Ed Grisamore

We celebrated another anniversary this past weekend, another mile marker along life’s highway.

Thirty years ago, I proposed to Delinda on the beach at St. Simons Island.

I had a chance to ask her the night of March 31, 1982. It was a perfectly romantic evening.

Then I realized if I waited until the next day, we could always claim we got engaged on April Fool’s Day. That would be a nice conversation piece. And it has been.

We were married on July 24 at the Newton Chapel on Mercer’s campus. It was an afternoon wedding and, of course, it was very hot. Would you expect anything less in Macon, Ga., in July?

The air conditioning in the church wasn’t working that morning, and it took a long time to get the building cool.

That was a very important lesson from the very start. Don’t sweat it. Things aren’t always going to be perfect, even though you want them to be.

Several years ago, I wrote a column about the wonders of being married to my little cheerleader for 15 years. That used to be just a blip on the marriage monitor. Old-timers would laugh and tell us we were still on our honeymoon.

But, these days, they treat you with awe and respect. And, in a few more months, we will have doubled that 15 years. Some of our friends look at us with respect and wonder.

I don’t know all the reasons why our marriage has worked. We do have good lines of communication. We don’t always solve everything, but we talk.

And it’s true that opposites attract. I’m an early riser. She loves to sleep late. I’m forever in a hurry. She has no concept of time. I’m cold-natured. She is hot-natured. We are forever battling over the thermostat.

Yet, sometimes, we can walk in a restaurant and order the exact same thing – right down to the salad dressing. It happened the other day.

I’ve given this advice a number of times. I will stick with it.

Never marry someone you know you can live with.

Marry someone you can’t live without.

Sometimes it’s not enough just to say you were there.

It’s not enough to leave fingerprints or footprints, to sign the registry or drop down a calling card. It’s not enough to strike a pose for the camera.

We are compelled to let the world know we were there, so we leave our mark in other ways.

So we take out our Sharpie pens. Pocket knives. The sharp edges of a house key. The ball point pen we carry around in our pockets.

I don’t know what it is about the men’s restroom that makes guys want to write on the walls. They deposit their names in black ink. They say crude things about their friends. They make suggestive comments about the opposite sex, of which most are just boasts. Or dreams.

For a good time, call XXX-OOO-XXXX.

Human nature when nature calls? I don’t think so. Do they write on their bathrooms at home?

The photograph above was taken at a barbecue place up the road with sawdust on the porch. And most of the comments — at least the ones I saw — were clean compared to most men’s restrooms.

Blame it on Kilroy.

It’s not unusual for me to have two or three speaking engagements every week. Civic clubs. Church groups. Senior organizations. Book clubs. Garden clubs.

I counted some 20 on the calendar between now and March 2.

There have been a few times over the past 13 years when I’ve given two speeches in one day. I remember once looking out in the audience at a dinner banquet at the Howard Community Club and seeing a man and his wife who had heard me earlier that day at a senior group at Ingleside Methodist Church. They could have given my speech for me.

Last week, I set an unofficial record, of sorts. On Thursday, I spoke three times … in one day!

A few months ago, I was invited to speak at lunch to the Hawkinsville chapter of the National Association of Retired Federal Employees. I have spoken to this group several times in the past, as well as NARFE chapters in Macon and Warner Robins.

A few weeks after receiving that invitation, I was asked to break bread with the Masons at the Marshall A. Weir Lodge on Riverside Drive that night.

No problem, I said. Lunch in Hawkinsville. Dinner in Macon.

Soon it got interesting. Jackie K. Cooper, a friend and fellow author, contacted me about speaking to The Muses ladies book club in Perry. He had been scheduled, but had a conflict come up. He asked if I could pinch-hit for him. When I saw the date was Jan. 19, the red flag went up. My plate was already full for that day.

However, Jackie said the book club met at 3 p.m. I would be passing through Perry on my way back from Hawkinsville. I might as well stop by for some coffee and cake.  I would be finished in plenty of time to make my gig in Macon.

I knew I could double up. But triple down?

It had already been a busy week on the circuit. I had addressed to a senior group at First United Methodist in Warner Robins on Tuesday. And on Wednesday afternoon, I taped an hour-long television program with Polly and Dave Crawford at Cox Cable Studios.

No doubt it would be physically and mentally exhausting. I also had a column to write for Friday.  I probably wouldn’t have voice left by bedtime.

I am pleased to announce I not only survived the day (and night) it was a lot of fun.

I love an adventure. This certainly was one.

I have learned a few things from Coach Billy Henderson over the years.

1. Arrive 15 minutes early to every appointment. (If you’re five minutes early, you’re 10 minutes late.)

2. If you tell the truth, you don’t have to remember what you said.

3. Always  speak to everybody in your path … from the janitor in the hallway to the president of the bank.

4. Keep on the sunny side, always on the sunny side.

The year I spent with Coach Henderson while writing his biography — “It Can Be Done: The Billy Henderson Story” — was one of the most memorable times of my life. And these years since the book was published in 2005 have been rewarding, too. This man has touched more lives than anyone I have ever known.

The book was a journey for both of us. I conducted most of the interviews at his “office” (the couch in the lounge at the Holiday Inn in Athens). I’ve heard him tell a number of people I was his “psychiatrist.”

I may have been. But he was my teacher. And coach.

I went to visit the old ball coach a few weeks ago. (He may qualify as “old” because he is 83 , but the man still works out six days a week at the YMCA.) I arrived right at lunchtime, which was good timing because his longtime housekeeper, Shirley, had made me a sandwich.

We talked about a lot of things. His heart was very heavy. His grandson, Zach, died unexpectedly a few days before Christmas. Zach was 25 years old.

Coach Henderson has had a lot of sadness in his life, more tragedy than most of us will ever know. Of course, his oldest son, Brad, was killed in a car accident in 1964. And his wife, Fosky, died about this time last year after a long struggle with dementia.

He shared a lot of other things, too. He told me just a few days earlier two of his former players at Clarke Central in Athens — Derek Dooley and David Perno — had come by to see him. Dooley is now the head football coach at Tennessee, and Perno is the head baseball coach at Georgia.

I have never been around Coach Henderson when I haven’t learned something. I always go away a better person, just from being around him.

As I was leaving, he told me he loved me.

I told him I love him, too, because I do.

A writer getting a paper cut is like a field-goal kicker pulling a hamstring.

OK, maybe that’s an exaggeration. But it does hurt.

I’ve been on injured reserve for the past week. A few days into the new year, I opened a letter that arrived on my desk at work (I never use letter openers) and reached inside. My left index finger was among those on the front line and took a bullet for the entire team.

The tip of my finger was ripped open by the sharp edge of a pledge card, and I bled like a stuck pig. Imagine that. They wanted me to contribute money … not to mention a pint of blood.

It throbbed for two hours. It hurt for two days. I wore a sympathy bandage for a while, then was relegated to a band-aid from Walgreen’s.

Every time I typed, the entire upper left side of the keyboard followed my wounded finger. The “r” and “t” were joined at the hip … er, tip.

Anyway, everything is getting back to normal. I appreciate all the get-well cards.

Listen to God.

Never block a blessing.

Move my body and mind.

Invest in people.

Don’t put a 10-dollar tree in a 10-cent hole.

Eat, drink and be merry.

Look like I’m 12 years old again.