Today is February 10, which marks the anniversary of the moment Gary and my paths first crossed in 1981.

I recently came across a one-page narrative that I frankly don’t remember writing. Long before blogs existed and long after I’d given up on hand-writing a diary, I must have felt the need to capture thoughts about my personal transformation.

This was written shortly before Gary and I married; something had truly changed:

I’d sooner die than move to Indiana!

Not a very courageous first reaction to the news that my dad had once again been transferred and we were actually going to leave our comfortable New England existence and head west.

How far west, I wasn’t exactly sure. Shameful for a 15 year old to be ignorant of the country to the west of New York … but I’d never had need to push my horizons beyond the city that offered Broadway, ballet, opera, and an opulent lifestyle that delighted me endlessly.

Indiana. Somewhere near Kansas probably. Known for corn, an auto race in May, corn, Abe Lincoln’s adolescence, corn, and lots of flat land (probably cornfields).

But my father loved the job offer and off we went. Luckily, the town was somewhat civilized, although to me “good breeding” still meant all the right schools and achieving the niceties of life, not an exceptional bull. And manure was something to buy in bags (and to avoid after the first rain!).

I mellowed in high school and even chose to attend a state university. Early ambitions were quashed by my better judgment as my major shifted from theater to music to broadcast journalism.

My first real job offer came right before I graduated. At first I thought the phone call was a practical joke. In spite of all that, I landed the position as a radio newscaster in a small southern Indiana community and vowed to stay only a year then head for Indianapolis, then Chicago, then (naturally!) on to New York.

My mom says it all goes to show God has a sense of humor.

I met a young farmer at a local watershed election I was assigned to cover for the news. I remember he had a smudge of dirt (probably not dirt) on his ear. The country boy took pity on the totally-out-of-place reporter decked out in a dress and now muddied high heels.

On our first date, I half expected Gary to pick me up in a horse and buggy and whisk me away to centuries long past. Instead, he drove up in his red and white 1963 Chevy.

New York seems colder now.

I dragged Gary there last Christmas and his most memorable comment was “To think how much hay I could fit in those buildings!”

He says I’m giving up so much to settle down on the farm with him. I wonder if he’ll ever know how much richer my life will be as his wife.

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