M is for Marcella

Marcella would have been my mother-in-law. Here are five other things about her.

1. Marcella was a writer and a poet. I have a letter that she wrote at age 55 to YWAM to ask if they would allow her the privilege to be part of their team. She wanted to invest her empty nest years in a meaningful way that wasn't possible while raising five sons. She also wrote poems for her oldest son, Tony, while he was in Vietnam.

2. Marcella had quite a sense of humor, and knew how to embarrass her sons with it. I loved that about her, because I think it's kind of spunky and fun to not be so uptight about certain things.For example, when her son David and his young wife went to the mall with her in the early 1980's, they all wandered into a waterbed store. Marcella plopped down on one, and remarked something to the effect, "This would be a great bed to have s-- on!" Another time she said something I thought humorous (but it mortified Paul who doesn't comment on women's bodies-- and he easily blushes). We were dating and he was living at his Mom's. I happened to get up from the sofa where Marcella and I were chatting about a writing desk in the far corner. As I crossed the room, she said to Paul, "Zoanna's got a nice rear-end, doesn't she, Paul?" (I was 21; things have changed.) Can you imagine the shades of red he turned when his mother said that? I might even have turned pink. But the funny thing is, I can still make him blush by flirting with him. He never knows what to expect out of me. That's one of the secrets to a long marriage--keep them guessing!

3. Marcella was a fun grandma. I remember watching her play Flea Market with the grandkids. Everything had a price and she was always haggling. "How about this sock, Matthew? Will ya take a dime for it?" She also played Army Men with the boys. Her only granddaughters were out of state and I don't recall what she played with them, but I know she did.

4. Marcella had compassion for the homeless. When she was attending a Presbyterian church in the city, she would bring them to fellowship in the church basement. She made sure they got a hot meal and something to drink, and respite from the elements for a short while. And she genuinely enjoyed sitting with them and getting to know them. She could talk to anyone. The main problem was, they smelled bad, and the church members didn't want them upstairs in the sanctuary. It was fine for them to be in the basement, but not upstairs where everything was clean and people were showered and dressed up for church. As I write this, I remember the time my husband was sharing this with a church group 12 years ago; he almost never cries, but he couldn't hold back the tears.

5. Marcella died of a ruptured aorta only 20 days before our late December wedding. She had had similar symptoms and pains as her son ,Gary, who had passed away 13 months earlier the same way. I had no idea the night we visited her in the hospital would be her last. Through agonizing pain and labored breath, she asked me what color dress my mom would be wearing. "Burgundy," I told her. She was happy because she had chosen a long, emerald green one with lace. It sounded beautiful and she was so excited at the thought of Paul getting married. It was beautiful. We buried her in it. I just couldn't grasp the sorrow and joy that co-mingled as we were planning a wedding and going through a funeral just weeks before Christmas.

I wish I'd known Marcella better ,and I certainly wish she had known our children ,and vice versa. Good thing there's eternity. Marcella and her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren -- and a lot of grateful homeless people to whom she showed God's kind of love--will be united in heaven. Maybe playing Flea Market?

A is for Anthony

He was only in my life for five short years, but his legacy of generosity lives on.

My father-in-law's name was Anthony, but everyone knew him as Tony. Or Dad. Or PopPop. One of ten children born to Polish immigrants in Baltimore, Dad grew up in a poor, Catholic neighborhood where he was schooled by nuns. World War II erupted when he was 18, and he was "called up" to serve as a medic in the United States Army. Later he worked various jobs including as a butcher's apprentice and plumber. His lifelong vocation was plumbing, his avocation crossword puzzles. You might say he had an abundance of wrenches and words at his "DisposAll."

He met and married a slim, pretty young lady named Marcella in the mid-40s. He liked her legs and outgoing personality. She couldn't resist his dimples and his ability to "cut a rug" to the Beer Barrel Polka. Their brood included five sons and no daughters.

I had the privilege of watching Dad in action as he fixed our earliest sinks, tubs, and toilets during our poor, newlywed life. He would never take a dime for his work, but could be easily persuaded to eat one of my humble spaghetti dinners as thanks. Paul and I bought our first home six months after we got married, for $44,000. and Dad was there to help us transform the ugly duckling into our little dream cottage.

