I am not angry with you. You listen to my sadnesses, my “it’s not fairs,” and my “what ifs.” You walk along side of me. Changes for me usually mean changes for you, as well. And, perhaps most of all, I love the sense of irony and humor you bring to our process. Once in a while, you will hark back to our Canadian years and the Red Green Show. The giggles often add needed levity and perspective. The guys at The Possum Lodge always came back to the pledge: “I’m a man, but I can change, if I have to, I guess.” I can change if I have to, if I should, or if I want to. Thanks for being my companion in all of it! I find you both handsome and handy, by the way. Happy Thanksgiving, dear one.      Love, Sylvia

Dear Eddie: There are so many things in my life that are taken for granted. At the northern end of what became Tropical Storm Irma, we had it easy, especially given what Texas and Florida family and friends experienced. In our area, wind, trees and transformers did not mix well. The Freeman’s ancient oak flipped out of the ground and across the highway, taking out a pole with banks of wires—Bam–no power, no gas and no direct way out of town for three days. I couldn’t count the number of times I flipped a light switch to no avail. Dark house, dark refrigerator, dark bathroom, dark stairs, dark walk to the bus when school resumed. Power, access, gas – all taken for granted.

I flipped the switch at some point, and my heart cried out, “Please don’t let me take Eddie for granted.” Being married with you includes being reliable and counting on each other, yet, I never want to lose the sense of thankfulness and wonder I have for you. You make you and me a priority. You look out for me and our family in your own Eddie-perfect ways with at home breakfasts (“better than at Grandparents’ Breakfast at school”), suppers in the treehouse, veggies from the garden, lots of hugs and wrestling, and a million signature songs. “I love you a bushel and a peck,” and I never want you to feel taken for granted.

Love, Sylvia

Dear Eddie,

everybody needs community. In family memory, this will always be the summer of Buzz, the Turkey Vulture who joined the family at the lake in Michigan. He might have been attracted by the fish cleaning station; vultures are known for their noses after all, but he appeared on the deck railing one morning. He was neither shy nor aggressive with people or cats.  Buzz would come down to the house most mornings. He did make a pretty big rustle in the bushes and did startle me if I stepped out the door without first thinking about him.He and the cats would greet each other. If he needed to pass by, he would detour in a three-foot loop around them with no apparent hurry. One day, the guys killed a Blue Jay, and Buzz showed up for lunch. As we learned, Buzz had a lame wing and could loft off a perch for short bursts, but he could not lift to fly. Sadly, no soaring on the thermals with his family, but he found us– a multi-species flock.

You and I had several conversations about flocks, about how flocks are comprised and the safety they provide for their members. That led to conversations about our flocks, our several communities. For many years, we have organized our living into our couple, our family, our faith community, and our marriage enrichment community.

In the beginning, we were invited into a marriage enrichment group. Later, whenever we moved, and we did that a lot, we learned to actively seek out community to support us in our marriage journey. There have been different couples at different times. In sharing their experiences with us, they increased our awareness of blessings and never left us desperately alone with our challenges. Early learning about living married, challenges with jobs and security, staying connected while raising children, loving our parents through their lifetimes, parenting adult children, staying connected as we have grown older—we have done none of these in isolation.

I thank you from the bottom of my heart for being the kind of man who is open to listening to my feelings and experiences and to cross-learning from the experiences of other couples. Thank you for being open to working with me to make our marriage better through the years. I love you.   Sylvia

Darling Eddie, Honeymoons are on my mind. Forty-eight years ago this evening, you and I headed out together. We stayed in our Grayling apartment, left pansies on our dining table, worshiped in the family pew, and took off on the first of many honeymoons.  Across the UP we went, stopping at The Mystery Spot at St. Ignace and a motel in Engadine. I remember HEE HAW on a fuzzy television and the radio repeatedly proclaiming the summer’s anthem “Come On, Let’s Do It in the Road.” We had three days to get to Minneapolis, find a place to live in September, and return to work. And, we were away and alone together.

In all the years hence, we have reminded ourselves of the necessity of time away together. When we wrote our Marriage Growth Plan for the year, we promised each other two consecutive nights away alone every quarter. And, we were gifted last month with two whole weeks at our Michigan cabin.

