Back Road Ramblings

by Donna Poole

A dozen hardboiled eggs, a pound of cooked elbow macaroni, whatever sweet pickle relish is left in the jar, as many sliced green olives as you can find in the fridge, a can or two of tuna, a few shakes of onion powder, a couple of scoops of Miracle Whip and mayo, and a good squirt of mustard.

There you have it. The macaroni salad John and I threw together. I forgot to mention we peeled the eggs before we added them to the salad.

John would rather I forgot the eggs altogether, and I really wish we didn’t have to add the gag-a-maggot tuna!

I was vigorously stirring the macaroni in the colander to get the last drops of water out when two noodles flew into the sink.

“Well, there you go,” I said to John. “Now the salad is like me. Two noodles shy of a full box.”

He laughed.

“Do you still love me even if I am two noodles shy of a full box?”

He assured me of his love. John would love anyone who would put tuna in his macaroni salad.

“How many noodles shy can I be and still have your love?”

He gave the ridiculous question about as much thought as it deserved. “You,” he declared, “may be four noodles shy of a full salad, and I will still love you.”

I’ve been to a neuropsychologist for testing a few times; if they send me again, I’ll be sure to ask him how to tell if I’m three noodles shy, so I’ll know when I’m pushing my limits with John. On second thought, I won’t ask him. That man has no sense of humor.

My neurologist sent me to him for testing after a stroke, craniotomy, and multiple seizures affected my brain. Don’t ask me how they affected it; I can’t remember. Kidding. They combined to give me what the neuropsychologist called mild cognitive dysfunction. I think basically that means I get to forget whatever I don’t want to remember, and no one can blame me for it.

I say the doctor has no sense of humor because on my first visit with him I told him a joke. He looked at me unsmiling with wide, fixed eyes.

“It was a joke,” I said, rather lamely.

“Oh,” he replied. Not even a hint of a smile.

I got the sense we weren’t going to be the best of friends.

I wish I could remember the joke I told him. Maybe it was this one. I went to a psychiatrist, and he told me I was crazy, so I told him I wanted a second opinion.

“Okay,” he said, “you’re ugly too.”

It wasn’t that joke. But I honestly can’t remember the one it was. And forgetting that joke bothers me more than not being able to recite Psalm 1 anymore.

See what I mean? A couple noodles shy of a full box.

I had a full box when John married me. Not to brag, but hey, why not? The Apostle Paul bragged, so I guess it’s biblical. I’ll get to my bragging. I used to be queen of multitasking. I never forgot anything. I had so much energy the Energizer Bunny came to me by night for secret lessons before he made his first commercial.

But life has a way of changing things and people. When John married me, I didn’t have gray hair either. I didn’t have cancer and didn’t need to go to the University of Michigan Hospital for treatments more than I go to church. I certainly didn’t need help making a simple macaroni salad.

But, like the Paul said—he wrote some good stuff when he wasn’t bragging—or rather, God wrote it through him: “Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends.” –I Corinthians 13:7-8

Love eats hardboiled eggs in macaroni salad.

Love eats tuna in macaroni salad.

Why, you may wonder, don’t we each make our own salad? John could have his without eggs; I could have mine without tuna. That, my friend, is a logical question.

I give to you an illogical answer: “Because. Then it wouldn’t be our salad.” We’ve grown to like it just like it is, even when it’s two noodles shy of a full box.

by Donna Poole

I haven’t owned one for more than a decade.

Readers who know me in person probably guessed that fact already by the wrinkled collars and cuffs our steamer couldn’t quite smooth out. Finally, I gave in and ordered the cheapest iron and least expensive tabletop ironing board I could find from Walmart.

Saturday morning I used the new equipment and discovered to my delight I despise ironing as much as I ever did. As I stood in our steamy kitchen wrangling stubborn shirts, I remembered Mrs. Denton. She’s the reason ironing is an anathema to me. I don’t cuss, but if I did, “GO IRON!” would be one of the worst curses in my vocabulary.

I agreed to iron for Mrs. Denton one miserably hot summer of my junior high days. The payment was one dollar a bushel basket. That was decent money; $1.00 in 1962 equals $9.29 now. But every time I showed up for my ironing job the basket of clothes was piled higher until one day it was twice my height. That might be a slight exaggeration.