On many occasions, Dad would show up at our door with his toolbox in one hand and a bag of good-quality meat in the other. First he'd slice the big hunk of flesh into steaks or roast portions for us to freeze. Then, while I was cooking dinner, he would sit down on the sofa and bounce a grandchild or two on his knee, clucking to make them giggle. He had a special way with babies, something that many men lack. That's something he passed along to my Paul; people have always noticed the way my husband loves infants. You can't manufacture that nurturing side of a man, and I credit my father-in-law with modeling good "daddying."

Dad also coached Little League baseball, and his sons grew up running bases and catching fly balls. When our sons were young, Paul coached Little League himself. If only Dad had been alive to witness that. I remember thinking of Dad when I'd watch Paul huddle on the sidelines with a bunch of rag-tag seven-year-olds full of sugar and promise. "Like father, like son," Dad and Paul loved training and encouraging the next generation of these young bat-wielding boys to work hard at being good players on a team.

Dad loved the Baltimore Colts and the Baltimore Orioles. Any time of day or night, his portable radio or his truck radio was tuned into a game if it was on. I never understood how someone could enjoy action in only audible form ,but that's what he grew up on.

His main fault was that he couldn't say no. My sisters-in-law and I joke about how he overbooked the babysitting commitment all the time. Linda, Donna, and I would all want him for a certain Friday night, and he'd tell us all "sure!" and then show up to only one house, leaving the others "hanging" because he forgot what he'd promised. The solution? Drive ALL the kids to the house where Dad was, and let him figure it out. Somehow he always got nine grandkids, including toddlers and babies, to mind him. (Bribery of donuts and McDonald's french fries worked well.) If Dad kept one commitment, he kept them all. His favorite night at our house was the time he committed to watching our 13-month old Ben while Paul and I went to the hospital to have our next baby. "Bring home a pretty one," he said, meaning "a girl to add to the bunch of all boys." We did, and he spoiled her rotten.

Dad didn't earn much money as a plumber, but every member of his large and growing family could count on getting a crisp ten-dollar bill and a kiss or hug on their birthday or Christmas. In those days, a ten seemed like a hundred. The funny thing was, even the babies got ten dollar bills, and he thought it was really cute that they would put their money where their mouth was.

At about 2:30 a.m. on the morning of February 12, 1992, I dreamed that Dad died suddenly. The dream was so vivid I startled awake. My heart raced; I had the distinct impression that this nightmare was God's way of preparing me. I was too afraid to say a word about it to my husband. Eventually I fell back to sleep. Four hours later, when Paul was drying his hair for work, the phone rang. I answered it, trembling. It was his younger brother David.

"Zo, Paul there? I've got some bad news."
"What do you mean?"
"Dad's dead."
The guy he picked up for work every day found him slumped over the wheel of his truck. Massive heart attack.

To this day, I miss him when I am trying to cut a big slab of meat into pretty sliced portions, or when I make keilbasa with sauerkraut at Thanksgiving. Paul misses him on Orioles' Opening Day or when the hot water heater leaks or when he watches old war movies. Dad donated his time, talent, money, and love, over and over and over again. For that I remember Anthony--"Dad"--as a man who left a legacy of generosity.

50th Anniversary Party, Part 3: Before the Big Moment

A close-up of the floral arrangement we put at my parents' table. I could hardly take my eyes off it. (Note to self: it was made by Dee's Florist in Aberdeen.)











My parents met while at KU, and have been avid Jayhawks fans ever since. Mama set up this vignette next to the Welcome table. Love it! (I think I've mentioned a time or two that my dad tutored the late great basketball star, Wilt Chamberlain, at KU. (Wilt wasn't as good at algebra as he was at hoops.)
I always loved when my daddy tutored me in algebra, too. No one was too great or too small for his attention and brains, least of all his non-mathematically inclined second daughter.


Waiting for guests to arrive, my youngest was a bit on the bored side.
My oldest is standing there looking
suave and his fiancee' debonair.
Andrea is busy hauling water. Paul, AKA my Silver-haired Sweetie, well...I never get tired of looking at him from
any angle. Even (or especially?) at 50 he makes a suit look mighty fine.


There he is, beaming with his one and only daughter. They made a sweet greeting team. I made the floral arrangements in those vases. Love me some lilies. The basket contained little mints wrapped in gold "50" wrappers from Party City. The scrapbook paper in the front was for autographs as people entered. The gift bag held cards for the happy couple. My mom provided the gorgeous lace tablecloth,
a sentimental objet d'art if ever there was one.

