Letting Go

For all my Northeastern momentum these last few weeks, there's nothing like a bit of melancholy magic to tug at my heartstrings.

Several months ago, I did a profile on an 87-year-old war veteran in honor of the anniversary of Pearl Harbor. His name is Herb Burns and he lives in Rio (pronounced Rye-oh.)
I spent several hours with Herbie and his shy wife, Marge, who would quietly correct him when he took liberties with his war stories and his wisecracks.
This week, an opportunity came up to do a story on Marge. In true Wisconsin fashion, she spent 30 years of her retirement managing a meal program for low-income seniors, but didn't want any thanks.
"I don't really want the attention and all that," Marge said when I first told her I wanted to write a story.
She eventually caved in, and I went to the Burns' house this afternoon with our photographer. I can't really describe what happened, but I've felt bittersweet ever since we left.


Marge and Herbie Burns
Photo courtesy of Katie Derksen

It was the tender little moments, like when Herbie gently reached over and adjusted his wife's collar, telling her not to worry, she looked fine for Katie's photos.
It has to do with the fact that Herbie is very sick and will die soon, leaving Marge alone and unable to drive.
But the biggest reason I can't let go is that, when I leave Wisconsin, I will re-visit a land of less innocence and more self-absorption, where no one knows their neighbors and a year is a long relationship. I am afraid that I'll soon be caught in a whirlwind of dinner parties and jaded cynicism, forgetting the land of bowl-a-thons and pancake breakfasts.

I love my friends and family and Nicole, and I am thankful every day for my blessings. Still, I can't shake the feeling that I am about to give up something simple, beautiful and profound.