Category: Family

The Day before Mother’s Day – 2006

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There was a funeral on Saturday. It was attended by dignitaries, police officers from across the country, a motorcade of cars miles long. In one of the black limousines sat two young children with their father. Their mother was in the hearse in front of them. She had been shot and killed in the line of duty trying to stop a madman from killing other police officers. As with all tragic deaths, hers was senseless and inexplicable. She was one of the golden ones who changed the lives of those who knew and loved her. It was a sad day and the community grieved for the family so brutally torn apart.

Sunday was Mother’s Day. I couldn’t get the thought of those young children off my mind as I sat with my family and celebrated my years of motherhood. Those children will, forever, have to take flowers to their mother’s grave to honor her on Mother’s Day. No early morning breakfast in bed, sticky kisses, home-made cards, or presents hand-made with too much glue and glitter will be handed to their Mom. There will be no flowers from the garden, whispered secrets, or silly jokes to share with her. From now on, Mommy will become more and more of a memory and less real by the day. The grief will follow them for a long time, and then be pushed into the back of their minds as the move on into adulthood and life.

But, deep inside, that little girl will long for her mommy to help her grow into a woman and that little boy will long for her to help him understand how to be a good man. And every year, when it is Mother’s Day, they will remember the long line of cars, the speeches, the music, and the sadness on the day they lay their Mom to rest. In the blink of an eye, life changed for them, though they don’t yet know life will never be the same. They will have their Daddy, true, and he will love them with all his heart. But a Mother’s love, a Mother’s care is irreplaceable in a child’s heart and mind. They knew her very heart beat from the day of conception, and now it beats no longer. The rhythm of life is shattered beyond repair, and they will have to find a new rhythm with a heart that skips a beat where their Mother’s used to be.

I pray that she can be an eternal influence on her children. I will remember, even when I am very old, the quiet respect shown by all the bystanders as the funeral cortège slowly rolled by, and I will always remember the long black limousine where two young children sat as they followed their mother to her final resting place the day before Mother’s Day in 2006.

He cried.

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He didn’t cry when he enlisted, because he was both proud and scared. But his mother did.

He didn’t cry when he was at boot camp, worn out, and so tired he could lie down and sleep in the mud. But his buddy did.

He didn’t cry when he was sent to the war zone, he was scared and worried, but proud to serve. But his girlfriend did.

He didn’t cry when he was so miserable with the heat that he thought every last bit of liquid was sucked out of his body. But he wanted to.

He didn’t cry when he had to spend days outside the wire, sleeping in the sand, and living off MRE meals. But he did get mad and cuss a lot.

He didn’t cry when the EID blew up in front of him, he was too busy trying to save the lives of the men and women in his unit.

He cried, when he saw the rifles and boots lined up, helmets on top, representing those who didn’t make it. Then he cried, because those were heroes, brothers and sisters in arms, men and women who laid down their lives for him, and all Americans, in a miserable desert far from home. But, not for long. He had to get back to the job he was trained to do.

He cried, when the airplane carrying him home lifted off from that evil land, and he cried again when he saw his family waiting for him when he got stateside. He cried to see the girl he wanted to marry. He cried when he walked into his home after nearly two years away.

He cried when he didn’t stop having the dreams about wounded and mutilated bodies of his friends and companions.

He cried when everyone told him to just forget and get on with living.

He cried, then he pulled the trigger that ended his life.

Maybe . . .

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Friendship is important to me. I have friends from all over the world, people I have actually met, not just people on line. I miss them, and I appreciate them, even if I don’t often say so. For the most part, my friends are wonderful, and I am so happy I have them in my life, albeit, distantly.

Every now and then, however, I make a mistake and end up with one of those friends who sucks the life right out of me. They are always needy, always wanting, always talking, and always have to be the center of attention in the relationship. They make me tired, and I know if I needed help, they would never offer. However, if they need help, and I am not quick enough to help, they will use everything from guilt to anger to get even with me. I have learned, the hard way, over the years that it is better not to have friends than have someone eating into my life like that.

I realized the other day that I hadn’t spoken to another adult outside my husband, Crystal, or Drew in weeks. (Making a doctor’s appointment doesn’t count.) Since moving to Mississippi, I have really gone out of my way to not to get to know people – women especially. I should be lonely, but I’m not. I should be feeling left out, but I don’t. I should feel isolated, but it hasn’t happened. And that makes me wonder why.

Maybe it is my age, I am comfortable with me, as I am, as long as I have access to books, computers, music, and my family. I keep up with my friends via social media, and letters, so I don’t feel lonely.