Here's a close-up of one of our centerpieces.

In case you missed the how-to, it's a scooped-out pumpkin with a potted mum set down in it, some baby's breath, and silk florals poked in for added color. These were door prizes and thank-you gifts to people who helped us. Cost: approx $15 each.

We used two sheets of Faith paper from Hobby Lobby on each table, as well as silk leaves and two tealights for ambience.

You Old What?

At the family reunion yesterday I wanted to casually surprise my "non party" just-turned-50 hubby with a "non-party birthday cake" in such a way that he would "non find out" about it. It's a bit hard when you're hosting and your fridge, countertops, and tables are already full of stuff. So a few days ago his sweet cousin volunteered to buy one and bring it.

Her: What are his favorite colors?
Me: I don't know that he has one, but he likes the Ravens, so purple and black.
Her: Okay. What should I have them write on it?
Me: I dunno How about, "Happy birthday, you old buzzard?"
Her: Okay. See you Saturday!

So Saturday came and the cousin was late, not in any small part due to the errors on said cake. First the colors weren't right. There was nothing they could do quickly to change the blue and red to purple and black as requested, so his cousin said later to us, "Just pretend, Paul. If you're not too old to pretend, that is. Pretend you see Ravens colors."

When she got to the Costco bakery department to pick it up, his cousin also noticed the message atop the the cake said "Happy birthday u old buzzer."

"No, no, not buzzer. Buzzard--you know, like the bird?! B-u-z-z-a-r-d."

The bakery lady then froze the cake a good while, took it out, scraped off the hard, misspelled letters and "fixed" the mistake.

This is what we got:



We laughed so hard. We've been calling him Buzz Rad ever since.

Family Reunion Frenzy

Funny how one little Facebook message can propel you from slow-mo to full-speed-ahead. I was in slow-mo as long as I was just thinking it'd be nice to have a family gathering of all my husband's brothers and their spouses and offspring, since it has been quite a long time. Paul is turning 50 in a few days, but he is anti-party. Seriously, remember the day The World Was Supposed to End last month? The next day he said to me, "Good thing that wasn't my last day on earth. I did the three things I hate most in all the world: helped someone move, did yard work, and went to a party."

Naturally he had to meet and marry someone who celebrates things like having Ten Great Nails at the Same Time.

Anyway, back to the Facebook message. I clicked on a message from his oldest brother who lives in Ohio. It said, in short, they're coming to visit the Maryland/Delaware contingent of the family the week of July 4th.

No sooner had my reply, "Great! Can't wait! " and "Paul's 50th" were out of my mouth--er--into the keyboard--that it has come to my attention that we will be hosting a Not a Party But Family Reunion. We have the privilege of being centrally located (okay, not centrally, but between!) the family branches north and south of us, and have room enough to spread out.

This Not a Party But Reunion looks to take place on probably July 10th!

One of his brothers said, "a crab feast and beer" to celebrate everything from the summer birthdays to the kids' leaving, to Ben's engagement, to family coming in from out of town. Things like dentures and Depends got (dis)honorable mention as well in the prep department.

Why is it that words "out of town guests" make you look around your house and declare everything old, ugly, dirty, or in need of fixing up? Seriously! Our carpets look like dropcloths. The sofa pillows resemble matzah. And every door that squeaked or pipe that groaned yesterday is suddenly shrieking and bellowing today.

So, a family reunion in less than three weeks' time to plan! That's how we roll. If this family had a year to put a reunion together, we'd still put it off till the last three weeks. If we had all summer, we'd pull it together on Labor Day. But we plan rather abruptly after long hiatuses (hiati?). Someone either dies suddenly, or someone sends a two-line message: "We're coming in the week of __________." Then all of a sudden we clear calendars, counters, and carpets of as much clutter as we can and thrust ourselves into Planning Mode ,which usually starts with "what to eat? what to eat?" and "How can I whip this house into shape in three weeks after talking about it for three years?".

Hence I am looking around the house, and in the mirror, and seeing outdated things that probably won't or can't be fixed in three weeks' time. But that's okay. We need to get together. Someone just had to get the proverbial ball rolling. And someone else gets to clean like mad, spruce up the yard, maybe paint a bedroom that's about seven years overdue, and send out a mass email listing all the what-to-eats and whatever else she deems important, like date and time, perhaps.

Let Me Tell You, I Love My Man !