I was no expert in ironing when I started working for our neighbor. We Piarulli girls were the cleaning troops who suffered through white glove inspections from General Mom complete with barked orders of, “Do it over!” but I don’t remember ever ironing my own clothes.

Thomas Sears invented the steam iron. In 1938 the Steam-O-Matic sold for ten dollars. Pretty pricey when adjusted for inflation—it would cost $193.61 today. Perhaps that’s why I remember Mom in the 1950s, when steam irons were still $10.00, sprinkling our clothes with water and rolling them up, leaving them until they were damp clear through, and then ironing them without steam. Perhaps she did get a steam iron later; I seem to remember the devil’s hiss.

I didn’t quit ironing for Mrs. Denton that summer. The summer of my discontent.

“Piarullis don’t quit,” Mom said.  

Sorry Mom, in all my adult years I’ve never ironed a thing I didn’t have to. Had I not been raised in the strictest sect of fundamentalist Baptist, I would have thrown away any clothing that came out of the dryer wrinkled, but that upbringing sticks with you like super glue. I’m pretty sure discarding usable garments breaks some biblical commandment, perhaps one in Hezekiah.

Which reminds me. Someone gifted me with an ugly, faded brown, hand-me-down circle skirt when I was in fifth grade. It had embarrassingly large brown buttons all down the front, bigger than I’d seen on any old lady’s moth ball scented church coat. In the next five years I grew many inches taller but no wider. Unfortunately for me styles in that same time grew shorter. I wore that ugliness from the time it touched just above my ankles until it reached the middle of my knee. Mom probably would have made me continue to wear it, but I was still growing taller, and that strictest sect of fundamentalist Baptist frowned when skirts reached the middle of the knee; to go higher might risk excommunication.

To be fair to Mrs. Denton, we never specified in our original unwritten contract how full the basket should be. And she did have a lot of children. I can’t remember how many. I do remember I thought Kenny was the nicest of them; he was my age, and I considered it kind of him not to point me out at school as his laundry maid.

That ironing took hours that seemed to stretch to days, weeks, months, and years. I entered the Denton house to iron when I was thirteen and left when I was ninety. I survived ironing days only by knowing when I left there I was heading straight for the waters of the Nanticoke Creek. I didn’t care how muddy it was; I was going in! Or, if it was raining, I’d bury my nose in a book!

Time is not the steady, reliable creature some imagine her to be. She’s capricious. Don’t trust her. A minute is not always a minute; an hour is not always an hour.

Don’t believe me? Compare an hour in a doctor’s waiting room to an hour at the lake. See what I mean?

As I ironed Saturday morning, I thought about how time wraps some things in softness and gives them a smile they never had at the time. I smile now at that short girl standing at the tall ironing board dreaming of swimming in the creek. I didn’t know she’d grow up to be me, the woman who still finds creeks and books fascinating, still hates ironing, and still questions the fickleness of time.

Why can’t some hours last longer?

Last Monday, Independence Day, we went to Dan and Mindy’s where we enjoyed a delicious summer meal with them and four of our grandchildren, Megan, Macy, Reece, and Ruby. Mindy’s parents, Mike and Julie were there too. Mike had prepared smoked brisket; it was delicious. I’d never had it before. Shh, don’t tell my oncologist Mike and Julie were there. I’m only allowed to see family, but I figure the family of my family is my family—right?

After we ate, we sat around a blazing bonfire. Perfect is a strong adjective, but that’s what it was. We talked to Megan about her future plans. Macy entertained us with tales of her volunteer work at King’s Cupboard. Reece passed out sparklers, and Ruby shared her glow sticks. The crackling fire kept mosquitoes away and dreams close.

The huge bonfire began to dwindle, and Mindy, our mighty but tiny daughter-in-law disappeared into their woods. All we saw was a speck of flashlight. She returned dragging huge branches under both arms and threw them on the fire.

Once it was totally dark, Dan and Reece went to the back of their property and set off twelve beautiful fireworks. And then we talked some more. Who knows how long we would have stayed around that fire if it hadn’t started to rain?

Those four wonderful hours were much shorter than any four hours I’ve ever spent ironing, and no one can tell me differently.

I wonder what time will be like in heaven? Maybe this gives us a hint.