Maybe it is because I am too tired to make an effort to get to know people. When I think about it, I just can’t be bothered to go through all that social yada yada and make nice to strangers. I guess I want that feeling of instant recognition I had with those who are my dearest friends.

Maybe it is because people annoy me most of the time, and I am turning into the crabby cat lady that seems to live in every neighborhood. Because, I honestly think my pets need me more than most humans over the age of 16 need me.

Maybe it is because I don’t want to be friends with people who bore me, or worse, who are shallow and unsubstantial in their beliefs, actions, and thoughts. Heaven save me from women who shop, lunch, shop, do spa days, shop . . . I would go stark raving mad after one day with someone like that.

Maybe it is because I have the neighbors from hell with whom I have issues concerning their bullying behavior toward everyone else. The two of them are chummy as all get out, and try to force their idea of how things should be on everyone else.

Maybe it is because I just don’t quite trust the syrupy souther belle types, who bless my heart to my face, and treat me as gossip fodder when I am not there. Well, actually, they gossip about everyone who isn’t with them at the moment.

Or maybe, I just don’t care one way or the other. I think I should care, after all, humans tend to have that latent gene that makes them want to be part of a group. But I don’t care, and maybe that makes me a bit odd. Really, I would much rather read a book, be on line, researching, writing something, or spending time with my family that talking on the phone, chatting with people, or doing anything social. I guess I am turning in to the local crabby cat lady after all.

The Waltz – A true story from my past.

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It was a typical winters evening in Nottingham. The streets were glistening with rain, the air was cold and damp, and the walk up the hill to catch the bus seemed extraordinarily long since I had stayed late doing my daily shopping in the City Centre.
As I trudged slowly along, my ears caught the sound of someone playing old tunes on a piano. I glanced up and saw, through a large window, an elderly gentleman playing on an old upright piano in what seemed to be a recreation room in a pensioner’s home for the elderly. The walls were industrial gray green, the floors cracked brown linoleum, and the furniture the dismal Formica and plastic found in many such places.
As I stood listening to the piano player, he began to play a waltz. Suddenly, out of the shadowed corner of the room, a couple began the long sweeping steps of an old-fashioned ball-room waltz. The man was stooped with age, and the tiny, white haired woman seemed fragile in his arms. As the danced, they gazed into one another’s eyes with winsome smiles. They moved in perfect harmony, born, no doubt, of many years of dancing together.
The cold, wet evening seemed to disappear as I gazed at the dancing couple and in my mind’s eye, they were no longer elderly, but, instead, I saw a young, tall pilot in his RAF uniform dancing with a beautiful, dark haired girl with smiling eyes. A couple, obviously, in the first steps of love and passion waltzing in a crowded ballroom lit by crystal chandeliers and candle light. As he held her close in his arms, they began the steps that would lead them into a life together. One filled with love, pain, worry, and joy. As the waltz ended, he softly kissed her temple and swore he loved her.
The strains of the old piano faded and I was abruptly brought back to that rainy winter night, and the elderly couple stood in the middle of the floor as he softly kissed her temple. Hand in hand they slowly turned and walked back into the shadows of the room. The street was unexpectedly quiet without the music and the wind rushed around the corners of the buildings bringing freezing rain, but I felt warm in the glow of the light spilling from the window of the pensioner’s home and the small slice of life I had just witnessed in a waltz between a man and a woman who would love each other for eternity.

Wooley World

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Recently, I have been ill. I had a bad fall and ended up with cracked ribs and a badly sprained ankle. The doctors were kind enough to load me up with medication that stopped the pain while making it impossible for me to do anything more than hobble to the bathroom and kitchen from my perch in bed or on the sofa. When I get that loopy, the words tend to crawl around the pages of any book I want to read, so I end up staring at the television. I must say it is shocking how R rated the daytime soaps have become. I caught a quick glance while channel surfing for something worth watching. Holy cats! I didn’t know that sort of thing was allowed on regular TV!

 

 

I often woke up out of a drugged sleep in the middle of the night, and had to wait an hour or more until I could take more pain medication. I would flip through channels just to see what was on to distract myself. I have never seen so many odd things for sale in my life! And boy are the people selling the products enthusiastic about what they are offering the viewing public. Everything one could want for a kitchen, bathroom, house decorations, along with vitamins, jewelery, office organization, and get rich quick schemes blare at top decibel from the TV speakers. They even have stuff for pets ranging from keeping them flea free and well groomed, to training programs. Want to learn a foreign language? Just go on line or ring them up and they will fix you up as long as you have a credit card. Gym equipment and weight loss programs by the dozen are flogged by has been movie stars and muscle bound guys and gals to the tune of hundreds of dollars. Use their product and you will be magically thin, buff, and sexy. Doesn’t matter if you have the mug of a bull dog, you will be one of the beautiful people.

