This Saturday is June 4th. It marks the 22nd anniversary of my marriage to the lovely and all-round-best-woman-on-earth, Jess, and the beginning of the 23rd year of her life sentence. Through it all, she has never complained, never whined, never asked for anything other than my love (and a new dog every once in a while). She has stood by me through thick and thin (okay, I was never really thin, but compared to now . . .). I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, if it weren’t for her, I’d either be dead or in prison by now. I honestly believe she was sent to me by God, who was apparently tired of having to spend so much time keeping my stupid ass alive.

She was been there for me through years of a sort of slow-motion nervous breakdown. She’s been there for my kids. She’s been there for my family. She has supported me, advised me wisely, and never hesitated to let me know when I’ve gotten out of control. In fact, she’s the only one who’s ever been able to stop me, once I start to spin. Even though she has often joked that she has absolutely no mothering instinct at all, she’s the most nurturing person I know. She used to make fun of me for giving away pictures to sad-sack kids at baseball tournaments, when the kid didn’t have the money, but she’s just as soft a touch.

I remember the first time I saw her, it was all I could do to keep from climbing through her window to introduce myself. She was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. Fortunately, for once, I showed some restraint, and it paid off. Of course, I pursued her relentlessly; I had to – she wasn’t playing hard-to-get, she really, really didn’t want to be got, at least not by me. She was the first woman I ever really tried to impress, and I’ve got to say, I failed miserably.

Even though I did completely fail to impress her, I did manage to make her laugh, and for once a woman was laughing with me and not at me (actually, it was, and still is, a little of both), but at least she was laughing. We’re still laughing together. We both intentionally say and do stupid things just to make the other laugh. She is my best friend, and I’m hers. I honestly believe that the two of us could live completely isolated from everyone else, and we’d be fine, as long as we had each other.

She’s still the most beautiful woman in the world to me, even if 22 years of living with me have taken a toll on her. I wouldn’t trade one night, or even an afternoon, with her for a month with Scarlett Johansson (which I’m sure will be a relief to both of them), or anyone else. My biggest fear in life is letting her down.

I first proposed to her in the middle of the night, over the phone from Italy, phenomenally drunk (me, not her). She was very understanding and told me to ask her again when I was sober. The next day, when I got up, I called her and asked her to marry me again. I think she was only surprised that I remembered I’d asked her. She told me to ask her again when I got home (she is many things, but one thing she’s never been is easy).

The third time proved to be the charm, and she said yes. We decided to get married in the base chapel, so we had to go to the Chaplain for counseling. I think it was supposed to be 5 or even 6 sessions. I was so angry after the first session (with the Chaplain, not Jess), that I was ready to just forget about a church wedding and go to the Justice of the Peace, or whatever it is they’ve got in England. Jess talked me down eventually, because she wanted a church wedding. After the second session, Jess was so angry (again, at the Chaplain, not me) she was ready to go to the J.P. Eventually I got her talked down, mostly because I was pretty sure that if we didn’t get married in a church, we’d both regret it. The third session began with the Chaplain telling us that we might as well just set a date and skip the rest of the sessions, because we were obviously determined to go through with it, no matter how big a mistake he thought we were making. That’s a confidence builder, I gotta say.

When we went to get the marriage licence, they asked if I’d ever been married before. I said I had, so they checked the divorce box. They asked her the same thing, and she said no. They asked her age. She told them she was 25. The woman nodded and said, “Ah, spinster.” I’m not kidding. They actually checked the box for spinster. Now that I think of it, Jess’ life has really been just an unending string of indignities since she met me.

I know that no marriage is perfect, and that every couple has rough times, but I honestly don’t ever recall us being unhappy. Sure, there have been tough times, but I’ve never felt anything less than overwhelming love for her, and never felt like her love for me was in question. Everything that’s ever come up, we’ve faced together, and we’ve never let anything come between us. She’s always been there for me, and I’ve tried to always be there for her.