Let me tell you about this man I married. (The picture is of us on our first anniversary and I was 6 months pregnant. Paul was 26, I was 22. Back then he had brown hair and I had one chin. Life was good, and I could not imagine us in our 40's with grown children or where he'd be in his career, but I knew his work ethic impressed me. Now on to the blog post.)


My husband does not like for me to write about him, but I have to say this today. I love him and I want the world to know how hard he works. He is a successful man in so many ways, and the Lord is good to us by giving Paul to us.

Yesterday was one of those days I found myself telling God how much I love Paul and appreciate him, and what a good man he is. Mind you, we have our struggles and so many of them are over petty things, but then there are times I just step back and say, "Wow. What a man! Who else would work this hard, day after day, year after year?" (Well, I know there are many men in that category, but to live with one solidifies my knowledge.)

For just one example this week: On Wednesday he was gone for 14 hours, working hard on a presentation he had to give Thursday. The presentation was in Atlanta, and we're in Baltimore. If you know anything about BWI airport or Atlanta, you can picture two hours at each one on each end of the flight. That meant he had to get up at 4 a.m., do the security thing, fly, land, give a presentation, do what he does best--which I'm not sure how that looks but would love to be the proverbial fly on the wall-- then do the Atlanta airport thing, fly back, get into a cold car at night, and drive home. None of that except the actual flying appeals to me one bit! It doesn't appeal to him, either, but he presses right on through.

What impressed me was that, not only did he work so long on Wednesday, he also prioritized care group (our church's "small group" gatherings every other week in homes) by attending Wednesday night! That lasted till 10 pm. (I might have skipped it in order to rest up for my trip, but not him. He went.) Then after a short night's sleep, he got up at 4:00, quietly as always,so as not to wake me. But I woke up anyway--at least enough to kiss him and then get up to watch the car pull out of the driveway. I said a prayer of thanks to God for Paul and his hard work and that his trip would be a a success--and then I locked the deadbolt and went back to bed for a couple hours.

He returned to us at 9 pm, exhausted, hungry, and headachey. I fixed him a plate of hearty chicken, potatoes, and beans to slake the hunger, rubbed his neck and shoulders to eradicate the headache, and just "chilled" with him for a while on the couch. Running my fingers through his hair is a favorite pastime of mine. I like his silky silver hair! These are the times of married life I enjoy a lot--thinking of one another and doing for one another, appreciating the quiet things after a day of go-go-go.

Best part of the day? Hearing how he was affirmed in front of his boss.

I asked Paul, "So, how did everything go?" And he said, "Really good." (I didn't correct a tired man's grammar.) I asked him, instead, to define "really good." Basically he landed the account he was after, and when his boss (who had traveled with him) asked the client why they went with [us] the answer was, "We really like the responsiveness and customer service."

I said to Paul, "And that would be you?"
He grinned the grin I love and said, "That would be me."

At that point I hugged him, kissed him, and made much of him. He pretends not to like the attention, but I think secretly he does.

And...get this...he got up this morning, normal time, not sleeping in--and went to work! Man, oh man, I love this man!

Celebrating the Big 4-9

Paul's birthday was really low-key this year. He had no special requests for dinner, but I put together sure winners: Maryland crab cakes, Cheesy Garlic Red Smashed Potatoes, Lemon Lima beans, and sauteed veggies. I garnished the plate with red peppers in the shape of a 49.








Joel was the only kid at home at dinnertime to celebrate with us. The pictures say it all: he loves his dad, loves Ravens football, and loves cocktail sauce with crab cakes.







Please note, the wine (Furhanna) is set at Paul's place, not Joel's. Just clarifyin' for anyone
who wonders if our parenting practices have
fallen off the deep end .



Paul usually asks for a coconut cream pie for his birthday,
and I was prepared to make one. However, one of his co-workers bought a cannoli cake (deLISH!) and he was perfectly content to bring home a huge leftover piece that actually served the three of us quite sufficiently.

And ,for his birthday, I wasn't sure what to give him. I mean, he doesn't like money spent on him just because there's "an occasion" like his own birthday. But he loves golf and loves to read. Normally he checks magazines out of the library. But I wanted him to experience the fun of getting a magazine in the mail every month or every other month. Long ago someone had given him a subscription, but it had expired long ago also.

I really wanted to get him a golf mag subscription if I could 'swing' it (golf humor, there; sorry) but wanted him to be happy with the expenditure. After all, "my" paychecks are history. So I prayed for some creativity .