 

 

My family and friends were sympathetic about the misery I was in, but had to get on with life. So, I thought my dogs and cats would be understanding and fill in the love I needed to stop feeling sorry for myself. Dogs, while sympathetic at first, have short attention spans and forget that jumping in my lap, stepping on my foot, and expecting me to play tug of war are things that hurt me. After a bit, they wander off and take a nap, or find something to chew up. Cats, however, being the singular critters they are, have absolutely no sympathy at all. My job, after all, is to make sure their every need is met on their time schedule. The two mature cats just looked at me with disgust and went out to find their own food. The kittens, being young and silly, thought it was a great game to play chase me across, over, and around me. Not a problem until they hit my ribs and tripped me when I was using my crutches and carefully carrying a glass of milk back to the sofa. Come to think of it, they really enjoyed the spilled milk, so I think they were in cahoots with the dogs and they tripped me on purpose. The four of them had a nice snack after all.

 

 

One day it stormed, and I was shaken out of a doze by one huge half pit half lab dog trying to turn into a lap dog, the mini-pin was burrowing under the covers, and all four cats piled on the bed fighting for my lap too. Lovely, I get ignored until the sky booms and then I am the safety net? As the days wore on, the cats decided that it was cool if I was sitting still, my lap made a great place to nap. The dogs used my groggy state to sneak up on the furniture, and I think I fed them all the hot dogs by mistake, because they sure were happy to see me wobble into the kitchen on a regular basis.

 

 

I am glad that I am back on my feet. My mind is clearing, and I seem to remember that I let our 14 year old get away with stuff too. I don’t remember telling her she could wear black eye liner, but she swears I did. My husband got away with things too. I think he fed everyone mac and cheese for three days in a row, either that or the boxes grew legs and walked off. Next time I get hurt, I am going to stick with the Tylenol no matter how bad it gets. At least then I will be able to read a book, keep my brain working, and stay out of the fuzzy, woolly, world where word crawl around pages, animals laugh at me, and I don’t remember my own name.

Snow Day

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It’s snowing, again. It’s Wednesday, and that means a snow day for all the schools. In our house, there are two distinct reactions to the news that school is closed. From our eleven year old there is a whoop of delight followed by a flurry of phone calls to her girlfriends to plan the day. From me there is a sigh of resignation and a decided lack of enthusiasm. So much for my plans to actually get something accomplished for the day.

The day begins with a battle where I insist that she have her breakfast, do her basic chores, and dress in more that jeans and a t-shirt before she bales out the front door with her sled. I win. She hates me, but I win. Dressed in her warmest clothes, coat, and boots, with her chores done in a quick and sloppy manner, she flutters around the door like a moth around a light bulb, while I double check that she is wearing gloves, a hat, and watch so she knows when to check in. She grabs her sled, and disappears across the road to meet all her friends on snow hill. I head for the kitchen knowing that she will come blowing in and I have to be ready.

Sure enough, an hour or so passes before the door slams open and four giggling, soaking wet, breathless girls slide into the kitchen. Snow drips on the floor, boots thump as they are pulled off, and wet clothes leave a trail of cold water all the way to the dryer. Wrapped in warm robes, and wearing dry slippers, they stagger to the kitchen table and tear into the hot chocolate and warm bread and butter like they are starving refugees, all the while talking a mile a minute and laughing about the mishaps out on snow hill. As soon as the buzzer goes on the dryer, they dress and rush out to make the most of the day, leaving my kitchen a war zone of crumbs, dripping water, and ringing with emptiness.

It isn’t long before someone comes to the door with a cut needing a bandage, and a hug reassuring them that they are not going to die from a loss of blood. Another kid turns up looking for mine, and needing to borrow a pair of gloves, and yet another knocks on the door asking for a drink of water. As the designated stay at home Mom on the block, my house is known as the safe house, local public bathroom, and quick stop for a snack or a drink.

