A favorite time of my life was the early years of my marriage to Ray. We barely knew each other when we tied the knot in 1980—and I mean that quite literally. We’d worked together on a psychiatric unit in Denison, Texas—me, a 24-year-old therapist; Ray, a 19-year-old orderly—when we first became friends. Then I moved away for a year and a half to be near a boyfriend. That relationship ended, and a few months later, Ray and I had a whirlwind romance and got married.

The rush? A “morality clause” in my new job contract in small-town Arkansas. We couldn’t live together unless we were married. Our options were to live apart or for me to commute a long way. Instead, we took a leap—on the advice of a close friend, an ex-Catholic priest married to an ex-nun—both members of the Episcopal congregation I’d joined in Mountain View. If anyone understood the risks of love, it was them. Ray and I said yes to the adventure. Sadly, we moved shortly afterward, back to Texas. Still, that place and those people remain dear to me. They helped set in motion this life I’ve been lucky enough to live.

After moving back to Texas, we lived in a farmhouse in Ravenna on a 2,500-acre spread, sharing a two-bedroom house with Ray’s brother. During that time, Ray surprised me—he had an entire boat stall full of antiques and collectibles he’d been gathering since he was fifteen. That was the beginning of our antique business.

Our first sale was at the tiny flea market in Whitewright, Texas. I was stunned that anyone would pay real money for what looked to me like old junk—Coke bottles, weathered lamps, vintage odds and ends. But the real turning point came at Canton’s First Monday Trade Days, a sprawling event with over 3,000 dealers. We sold out. The next month, we went back—and met Bud Watson.

Bud set up across from us. A gay man in his 60s with a twinkle in his eye and a natural gift for connection, Bud could sell anything to anyone. He also felt instantly familiar, like someone we’d always known. The feeling was mutual. He took us under his wing, and over the years, we shared laughter, stories, and a zest for life. As was typical of Bud, he was going strong until the last day of his life. His sister found him on his back porch, slumped over, his groceries beside him. He was in his mid-70s.

A few years in, we found ourselves at a crossroads. Charity C, an antique dealer and childhood friend of my brother George’s from Episcopal church camp, approached us at a Dallas show. “I love your stuff,” she said. “And I need a new supplier for Chili’s.” She explained the situation—unpredictability, frustration—and then made a bold offer: “If you can dig up $25,000, go to Brimfield, Massachusetts, and fill this list, I’ll buy everything you bring back.”

We thought about it for about two seconds.

We borrowed the money from a friend—at a high interest rate, which she later generously lowered—and off we went. Ray flew; I drove with Bud and our three-year-old daughter Sarah. That one trip launched a fifteen-year adventure with Chili’s and Brinker International. We bought across New England three times a year, cleaned and prepped everything back in Texas, and delivered to their distribution center in Dallas. Our finds wound up in 750 restaurants all over the world.

It was a wild, joy-filled ride. We worked hard, traveled often, and collected lifelong friends. Our kids came with us everywhere and were loved dearly by all those friends we met along the way.

Ray and I fought, forgave, and figured things out. We took risks. We built a life on instinct, grit, and love. Those early years were full—of adventure, laughter, and a feeling of satisfaction that comes when you carve your own path instead of following someone else’s map.

I am forever grateful for the serendipitous opportunities that came our way. They cracked open our world and ushered in a lifetime of memories. Just from those early years alone, I have enough happiness stored up to keep me smiling for the rest of my days. And now, as Ray and I celebrate our 45th wedding anniversary this upcoming Saturday, I look back at that threshold we crossed so long ago—with nothing but instinct and love—and I’m so very glad we did.