It was kind of funny.That very day, in the mail, came a 'we want you back" invitation from Golf. Six issues for a dollar. If you know my Paul's penchant for pennies (and more precisely, saving them) , you can imagine the big grin on his face when he opened my "extravagant" gift .

"Well, do you like it?" I asked .

"Yeah, I do." He's not one to gush, and no little "birdie" told me (sorry, I can't help myself; corny is par for the course on this blog) but I could tell by the way his green eyes danced that he was pleased.

10 Things You Might Not Know About Paul

Let's face it, I do not have the stamina to name 49 on his birthday. Maybe if I were half his age, but I'm not. I am younger, however--a fact I remind him of quite regularly.

Here are ten things you might not know about my husband. In random order:

1. He has tinnitus (ringing in the ears). It's from years of listening to an unholy decibel level of music, even when the music he converted to in his early 20s had a holy emphasis .

2. He loves to spend hot Sunday afternoons on the deck, drinking iced tea, listening to music (at lower decibels than in his youth), getting tan .

3. He loves to acquire free T-shirts. Never mind that some of his shirts represent things he has no affiliation with. or interest in. Free T-shirts equal endless pleasure for him.Except the American Red Cross ones that say "It's Hip to Give." He earned those with his blood . Literally.

4. He despises cats. And makes no apologies for it. He is cordial to them, but avoids them at all costs .

5. Though not the youngest in his family, he was the last to get married. The fact of the matter is, he had determined early on that dating is an expensive hobby, whereas playing the same guitar year after year was a fairly cheap one. And a guitar makes no demands of your time. He decided that he would not spend a penny on a girl until he was fairly certain he'd be parting with all of his pennies at the altar in exchange for her love. And demandingness.

6. He is a good iron-er. My personal superhero: Iron Man.

7. He is really good at word games: Scrabble, Taboo, UpWords .He is also really good at strategy games: chess, Risk, Clue. He is also really good at outdoor games: baseball, football, tennis. So if you take him on in a game, you might want to anesthetize him first .

8. His exercise routine is admirable. One day he runs on the treadmill, the next he lifts weights .
Sundays he takes off.

9. He predicts the ending of almost every movie. Seriously, I don't know how he figures out "whodunnit" so often. Once in awhile he gets stumped, but that's a sure sign the movie is really good in his opinion.

10 . He obsesses about finishing a jigsaw puzzle once he starts it. And if the last piece in a 1000 piece puzzle turns up missing? Oh boy. The. man .can .NOT. sleep. If the Bible were not finished being written, I am sure God would include the "finding the lost puzzle piece" among the parables of coins and sheep . Just for Paul. He feels the passion of the pursuer of lost pocket change and lost puzzle pieces. Lost, stinky woolies? Eh. Not so much.

So, there ya have it.

Happy birthday to my half-deaf, well-tanned, free T-shirt lovin', cat-hatin', last-married, fresh-pressed, smart-gamin', health conscious, mystery solvin', puzzle maniacal, one year older husband.

From your eavesdropping, pale, shopaholic, animal lovin', first married, oft-wrinkled, not-so-smart-gamin', health semi-conscious, mystery-producing, puzzle loathing, four year younger
wife.

Damsel in Distress on her Dude's Day Off

Last night after dark, Sarah started to drive the van to care group, but turned around three houses up when she realized the tire was flat. Flat-flat, not just going flat. It was news to us; we had just driven it to the city for lunch after church on Sunday, without incident.

So Paul asked me to call GEICO first thing this morning for emergency roadside service which is covered under our policy. (He'd taken yesterday and today off to do some projects, but the flat was something he could delegate to pros.) I called right away. The driver came later than they promised, but not by much. However, there was a check in my spirit I wished I'd acted on. Paul was here, so I dismissed my skepticism, given that he didn't feel the need to babysit Joe Tow to make sure he did his work properly. The van was parked slightly out of view, so neither of us had occasion to observe the job as it progressed. I let go of anxiety, the guy changed the spare, and that was that.

Or so I thought.

The ride to school wasn't overly disconcerting, but I didn't feel the tire should be so wobbly. It wasn't a donut; it was a full-size spare. Called Paul at a long red light. He wasn't too concerned based on my description ,so I drove on to work.

