Earthgirl's Solid Ground.

On his 41st birthday.

When I met him he kept a saddle tree in his living room. He had a horse named Hank and a dog named Blue, and he mowed his yard with a five-foot brush hog. He did not own a tie. When his 6-foot, 5-inch, 240-pound frame first filled the doorway of my sad apartment, I knew he was a man's man and a woman's dream. When he walked me to his dirt-drenched Ford 3/4-ton, I laughed and got in.

Thirteen years have brought some change. Hank died three winters ago. I and my Toro ZTR are the lawn mowers now. And the saddle tree has been moved to our seven-year-old son's bedroom (on it, he and his sister have ridden miles across the range, shooting the bad guys and rescuing each other from wolves and bandits).

Thankfully, many things are unchanged. He's still 6'5" and 240 pounds, and he fills up the doorway of our house every afternoon around 4:30. His roots hold tight in the red clay of this 500-acre slice of prairie, and he stands strong and unmoving under this million-acre sky.

I'm still earthgirl. He's still solid ground . . . and you know what? He still doesn't own a tie.