As lunch time rolls around, the same four girls, plus two more trail in and go through the same process, except now I play short order cook as I dole out soup and a variety of hot sandwiches and cold drinks so they can refuel for the afternoon. This time, however, they linger in their warm robes and slippers, and then they run, giggling, upstairs for a hair break. After all, at eleven, hair is very important to every girl. They primp and priss their way through half a bottle of hair spray and gel, then dress and throw snowballs at each other all the way across the road. The snow is falling faster and it is getting colder, but even more children are out on the hill, along with a few of the more intrepid parents who have toddlers and younger children. I close the door that was left open as the girls rushed out and go to clean up yet another mess in the kitchen. Then stand at the window in the living room and watch as the children race down the hill in a blur of bright colors and screams of delight.

As the light begins to fade late in the afternoon, I call my child in and send her friends home. Soon it will be too dark to see the fence at the bottom of the hill, and they will all be too frozen to walk. After much pleading and many arguments, I am, once again, on her hate list, but she comes in tossing her coat on the floor and boots under the table. She peels off her wet clothes and heads for a warm shower. When she comes downstairs, she eats her dinner in a haze of fatigue and answers all my questions with a grumpy short tempered tone. When I ask her if she is tired, she responds with a glare and stomps out of the room, deeply insulted. A few minutes later, I peek into the living room to find her curled up in a chair under her favorite blanket sound asleep.

As I turn off the television, and turn down the light, I realize that it won’t be too long before she will be grown up and snow days will no longer be a part of her life. Like most of us, she will have to go to work and not have an opportunity to play. I brush her hair out of her face and pull up the cover, then I tip toe out of the room. As I look back, I no longer feel annoyed, but grateful that for one more day I had a chance to be a part of her day. Too soon, I will be on the peripheral of her life, and days like today will be just a childhood memory for her. It doesn’t make me sad, that is simply how life is supposed to be. Perhaps, next time we have a snow day, I will be less disconcerted and more inclined to rejoice before time moves us irrevocably onward.

Pixie World (for Nick and Bella)

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There is a place far away where certain pixies live,
A place that holds all stories told to children small and big.
Within the boundaries and flower walls, the pixies dwell,
And hold within thier knowledge all the stories we can tell.

It isn’t an easy place to find,
It requires a certain kind of mind.
But there are those who know the way,
And that stories flow from that place.

How fortunate that person is who knows the secret way,
To magic places and lovely lands where children want to stay.
And listen wide eyed with wonder,
 To stories of dragons and thunder.

The story pixies smile and giggle as the children learn,
That certain stories let them take a turn,
At telling secrets, and whispering silly tales,
Of purple orangutans and polka dotted whales.

What strange and fascinating things await the traveler there,
where story pixies are eager to share,
The lovely poems and simple fairy tales,
That cause a child to laugh or wail.

In joy the pixies wait for the traveler to come,
 (a grownup must be the one),
And find the way to the story pixies who yearn,
To share what they have learned.

So children small and big every where,
Can come to visit the pixies there.

