Editor’s note: The IJ is reprinting some of the late Beth Ashley’s columns. This is from 2014.

A few weeks ago, Rowland and I celebrated our fifth wedding anniversary.

We were astounded that five years had zipped by so quickly.

We were astounded that we hadn’t yet had a fight.

Fights would have been unimaginable back in August 2009, when we said our vows on a small boat off the coast of Five Islands, Maine, where we had met as teenagers in 1938. On that day, we were euphoric.

Fights might have been expected in the months that followed, however, when we began to spend all our days together, 24/7, and started to face the reality of combining two different lifestyles, two different families and two different views of politics.

We had our moments. I can hear myself now: “Just where in this already jam-packed house do you expect to put another piano?” “Do your kids really like me? Do you really like mine?”

But the fights never came. Maybe our happiness was grounded in our long-ago memories of Maine, where we first became friends and when the place became part of our DNA. We go back to Maine every summer. Maybe we are trying to compensate for all the years apart — I left Maine in 1940 and didn’t see Rowland again for 67 years.

Ah, Maine. When our big anniversary arrived, we couldn’t help smiling.

The best thing about celebrating the day was the chance to rejoice with old friends. My brother and his wife, celebrating their 40th anniversary, drove down from Portland, Maine.

Kathy and Bill are a bit of a marriage miracle: She’s his fifth wife. Some people learn by trial and error.

Also with us was my son Ken, twice divorced, who seems now to have found a lasting partner, a sweet-faced woman named Maralee. She seems to make him happy and vice versa. Maybe that’s all it takes.

My son Peter was there with Elizabeth. Gil and his wife, Laurie, and Guy and his wife, Danielle, were obviously in the anniversary spirit. They had brought their wondrous children with them, and they all gathered round. We had hired a dance band, and Gil and Laurie danced and danced.

My great-niece, a vibrant attorney named Jessica, was nine months pregnant, but she danced and danced, too. A few hours later, she was in the hospital, giving birth to her second son, whom she and her husband named Rhett. (Nobody names a boy John anymore, do they?)

Rowland’s grandson’s wife, Gena, was also nine months pregnant, so the two of them didn’t come from Sacramento to our celebration. Two days later she, too, gave birth to her child. The heartbeat goes on.

The morning after our celebration, we hosted a small breakfast so everyone could spend more time with Bill. Pete couldn’t come; he’d had to fly to Chicago right after the party. Guy didn’t come either. He had promised to spend the rest of the weekend backpacking with his son. Other nieces and cousins and family members dropped by.

My great-nephew Christian was with us. He had helped plan our anniversary party, which had a Maine theme. He loves Maine almost as much as we do.

Later that day, Christian and his girlfriend, Connie, flew east for a vacation. The next morning, he sent us an email. He had proposed to Connie on the beach in Five Islands, and she had accepted.

Romance seemed to have come full circle. We hope Maine will give them as much happiness as it has given us.

They should be so lucky.