Burnt Meadow Boys

Occasionally someone will ask me where I'm from, anticipating a short answer like "Boston," "Denver," or "over by the Dairy Queen."

I wish it were that simple.

To truly understand where I’m from you have to picture a time in America where small towns were everywhere. In the 1960s and 70s, you didn’t have to go too far out of your way to be in the middle of nowhere. 

Welcome to West Milford

West Milford, the rural town I grew up in, sits in the heart of the New Jersey Highlands region, about 40 miles northwest of New York City. It’s home to over 100 miles of hiking trails, nearly 40 lakes, four state parks, and our house on the unpaved, off-the-beaten path Burnt Meadow Road.

My brothers Bob and Jim and I lived on a mountain surrounded by woods and played outside every day from dawn to dusk. It was like we were The Waltons, only without all the sisters and homemade clothes. Despite our remote location, we managed to have a relatively normal childhood consuming seven boxes of cereal a day, playing backyard whiffle ball in the presence of ball-eating horses, and calling each other nonsensical names like “Dinglehiemer” and “Herk-A-Merk." 

Hoops On The Rocks

We would shoot hoops for hours on end in our gravel driveway, stopping only when the ball would carom wildly past the house, down a hill, and into a muddy swamp 50 yards away. 

“It’s your turn to get it,” one brother would say to the other, hoping he would embrace the opportunity to take a romp in the swamp. 

“I quit,” was the other brother’s top comeback. Game called because of ricochet.

For the record, if the NBA played its games on gravel we probably could have turned pro, but hardwood floors ended our hopes of having a Larry Bird-like rise from Hicksville to Hall of Fame.

Whiffle World

When my brothers and I weren’t shooting hoops, we were playing whiffle ball. My dad kept horses in a backyard barn and anything over the corral fence was a homerun. Coincidentally, anything over the corral fence was also our cue to go buy another whiffle ball.  

My brother Jim was the big homerun hitter, earning the nickname “Jumbo Jimbo.” If there was a Whiffle Ball Hall of Fame, he would undoubtedly be enshrined and featured in an exhibit wing entitled “Backyard Fence Busters.” I, on the other hand, took pride in my defensive game, patiently waiting out balls that Jim would hit into trees, eventually catching them before they hit the ground. 

Bob, for his part, was always the designated pitcher, cleverly absolving himself from any share of victory or defeat. His final childhood won-lost record was a perfect 0-0, an incredible achievement considering he pitched in over 400 games.

Story Time

Growing up in a rural town that offered minimal distractions, I was pretty much destined to become a writer. I spent a substantial portion of my adolescence in my room crafting stories of profound insight and starling originality. Just kidding. I mainly directed my efforts at writing stuff goofy enough to get one of my brothers to blow milk out of their nose. It didn’t happen often, but when it did, I knew I was fulfilling my purpose.

While I was busy playing with words, Bob and Jim pursued other passions, from music to motorcycles to the kind of mischief that leaves no serious scars but makes for good stories later. We live different lives in different parts of the country now, but one thing never changes: Whenever we get together we tell the same tales from our childhood and alter certain details to make our respective roles look more attractive.

Who set fire to the woods behind our house? It depends on who you ask.

Who broke mom’s jewelry box and tried to cover it up with a clumsy rearranging of the pieces? Round up the usual suspects.

Who kept putting food in our dog Winky’s dish even after he disappeared for two weeks? There are competing narratives.

Who kept sneaking into the kitchen at night for a snack and leaving only one cookie in the bottom of the bag? Okay, that was me.

Boyhood Unplugged

Looking back, I cherish the way my brothers and I grew up in that simpler, low-tech time. Boyhood was filled to the brim, running and biking and bouncing along, connected to the natural world, each other, and our friends and family. No digital distractions in sight.

Though I've gone on to each new home away from home, part of me will always be that country boy living on Burnt Meadow Road, shooting baskets in the gravel driveway, scribbling ideas and jokes on pads, and wondering where life would take me. 