However, on the ride home, I had Joel with me, and the tire was making a lot of noise, the kind that reminded me of...oh...a wheel about to come off an axle. I put on my hazards, slowed to 30 mph, and pulled over as soon as I could. The tire didn't feel as tight as I would've liked, but I chalked it up to Zo-Don't-Know-Jack-or-how-to-use-one-Anyway. Ignorant of auto mechanics and maintenance, to my shame. I got back in, kept the hazards on, and steadied the wheel in both hands at 30 mph.

Five minutes later I was on a busier road. The noise was growing louder, if not in reality then certainly in my imagination. I pictured the tire rolling into oncoming traffic and causing a horrible accident. So I crept on, praying for wisdom and protection. Once again, I pulled over, let speeding traffic pass, and then jiggled the driver's front passenger tire. I tugged on the lug nuts. They budged a little. Oh, great! They should not do that! I tightened them as hard as I could, which was a fraction of an inch. Then I decided to take a road of slower speed, albeit one with no shoulder.

Up one hill, down another, and it started to feel really shaky--and so did I. Finally I pulled over into a parking lot five minutes from home and called Paul. Once again I thanked God for the perfect timing. Paul came right away, despite wanting to be on the other end of town for a doctor's appointment. (He had 40 minutes to spare--get it--spare?--but he's the type who likes to be early.) We switched vehicles and I watched him muscle the lug nuts with a wrench from his own trunk. He got probably four or five 30-degree turns when he tried.

I love watching him do manly things like that. I don't know what it is, I guess the feeling of being protected and cared for by someone with heart, brains, and biceps. The feeling never gets old. But I digress. (Or maybe I don't. Maybe this is the soul of my post--the feelings that come and remind me of what a wonderful man I married, the guy who, on his days off, takes his son to school, rakes a half acre of leaves, has blood drawn, folds laundry, paints bathroom trim, and rescues his damsel in distress.)

He muttered something that suggested incompetence on the tow guy's part, and tossed the wrench back into the trunk. He then drove the silver horse home, in case it bucked, while letting me and the papoose take the trusty black stallion. I felt protected once again by my knight in blue jeans.

At home I called the tow company to complain about the job they'd done. They apologized. I then called GEICO with the report and they sent out my favorite company to tighten the lug nuts the right way. I'm a big fan of this company; they've bailed us out before and I wished I'd requested them in the first place, rather than settle for the other one.

But then again, had this reliable company come first, I wouldn't have experienced any of the drama of a late-afternoon van ride, nor the ensuing heart-pounding thrill of seeing my prince do what he does best most often--prove his love with wrenches and rakes instead of with roses and romance.

Happy Birthday, Paul

Okay, I am not going to make a list of 48 things I love about my husband. He wouldn't read them if I did. Not even half. He's a man of few words who married a woman who is not, but who is learning to condense and get to the point before people's eyes glaze over.

How, then, shall I choose the number of things I love and admire about him? Well, since he was born in the sixth month of the year, how about six?

1. He can fix almost anything (and has had to). Dryers, dishwashers, ice makers, car brakes, car alarms, baby toys, bicycles, toilets, holes in the wall, eyeglasses, fences, windows, garage doors, sinks, faucets, AC units....

2. He can stretch a buck farther than any man I've ever met. He loves the words free, cheap, discount, bargain, deal, and the sentence "It's on me." Though he has a reputation in the family for being frugal, he has grown into one of the most generous people I know also.

3. He makes me laugh. I don't know how I'd live with a bore. I really don't. Even when I try not to laugh at his jokes when I'm angry, I have to admit (to myself only) that he's pretty darn funny.

4. He has a work ethic as strong as a border collie, but is not what I'd call a workaholic. I've always told him how grateful I am that he is married to me and not to his job. He knows how to relax and enjoy a slow pace, but his relaxation comes after hard work, not before.

5. He has played guitar for every care group we've been in since about 1996. When I ask him about taking a sabbatical, he says, "I only have one or two talents. I want to use them as much as possible when I'm able." I disagree with the one or two talents. He has many, but few get public notice.

6. He expresses his love mostly in acts of service. See numbers 1-5 above for examples, and add: picks up library books for me, cooks dinner rather often, does dishes, looks out for my parents, spends time with the kids, makes sure everything is in running order, safeguards our finances, and many other things.

I love you, honey. Happy birthday.

Hmmm...what to do, what to do...

