The lightning bolt that shot from the sky more than four decades ago was a signal that everything was about to change.

I was a young dairyman, struggling to scratch out a living on the rundown farm I had leased a few miles south of Brookings. I was doing chores with my Farmall “M” one summer morning when I espied a glowering thunderhead a few miles north.

An incandescent blue spark flickered from cloud to ground. Moments later, I felt the thunderclap deep in my chest.

“Somebody’s having a bad day,” I thought.

The lightning struck an aging house that had been converted into apartments. The bolt traveled down the chimney and started a fire in the adjoining walls. Firemen were able to extinguish the blaze, but the house suffered structural and smoke damage. The apartments were rendered uninhabitable.

The fire was devastating for the building’s tenants. I know this because one of the tenants was a certain young lady whom I had been courting.

She had recently graduated from a technical college and was employed as a dental lab technician, a job that paid only slightly more than the minimum wage. The fire left her homeless.

Our relationship had reached the point where we had expressed feelings for one another. I told the young lady that I didn’t have much but was willing to share what little I had. And that there was lots of room in the creaky old farmhouse I was renting.

She was hesitant. Google was years in the future, so she couldn’t thoroughly vet me. It was possible that I was just an oddball who lived all by himself out in the country. Perhaps there were some good reasons that I was alone.

“The lightning was a sign,” I said quietly.

Faced with few other choices, the young lady agreed to make the move. Her clothing had been stored in a dresser, but her garments smelled like a smokehouse. Even after washing her clothes several times they still carried the aroma of a cigar bar.

Life soon fell into a routine. I would arise early in the morning and milk my 35 Holstein cows. I would return to the house where breakfast would be waiting. The young lady would leave for her job, and I would spend the day doing chores and completing various farm-related tasks.

The young lady became my support crew. Even though she had grown up in the city, she was willing to learn about dairy farming and help me any way that she could. She especially enjoyed caring for baby calves. It broke my heart to see her heart break when we lost a calf.

The most grueling stress test for a relationship is sorting cattle. If you’re still on speaking terms after sorting a bunch of recalcitrant Holsteins, it’s a sign that you have a good chance of making it in the long run.

Winter provided its own relationship stress test. Our rickety farmhouse leaked heat like a screen door. We affixed sheets of plastic to the inside and outside of the windows in an effort to slow air infiltration. This proved to be as useful as spitting into the wind. On breezy days, the plastic we had taped to the windows bellied inward like the mainsail of a clipper ship.

It was impossible to keep that house warm. This didn’t bother me much as I had grown up in a farmhouse that had only a modest oil burning stove for a heat source. It wasn’t uncommon to be able to see your breath on cold winter mornings.

But the young lady was unaccustomed to such frigid indoor conditions. She would stand next to the furnace vent and the blast of warm air would billow her floor-length flannel nightgown like a miniature hot air balloon. She never complained. It was an auspicious sign that she could remain stoic in the face of adversity.

I grew increasingly anxious as Christmastime approached. I desperately wanted to find a gift that would convey the deep affection that I felt for the young lady.

I secretly scoped out the offerings at a local jewelry store. A marquis cut diamond ring caught my eye.

When we later went Christmas shopping, I casually steered her to the jewelry store. I may have appeared outwardly calm, but my innards were churning like a cement mixer.

She perused the diamond rings, then pointed.

“I like that one,” she murmured, indicating the ring with the marquis stone.

“Let’s get it,” I replied.

“Really?” she exclaimed. “I would’ve been happy with a new pair of corduroys!”

And if that’s not a sign, I don’t know what is.

— Jerry’s book, Dear County Agent Guy, is available at http://Workman.com and in bookstores nationwide.