If it sounds like I’m bragging, it’s because I am, about her, not about myself. I’m a pain in the ass, and I know it. She has always been the rock in our relationship, the one person I can always count on, and I’ve tried to be the same for her. The good times we’ve shared are too numerous to count, and the bad times too inconsequential to remember. I love her just as much today as the day we were married. I can’t even imagine my life without her, and I thank God for her every day.

To finish off this wildly inadequate tribute to the love of my life, I’ll add an essay I wrote for my prose class:

Finding My Happy Place

There are some places, some things in the world that demand you stop; stop rushing to the next place, stop worrying about the bills, stop stressing about everything, and just be there; the north rim of the Grand Canyon, the badlands of South Dakota, the night sky over the Indian Ocean or the Arizona desert, Loch Lomond and Glen Coe in Scotland, just to name a few. They are usually lonely places, the kind of place that makes you feel alone, even with a group, and yet strangely not alone, like you’re suddenly intimately connected to something infinitely bigger, wiser, stronger, and more kind and loving than you’re really equipped to understand. They sneak up on you when you least expect them, and become a part of you, forever.

It is June, 1994, and my wife Jess and I are on our honeymoon, touring around Ireland in her little Mazda pick-up truck. We’re doing all the usual touristy things; China and crystal shopping in Waterford, taking distillery tours, exploring the beautiful gardens and ruins of Blarney Castle (as well as standing in line to kiss the Blarney Stone, and, of course, buying the pictures), and drinking gallons of Guinness and whiskey at pubs crowded with tourists just like us. It is the best time of our lives (so far, anyway). We are young, healthy, and wildly in love.

As we drive out along the Dingle Peninsula, on the west coast, I’m in a kind of photographic frenzy; it is some of the most beautiful country I’ve ever seen. I’m like a starving man at a buffet, so intent on getting it all that I can’t take the time to really appreciate any of it fully.

At every wide spot in the road, I tell her, “Ooh, ooh, pull over baby, pull over!” like a three-year-old begging his mommy for candy in a grocery store checkout line.

“We just pulled over.”

“Well pull over again! We may never see this again!”

“It’s the same thing you just took a picture of.”

“Yeah, but it looks different from here. Besides, you’re driving, you’ll never see this if I don’t get a picture.”

“Okay, fine,” and she laughs at me for being an idiot, and at herself for indulging me, and pulls over and waits for me to jump out and walk back to where I’d originally asked her to pull over. Thankfully, she is driving very slowly, so I don’t have to walk far.

I take several pictures, using several different lenses and shutter speeds, then climb back in the truck and we pull back onto the road. Of course, within a quarter-mile, “Ooh, ooh, ooh, honey pull over . . .” and the whole thing starts again. Sometimes I win, sometimes she does, but really, we both win every time.

As we stutter through the countryside and up into the mountains, the road becomes narrower and narrower, with hairpin turns that force us to slow down even more and stop rubbernecking. On the east side of Conor Pass, there is a small car park with a beautiful view of the valley below. We stop and both get out to look. We have to be careful, as there isn’t a lot of room. If we’re not careful, we’ll find ourselves standing in the middle of the road. Behind us is a steep, boulder-strewn slope that looks to flatten out higher up. We climb up that slope, climbing from rock to rock, until we can peek over the top, and I feel God put his hand on my shoulder and say, “Look. Look what I made for you.” I am awestruck.

The plateau is a large bowl, holding a small lake of crystal-clear water like a beautiful secret. There are no signs down below, telling of its presence. It is a surprise reserved for only those adventuresome enough to climb this slope out of curiosity, or the desire for a better view of the valley below. And what a view it is; the broad valley stretched out below, lush and green, the kind of green you only get in Ireland, crisscrossed by ancient stone walls, holding at least three lakes, and bounded by more mountains, stretching off to the Atlantic Ocean in the distance. The valley is even more gentle and pastoral in contrast to the boulder-strewn ruggedness of the highlands we stand on. We sit on a rock by that little lake for some time, not even talking, just happy to be here in this place together. Jess takes her shoes off and soaks her feet for a bit.  There may be other people up here, in fact, there probably are, but, in this place, they are reduced to mere wraiths, flitting on the edge of our consciousness, barely registering to us, and I’m sure we’re the same to them. I don’t remember anything but Jess and I, and the lake, and the countryside. We have never just been anywhere, as completely as we are here. We sit here, unwilling to break the spell, time seeming to stand as still as ourselves.