“One day is with the Lord as a thousand years, and a thousand years as one day.” –2 Peter 3:8

I think I understand that a little bit…. Once, when I was around thirteen or fourteen, I spent a day ironing for our neighbor, and it took me a thousand years.

by Donna Poole

Independence Day weekend 2022 is almost history; soon it will be a fading memory.

As soon as my husband John finished his Sunday sermon, Kimmee pulled out of the parking lot of our old country church. As always, I took a wistful look back at the door; family and friends were inside laughing and talking, and I wished I could be with them. But parking lot church is good too, and I counted my blessings.

We took the long way home, down two dirt roads, and Kimmee stopped often to take pictures of wildflowers for me.

We got home, but instead of pulling in the driveway, Kimmee asked me, “Do you want to go to the bridge?”

Oh, the bridge! Memories came flooding back. How many times had I walked to the bridge with Kimmee when she was a little girl? I was the fast one then; she had to hurry to keep up with me.

One September day during homeschool I taught her about Rosh Hashanah, the festival for the Jewish New Year, as we walked to the bridge. I can’t remember how old she was, perhaps third grade.

Rosh Hashanah begins with the blowing of the shofar, a hauntingly beautiful sound. A neighbor blew one for us once. That sound marks the following ten days of penitence that end with Yom Kippur, the Jewish day of atonement.

On that long ago homeschool day, I told Kimmee that on the afternoon of the first day of Rosh Hashanah Jews went to a river, lake, ocean, or anywhere with water. They turned their pockets inside out, shook out any crumbs, and recited Scripture. It symbolized casting away sins to start the new year with a clear conscience, a fresh start. Kimmee and I got to the bridge over the small stream that becomes the large St. Joe River.

“I’m glad Jesus died on the cross and took our sins as far as the east is from the west, but let’s do what the Jews did. Let’s shake out our pockets over the water and pretend we’re shaking out our sins.”

Kimmee objected. “I don’t have anything in my pockets.”

“I don’t either, but let’s do it anyway. Maybe it will help you remember this.”

She shrugged, looked at me like I was part alien, and shook out her empty pockets.

I think she was about the same age when she begged me to stop acting out her history lessons. “I think I’m old enough now so we could just read the book.”

And here I’d thought I was an entertaining actor! Apparently, only one of us was amused. Still, Kimmee grew up to love drama and acted in many productions in college; I take credit for that!  

Yesterday’s Kimmee, now in her thirties, took more wildflower pictures for me at the bridge. I wanted to get out of the car and listen to the water. She came running and helped me stagger to the railing before I cast myself, sins and all, right into the water!

That evening Drew, Kimmee, John, and I went to the fireworks. We parked a distance away from the fairgrounds. Because I’m still in my required cancer bubble, I stayed in the car while the three of them hiked to the fairgrounds to buy the traditional food; can it be the Fourth of July without Fiske Fries?

Life passed by me as I sat in the car in my bubble. I saw young couples with baby strollers, groups of teens, older couples, and a single man with headphones hurry by on their way to the fairgrounds. Most people wore shorts and t-shirts or sundresses; the thermometer said it was warm. I sat wrapped in my long, below the knees winter sweater and chuckled at how I must look. Perhaps like an old lady with cancer?

Family and food arrived back at the car, and we sat our chairs outside, away from people—my oncologist would be proud. The fireworks display was amazing, one of the best I’ve seen. I looked up at the sky and thought about all my family and friends in heaven. I smiled at the thought of being with them forever. I looked to my left, and John smiled back at me and took my hand. I looked to my right.

“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” Kimmee asked.

I thought about all my other wonderful family, not with us at the fireworks, but always nearby if I need them.

With pops and whistles the grand finale was over. I struggled to get out of my chair as John helped haul me up.

“When I don’t move, I forget I’m not normal,” I whispered to him.

When we got home, Drew had a surprise, a box of fireworks.

Sidebar: Today our son John sent his dad this text: “You know you’ve bought the right fireworks when the salesmen gives you a high four.”

Drew let me pick out which one I wanted to see. I chose one called “Summer Vacation.” It was beautiful. After our own fireworks display, we went inside to eat the pies Kimmee and I had baked.

If I told you the pies were perfect, it would be a lie. The berry pie was runny and had clumps of sugar you could chew. Still, it was tasty. It was kind of like life; not perfect, but good enough. More than good enough. I’m grateful.

Gratitude is, don’t you think, the secret to a good life?

