Category: Marriage Enrichment

Darling Sylvia, We are better together. We are like a hot cup of Earl Grey tea with four drops of honey better. You have helped me to learn the lost art of speaking for self. When needed, you wave your hand in the air and ask to stop the action long enough to have a couple dialogue. If it is possible, we sit down knee to knee, hand to hand, and heart to heart. In assuming the dialogue position, both of us honor the we that we cherish.

The knee-to-knee dialogue position forces me to look directly into your beautiful blue eyes and remember that the we is what both of us cherish.  The trust found in that position helps us do this marriage thing better. We have a body memory of how to behave with each other in the dialogue position. Over the years, we have had many caring and helpful conversations in this space. The knee to knee has given us a safe place through the many highs and lows that life together has brought.

Now, after years of practice using the dialogue position, I can acknowledge that I have feelings that at one time I did not know existed. Mad, sad and glad were once the only words in my feelings vocabulary. With your help, that list  has expanded exponentially; go figure. Using I messages keeps me honest and encourages me to bring to the dialogue what I want with a clear responsibility to honor the we. We are better together.

Roses are red and violets are blue, Angels in heaven know I love you.

Eddie Bert

Darling Sylvia, I was shocked. The electrical impulse jumped from the garden fence through my elbow to the wet ground below. I blinked, dismissed it, and once again touched my elbow to the fence. This time my whole body flinched. It is a good thing I have a Ph. D., or I would have felt silly. I had unlatched the gate without touching the wires and neglected to turn off the electric fence. A month later, my pacemaker readout confirmed that on April 27 at 10:17, I had two heart episodes, 6 seconds apart. My heart rate hit 86 and, with the second jolt, jumped to 286 beats per minute. Shocked.

The fence shocked me, but you shock (astonish) me more often than I like to admit. You keep learning new stuff.  I am in awe of the way you organize our social media connections with family, friends, and our growing farmers’ market community. You have always been a good finder, but you only get better at finding things like my glasses, truck keys, kids’ shoes, etc. etc. I have known grandkids to call you long distance to be walked through where they might find their glasses. I am shocked and sometimes dismayed at the rapidity with which you can fact check my b.s. on Google.

After 53 years of marriage, I am still discovering who you are. I knew who you were, but you keep changing, becoming someone new and even more exciting. I am shocked when I realize that I am 75 years old, and you still make my saliva flow. I am shocked that you are still interested in me. I am shocked that you still have the expectation that I can become a better man. You and God are not finished with me yet. I am shocked and delighted that our love is becoming even stronger.

Love you. Eddie B.

Who was I?/ Who were you?/Who were we?

What expectations do I/you/we have for our future?

Dear Eddie, I often catch myself asking, “What kind of man is this?” Sometimes, I am laughing. Sometimes, I am exclaiming. Sometimes, I am wondering, in a really holy sense. Always, I am appreciating, even if I don’t say it at the moment.

What kind of man asks, “What are the growing edges of our marriage?” We are coming up on our 53rd anniversary, and you are still asking. And, when we have the conversations, you and I listen and set goals and try to grow, and you call us back to accountability to the goals we set. You ask.

What kind of man chases his wife at 75? You comment, “You have a waist!” “I like your butt when you (fill in the blank) open the stove drawer… bend over the dishwasher.” What kind of 75 year old man gets tickled rubbing in Aspercreme and catches himself drooling? You chase me.

What kind of man is that generous? You have always been a “touch” for panhandlers, but you really do have a huge heart. You are a big tipper remembering that “we have family in the restaurant industry.” You love to give balloons to the children who come to our farmers’ market flower stall. And, most notoriously, you regularly fuss that it is your turn for the $60 cut of the $100 ATM stop, but, I just turn around, and there you are paying forward for some little family in a restaurant, especially if they have that certain mix of kids just like ours. If the young dad catches us in the parking lot to protest, you bless him and his family and send him packing.  You give.

What kind of man never hesitates to say I love you? Your most common question is, “Have I told you in the last 20 minutes that I love you?” You tell me.

What kind of man insists there be time for the two of us? You insist.

What kind of man does all of these perhaps crazy things?  My kind of Man.

Thank you, precious,

Love, Sylvia

Still waters run deep. This 75-year-old ex-professor taught limnology too many times. When I failed to respond, you repeated top to bottom the information that the orchids in the kitchen were wilting and needed to be returned to the greenhouse to be resuscitated.  The bronze and white orchids had been brought to you as a love gift with Precious Sylvia heart, a Better Marriages token.  You had appreciated my gesture and wanted to save the orchids from the unusual low humidity we were experiencing.  You were concerned and wanted to honor the love the orchids represented.

We are opposites, you a joy filled extrovert and me, an often grumpy old introvert.  Most of the time, the difference brings joy, but, sometimes, it is a challenge.  This time, our oppositeness was a challenge. In my mind, I agreed with the information and request you presented. In real time, you thought that I had not heard you, in part because of my recent bout of deafness caused by my spring buildup of ear wax.

You repeated your message top to bottom.  This time, the delivery was a little louder.  Then, when I didn’t respond, you believed I had something deep going on in my head or had the brass to ignore your concern.  The tone with which you delivered the third top to bottom rendition of your message sent shivers down my spine.

