Lucky Thirteen

Randy and I were married on April 13, 1984.

It was a Friday.



Many people looked cross-ways at us when we set the date, but neither of us suffer from paraskevidekatriaphobia, and it was the only weekend night in April that was available at the place we wanted to use for the ceremony (Thistle Hill in Fort Worth). So we threw caution to the wind, cackled in the face of superstition, and set off on our journey. This means that last Sunday was our 24th anniversary.

Or as Randy put it, "8,766 days of pure...bliss. Counting leap years."

No, but really. There were so many things that could have kept these last 24 years from happening. Early on, when I said Carter, he could have said Reagan. When I said dogs, he could have said cats. When I said beach, he could have said mountains. When I said kids, he could have said you have nieces and nephews, don't you?

But he didn't say any of those things.

And while ALL those days maybe haven't been total bliss, the one thing we could count on is that we were in it together. From Texas to Virginia, to North Carolina, and back to Texas, we've been a team. And when the kids came, we were still a tight little group. And now that the kids are starting to stretch their wings, and our nest is a little closer to emptying, we're still in it together.

When the going was tough, we didn't give up on each other. On the balance sheet that is the last 24 years, there are millions more entries written in black ink than in red. I couldn't be prouder of the life we have built and the family we created. Together.

No one makes me laugh more, have to think faster, or want to work harder to learn new things to TRY to keep up. And there's no other hand I'd rather hold on to as we head in to the second half of our lives.


Happy anniversary, sweetie. I love you.