I went to high school with Mary; I don’t know if she’d want me to use her full name, so I won’t. She’s a grateful person, even though she can no longer glance over at her husband, Jerry, and have him take her hand. Today I read a Facebook post of hers that touched my heart. She wrote about going to a concert with Jerry and asking Vance Gilbert to sing “May I Suggest” by Susan Werner.

Mary posted, “When I listened to it today, the song had a totally different meaning of the words, especially the last part. It has more meaning now than it ever did before. Thank you, Vance Gilbert. I miss you Jerry, thanks for the great memories we had.”  

Here’s the song.

            May I suggest
            May I suggest to you
            May I suggest this is the best part of your life
            May I suggest
            This time is blessed for you
            This time is blessed and shining almost blinding bright
            Just turn your head
            And you’ll begin to see
            The thousand reasons that were just beyond your sight
            The reasons why
            Why I suggest to you
            Why I suggest this is the best part of your life

            There is a world
            That’s been addressed to you
            Addressed to you, intended only for your eyes
            A secret world
            A treasure chest to you
            Of private scenes and brilliant dreams that mesmerize
            A tender lover’s smile
            A tiny baby’s hands
            The million stars that fill the turning sky at night
            Oh I suggest
            Yes I suggest to you
            Yes I suggest this is the best part of your life

            There is a hope
            That’s been expressed in you
            The hope of seven generations, maybe more
            And this is the faith
            That they invest in you
            It’s that you’ll do one better than was done before
            Inside you know
            Inside you understand
            Inside you know what’s yours to finally set right
            And I suggest
            And I suggest to you
            And I suggest this is the best part of your life

            This is a song
            Comes from the west to you
            Comes from the west, comes from the slowly setting sun
            This a song with a request of you
            To see how very short the endless days will run
            And when they’re gone
            And when the dark descends
            Oh we’d give anything for one more hour of light

            May I suggest this is the best part of your life

Tonight, we’re invited to our son and daughter-in-law’s home, where we’ll be loved by Dan and Mindy and four of our wonderful grandchildren. I think there might even be a bonfire.

The loved ones lost this past year remind me I may not always have my family and friends to love. For the ones I still have today, I’m grateful. This is my hour of light with them; this is the best part of my life.

Of my earthly life, that is. Because of Jesus I can say and believe with all my heart, the best is yet to be. No sins to cast out of my pockets, darkness gone forever. After the darkness comes light.  

by Donna Poole

“See you next morrow!”

When Reece, our grandson, was a little boy with golden curls he used to say that to us when we said goodbye. “Last morrow” was yesterday or any time past, and “next morrow” was tomorrow or any day in the future.

Sometimes we still use those two sweet phrases in our house just for the nostalgia of it because we hold close in our hearts those little boy days too quickly gone. Time gives; time takes away.

What is time, really? Our understanding of time and eternity is so limited. Past, present, future; what are those terms but just words? They are nothing to our God who holds them all in the palm of His hand as one. The Bible says to God a day is as a thousand years and a thousand years as a day.

To an author crafting a novel, time is relative. She knows what happened to her characters in the past; she writes about what they’re doing in the present, and sometimes she knows what they’re going to do in the future, although they often surprise her and do their own thing. When it comes to her novel, an author also holds past, present, and future in the palm of her hand. Time is a relative term; it’s of no consequence. Unless she has a deadline, and then time quickly goes from abstract to concrete!

Perhaps in heaven we’ll view time as God does, and a thousand years will be but a day, and we’ll no longer be slaves to time. But when we’re still walking the earth as mere mortals, there is a past, present, and future; time is very real, and sometimes it hurts.

We love someone dearly; as Erasmus said, “We had but one soul between us.” Suddenly, time is up. The train whistle blows, and our loved one is gone down the tracks, out of sight, into infinity. We can follow them only with our hearts, not our eyes. We have the memories of last morrow, but no next morrow to ramble a backroad together here on this earth. If we both knew Jesus as Savior we have the promise of eternity together, but eternity can seem a long way off to a mourning heart.

A dear pastor friend of ours said, “Death is a defeated enemy, but make no mistake, it is still the enemy.”

It’s the enemy because it tears apart the fabric of hearts knit together, and though time may mend, the scars remain. A song, a scent, a familiar shape turning a corner, and a tear comes.