Meandering Thoughts of Autumn

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Have you ever noticed how the world seems to slow down in the fall?  After a frantic flurry of activity getting things ready for winter, everything seems to go into slow motion, as if we are trying to reserve our energy for the coming winter. It doesn’t seem to matter whether a person lives in the city with all it’s distractions, or the country with all it’s resultant chores.  It doesn’t seem to matter whether one is from the midwest, or the sunny coastline of California, we all have that innate since of season that encourages certain responses deep within.
I noticed, just yesterday, that the trees have all turned their fall colors.  From the brilliant yellow of the Sweet Gum trees, the echoing gold of the Wild Plums, to the brilliant red of the Maples and deep rust of the Scrub Oaks the autumn display was in full force.  I noticed, almost by accident from the top of the long hill just south of Meeker, that the entire valley and subsequent hillsides were covered, no longer in the greens and tans of summer, but cloaked, instead, in the hues of fall.  It made me stop, metaphorically speaking as I was driving my car at the time, and realize that another year has almost passed by and I was not prepared for it to be so.  How did the year get to fall, when I was still linked up with June?  I guess it is true, what they (who ever “they” are) say is true, “As you get older, time moves faster.”  I wonder if it has something to do with the “time-space continuum” so prevalent in all the Science Fiction novels.  It’s a thought.
Autumn has always been a special time for me.  I hate the heat of the summer, and long for the cooling breeze of the fall air to creep in at night.   I love to lie and listen to the breeze whisper through the crackling leaves on the trees in their age old battle to blow them down to make room for next year’s crop.  I like to see the wild animals, including humans, scurry about getting things in order for winter, and to see the dogs and cats come out of their summer lethargy to romp and play like puppies and kittens in the cooler air.  I feel both energized and ready to hibernate.  A strange juxtaposition of emotions, no doubt.  I am energized to batten down the hatches and get every thing done, while ready to slow down and enjoy the beauty around me. It is usually the urge to slow down that wins the battle.  I am always willing to be lazy as often as possible.
It is an art, being lazy.  One must learn to do it correctly or the world will creep in and before you know guilt and the urge to be busy will take over. Being lazy starts with the most basic of moves, sit or lie down.  From that point, begin to breath in a slow, calming manner and start looking about you from the new perspective of a sitting or reclining position.  I noted, for instance, that the spider web in the left corner of my living room ceiling was really expanding.  Now, I could have gotten up, found a broom, and knocked it down.  That, however, would have put paid to my effort to be lazy.  I, instead, simply watched a very energetic and determined spider spin away in industrious duty and let my thoughts meander on about the amazing architectural abilities of the anachroid family in general, and this spider in particular.  That is part of the art of being lazy, detaching from the temptation to do something and simply taking time to think.
Now that autumn is upon us, we should be inclined to slow down, readjust our biological clocks, and find time to be lazy.  We don’t have to get a tan, rush from activity to activity, or be as socially available as we usually are in the spring and summer. (A hang over, I believe, from when the urge to find a mate made us, as a species, much more active socially. Think on it . . .”birds do it, bees do it” etc.) In the fall, however, we can use all sorts of excuses to be lazy.  It could be raining, well, at your house anyway.  You need to get to that chore of swapping winter and summer clothes from storage to closet, never mind the fact that you didn’t do it in the spring. Oh, any number of inane excuses that would work come to mind.  Find one and check out for the  day.  Get a good book, find a spot in the sun, or curl up with a warm blanket (or person of your choice), and listen to the music that makes you comfy, or to the birds and breeze outside.  Be lazy, its good for the soul. After all, the work will still be there when you decide to be energetic again.  That is one of the concrete facts of life . . . work never goes away.
I think I will go be lazy now and let my thoughts meander on to an unknown destination. Who knows, I might think great things and discover new truths for mankind. On the other hand, I may simply watch that spider spin her web instead.  Enjoy!

In Response to this post: http://lornamurphy.wordpress.com/2012/10/04/whatmarriagemeans/comment-page-1/#comment-19

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Open marriage generally refers to both partners having multiple sexual partners while married to each other. That, I find, belittles the entire purpose of marriage. Why bother, after all, single people have loads of relationships (I use that term lightly) while searching about for the one person they can fall in love with for life.

Having been married since the age of 16, 41 years ago, I tend to see the word ‘open’ in a different light. Open means that you don’t smother each other, that you are honest with each other, that you support each other in good and bad times, and that you encorage one another to grow, learn, and become the person they are meant to be.

For instance, I didn’t go to university until I was 36 years old. But, due to my husband’s constant support, I managed to earn three degrees in five years, and was on a scholarship in Nottingham, England when our son died and I quit school to take care of his daughter. Without the encouragement, support, and outright cheerleading my husband gave me, there were times I would have simply given up. Instead, I graduated third in my class, Magna cum Laude, Mortar Board Society, and Alpha Chi Honors Society. That is an open marriage. Because, trust me, we didn’t spend all that much time together during those five years.

We have vastly different interests on many levels. An open marriage means that I don’t try to force him to change those interests because I want him to do things I like to do. Instead, I encourage him to do those things, and occasionally go along with him, and he does the same for me. We don’t have to live in each other’s pockets 24/7 to enjoy our lives together.

Most importantly, an open marriage means that we work as a team. No one is the boss, and we both work hard to keep things good between us. We talk it through, sometimes after a yelling match and a few slammed doors, but we talk it through. We also agree to disagree and some topics we avoid because we both know it will lead to endless debates and neither of us will budge in our opinion. But, we respectfully agree that as individuals, we should and can have differences of opinion, and still love each other.

The whole sex thing, well, trust me, sex isn’t the be all, end all of a good marriage. Important, yes, vital at some points in life, but the most important thing is love. Love, when he gives you a foot rub after a long day. Love, when you cook his comfort food (even if you hate it) when he is stressed out. Love, taking care of him when he gets sick, even if he is a bigger baby than your two year old. Love, when he sits through yet another three hanky girl movie even though it bores him to death. All those little things, that’s what makes a marriage work.

