Thirty-nine years these two have been together. Next year is the big 4-0. I can hardly believe it. Two strong, independent, remarkable people who have lived lives of integrity and peace. They gave me the best foundation--a happy, loving home--and I'm so glad to call them mine.
Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad. I hope I can grow up to be like you.
Here's a vignette that I wrote about them last year. It was part of my first published piece in a tiny campus journal.
As I crested the hill on I-84, the little valley opened up before me. The dry, flat land was pockmarked by sagebrush and ringed by low mountains that looked blue on the horizon. Cattle grazed the prickly greens that edged the conquered fields of soybeans and sugar beets. And that fine Idaho wind left every tree leaning, branches forced in a salute to the east. My mother came here as a bride at 21, a California girl used to sand clutching her flat belly. They settled on a little farm where she learned how to irrigate, drive a tractor, and chase stray bulls from the garden on a Sunday afternoon in her heels. She birthed six babies through sixteen years on that dusty acreage west of town. All because one Saturday afternoon while watching a football game and drinking root beers, a dark-haired, earnest cowboy named Ralph held her hand and she never wanted him to let go.