In the past eight months death has claimed five people dear to us, our sweet friend Amber Jones, only twenty-two, our friend Pastor Don Harkey, my faithful friend, Chris Albee, our dear brother-in-law, Steve Post, and now, our beautiful friend Lois Pettit Trippet.

Each of these lovely people showed us a glimpse of Jesus. People said about Frances Ridley Havergal that when she came into a room you had a sense of two people coming in, her, and the Holy Spirit. When Jesus lives in us, we should bring the smile of spring into a room, the fresh scent of the Other Land we’re traveling to, and these five people did that for us. We grieve their loss.

Lois was an accomplished musician with piano, flute, and voice. Even her laughter sounded like music. We fought cancer together, and she was a song of hope to me. I don’t think either of us expected cancer to win; we thought God would heal us, but God took her Home. I won’t hear that melodic laugher again on this earth; I’ll never again see her beautiful face or lovely smile.

I wipe away tears but smile at the memories.

Lois was a wonderful piano teacher; I was her only failure in all her years of teaching. It took her from late summer until Christmas to teach me to play “Silent Night,” one finger of the right hand on the melody, and left hand doing a few simple chords. She was so patient with me.

Somewhere along the line we decided we were destined to be soul-mate kind of friends, not piano teacher and struggling student. I quit lessons.

I have so many memories. Lois laughing, singing, playing her flute, talking so seriously about the Lord she loved. Lois, still in her twenties, panicking at my surprise fortieth birthday party when she saw someone arrive she was interested in but hadn’t expected to see there, grabbing my hands, and asking me what she was going to do. Her hands were like ice, and her big blue eyes looked like a little girl who’d been suddenly told she had to sing the national anthem in Yankee Stadium. I laughed and told her she was going to be her usual charming self. And she was. Lois at our house having dinner the night I went into labor for our fourth child. I finished eating even though I knew I was in labor because I’d made a special meal; that was a decision I regretted later. After John and I went to the hospital, Lois spent the evening with our kids and helped them make a “Welcome Baby” banner to tape over the archway.

Lois married and moved out of state. I think the last time we ate together was at DJ’s, a cozy little restaurant in Pittsford. Mark, Lois, John, and I sat in front of the big window, talked and laughed, and the years we hadn’t seen each other evaporated like steam from a cup of tea.

Lois and I haven’t seen each other the last two years. My oncologist won’t let me have visitors, and sweet Lois kept wanting to come sing outside my window. When I heard she’d flown like a songbird to heaven, that’s what I cried about the most, that I hadn’t made that happen.

One of the last things Lois did before she couldn’t do anything but wait for Jesus to take her Home and end her suffering was write us a note and send a gift. That’s the kind of friend Lois was to us. Her life was a song; the echo lingers.

Lois, dear friend, I’ll see you next morrow. Amber, Pastor Harkey, Chris, Steve, see you next morrow. And to all my dear ones loved and lost to me now but known to Christ, see you next morrow!

by Donna Poole

Who doesn’t love the month of May?

Fifty-four years ago this evening was unforgettable, but the story actually began in April, so I’ll have to turn around and walk back up the road a piece.

Mom and Dad Poole, Mr. and Mrs. Poole to me back then, were traveling from cold New York State to beautiful Georgia where spring was already smiling. They were taking their son, John, and a family friend, Hope, and they invited me to go too.

I’d only been to New York, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and the Canadian side of Niagara Falls, so that trip was a wonderful adventure to me. The views were spectacular as we drove through the mountains, and every time we stopped, the air was softer and warmer. I felt like we were driving right into heaven.

It was heavenly to be with John, too. We’d been friends since before kindergarten and had dated about a year. We were nearing the end of our second year of college, and at the age of nineteen, felt quite grown up and ready to conquer the world.

During our freshman year of college John had told me he loved me. That terrified me; we hadn’t known each other nearly long enough for that. I responded to his declaration of love with something less than he’d hoped.

“How,” I’d asked, “does a person know something like that for sure?”

John had even proposed to me, more than once, always as a joke. Once I’d almost taken him seriously until he brought the ring from behind his back and presented it with a laugh. It was in a clear plastic egg; he’d gotten it from the bubble gum machine.

