As we had breakfast on Valentines Day, Elaine and I watched George and Barbara Bush on the Morning Show reminisce over old letters they had exchanged during the years before they were married. While I drank my coffee and read the newspaper, Elaine slipped away and returned with a Whitman Chocolate Candy box holding letters I had written to her during our “courting” days. They were not in the same romantic class as the Bush letters but after nearly 2 years of “Dear Elaine” I did write “Dearest Elaine”. My spelling was atrocious and subject matter was such, they could hardly be called love letters. I told of brother Jerry stepping on a piece of wire and having to get a Tetanus shot; of being snowbound and not getting mail for a week; the whole family's glee when sister Vivian got her engagement ring (We all liked Eddy); and, why I couldn't write much because there was corn to cultivate. It must have been a case of Divine Intervention since it certainly wasn't my literary persuasion that led to over 61 years (so far) of “Happily Married Bliss”.
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