Today it takes me back, to that time, that town, and the Burnt Meadow boys that I’m glad to call my brothers.

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Al and Marge

I’m not a big believer in the old adage that opposites attract, but it was certainly true in my parents’ case.

My dad: introverted, outdoorsman, lone wolf cowboy at heart.  My mom: social, spontaneous, quick to make friends and plans.

They met in 1955 in Saddle Brook, New Jersey at a soda fountain called “Gaddy’s.” Soda fountains were at their peak in the 50s, upbeat gathering spots where young people went to enjoy sodas, milkshakes and burgers and listen to the hits of the day on a jukebox. My mom was working as a waitress at Gaddy’s when my dad sauntered in one afternoon, back in town after serving in the Army during the Korean War.

As my mom tells it, she saw this tall, handsome guy with jet black hair walk through the door and she said to herself, “There’s the man I’m going to marry.” Of course, young girls say things like that all the time in a playful, jokey way, but my mom was a woman of her word.

After a lot of milkshakes and a whirlwind courtship, they quietly eloped and got married in June of 1956. I remember it well because I was there. I didn’t want to make a big scene – those were different times – so I kept a low profile. Though just an embryo at the time, I recall thinking “I give this five years tops.” They were young and immature. They had no money. And now they were about to be parents of a newborn who was already questioning their decision making. How wrong I was. 

No one could have predicted the stubborn resilience and plucky perseverance that would propel these polar opposites forward. Like many marriages, theirs became a journey of good times and bad, of peaks and valleys, of sacrifices that they made for each other and for me and my brothers. 

After laboring in some low-paying construction jobs, my dad got his big career break in 1959 when he was hired as a foreman at a chemical plant. It wasn’t a job he ever dreamed about – that would have more likely been rancher, farmer or horse trainer – but it gave he and my mom a reliable income, health insurance, and the foundation to provide for a growing family. 

When I was six, my brother Bob three, and brother Jim a newborn, dad moved the family to a rural New Jersey town called West Milford, about 40 miles northwest of New York City. He converted a ramshackle shed in the backyard into a barn and kept horses throughout my boyhood. We had chickens, grew our own vegetables, and hosted family from the suburbs during yearly summer cookouts and Christmas gatherings. To this day I can conjure up the smell of horse manure just by flashing back to the jobs my brothers and I were assigned as backyard stable hands. It was my dad’s version of paradise, and it suited him perfectly.

My mom was another story. Given her social nature, living in isolation on top of a mountain surrounded by woods wasn’t exactly her fairytale come true. Dad called our place “The Ponderosa” after the family homestead on the TV western Bonanza. Mom might have chosen a less flattering nickname, something more along the lines of “The Boondocks.” To her credit she made the most of it for 30 years, forming close friendships with a few special women who entered her orbit, turning her love of reading into a long-running stint as the town librarian, and eventually going back to school to earn a Master of Library and Information Science degree.

When I was in my early 30s, my parents retired and moved to Florida. For my mom, it was a well-earned release from remote country living and bitter cold winters. For my dad, it was like being tranquilized and removed from an off-the-grid wilderness and plopped down into the middle of a crowded bingo hall. He never completely adapted to living in Florida, but he and my mom spent many good years there, with visits from friends and family, trips back to New Jersey, and periodic pilgrimages to the gambling palaces of Biloxi, Mississippi and Vegas.

Now my dad has been gone for five years and my mom is grappling with some of the challenges that come with time and age. They were married for 65 years, navigating through the decades raising three kids, surviving life’s storms and savoring the rewards of a journey few have the staying power to attain. As Al and Marge, they became a brand name of sorts, loved as a couple and as unique individuals. 

It’s been said that we spend the bulk of our lives in reaction to our parents – whether we strive to follow in their footsteps or vow to chart a course completely different from theirs. As opposite as they were in some ways, my parents shared one singularly important trait that has shaped how I live: decency. They have taught me by example to work hard, act with integrity and honesty, and treat others as I would want to be treated. 

