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