Georgia was everything I’d hoped and more. I loved John’s sister Lonnie, warm and funny, and her kind southern gentleman of a husband, Truman. One day during our visit they took all of us to visit Stone Mountain. From the flat land around it, the quartz mountain, more than five miles in circumference at its base, juts 825 feet into the air. The 360-degree view from the top is incredible. You can see downtown Atlanta, the North Georgia mountains, and on a clear day, you can see sixty miles in all directions.

John asked me if I wanted to go to the top of the mountain, and I did. We took Hope with us. When we got to the top, I was exclaiming over the amazing view. Hope was just a few steps ahead of us when John asked, “Will you marry me?”

I gave him a quick look. I knew him. He wasn’t going to propose when he couldn’t kiss me, and he for sure wasn’t going to propose and kiss me with a friend along. That was totally unromantic. This was another of his jokes.

I laughed. “I’m not going to fall for that again!”

He wasn’t joking. He’d planned that proposal for months.

As I may have already told you, we were nineteen and oh, so mature. So, John responded as any mature man would; he refused to speak to me the rest of the morning. Or the afternoon. Or the evening.  

Awkward!

Mom Poole noticed; everyone noticed; how could they not? His face looked like a storm cloud and his silence shouted volumes.

“What did you do to Johnnie?” Mom Poole asked.

I told her. I don’t remember her response.

I do remember wishing I could be back in the cold state of New York where the atmosphere would be a lot warmer than it was sitting next to the guy who refused to say a word to me.

Very late that evening we ended up in a room alone together, and the storm cloud spoke. “Do you want to marry me or not, and this is your last chance!”

I laughed. “Yes, of course. I want to marry you!”

He didn’t yet have the ring; I didn’t realize it, but he was giving a little of each paycheck to a jewelry store in Ithaca, New York, where my beautiful diamond was on layaway.

Let’s leave April and Georgia behind now and walk ahead to 24 May 1968. Between college classes and work—I did both full time—it had been a long day. You know that feeling you get when you need sleep as much as you need air? I got home from work and almost cried when I saw John’s car at Mom and Dad’s. Yes, I loved him; I adored him, but I needed to sleep.

I went inside and managed a smile.

“I thought you might like to take a ride out to the airport!” he said.

“Oh, honey, I’m exhausted. Could we go another time?”

“No, I’d really like you to come with me tonight.”

I sighed.

“Donna,” Mom said, “If Johnnie wants to take you for a ride, you should go with him.”

That didn’t help my mood one bit. She always did like him better. Ever since I’d been a little girl my mom had been telling me when I grew up I should “marry that nice little Johnnie Poole.”

I’d told her on repeated occasions, when I was a little girl, that I would NEVER marry that “nice little Johnnie Poole.”

As I may have already told you, we were nineteen and oh, so mature. The drive to the airport was totally silent. John had his feelings hurt because he knew I hadn’t wanted to come with him. I had my feelings hurt because I thought he should have noticed how tired I was.

John parked where we could see the planes take off and land. Neither of us said a word. Finally, John spoke. Four curt words.

“Open the glove compartment.”

“What’s the matter, did you break your arm? You want the glove compartment opened, open it yourself.”

“Open the glove compartment.”

With an exaggerated, dramatic, and oh so mature sigh, I opened the glove compartment, and the light inside came on. There, in a box, sat a beautiful diamond solitaire in a tiffany setting.

“I could have gotten a bigger one for the same price,” John said, “but the jeweler had me look at both diamonds through his glass. The bigger one had lots of black specks. This one didn’t have any. He said this one was almost perfect. I thought you should have the perfect one, because it reminded me of you.”

Perfect? Had he already forgotten the way I’d behaved just minutes before?

“Love,” as the Scriptures say, “covers a multitude of sins.”

Our love has covered a multitude of sins for many years now, and it grows sweeter as we get older.

People can cherish their memories of fancy proposals made in five-star restaurants or on romantic cruises. I’ll take my two memories any day. “Do you want to marry me or not, and this is your last chance!” “You want the glove compartment opened, open it yourself!”

I remember, and I laugh. And then I thank God for all the love and laughter we’ve shared since.

John Poole, when you read this blog, and I know you will because no matter how busy you get you always make time to read what I write, I want you to know this. There’s no one I’d rather ramble the backroads of life with more than you. Happy engagement anniversary. You’re still outside putting siding on the porch at 6:41 PM and I’m still writing. We haven’t been together more than a few minutes today. If you want to take me for a ride to the airport tonight, I’ll open the glove compartment.