As my life rolls along and the years go drifting by, I’m not as clear-eyed as I once was about many things. But this I know with absolute certainty: I am proud to be the son of Al and Marge Williamson.

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The King of Small Talk

How are you?

How about this weather we've been having? 

Seen any good movies lately?

Did you lose some weight? 

Any plans for the weekend? 

Don’t mind me. I’m just sharing my gift for small talk. In a world where many don’t look up from their phones enough to converse, I still make the effort. Let’s face it, life is full of far more small moments than big ones, so engaging in small talk is a worthwhile pastime.

“But Alan,” you might say, as we bump into each other at a grocery store, airport or urgent care waiting room. “Walking up to someone and making small talk doesn’t come naturally to me.”

“I feel your pain,” I would reply, conveying a level of sympathy normally reserved for hostage survivors or people who’ve been sitting too long in an urgent care waiting room. During my bashful younger years, taking evasive action at a gathering was my pattern. Give me a drink to nurse and a corner of a room to withdraw to and I was happy to retreat to the sidelines.

Unencumbered by the burden of social interaction, I would unearth fascinating details that would go undetected by other guests. Had they, for instance, read the covers of all 200 CDs in Jan and Gary’s entertainment unit, they would have known that their hosts’ eclectic musical tastes included Mozart Piano Concertos #’s 35 & 41 and Donny Osmond’s Greatest Hits.

The truth is, it took me a long time to build up a comfort level in social situations. Now I welcome them. I’m partial to casually elegant social gatherings at art galleries and museums where I can rub elbows with the cultural elite while nibbling on delicacies like crab cucumber pastries with mustard sauce and mushroom caps stuffed with hummus and yogurt. I’m at my best, I think, when I can share the experience of viewing groundbreaking works of creative genius with others while making insightful comments like the following:

1.) Hmmm .... Such a nicely nuanced interpretation.

2.) So edgy, yet so graceful. 

3.) These nudes speak to me in a way I can't and won't explain.

4.) Towering masterpiece or self-indulgent drivel? I’m on the fence.

My personal awakening came when I discovered that the key to converting social affairs from rituals of torture to opportunities for enrichment is mastering that pivotal moment of first impression: the opening icebreaker. 

After conducting a program of comprehensive, field-tested research (I attended a networking cocktail hour), I have compiled the following list of surefire icebreakers to smooth the way to meaningful connections:

• Hi. My name’s Alan – the oldest of three.

• Hi. I was hit by lightning once. You?

• Hi. Embryo adoptions -- your thoughts?

• Hi. If I knew you were going to undress me with your eyes, I would have worn better underwear.

• Hi. Did you ever have that dream where you're a chain-smoking night clerk at a 24-hour pawn shop and your name is Bernice but your friends call you "Skeeter"?

• Hi. Let’s talk Politics & Religion then tackle the taboo topic of Healthy Holiday Snacks.

• Hi. Excuse me for staring. But you remind me of someone I used to stare at. 

• Hi. I know all the words to Freddie “Boom Boom” Cannon’s 1959 hit “Tallahassee Lassie.” Wanna hear?

• Hi. What a day. First my transmission quits, now I’m told I’ve got a contagious fungal infection.

Go in well-armed with potent conversation-starters like these, and you’re a good bet to blow by social jitters and enjoy a pleasurable give-and-take.

All kidding aside, we each still have a choice. We can take pleasure in living fully in the here and now and open ourselves to each other and the possibilities of the present moment. Or we can spin around and around on an endless racetrack of digital preoccupation and distraction.

In spite of all the fear, paranoia and anti-social gadget-obsessed distraction of this stressed-out, multi-tasking world, there is still value in engaging in our surroundings and being present enough to make a positive connection with other human beings. Even if it’s just a little small talk on our way from here to there.

Well, I better get going. 

It was great talking to you. 

You’re looking good. 

Give my best to the family. 

Let’s keep in touch!

