Beef. It's What's for Dinner.

A cow. A cow, for Pete's sake. The guy drew a cow.

And he drew it well.

It was the first day of my Practicum class and every stereotype we Journalism majors had conjured up for teachers in training had come to pass. What kind of professor would ask her students to draw an animal? None of the crusty souls at the J-School, that's for sure.

. . .but back to the cow, . . . For reasons I could not yet explain, I found myself drawn to its blond-haired, sparkly-eyed creator.

Like the commercials says--"Beef. It's what's for dinner."

And, for the past 25 years, I've had very few beefs with Mark Dale Holt.

Really, there should be an award for a guy who can live 22 years with a girl like me. Religious types would tell Mark that his reward is in heaven. That kind of delayed gratification, though, would probably do little to encourage him.

There is an easiness to our lives together. We laugh a lot and share many of the same dweeby interests. We also are content with the separateness of our interests, as well.

Mostly, Mark and I like the idea of being in the same space together.

When he took the weekend job at Duncan Aviation four years ago, I secretly fretted about our lost time together. But the more rational, less selfish side of me was so very glad he had found a healthy, enjoyable, creative place to work.

Still. . . .

I miss doing the Sunday crossword together. Which is why it's nice that our anniversary falls in the summer, when languorous strings of our days are spent together. This most magical of seasons gives us a chance to hang, long days kicked off with morning bike rides and coffee on the patio (even though I don't drink coffee, even on the patio).

I can count on one hand the fiery arguments we've had in our 22 years of marriage. Heck, I don't even need all five fingers. Not that that is a sure sign of contentedness, though. And yet, we fit, the cow man and me, like hide on skin.

Maybe that professor knew what she was doing, after all.