It was a terrific honeymoon. You mowed the grass so my ankles would not get chiggers. We did a few spring chores, but, mostly, we chilled together. Lots of cuddling by the fire, sleeping late if we wanted to, reading multiple “trash novels” from our local church rummage sale, cooking for two, and hanging out in the hammock. We began the summer’s twosome Scrabble tournament. We day tripped to Ontario and froze as Lake Huron impressively blew and crashed. And, to crown it all, the temperatures rose high enough to dare each other into the lake, not once, but twice. Once through the cold shock, the water was like silk on our skin, and you said, “The best part of swimming with you is the kissing.” The person who invented swim noodles is a genius.

Let’s never forget the magic of twosome time away from our normal routine. We aren’t bored at home, but away is a tonic for our twosome.

I love you. Here’s to many more wonderful honeymoons. Happy Anniversary to you, my personal Jack Pine Stump Jumper!       Love, Sylvia

Dear Eddie, I am “the perfect age.” Thank you for being my partner.  I felt you cringe under my right elbow when my orthopedist’s Physician’s Assistant, surely no older than twelve, gushed, “Oh, seventy, you are the perfect age. The life on these new knees is 25-30 years.”  Yep, that translates to “the knee will outlast you, old lady.” Oh, I like these blunt science kids; you taught  so many over the years. But, admittedly, my sense of humor has been a little ragged the last few weeks.

Deciding to replace the troublesome knee, that has limited my mobility and our walking together for way too long, was one of those pain in the neck, or pain in the knee, adult decisions made with the head and not with the heart. And, people are right; for the first few weeks, I have been convinced it was the dumbest thing I have ever done. I may be on the edge of seeing the good to come. Maybe my sense of humor will recover.

Caring friends gifted us with Lucy and Charlie Brown, (with strings attached). The punch line inside the card is from I Peter 1:6 as presented in The Message: “You have to put up with every kind of aggravation in the meantime.” If that ain’t the truth? And, then the words, “Just letting you know I care, no strings attached.”

You, my dear husband, are showing wonderful care for me, in spite of our individual and couple aggravations. We talk about our Love Languages, ala Dr. Gary Chapman. Surely, in these weeks, my need for Acts of Service has been paramount. Thank you for every pillow shifted, ice contraption refilled, cold drink proffered. Thank you for all the company to Physical Therapy, grocery store trips made, stairs climbed, and kid errands completed. I caught myself responding with gratefulness when I heard the sounds of you emptying the dish washer drifting from the kitchen. And, thank you for your body comfort wrapped around this wincing person. We are so used to being a team, and my perfect age part of the team has been laid low. I love you, darling Eddie.

Listen to Me, Eddie Bert! Darling Sylvia, Listen to me, Eddie Bert! How many times over the last fifty-two years have you made that simple request. Listening has never been my strong suit. I should know better. The Good Lord gave me two ears, two eyes, two hands, two knees, and two hearts (yes, we really have two hearts – one that pumps to the lungs and a second that pumps blood from the lungs to the rest of the body (Leo De Vinci).

The mouth is a solitary organ. Any idiot knows that a husband needs to listen more and talk less. Listening has always been difficult for me. First, I need to take the time. The job, yard, garden, greenhouse, Lions football game, our kids (Charity Jean and Nathan), our grands (Abby, Archer and Aryn), our cats (Peter and Sammy), my hunger, my energy level, my needs are important to me. If I listen to you, I’ll have to stop what I am doing.  You know by now how easily distracted I can be.

Oh, all right. I’ll admit that when you say Listen to me, Eddie Bert, I get a little scared. The we that is our relationship is the pearl beyond price in my life. Listen to me, Eddie Bert!  I sit down facing you, put my knees outside of yours (it keeps me from running away), take both of your hands in mine, check for hives to see if I am in big trouble, then I look into your eyes and listen to you, not only with my two ears but with my two hearts.

What are your feelings? What is on your heart?  How can I make a difference?  You are important enough for me to listen to you..  The We of Us rules my world.

Loving you, Eddie Bert