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Meanwhile Back At The Poetry Reading

In May of 1990 a letter from The New Yorker magazine arrived in my mailbox. I had sent them “Dinner With The Babe,” my poem about a fantasy dinner with baseball legend and big eater Babe Ruth. It began as follows:

I’d serve a lot of hot dogs,

buns and beans and beer.

There’s never too much food around

when Mr. Ruth is here.

He’d come straight from the ballpark,

in uniform and cleats;

we’d talk about his batting stance,

and broads and booze and “eats.”

Naturally, having created such a rare work of nostalgic whimsy, I opened the letter expecting words of praise about my “playful surrealism” and “a marriage of art and life made in baseball heaven.”  Instead, it read as follows:

The Poetry Department will be closed from May 31, 1990 through August 31, 1990. Only topical poems or those scheduled for imminent book publication will be considered during this time. All other manuscripts will be returned unread to the sender. Thanks for your cooperation.

And so began my journey as an unpaid, part-time poet. My early efforts were a mixed bag of pseudo-sensitive pablum, self-indulgent preening, and wordplay gone astray. Take, for instance, this short verse that abruptly dead-ended before hitting its stride:

Life is a mystery, love is a riddle,

hi diddle, ho diddle, hey diddle diddle.

The lesson is a hard one, but when you commit to a rhyming structure, you’ll likely have more losses than wins. In this case, once I used the word “riddle” in my poem, I pretty much unlocked the door to diddle. Similarly, I almost rhymed “Phoenix” with “Kleenex” in an unfinished poem but had to abandon the crusade after weeks of not showering or shaving.

Another pitfall for the aspiring (and sometimes perspiring) poet is the tendency to imitate their heroes. Witness this Dr. Seuss-like verse I wrote to my brother in anticipation of a visit from our mom:

Marge, you’ll find, is a good guest.

She will not say “my way is best.”

She will not squeeze your tube of Crest.

And if you feel you need some rest,

she will not make one more request.

Shameless mimicry aside, I increasingly found poetry to be a potent way to share genuine experiences with clarity, imagery and humanity. My feelings about the menace of a coming hurricane became a piece called “Blow Hard” which ended on a relatable up note about dodging disaster:

In the night it’s hard to slumber,

your house could be a pile of lumber.

You wonder why you’ve been forsaken,

fearing death or endless raking.

Then the danger peaks and passes,

you open doors and nothing crashes.

Slowly, you regain your nerve…

“Yeah, I knew the hurricane would swerve!”

One of the keys to a good poem, I discovered, is to be a storyteller who finds fresh ways to say routine things. The short-form framework of a Japanese haiku – 5 ,7 and 5 syllables on three lines – always got my cut-to-the-chase juices flowing:

Waking up early.

Time to think about the day.

First thought: Get more sleep.

Whistle while you work.

People will love to hear it.

Or they will slap you.

Meet you at midnight?

That’s way beyond my bedtime.

How’s six-thirty sound?

Your secret is safe.

I only told ten people.

They seldom gossip.

Having fun with words is always worth the ride, but the slipperiest slope in poetry may be the love poem. I found that out when I met my wife Sherry and proceeded to try way too hard to flaunt my sensitive nature. Observe:

Rooftop romantics leave no star unturned

for a stroke of luck in the moonlight.

I’ve paid my dues in Sinatra and self-pity, 

unemployed heart, overworked and underfed.

Need I go on or is your gag-reflex fully engaged? 

To this day, sometimes my poetry writing is a series of fits and starts that seems destined to fail in expressing anything of worth. You take words, you stick them together and you see if they convey any meaning – some of them do, some of them don’t. Then there comes a moment in my mind when I see and believe and the words that weren't there keep arriving, whole and true and right. That was the case when I wrote this verse in a poem for my wife: 

Indulge me, dance after dance, 

for I have loitered along the way, 

forfeiting precious time in your arms. 

And my atonement now is to love you 

that

much 

more.

