On April 13, 1996, we were married at St. Francis of Rome Catholic Church in Riverbank, California.
We did not come from nowhere.

Her parents—Rose and Bud Deadmond.
Mine—Jerry and Sherry.
All with roots in Missouri and Kansas, carried west by people looking for work and something better. They found it in California.
We were both firstborns. We met in Modesto through a mutual friend.

Our first bond was simple—chocolate and conversation.
By then, I was in my early thirties. She was in her late twenties.We had both started to believe marriage might not be in the cards.

Then we met.

I saw it right away—her strength. And her honesty.
If you knew Kim, you knew where you stood. No games. No guessing.
Truth, delivered straight—but never without heart.

I asked her to marry me at the Early Dawn Cattle Company restaurant.
Small table. Food. Drinks.
I was more surprised than anyone when she said yes.

On our wedding day, I arrived early. I was standing off to the side when her car pulled in. She never knew I saw her. She was a hundred yards away, but I could read it plain—she was carrying the full weight of that moment.

We stood at the altar.
An old friend of mine fell asleep and began snoring—loudly—right in the middle of our vows.
She squeezed my arm.
We held it together. Barely.
That’s how it started. Not perfect. Just real.

We lived in Highway Village at first. One night, there was a gunfight in our front yard.
That settled it—we moved.
Out to a ranch in Waterford.
Nine months later, our daughter Emily was born.
There was a miscarriage before our son Jacob came along.

There was more pain than we expected. More fear.
Her pregnancies were hard on her.
But I watched something I still don’t fully understand—the harder it got, the stronger she became.

And somehow, more beautiful.

We built a life the old way.
Started a drywall business. Worked it for twenty years.
We buried our parents.
We raised our children.
We stayed.

When my health turned, we moved to Missouri to make it work.
It didn’t get easier. It got worse.
And that’s where the truth stands clear.

The woman I married—she did not step back.
She stepped forward.
Through every diagnosis, every setback, every hard day—she has been the strength in this family.

I have watched her endure things most people never see.
Pain she rarely talks about.
Weight she carries without complaint.

And still—she stands.
There are more moments than can be written.
The call from work when she had to give herself insulin for the first time.
The day we lost her mother without warning.
The fear, the blood, the grief, and the quiet decisions to keep going anyway.
A wedding in our backyard during a pandemic. Life continuing forward.

And now I watch her with our granddaughter—the same steady care, the same quiet devotion—the same love her mother once gave our daughter.

Nothing has been lost.
It has been carried forward.
She is still doing what she has always done—taking care of her family.
All of us. Even the dogs.

Thirty years is not a story you can tell in full.
It’s something you live.

So let the record show this:
I married a woman of strength, honesty, and unshakable heart.
She became my wife, the mother of our children, and the center of this family.
She has been my companion, my support, and my closest friend.

And after thirty years—I would choose her again. Knowing everything.
This is not a private matter.
This is a matter of record.

Thirty years.
Still standing.

Thank you, honey.