Marriage, An Occupational Hazard

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1971

The occupational hazards of living with someone for years are many. Among them is the ability to know that they will wear the same shirt and trousers together at least sixty percent of the time, always listen to a certain kind of music, tell a certain kind of joke, read a particular author with great enjoyment, and another for edification.  They will almost always eat the same foods, drive the same way, enjoy the same people, and want to do the same things for relaxation.  They become,  predictable, comfortable, and taken for granted.  Like an old sweater, shoes, or a favourite pair of pajamas. The occupational hazard of predictability and taking someone for granted is one of the most dangerous hazards a couple can fall into.  All of the advice givers for marriage will tell you that.  They will list a long list of reasons why and then tell you how to avoid doing it.  All that is fine  and good, but it doesn’t always apply to every couple.
For instance, I like it that you remember that I like Dr. Pepper in a glass without ice and that I tend to want to sleep on the right hand side of the bed.  You know I hate it when the cupboard doors are left open and I always need the closet doors shut at night.  I like it that you know I will love certain movies, and hate others, that I am crazy about musicals and I don’t care for mystery novels.  You know that I am equally divided between the colours red and yellow, but that anything in hunter green will please me.  You remember that I am a collector of small boxes and anything with a fox on it.  I like it that you know what art I find wonderful, and that I would want to see a certain exhibit without question when it come around.  I like it that you know I want Onion Rings with my burger if possible, not fries, and that I am particular about what goes on my burger.
You know what music I like, most of the time, and that we can dance, listen, and sing along to the same favourite songs thrills me.  I love the old sweat shirts you wear and the jeans you just can’t part with, along with your Greek fisherman’s hat.  I like it that you tell me about your computer knowledge even thought you know I don’t understand half of what you are trying to tell me.  It makes me happy when you see something on the internet, or in a book, or magazine, or newspaper that you know will interest me and take the time to make sure I see it.  I am always pleased when you remember my interests in literature and try to understand as I prose on and on about things that you have absolutely no interest in, yet you go out of your way to understand.
I like the way I never know if your are going to start dancing or singing at any given moment, and yet, you are sensitive to my need to do the same thing.  I like the way we love to go to the same places on holiday, yet never get bored because we both like to discover new and interesting things.  We even go see things that would bore the other, and take turns doing it, so we both get to see what we want and still give a gift of understanding to the other. I know you will always find our way around in  a strange city, and you know that if I drive, we rarely get lost.  I love the way you read so intently, and you tolerate the fact that my mind wanders and sometimes I don’t hear you.
There are any multitude of mundane things you do for me.  I know you will always pick up empty glasses and do the dishes if I don’t get to them first.  Not because you are making a comment on my housekeeping, but because you don’t mind helping out.  I like the way you help make the beds, and help me move the living room furniture around for the third time when you thought it was fine the way it was in the first place.  I love the way you will go with me to the grocery even though you hate to, and then end up buying all kinds of things I would never have thought to get.  I know that if we go into a computer, hardware, electronics, or bookstore, you will spend a minimum of thirty minutes just looking around and not buy a thing, except what you went in to buy.
I know all these things about you and you know all these things about me, but does that mean we have fallen into the hazard of taking one another for granted?  Are we too predictable? Maybe, sometimes.
There are the times, however, when we surprise one another with something new about ourselves.  Try something new as a couple, like dancing.  Discover a new talent, thought process, idea, ability, desire to learn something different.  We are often amazed at how alike we are and how very different.  We have been together a very long time, and I still feel that there is so much I will never know about you.  Not because you hide it, but because you haven’t discovered it yourself yet.  I feel that there is so much more to me than you know as well, and in time we will make these discoveries together.
You make me feel alive, passionate, funny, and intelligent.  I know you are the most honest of men, you have integrity, and intelligence beyond my comprehension, and that you will do anything you must to protect your family from hurt, want, or need.  You are a dedicated husband, father, friend, son, and brother.  You love those who love you with an intensity that you don’t comprehend.  And you are loved in the same manner.   Everyone looks up to you, admires you, and tries to emulate you.  I know that in your career there are few who have the abilities you possess and that you can be or do anything you wish.  I know that you are loyal, determined, and strong willed and that you are a natural leader.  I know that your colleagues are amazed at your comprehension and knowledge of the work at hand and in the future.
You are, in short, funny, loving, passionate, intelligent, gentle, romantic, determined, honest, caring, devoted, strong willed, and the man that I have loved for fourty-one years.  Do we have the occupational hazard of predictability?  Maybe, sometimes.  However, I am blessed to have you in my life and that you know me so well.  I can only hope you feel the same way.