September 10, 2019. Thirty-six years.

Thirty-six years married to this guy.

Thirty-six years ago, he showed up at the church five minutes before our ceremony. In cowboy hat and boots. My mother had been saying for an hour, “he’s not coming, Sue.”  I knew he was coming. When we met at the front altar, I whispered to him, “where have you been? My mother thought you weren’t coming.” His reply: “watching Taps with Phil. We had to wait until it was over.”

Our marriage in a nutshell.

Thirty-six years.
Three children (plus our heart children, Travis and Rachel.)
Duchess, Duke, Prince, Shataan, Murphy, Samantha, Jack, Max, Tiger, Tux, and Chloe. And a handful of other dogs and cats that Sarah and I tried to sneak into the house.
Three houses purchased. Twenty-five years and counting in the one that became home.
Mountains and valleys and blessings beyond measure.
Countless door slams and a thrown dish or two. All me.
Never going to bed angry was never our agreement.
Not letting it go past a day or two is.
He is seriously rock n’ roll. I’m a bit country and Christian.
He’s a tea kind of guy. Give me all the coffee.
I run into the flames of a crisis. He sits back and waits to pick up the pieces. Usually the broken hearts, mine included.
He can’t wait to get to a party. I can’t wait to leave.
We both love gas-guzzling, 8-cylinder vehicles that are loud and fast.
He’s contractor beige. I’m boho.

We never thought we’d make it this far.

But, God.

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