Conversations on Creatures, Snow, and the Depth of Loyalty

In the mornings, before anything else, there is coffee. Always coffee. Three hundred and sixty-five days a year, I make it for my wife. It doesn’t matter if there is snow outside like a white wall in front of the house, or if the sun is already shining through the kitchen window. Coffee first. That is my small ritual, my small language of love. On weekends we even drink it in bed, with the television murmuring in the background, both of us still half in our dreams. I like these quiet starts. They say more than big words ever could.

This winter there was so much snow. Fifteen centimeters overnight. I stood outside with the shovel, pushing it left and right, thinking that in two weeks we would fly to Gran Canaria. Sunshine instead of frozen fingers. I hate snow, honestly. It looks beautiful maybe for five minutes, and then it becomes work. But still, I cleaned the car, because my wife should not drive her Mercedes in this chaos. It’s a nice car, very sporty, electric, with leather steering wheel and colorful interior lights. In summer, with the sunroof open, it feels like freedom. In snow, it feels like sitting with your backside directly on the ice. Once I drove it in winter and suddenly a tree came closer and closer. No connection to the earth. I learned my lesson. Since then, when it’s slippery, I take the SUV with four-wheel drive and bring her to work myself. That is also love. Not flowers on Valentine’s Day. Just driving through snow at seven in the morning.

Valentine’s Day… I don’t like it. For me it is business. Prices go up, roses cost double, chocolate becomes gold. Why should I need one special day to show love? We have Valentine’s Day every day. Sometimes I bring her socks with little dachshunds on them because I saw them in a shop and thought, yes, that is her. I put them on her pillow and say, “Look on your bed.” That is enough. Small surprise, normal day. Not because the calendar tells me to.

Maybe I think like this because for me loyalty and respect are bigger than decoration. I learned that already in the army. There I met a man from my hometown. First day, standing in front of the officer, I looked at him and thought, I know this face. We were in the same room, four men together. Eight years in the army. Special orders, exercises, long nights. In those times you must rely on someone. Really rely. When there is trouble, you don’t ask about his political opinion or how clean his room is. You must trust that he stands next to you.

After the army we lost contact. First we called, then less, then nothing. Not because of distance. Because of thinking. His view of the world changed. Or maybe it was always there and I did not see it. He started talking about people in a way that felt like 1933 to 1945 again. I cannot accept that. For me, people are people. If they are good to me, I am good to them. So that friendship slowly died. It made me sad, but I cannot be loyal to something that has no respect.

Loyalty for me is not discipline in cleaning your house. I have a friend whose home looks like a bomb exploded inside. I don’t visit him there. We meet in the city, drink coffee, laugh. He is a good man. That is enough. But loyalty is discipline in another way. You must call. You must write a message. You must say, “Come, let’s meet.” If you don’t care for a friendship, it goes away quietly.

My best friend Thomas taught me what loyalty really means. He has MS. His life became different, very different. But our friendship only became stronger. When I visit him, he drives his wheelchair with his chin, forward, left, right. Sometimes he asks me to remove the device from his face so we can talk without this thing between us. Then we sit there like two old friends and just talk. We laugh about the army, about stupid things we did, about people we met. And sometimes we talk about serious things. About time. About what is left. Those conversations bring us to another level. I don’t talk like that with everyone.

I like to bring him small things. Once I brought him a special cow salami from near Frankfurt. He loved it so much that now, whenever I am there, I buy four long pieces for him. Or I make gravlax at Christmas. Big salmon, salt, sugar, dill, 24 hours in the fridge, turning it carefully. On Christmas Eve I bring it to him. The next morning my phone rings, and I hear in his voice that he is smiling. That is my best Christmas gift.

When we have meetings with old soldiers and he says he cannot come because of transport, I drive to him. Even if it means I must leave my barbecue for one and a half hours. I am not good in giving control to others. If someone makes a mistake, I feel it in my stomach. So I solved it in my way: slow-cooked roast beef at 90 degrees, thermometers inside, connected to my phone. Even from the car I can see the temperature and tell my wife, “A little bit down. But don’t open the lid.” Technology and love together. That is me.

Respect is also important when love is not easy. My mother-in-law and I were not friends. We were different. But when she died and some younger family members laughed about her spelling mistakes in a calendar, I exploded. She had problems with reading and writing. Maybe dyslexia. But she was dead. You must respect the dead. I stood there in her kitchen and told them clearly. You don’t laugh about this. You don’t take photos of her freezer like it’s a museum. And you don’t ask for her car when you never called her, never thanked her for money she gave you. Loyalty is also standing up for someone who cannot stand anymore.

I once lost a friend for ten years because of wives. My first wife worked in the fish industry, creating new products. The wife of my friend spoke badly about her, called her names. I confronted it. It became ugly. We broke contact. Ten years later she left him for another man. Then I called him. I said, “Now we can speak again like men.” And we promised each other: no woman comes between us again. If our partners don’t like each other, we still stand together. Today we talk two times a week. That break hurt, but maybe it made the friendship stronger in the end.

Marriage for me is romance and respect together. We write each other every day: “I love you.” Even when I am on business trips, we FaceTime. First day away, we must see each other. It’s crazy, but it’s us. She loves sport, triathlon, biathlon, all these things. I prefer eating. Still, I go with her to competitions. She comes with me to barbecue events. We share what we love, even if it is not our own passion. That keeps it alive.

At home we also have small chaos. My wife rescues animals. Once we found a ladybird in the car. She said it must sleep. Now it has a small wooden house and honey water on a spoon. The hedgehogs sleep under our hedge, so we cut it by hand, not with the loud machine. It’s a little crazy, but it makes the house warm.

Loyalty is also small things in public life. When friends post something online and I believe in it, I support it. Not because I must. Because I want to. It is my conviction. When my mother died, friends came and said, “If you need something, call me.” That is loyalty. Not money. Not big speeches. Just standing there.

On Mondays many people say, “Oh no, Monday.” For me Monday is English class, laughter, good talk. When once there was too much snow and no English, I felt it. Monday without something to look forward to is only snow. But with good conversation, even snow becomes lighter.

In the end, I think life is like my morning coffee. Simple ingredients. Water, beans, heat. But if you do it every day with care, it becomes something strong and warm. Loyalty is the same. Small actions, repeated. Driving through snow. Bringing salmon. Standing up in a kitchen. Calling after ten years. Making coffee before the sun rises.

That is my way. Not perfect. Sometimes stubborn. Sometimes too direct. But always with heart.