Sadly, time is not standing still after all. The sky has become overcast, the clouds are lowering, and we still have to get over the top of the pass, now shrouded in the clouds. As we work our way down the slope, I pause to take a picture of the valley below. The sunlight has found a hole in the clouds, and a single beam shoots through, illuminating the lakes in the now shadowed valley. That picture hangs on the wall in our kitchen, and I pass it dozens of times a day, almost always pausing to look at it and remember that day.

On the way down the slope, we happen upon a small, actually tiny, waterfall. Jess sits down on a rock next to it, and I take her picture. I will use that picture as a bookmark for years. It’s probably still in one of my books somewhere, and I’ll find it again someday. In the picture, she looks the way I still see her, beautiful and happy, with a gorgeous Mary Tyler Moore smile that never fails to make my heart beat a little harder.

We make it over the pass without a problem, and on down the mountain to the village of Dingle, a lovely little town with live traditional Irish music in nearly every pub. The next day, we take a dolphin-watching boat ride, along with dozens of other tourists, in the harbor, and drive the tourist-burdened road around the Slea Head loop, visit prehistoric forts and miles of beautiful coastline, but after Conor Pass, they all feel a little touristy and anti-climactic. On our way out of Dingle, we stop at Conor Pass once again, and feel the same magic as before.

We follow that up with a visit to the Cliffs of Moher, and a drive through the Burren. The Cliffs of Moher bring much the same feeling as Conor Pass, but it is too crowded, and just too immense. Our attention is split between the cliffs, and the tourists crawling up to the edge, wondering which one is going to fall off first. The Burren, with its weird, other-worldly landscape and prehistoric dolmen, or tombs, also brings those feelings, but it is so unsettlingly strange, and almost sinister, that it is just a bit like seeing what happens when God gets angry. Impressive and wonderful, yes, but also ominous and haunting. If the Cliffs of Moher are a big, flashy gift to the world and the Burren is a warning glance from a stern parent, then Conor Pass is a gentle, warm, and loving hug from your daddy.

We will return at least twice after this first trip, once around our tenth anniversary, and then again for our twentieth. Both times we have either friends or family with us, and it affects them all the same way. The last time, we find a girl skinny-dipping while her boyfriend sits on the shore watching. It’s funny and a little bit awkward, but it is also fitting; after all, what could be more appropriate in that rugged Eden than a pretty nymph unselfconsciously enjoying, and being a part of, all that beauty? At least, in my mind she is pretty; we politely keep our distance. To tell the truth, I envy them. Jess and I are too conventional, too inhibited to allow ourselves that kind of freedom, that kind of joy, and to be honest, the sight of me skinny-dipping would certainly mar the sense of wonder for any other passers-by, so it’s probably just as well.

The wonderful thing about these lonely places is that, once you’ve been there, they become a part of you. All you have to do to visit them again is think about them, and you’re there again, feeling their magic for the first time, again, and again, and again. They become your “happy place”.

On our second trip, I take a new picture of Jess by that little waterfall, to replace the bookmark one. In it, she’s ten years older, ten years heavier, but her smile is just as bright and joyful as it is on our honeymoon. Although the years of living with me have taken a visible toll on her, she is just as beautiful as the day I met her. She has a magic of her own that affects me the same way Conor Pass does. Every time I look at her, it’s as if God lays his hand on my shoulder and says, “Look. Look at what I made for you.” Conor Pass may be our happy place, but Jess is mine.