In the fall of 1991, I failed in my first attempt to be a cooperative manager. While I sat dejected at the kitchen table after a 500-mile drive home, Mary, my wife, told me that she could feel that it wasn’t over. Sure enough, the first choice turned the job down, and I got the offer two days later. Her intuition was spot on. With her by my side, I have been managing electric cooperatives ever since for almost 32 years now.

With retirement looming in June, this is my last Valentine’s Day opportunity to thank my best friend and the last girl I ever took to the prom for decades of support. It is hard to focus at work if things are not good at home. I have managed three cooperatives that fired the manager before me. In the early years of each, my home life was my sanctuary. I could find calm and peace and always had one great friend to listen about my day. While work was hard, I could concentrate because I knew she had the home front duties locked down.

In Wyoming, office phones were diverted to our house after work. When the phone rang at night, we never knew what we would get—an outage, a billing problem, or an angry member. (It was Wyoming, so there were never any tree complaints!) She often took the calls and relayed the messages. She was never on the payroll but always on the job.

In those early days of no cell phones, I carried a mobile radio that scanned the fire department, ambulance service, and the electric cooperative frequencies. Mary put up with my service to all three. I often left her and the kids in the middle of a meal and more than one ball game in the yard. One time, I literally left her in the middle of pushing a stroller across town when a friend in an RV flagged me down with a medical emergency inside. So many late nights, I crawled into bed and woke her up for a kiss and a recap of the latest event.

Twenty years ago, she agreed to move with me “one last time” to Cherryland. I dove into the community and the rebuilding of the co-op. Ambulance calls and fires were traded for at-home distractions caused by cell phones and emails. She has also endured being introduced as “Mrs. Tony Anderson” at hundreds of community functions over our time here. Each time, she patiently stood by my side as I chatted continuously about work and community issues.

When I left her at home for a meeting or trip, I always laughingly told her that she would have all of me whenever I got back. With an eye roll and a knowing glance, she knew she would never have all of me. I am forever thankful that she was happy with what was left of me after a long day, a bad call, or one more community commitment.

I have many things to be thankful for near the end of a great journey. None are more significant than her. I have loved this woman since our first high school dance in 1980. Today, when I kiss her goodbye, I tell her one thing: “I will come home to you.” Coming home to her is all I want to do for the rest of my life.