Forty More Days

Let's go find the joy

Granddaughter Jackie in 2022.

On a windy fall morning in 2002, I was taking a long walk in our neighborhood to brace for the day. This was a habit in my anxious, early days as a columnist for The Plain Dealer.

For years, I had fought for this job. The same editor who had said no, no, no had finally said yes. I was unprepared for how quickly this new job would catapult me into the public eye. So, I walked. My daughter would leave for school, and I’d log two or three miles to clear my head before showering and driving to the newsroom.   

On this particular morning, the trees were ablaze with red, orange, and golden leaves. Each gust of wind coaxed dozens of them into their final dance of swirls and swoops as they tumbled to the ground. At one point, I heard the rustling of an approaching breeze, and I couldn’t resist. I stood under one of the largest trees on the street, held out my arms and lifted my face to the rain of colors.

I bent down to pick up a few leaves for a bouquet. That’s when the single playing card, an ace of hearts, fluttered and landed at my feet. It was weathered but intact. My twin.

Had my mother been alive and walking with me, she would have gasped with joy, clapped her hands and insisted that finding an ace of hearts was a sign. Three years after her death, I could still hear her voice: “Love is on the way!” Her persistent wish, my abandoned dream.

Out of loyalty to Mom, I picked up the card and tucked it into the pocket of my red fleece jacket. When I got home, I slid it under my jewelry box and forgot about it.

A few days later, a man I’d never met sent an email to my work account. It was a short letter.

“Ms. Schultz,” it began. “Where did The Plain Dealer find you? You are a breath of fresh air.” He compared my writing to the prose of one of my favorite authors and signed it simply:

Best Wishes,

Sherrod Brown

Lorain, Ohio

My first thought: You think I write like she does?

My second thought: Oh, I know you.

He was in his fifth term of Congress.

Eighteen months later, we were married on my mother’s birthday. I’m not saying the ace of hearts had anything to do with this, but I never threw that card away. Sherrod didn’t know about it until last month, after I found it preserved in a plastic baggie.

Sherrod is a no-nonsense kind of guy, with two well-worn sneakers planted firmly on Planet Earth. So, I was surprised by his reaction after I held up the card and shared the story behind it.

“Right before I met you?” he said, his face beaming as he snatched it out of my hands.

“A week before your first email.”

He held it up. “You should frame this.”

And so, I did. It sits on the windowsill over the kitchen sink, next to the row of tiny, framed photos of our eight grandchildren.

A year ago, Sherrod might not have been so excited about this card. He would have loved the story, no doubt, but he may have teased me about it a little, too. “You and your signs,” he sometimes says, always with a kiss on my cheek. Last year, I probably wouldn’t have raced to frame it. But this is a campaign year. Our habits change.

In my experience, a high-stakes political campaign typically affects a marriage in one of two ways: Spouses meld into each other, united in common cause, or they become amicable roommates leading separate lives for the duration. I judge no one who opts for the latter. We’re melders, leaning into each other for comfort and strength—and private jokes when necessary, which is always.

I hope you’ll bear with me as I write more often about the campaign in these last six weeks. So much is bubbling up. Some may, once again, accuse me of trying to humanize Sherrod. As if I married an otter, maybe, or a pickled beet.

Photo by Vaughn Hillyard

Journalist Vaughn Hillyard captured this photo of us in early 2019, at day’s end in Waterloo, Iowa. This was during Sherrod’s Dignity of Work tour, when we were trying to decide if he should get into the presidential race. I made clear that I would support whatever he wanted to do. I’ll admit I was relieved when he decided to stay in the Senate, in this job he loves.

Vaughn’s photo is framed and sitting on our mantel. I love the exquisite composition, and Vaughn’s willingness to pause and capture an image he shared only with us. I cherish the memory of it, too. We were chattering about all that had happened that day, relishing the adventure of it all. Sherrod had just made a joke—I don’t remember what it was—and I was laughing.

In this Senate campaign, we are surrounded by some of the smartest and most decent people in politics, but each day begins and ends with the two of us. Our moods are as entwined as our aspirations, which helps us stay hopeful. Recently, I mentioned in a post on social media that Sherrod and I try to remind each other every morning to go find the joy. I was amused when a few people declared us to be freaks—because who does this first thing in the morning?

We don’t.  

Our morning conversation is a crazy quilt of questions, each of which, judging by the timbre of our voices, has the urgency of a congressional hearing. Anyone listening to these exchanges would likely blush in embarrassment for us.

Has Franklin pooped yet? How many scoops of coffee did you use?  Do you have your phone? Your ear pods? Your iPad? Your keys? Who writes these headlines? What haircut? Who said I wanted a haircut? Why is Walter hiding under the couch?

Walter.

Walter?

Wal-ter!

Off you go, honey. Go find the joy.

Even the strongest of marriages has its limits. Never am I more aware of this than during a campaign year. No matter how much I support and encourage Sherrod, and regardless of how much I love him, he walks that final mile alone.

It is his name on the ballot, his words that are applauded and distorted, his record that is celebrated and attacked. By law, in every campaign ad, Sherrod must assure voters that he approves this message. Nearly everywhere he goes, strangers swarm him. Give us hope, they say, in eighteen different ways.

He never complains about this. I, on the other hand, sometimes vent to the dogs. Fortunately, they find me fascinating.

For weeks, I’ve been wanting to share this photo. It is one of my favorites of Sherrod, captured in the wee hours of Christmas Eve, 2009. We were walking through the Rotunda toward the Senate floor, where Sherrod would cast his vote for the Affordable Care Act.

Sherrod had asked me to fly to Washington to be with him for this vote. He didn’t have to ask twice. We walked side by side, but he was alone with his thoughts. I stood back for a moment, taking in the loneliness of leadership. In the end, each senator stands alone. How they vote affects millions of lives, and their records determine how America will remember them.

I have such a vivid memory of this moment in our marriage. I remember watching Sherrod as he walked, briefly unaware that I was no longer beside him. I remember thinking about how there is no revision for cowardice, and that I couldn’t be prouder of him. I remember holding up my phone to capture this single image of my husband as he quietly walked into history.