I feel like this hummingbird. (Sarah gave the feeder to me for my birthday in August. I LOVED the hummingbirds that fed on it, the little birdies no bigger than my thumb.)

I sit and say, "Hmmm. What to do? What to do? It's that time again. Time to figure out where to go and what to do." The occasion? Our anniversary. The perennial problem of choosing a destination for celebrating our marriage.

My Paul admits to being neither romantic nor creative in such ways (though he has pulled off a few delightful surprises in our nearly 22 years as husband and wife). I am the harder of the two of us to please, with my high ideals, so pity the guy who has the good fortune to plan memories for me! I've gotten better at lowering my expectations, but "anniversary" screams "expectations!" almost as loudly as Christmas does --and in our case, they're three days apart. If I'm plum out of creative energy by the 25th of December, let alone the 28th, imagine his pressure!

So, what do we like? What would make a good memory for us? Let me tell you a little about our "cherished preferences," as our pastor calls such things.

Paul likes: good food, good wine (though seldom pays for it with dinner; he'd rather buy a whole bottle and get 4 times the beverage from it, later, at home). He hates crowds. Conversation optional. He doesn't like B&Bs (says he doesn't like paying to feel like a guest in someone else's home). He doesn't mind a drive under an hour. Not crazy about the city since he's worked in it for 25 years. He prefers countryside, beaches, or mountains. Dressing up is okay. Won't pay to see a movie at the cinema unless it's highly recommended, but no rom-coms. (For him they're predictably dumb and he hates seeing lust portrayed as love. Good man.) He likes action films, but realizes they're a poor choice with me as his flick chick. Hates, hates, hates theatre.

I like: good food, good wine (with dinner, TYVM!), romantic settings (which, by my definition, includes soft candlelight, jazz music, live flowers, tender touches, exchanging glances across the table, glances just for me--sap, sap, sap! gag!--I'll stop. When I ask him to do that, he makes google eyes at me.) Crowds don't bother me (just no kids anywhere within earshot on our date night), music live or recorded makes no diff, no great walking distance, conversation mandatory. A little wrapped shiny thing in a box is especially hoped for, but not expected. I like B&Bs, but not with him, knowing he doesn't like them, so nix that idea. Love to dress up. I could do a 4-hour trip to West Virginia if weather's decent. (That's where we honeymooned.) I know it sounds redneck but you know the motto: West Virginia--almost heaven. I don't like to go to a movie on a date unless we've already had good conversation over dinner, because I feel it's a waste of time to sit next to each other paying to not talk. We like movies that show old people in love, where gnarled fingers interlock and crow's feet around the eyes means the elderly couple's been smiling at each other for 50 years, even though she may not recognize him any more. "The Notebook," for example. I love theatre. Who cares if it's predictable?

I'm burnt out on creativity this time of year and Paul admits to almost never being creative. So, anybody wanna help this old couple find a new thing to do on their anniversary? Perhaps you can "feed" this hummingbird some ideas?

Happy Birthday, Paul!

My husband turns 47 today. Can't believe I'm old enough to have a 47-year-old husband. Weren't we young just last week?



Paul, I don't know if you'll read this. I know you're blog-averse, but I want to write down my appreciation for you. (Yes, you can use it at strategic moments in the future.)



I appreciate your steadfastness. I can count on you.

I appreciate your work ethic. It's rare these days to be employed 24 years in one place . I'm glad you have an impeccable track record for getting along with people, for striving to be your best, for putting career ahead of leisure.

I appreciate your sense of humor. It's gotten cornier over the years. I must be rubbing off on you.

I appreciate your dedication to church and care group as a worship leader. Hearing you play guitar is always soothing to my soul.

I appreciate that you like me to experiment in the kitchen and that you're not stuck on meat and potatoes. I also appreciate that you don't bark at me when I pull lame leftovers out of the fridge and call it a meal.

I appreciate your recent efforts in growing in romance. I know it's "foreign" to you, but the other morning when you wrote "I LOVE YOU" with blue toothpaste in the bathroom sink was just about the best morning I've had in years!

I appreciate how much time you spend with the kids, teaching them to play golf, encouraging their music, listening to their points of view. You're a great dad.

I appreciate that maybe you're still reading this.

I appreciate that you've stuck with me through all kinds of moods and madness. A lesser man would've called it quits a long time ago. You are a man of your word.

I appreciate that God decided to make us one.



I love you.



Happy birthday from your much younger wife. :)



Zo