Trying to keep up with our resolution to walk more, on Martin Luther King, Jr. day we loaded up the dogs and headed for the nearby woods.

In the truck, Mrs. Anthony was more silent than usual, staring out her window.

It was sunny and beautiful this afternoon, but still below freezing as we parked along side the road on Weyerhaeuser Way and leashed up Zeke and Smiley and began along the path.

Normally, we talk about little things like bills that need to be paid, what's not in the fridge, how the dog's leg is healing and when we might go on vacation next, but Mrs. A remained mute.

When we reached the midway point of our route and she still hadn't uttered a word, I used my highly developed sense of wrath detection honed over 18 years of marriage.

"Everything ok?" I asked. "You're awfully quiet."

"Nothing" she said darkly, picking up the pace a bit.

In miffed wifespeak I have learned that this actually means, "something," and though I am always tempted to let it go and just rattle on about my latest project or the new joke I'm trying to perfect, this only makes things worse.

If left to fester "nothing" will eventually grow from "something" directly into "holy cow, I'm sorry!" It is part of the husband's job to gently pry.

"What'd I do now," I offered.

"If you don't know, I'm not going to tell you." To the newly married man, this is a conundrum.

She is punishing you for not knowing something by not telling you and it can seem like trying to find a quarter on the floor in the corner of a round room.

Fortunately through diligence I have found that quarter.

I simply feign knowledge, even though I haven't the slightest idea of what the problem is, by saying, "OH...I know what the problem is!"

This always creates the opportunity for a clue.

She turned slightly and with a slight frown said, "You COULD have said something...it's not like it happens every week."

This was the tipoff that the "nothing" had to do with one of two things.

Either she had folded all of my clothes and put them into the correct dresser drawers for me, or she had changed something about her appearance.

I was wearing two different socks that day, so I ankled my way up closer to better scrutinize her.

Yep...underneath the cute hat Mom had knitted her for Christmas I saw the telltale sign of a new hair color.

Now is the time when a good husband does not let on that he committed the unmentionable crime of "not noticing" in the first degree.

I coolly told her, "It looks nice, honey." This clever, blanket answer covers a lot of territory and has soothed many steamed feminine egos, but, alas, not today.

"WHAT looks nice?" she growled, loudly enough to make Zeke turn around, slightly unhinged.

This isn't good. She had shot down my buoyant little love note, and as it spiraled in, I struggled to come up with a proper rejoinder.

Unfortunately, I was not quick enough and she solved the dilemma for me.

"It's our anniversary."

A cold spike thrust itself into my chest and I sucked in frozen air. This faux pas is the absolute bane of the married man and as I reeled, it came to me: We were married on July 3rd.

"NO it is not our anniversary!" I countered somewhat feebly, "I've still got five months."

Mrs. A stopped abruptly. We were nearing the last bend in the path before the end of the walk and after readjusting Smiley's harness she stood and faced me, "The anniversary of the day we met."

You can insert an image here of me rolling my eyes and smacking my forehead. Except I didn't actually do that.

Yes, she was right. We had met on the third Monday of January, 1987, and though it is not a big deal for most people, because this day also happened to be Martin Luther King, Jr's birthday, I had made an annual, personal observance of the mutual admiration of both my wife and Dr. King.

For me to forget one or the other is bad form. News media all over the country keeps me from forgetting about the holiday, but it's up to me to remember the card, the flower and the kiss on the cheek that marks the good fortune of the day my path crossed with hers.

Mrs. A had started off again without me and Zeke and I had to trot to catch up.

As part of our fitness regimen, we had read that while walking, it's helpful the breath through your nose, exhale through the mouth and to keep your abdominals sucked in was you walk.

I don't always remember to do this, but this day I did, so I figured I should remind Mrs. Anthony, "Stomach in?" I asked.

She picked up the pace and replied, "Butt out!"