It sums up my feelings perfectly. One might even say “poetically.” I don’t think I could write it any better. Unless, of course, I went for the rhyme: 

Indulge me, dance after dance, 

for I am wearing my best dancing pants.

Okay, not better as a rhyme. Moving on.

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A Florida Whimp Whines About Winter

Cold enough for you? I’m freezing.

It was so cold this morning, I saw a squirrel wearing a hoodie.

It was so cold, I saw a collie in line at Dunkin' ordering a double expresso.

It was so cold, a raccoon asked me for directions to the Burlington Coat Factory.

Exactly how cold was it, you ask? It was 28 degrees. In Florida. Okay, I’m not expecting anyone to throw a telethon for us. I’m not even expecting an outpouring of sympathy for my discomfort. But after 40 years as a Floridian, I hope you can appreciate the hardship I’m enduring as I face temperatures well below the 75 degrees I’m used to in the winter months.

“Oh, poor baby,” my brother Jim scoffed during an early January phone call. “It’s 14 degrees here in Nebraska and we haven’t seen the sun in six days.”

“But your 14 degrees is the equivalent of our 28 degrees,” I countered lamely, pointing out the blood thinning effect of spending decades in a subtropical steam bath.

“In a few days you’ll be back soaking up the sun,” my brother ventured. “Meanwhile, we’ll be huddled by the fireplace taking swigs from a flask of whiskey and praying our provisions hold out till spring.”

“It was so cold this morning, I saw an egret wearing leg warmers,” I blurted, trying to match melodrama with imaginary wildlife.

Dressing For Distress

One of the first things you notice when the temperature drops is that a Florida cold snap brings out some strange wardrobe adjustments.

While running errands yesterday I saw a woman on a bicycle wearing a heavy winter coat with a hood. She was also wearing shorts. Earlier today I saw a guy wearing sandals, shorts and a heavy knit sweater. In both cases, it's as if their upper and lower bodies came from two different climates and formed an uneasy alliance in search of better weather.

To be honest, I’m not immune to wardrobe confusion either. When you spend the better part of the year in shorts and a t-shirt, assembling an outfit suited for cooler conditions doesn’t come easily. A long sleeve tee and jeans feels like a logical upgrade, but what if the daytime high never gets out of the 50s?

Under the right circumstances, a mid-weight sweater would be a sensible choice, but that depends on if it’s windy or not. Maybe that heavier sweater that feels like wool but is really acrylic needs to be exhumed from the cedar chest. And what of that smell embedded in the garment? Is that the cedar chest scent or the cold sweat ghosts of Christmas’s past?

Whatever ensemble I pick, I’m invariably too warm, too cold, or convinced that the apparel I need was donated to a long-ago clothes drive because “I’ll never need this stuff in Florida.” Think again, Sonny Sockless.

Hunkering Down Until The Temp Goes Up

When the weather got unseasonably cold, my wife and I found ourselves downshifting to a hunker down lifestyle, canceling all plans and priorities that involved leaving the house.

“What do you want to do today?” I asked Sherry, hoping she was as committed to sustaining cozy comfort as I was.

“I’m content just to putz around the house,” Sherry confided, leaving details up in the air.

“Let’s do that,” I agreed. “I think we have our hands full maintaining body temperature. I’d hate to lose focus on that just to feel actively engaged in the world around us. Besides, it was so cold this morning, I saw a sand hill crane wearing flannel pajamas.” (I have a million of them.)

As the chilly days dragged on and the sun kept its distance, we realized that we were no different that most other Floridians: A lucky group of hearty souls who, despite our sun-splash lives, reserve the right to whine about any dip in temperature that makes us reach for a light jacket.

If nothing else, I hope this cold weather commentary raises awareness around the rest of the country that winter's icy assault sometimes effects Florida folks, too.

To my fellow Americans in Northern and Mid-Western States: Thank you for your thoughts and prayers.

To my Fellow Frozen-In-Place Floridians: We WILL get through this. Your courage and resilience give me goosebumps.

Of course, that could just be my body’s reaction to the temperature dipping below 60 degrees.

