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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

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 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 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

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

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

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

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

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