"Walking the Dog with the Smartest Person I Know"

'Write more about your wife,' my agent said.

She had just read the 60,000-word first draft of a book I spent much of last summer writing. At first, I had tried to interest her in a collection of these columns, but she quickly ruled that out. 'Nobody publishes a collection of short pieces until the author is famous,' she explained. So I wrote about my first year of teaching, that scary, depressing, humbling transition from veteran magazine editor to rookie educator at age 50. And she liked what she read. But she suggested adding more about my wife, who kept popping up in the book saying smart things and just being the most interesting character. So here goes.

I met May in college in the late winter of 1970. Her roommate was dating my roommate, but nothing happened between us until the following fall. I had Thanksgiving dinner at her mother's house in Connecticut , and it was that weekend, down on the rocks of Long Island Sound, that I first told her I loved her. She -- so much wiser -- replied with a two-syllable reference to bovine excrement.

Reader, I married her.

May has always had little tolerance for nonsense, which is exactly what my premature declaration of undying affection was. She knew I was getting ahead of myself, indulging in romantic dreams without thinking about the hard work required to make them real. I was still doing that in 1999, when I told her I wanted to leave Yankee and become a high school teacher.

By then she had already been working in education for 27 years as tutor, teacher, and school board member. 'All right,' she said. 'But you don't know what you're getting into. Your first year, you won't be a good teacher -- all you can do is survive. I'll do everything I can to help you, but you have to promise me you won't make any decisions about your future until after your second year.'

As usual, she was right. I survived year one, leaning on her for help and support. I'm still leaning on her. Every day when we get home from our respective classrooms -- she teaches sixth-grade science and language arts in Jaffrey -- we walk the dog and talk about our days. It is a 30-minute seminar in advanced educational philosophy and practice. I should claim it for professional development hours.

We exult in the lessons that worked and try to figure out what went wrong with the ones that flopped. She gives me advice about discipline and lesson plans. I give her ideas about writing prompts. The dog eats grass and occasionally stops to throw up.

We've always talked a blue streak, even when I worked at Yankee, but this is better. We have the same schedule now, the same vacations, the same passions and frustrations. We do our homework together in front of the fireplace on winter evenings. And in the middle of those awful sleepless anxiety-ridden Sunday nights, we assure each other that we're not bad teachers.

She makes less money than I do, which is obscene, but that's because Keith Burke was generous enough to credit me with 12 years' experience when I was hired. I won't turn it down. My experience as a magazine editor is worth an awful lot, but nowhere near as much as what I've learned while walking the dog with the smartest person I know.