My Memorable Intro to Bittersweet:

Aptly named, bittersweet, this is a very pretty vine that grows these clusters of pepper-sized red berries, each with their own little yellow jacket. You see them vividly during the beginning of November in New England, when the autumn rains have stripped every tree, bush, and vine of their gloriously multicolored foliage, and the smokey anticipation of Thanksgiving is in the air.

Now anyone who has seen my book titles can guess I am an incurable nature addict. But unlike other peaceful nature addicts who are content to admire nature in nature…I tend to want to bring my nature home as much as possible, meaning I like to pluck everything pluckable that strikes my fancy, then stick it in a vase.

Therefore, during the November of 2004…when I noticed these cool berries that would look just perfect on my kitchen table vase, enhancing the yellows, rusts, and burgundies of the Indian corn I had hung from the eves of our newly built log home, I cut an enthusiastic handful of branches, proud of my berry arrangement in the kitchen.

“Honey,” said my New England husband, “those are weeds. We don’t like them here.”

“So what? They’re so pretty. I don’t care that they’re weeds.”

My husband shrugged, unimpressed by my fall decor efforts.

Ten days later, the berries shriveled. During a frenzied pre-Thanksgiving house cleaning spree, I chucked the berries out on our yet-to-be-landscaped walkout basement porch, dense with overgrown wild grass and other weeds that were still braving the frosty nights.

Two days passed.

Twenty-four hours before the holiday afternoon, my New England husband stormed into the kitchen, interrupting my dinner prep. “Did you throw those bittersweet berries on the porch?”

“What bittersweet berries?”

“The ones you had in this vase here.” He picked up the ceramic vase like Exhibit #1-A

“Yes.”

“You’re going out right now and picking up everyone of them.”

“What?” I felt my brow crease. “Why? The porch is a mess anyway. Who cares?”

“I care. I’m not gonna sit and watch a hundred bittersweet stranglers grow in our yard next spring. Go. Go do it right now or else I won’t eat dinner.”

Three hours later, once the sky was dark, the evening, cold, and my fingers, numb from picking the berries I had merrily scattered everywhere it seemed, I was ready to walk the twenty miles to the county courthouse to file for divorce.

It was I who didn’t eat dinner that night.

But of course I didn’t head to the courthouse the next morning. We women are stupid that way. We keep giving our men one more chance, and one more chance, swearing they’ll “change.” Convinced of how much they love us. Adamant about how they can’t live without us…until one morning we wake up and that bugle call for a divorce shatters our inner ear. Then we do head to the county courthouse…and all our friends roll their eyes, and say, “What took you so long?”

Today….as I write this blog post fifteen years later…I know for sure that those erstwhile women who reach their golden wedding anniversaries….are women who forgave their husbands 50,000 infractions during fifty interminable years….and more power to them for their patience. It takes all kinds to make this world…but there isn’t a woman on earth who can argue the bittersweet nature of a marriage. Like the vine, it’s beautiful, but it’s a fight not to let it strangle you.

How is your long term relationship doing? :))