By his side as his steady girl

Terry and I call April 17 our “going steady” anniversary. That's the day — in a basement alcove of the old Priest River High School — he asked, “Will you be my steady girl?”

He drove into town this afternoon for what I assumed was a cup of coffee. But where he really went was the florist shop to buy me a beautiful bouquet of fresh flowers. I remember him tucking a dandelion in my hair one sunny spring lunch hour when we were sitting on the front steps of the high school. He even added that bit from the song — when you go to San Francisco be sure to wear a flower in your hair.

In honesty, he stayed steadier than I did. We hit a rough patch at about thirty years of marriage. I was away for over a year. Not in San Francisco — but California, nonetheless.

We launched so young — still 15 and 16 on April 17, 1968. What I see now is we had a whole map inside us. It has taken 55 years to spread it all out — with terrain yet to be traversed. I've always loved a map — the big picture. It holds the landmarks — the topography — the road running ahead and behind — the side routes.

An electronic screen is such a small box. It micromanages. Set the destination. Turn right, turn left — change to this lane, stop in one hundred feet. Don't look beyond your immediate patch of pavement. The disembodied voice will redirect if you are off course. Just do as you're told.

Thank God Terry and I started with a map and not a screen. Our route zigzagged us around the Pacific Northwest — then shot a long way north, to Alaska. When that road wore out, the map pointed east — farther east than we imagined we'd ever go. We landed in a Minneapolis suburb, which I suppose half the country considers west. It was in this stint I broke off on my own toward the distant south — to Pasadena.

I could say if I'd had that unflappable screen voice telling me to reroute, maybe I'd have made a rote twist of the steering wheel and stayed in Minnesota. But a rote relationship is one flat tire after another. Ultimately, God was with us both on that side trip — and He had a truer map key to impart to Terry and me.

We eventually returned to the town where we began — our high school now a junior high. We'd added four children — and twenty grandchildren. And we're about to trailer a third generation. We've lost road companions — picked up strays and hitchhikers — bound up travelers' wounds — and continually increased our caravan. We followed our natural talents and likes down two lanes and four lanes — and cut to the backcountry, too.

Here we are today. Glad for the routes we did and did not take. Thankful we survived the divided highway. We didn't understand all those years ago about the map that was in us. We didn't know our life together was going to be one big road trip. That love is not a straight line.

I brought my own bouquet of flowers in from the floor of the car. Needing his “sticks” to balance and walk, Terry couldn't make a dashing presentation. His steps wobble now — but I'm at his side — his steady girl.