Jerry and I met on May 31, 1977, at Six Flags over Texas. I was 14, he was 15. Our group of four girls had been “accidentally on purpose” trailing his group of four guys around the park for over an hour before we finally struck up a conversation in the arcade. He lived in Garland, I lived in Cedar Hill, and somehow we made a long-distance teenage romance work. Our dads took turns driving us to meet at malls halfway between our towns—shopping, pizza, movies, and arcade games. When the boys got their licenses, we didn’t need chaperones anymore. We never stopped choosing each other.
We went to prom together our senior year in 1980, and two years later, on July 31, 1982, we got married. It wasn’t a whirlwind romance—it was a steady one, built on weekends, phone calls, and the kind of love that grows up with you.
Over the past 42 years, we’ve lived what some might call a “dull” life, but to us, it’s been full—of laughter, quiet routines, and the occasional chaos. Like raising two sons 13 years apart: Jacob is 37 now, and Jordan is 25. That age gap kept us on our toes.
We were both teachers, and now we’re retired, living near the coast with our youngest. Life has slowed down, but it’s rich in ways we never expected. We volunteer, we cook, we walk the beach. We’re still learning how to be together in new seasons.
There have been peaks and valleys, of course. But through it all, we’ve held on to the same truth: we were lucky to find each other young, and even luckier to grow old together.
Some love stories are loud and dramatic. Ours is quiet, steady, and 42 years strong—and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