I heard and agreed with you completely the first time you softly gave me the message of your concern. I had failed to give you any verbal feedback.  You would have been satisfied with a sub-verbal male grunt of acknowledgement.  At the moment you started the second repetition of your concern, I had something deep going on, but it had nothing to do with you or the orchids. I was experiencing a physical need brought about by my fourth cup of morning coffee. I was sitting in the comfortable but very low kitchen chair and was having an unstable elder moment getting my butt out of the chair to make the run to the bathroom.  When I heard the third beginning of your concern for the orchids, I knew I was in trouble.

You have my solemn promise that when you message me in the future, I will make some kind of response.  I love you, and I will acknowledge your worth.  The emphasis with which you delivered the third repetition put the fear of God in Eddie Bert.  I’m sorry. My still waters were not deep; they were stupid.

Love, Eddie

Dear Eddie,

Thank you for another wonderful two-night-minimum getaway. For years, we have prioritized time away for the two of us. We have learned that it takes at least two nights away to really relax. We repeatedly put two-night-minimum on our on-going Marriage Growth Plan. We often talk about where we have been, and we talk about where to go next. There are good reasons we have those conversations. Our recent Valentine weekend at Hilton Head Island proves the point.

Our getaway gave us the chance to unplug from our usual very satisfying life, including important logistics, and experience each other in new ways. It was a full day of travel, first looping north to take our Abby to District Honor Band. Even in that long day, we enjoyed Winter woods transforming to Spring woods with red maple in bud and the first Carolina Jessamine blooms decorating the median trees. Finding the cute little hotel directly on the beach, we were immediately glad we did not cancel our trip when our Better Marriages of Georgia event was once more postponed in Covid world. It would have been so easy to just stay put at home. We were rewarded with a gorgeous sunset crowning our first evening beach walk. After supper, we crashed, sleeping twelve hours. Next morning, we met each other ready to organize our next few days in whatever way we chose,

Organizing ourselves in a totally new getaway place demanded talking with each other. Where were we anyway? What did we want to do, now, today? Maps, walks, exploring options, finding fun and appropriate food, if/then conversations. You are a lot of fun. I love new places with you. Boring—not a bit. It’s kind of a kick to find I can still push your comfortable edges, and you even say you like it after some initial growling. 53 years plus, and you are not bored either. That is good.

New getaway experiences reminded us of other places and times in our lives. Any beach makes us harken back to Galveston, Clearwater, Daytona. Dogs on beaches reminded us of Sparky and Buster. Some couples reminded us of early “just we two” times and places. Couples with one child in a stroller and other couples with “the perfect family,” for us one girl just older by a tad than a little brother, made us smile. Ibis in a marsh and pelicans on a wharf reminded us of many birding adventures. And, as for your comfort zone, having a relatively mild time, as in no driving in Florence, nor bandits at the Puerto Rican waterfall, nor gypsies on a Granadan hillside made for giggles about past experiences. New experiences mixed with memories made our connection glisten.

Difference from our usual, finding our way together in new places, and re-experiencing our life together. Promise me we will plan another getaway soon. I love you, Valentine!

Sylvia

Dearest Sylvia:

As we were taking down the tree this morning, I was reminded of Tevye, the Papa in Fiddler on the Roof. He was frustrated with the changes in tradition. I don’t have to worry about that problem because you will see that we “do it right.” I love the way our Christmases have evolved from the family traditions of our families of origin and include elements we have chosen together over the years. Today, we take down the tree now not-so-fresh tree, and sweep up needles because Robertsons grew trees and made wreaths and roping. We have four dwindling poinsettias dropping bracts because Robertsons decorated Michelsen Memorial and St. Mary’s every Christmas. The Dad Rutledge yule log has burned yet another dozen red candles to nubs after its sixty-somethingth Christmas. The ornaments remind us of our children and grandchildren and of many family adventures, from seals to armadillos. Decorations go to the attic, but Christmas stays in our hearts. At this house, Christmas is a season not a day.  We have a certain way of doing things, traditions, and I better not cross Grandma Sylvia if I know what’s good for me; and I do know what is good for me.

There is a traditional pace at which we choose to celebrate the season. You see that we don’t begin decorating until after Thanksgiving. We decorate gradually, and we take down gradually. The tree never comes down until after New Years and the lights not until Charity’s birthday, February 2. The wreath blesses the porch until Valentine’s Day. The “botanically correct” Christmas dishes wear roses and holly until then, too.

We have the tradition of observing family rituals during this season. We have learned to keep the important elements and flex to changes in family needs. We celebrate Advent during the four weeks preceding Christmas. It may not be on Sunday, but when we can gather for a supper or dessert, we light candles, sing, laugh and love. I purr when the seventeen-year-old granddaughter says, “I’m so glad we have this tradition.”  We include cats, granddogs, boyfriends, and Christmas parades with our marching band kids. After candlelight on Christmas Eve, we gather friends and family for the Christmas Feast. And we are surprised by “We Three Kings” played on the bassoon. Cinnamon rolls grace the lovely chaos of Christmas morning. And the we-two quiet is precious when family departs. You and I make sure we get our twosome time in front of the fire. I love the way we celebrate this blessed season. Thank for being our keeper of the flame. I love you.

Eddie

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