Of Vick’s and Valentine’s

We bought it on our honeymoon.  The receipt is still in the back of our photo album, along with the rest of our maps and brochures and receipts chronicling that week.  (And we think gas is expensive now!)

We found it at the Mammoth Hot Springs General Store.  Little did we know my sister-in-law would be working in that very same store four years later. And little did we imagine that little jar of Vick’s vapor rub would last us almost seven years.

We threw it away last week, after we’d scraped and rubbed the last of its contents out. The expiration date was the same year as our wedding, proving it had waited a long time for some traveler with a chest cold to need it. 

But despite its age, that Vick’s still had plenty of strong vapors when we dug it out of the cupboard once again last week to ease the breathing of our two youngest.

I’d had such a cold that I didn’t even have a voice two weeks before our wedding. But God had given me yet another miracle on my wedding day by allowing me to enjoy it unhindered by that cold bug.  But I could only run on adrenaline and realized dreams so long.  Because no amount of the salsa we shared in our first meal as man and wife could chase away the relapse I had in those early days of our honeymoon.

My new hubby and I laughed as we remembered that visit when we’d both had such dreadful colds and red noses. And that other visit when every other person in our families got a cold but the two of us.  We were fairly sure all the laughter we shared together generated lots of antibodies.  But then, staying up late talking often seemed to have the opposite effect on our health!

In sickness and in health.  Buying Vick’s vapor rub on our honeymoon and changing dressing on a broken leg two months after we were married. Finishing our new home side by side and birthing three children together. Rubbing Vick’s on our little ones in the wee hours of the night and rejoicing that we didn’t both have the cold at the same time this time. Quiet moments stolen together after the children are finally asleep and listening to audio books together when we’re too tired to read aloud.

For better or for worse. On the Valentine’s Days and the Vick’s days — and the days that include both.

Happy Valentine’s Day, my love. Here’s to the last of the Vick’s for a while!

down the aisle

Dearest,

Ten years ago today, we walked down the aisle together for the first time.  I’ll never forget the way you looked at me, standing there across the stage at your sister’s wedding.  Thick as the emotions were, there was no way I could help that big smile from flooding my face as we walked out together.

Later your quiet, soft-spoken grandpa grabbed our arms, put them together and said, “We think you two make a really cute couple.”  At our mild protests, he just thought a minute and said, “Well, we’ll see.”

Tonight, we’re babysitting while your sister and her husband go out for their tenth anniversary. Their three kids and our three kids. What a lot can happen in ten years.  I guess Grandpa was right.  (I always thought he was. ;) )

Thanks for being the handsomest groomsman ever.  And for becoming my groom six years ago.

Love,
your redhead

 

July 13, 2002

dance

Dearest,

We always said we’d learn to dance when we got married.

But first there was a broken leg to prevent it, then there was always a baby belly or a baby in the way. 

We keep saying we’ll take dancing lessons when they’re older, laughing that by the time we get around to it we’ll probably be too old and decrepit to dance.

In the meantime, we side-step around each other at the sink as we wash and dry the dishes together.

Then we stop for a kiss in the middle of the kitchen and find ourselves swaying to the music.

Six years and no dancing lessons. But we’re learning the give and take, the lead and follow, the steps to this dance we dance together.

It doesn’t look quite like  Cinderella and Prince Charming twirling around at the ball, but I think we really did learn to dance when we got married.

Lots of Love,
the girl with two left feet

Remember when the sound of little feet was the music
We danced to week to week
Brought back the love, we found trust
Vowed we’d never give it up
Remember when
-Alan Jackson’s “Remember When

Five-Minute Friday: dance

a man like my daddy…

"Who gives this woman..." photo by John Feldschau

Dear Daddy,

I never thought I’d marry a man like my daddy.  We were too much alike, you and me. Clashing more often because of our similarities than because of anything other than just me being an emotional teenage girl.

But every year that passes, I see more and more resemblance between you and the boy you once told to stay away until you ran out of shotgun shells.

You’re both generous and self-sacrificing.  You’re both so patient with the women you love. 

You’ve picked each other’s brain about projects so very often that you know the other will take your side in any discussion about how to do things.

And after fifteen years, you’ve picked up each other’s phrases so much that it’s frequent these days to hear my husband sounding just like my dad.

You’re both opinionated but easy-going, you like chocolate and my cooking.  And you both adore the little ones who look so much like their daddy and so much like you.

You call my farmer to check on his hay, he calls you to see if you can find a better weather forecast than he can.  It makes me smile to hear the two of you—always brief, but always kidding each other. 

You are men of integrity and men of character.  So different, yet so alike. You balance each other out and spur each other on. 

You always make it a point to serve your wives by making Sunday morning breakfast.  You show your families your love by your hard work and self sacrifice. 

You were a whole lot more like my dream man than I ever realized.  And we’d be so proud and thankful if our son would grow up to be like the grandpa he looks just like.

I’m so thankful I married a man like my daddy.  (And I’m so glad you told him “yes.”)

Happy Father’s Day, Daddy.  I love you.

Love,
Gretchen

Daniel and Grandpa

married to a writer

Dearest,

Did you know what you were getting into, my love, when you married a writer?

Did you know it would mean oft coming home to dishes only half finished because inspiration struck in the midst of the soap suds?

Did you know how often I’d nearly burn your dinner—or forget to get it started altogether—because I’d be deep in the midst of a project that involved words and websites?

Did you know that you were marrying a girl whose ideas of a fun evening are reading a book, listening to a book, or writing something (presumably) shorter than a book?

Did you know you were signing up to have your love story published far and wide and your love letters be the background for a blog?

Was all this covered in that chat you had with my daddy?  Or was it something you guessed, since you’ve always known me better than I know myself?

And here we are, six years and three children later.

You still vacuum the floor that – in the midst of brainstorming for a post – I hardly even notice is covered in crumbs.

You still eat my cooking even when it lacks the creativity of my writing.

You still write me mushy Hallmark cards because you know how much love put to paper means to me.

And you still read the words I string together, even when they aren’t written on heart-shaped stationery and mailed just to you.

Thank you for loving me in spite of my writing habits.

Thank you for your sacrificial love as you pick up the slack in the housekeeping.

Thank you for showing your interest by taking the time to give helpful critiques.

Thank you for showing you believe in me by finding me new work projects.

"a real inspiration"Thank you for being the inspiration behind my words.

Thank you for caring enough about me to read my heart put to paper.

I love you, Merritt.  So much more than words could ever express.

Happiest of wedding anniversaries, my love.

Yours,
Gret