Valentine’s Day will be extra special to me this year. My wife and I will be celebrating our 35th wedding anniversary in June. But, there’s more to the story.

Ever felt that something was meant to be? It’s been that way with us. In 1952, an image constantly appeared in my head. I knew, without a doubt, that I would marry a blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl and have two children – a boy and a girl. This would happen in the eastern part of the United States. That’s exactly what did happen.

In 1964, I was in the Army, stationed in Panama. I met a fellow GI who was writing to his girlfriends. At the bottom of his list was Patricia Miller.

“Got any extra names?” I asked, “Someone you have not written to?”

“Sure,” he said. “Pick anyone at the bottom of the list, but not the one at the top. That’s my wife.”

So, I became a pen pal and so started my life-long relationship with this blonde-haired, blue-eyed lady from Calais.

After two years, I was transferred to Olathe, Kan. My pen pal and I had never exchanged pictures, nor did we talk on the phone. It was only the words on paper that attracted us to each other.

One Christmas I decided to see this mystery woman from Maine. I took a two-week leave of absence and headed east.

On the way I had many adventures. One that nearly turned me around was when my car broke down.

“Your cahh broke down?” she said. I couldn’t believe the accent on the phone. After all, I was from S.D. and had never heard a Down East accent.

“Gollie,” I replied. “I shur did.” Dead silence at both ends of the line. Only curiosity kept the relationship alive.

Finally, I arrived at Farmington State College to take her home to Calais to meet her parents. We knew each other instantly when we met.

The first hour was only the polite conversation of courtship. My dream girl was right there, sitting beside me. I knew she was to be my wife.

But then, disaster struck.

Just outside Bangor, my car killed a dog, but not before the dog killed my oil pan. It was a big dog.

The owner of the dog was not too pleased. Not only did I have to pay for the dog; I needed a ride to town so I could rent a car. The owner took us to town – for a fee.

Finally, we were again on Route 9.

Her father did not believe the dog story, but he did allow me to stay. We were engaged that Christmas and married soon thereafter in a quaint New England church.

The church burned down a year later.

They say half of all marriages fail. Ours has endured, even prospered, mellowed like a fine wine. Our secret? A good marriage requires patience and mutual forgiveness. Add lots of respect and love with a dash of humor and laughter.

I’m convinced that it’s best to marry a Maine girl. They’re a tough bunch. They can put up with anyone, even guys like me. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Gerald Button is a free-lance writer who lives in Stetson with his blonde-haired, blue-eyed wife, Patricia.