A great American romance story for Valentine’s Day

I’m not the person you want to come to when seeking advice on relationships. I have been in a relationship with the same woman since I was 17 years old. I’m 40 now and we have been married for nearly 19 of those years, so you do the math. If I was good with figures I would not be doing this for a living.

My late grandmother always told me to play the field, but I did the exact opposite. There are a lot of fish in the sea and I latched onto the first one I was able to reel in. Though I must be a rather good angler, because she swallowed the hook, line and sinker. A couple kids, several moves across the state and countless pets and we’re still going strong. As strong as we can anyway. My wife hasn’t left me or tried to kill me in my sleep, though I am sure my parents would take her side in either scenario, so I must be doing something right.

In honor of St. Valentine’s Day, the feast day honoring the patron saint of beekeepers and epilepsy, among other things, turned commercial holiday endorsed by chocolate and greeting card companies, allow me to tell the story of how I met my better half.

In high school I was an active member of the National FFA organization (they dropped Future Farmers of America years ago, because very few of their members took to the agrarian lifestyle). Each term I took every available FFA class because A) it beat math, and B) after the work was complete the instructor would let us play cards. One semester the only such class offered was floral design. Yes, there is a high school class that teaches kids how to make flower arrangements.

Given the content of such a course, my usual gang of card-playing friends did not enroll. In fact, only the names of two young men, including yours truly, were among a roster of young ladies. I almost dropped the class. I was afraid of being ridiculed, but my counterpart persuaded me to stay.

“Look at all the girls in here,” he said. “You’ve got to stick around.”

Wiser counsel has never been given.

Soon I found myself making new card-playing buddies, ones that were much easier on the eyes and didn’t know all of my jokes, but one particular one caught my attention. Attempts to draw her interest seemed to go nowhere though, or so I thought.

One afternoon the class was tasked with dismantling an old greenhouse. While the girls busied themselves removing broken pots and dead plants, the two boys were in charge of discarding bits of machinery and debris: dented vent fans, seized motors and filters. The filters particularly caught our eyes and, boys will be boys, we soon found creative ways to dispose of them.

“I bet I can punch through one of these things,” I said to my comrade.

Is there a better way of impressing a woman than showing off your physical strength? I think not. So I called out to the girl I was trying to impress.

“Hey, watch this!” I shouted as I let loose a flying fist that would have made Bruce Lee proud.

What I did not know at the time is that greenhouse filters are made with glass fibers. As my fist shredded the filter, beautifully I might say, the filter shredded my fist. My feat of prowess was damped by a row of bloody knuckles. The girl I was trying to impress, didn’t laugh or walk away. She brought the first aid kit and cleaned up my hand.

The rest, as they say, is history, because I knew then and there that I would never find anyone better.