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My Music Comes With An Echo

I’ve always had a touch of disc jockey in me, much to the bewilderment of a series of ungrateful captive audiences. 

When I got my first record player in the 1960s, I assigned myself the role of family entertainment coordinator, choosing dinner music each night for my parents and brothers. To say my taste were eclectic is a kind way of describing selections that veered jarringly from the Soundtrack to The Exorcist to early Johnny Mathis to the complete collection of the made-for-TV band The Monkees. 

At college in the 70s, I took a late-night shift on the school radio station – a risky move for a morning person who started to fade by 9:30 at night. My solution to the dilemma was to play long cuts from jazz albums so I could duck out of the studio to get some fresh air and strong coffee. This strategy was at odds with my student listeners who hungered for the disco dance sounds of the Bee Gees and Donna Summer. My only regret is that the gig ended before I could spring the Exorcist soundtrack on them.

Cut to ten years ago, when friends of ours bought an Amazon Echo and introduced us to an adopted new family member named Alexa. 

 A voice-activated smart speaker that looks like a pillar candle, you say "Alexa, play 'Traveling Man' by Ricky Nelson" and within seconds you hear the song play. You say "Alexa, play 'The Lion Sleeps Tonight' by the Tokens," and on it comes. You say “Alexa, play ‘What A Wonderful World’ by Louis Armstrong,” and suddenly there’s Louis, as wonderful as ever. 

 I was mesmerized. I was dumbstruck. I was a prehistoric man in a weird new world.

A talking candle that plays music? This strange modern technology confuses and frightens me. For I am but a caveman unfrozen by scientists to experience social media, microwave omelets and the music of Lady GaGa.

My wife and I quickly bought our own Echo. The long-dormant disc jockey in me was back and with millions of songs at my fingertips, I was ready to take a test drive.

I asked for an obscure Burl Ives song from 1952 that my father liked called “One Hour Ahead of The Posse.” Alexa played it.

I asked for a cheesy Elvis Presley cover of “Old MacDonald Had A Farm” from one of his silly movies. Alexa played it.

Thinking she would have to draw the line somewhere, I asked for an old polka tune I learned from my wife’s family called “Who Stole The Keeshka?” Alexa played that, too.

I have to give her credit. Even more impressive than her sweeping musical reach, Alexa never makes me feel self-conscious when I ask to hear songs that are often more than 50 years old. In fact, aside from a slight snickering under her breath, she treats every request with the same instantaneous can-do spirit as the last.

If there are any limitations to the Echo experience, the fault lies with me, the aging disc jockey who has forgotten more than you’ll ever know. Cat Stevens, Sting, Bob Seger, Linda Ronstadt, Paul Simon. These are artists I love but can never seem to think of when I'm standing in front of my Amazon Echo requesting some music. Which is why, on a daily basis, I hear myself say, "Alexa ... play songs by James Taylor." I'm waiting for her to say, "Seriously? Again?"

Now I’ve been to other homes where the Echo is on standby, ready to enhance the lives of its adoptive owners. Strangely, some use its miracle music capacity sparingly, preferring instead to integrate it with various devices for total smart home functionality. 

They say “Alexa, dim the lights to 30%” and suddenly there’s an inviting glow in the family room. They say “Alexa, turn on the fan” and a cool breeze creates convenient comfort without a search for the remote.  “They say “Alexa, set a timer for 20 minutes” and when the final second tics down a pleasant pulsing sound reminds you to take the teriyaki pineapple meatballs out of the oven.

These are all impressive features, to be sure, and definitely worth trying out if you’re looking to have a virtual assistant that does virtually everything around the house you can think of. But for a lifelong wannabe DJ like me, nothing can equal the intensely thrilling ability to say “Alexa, play ‘Under The Boardwalk’ by the Drifters” and be singing along with it seconds later.

The fact that Alexa doesn’t say “Yikes – How old ARE you?” makes it even sweeter.

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The Wedding Watchers

My wife and I got married 35 years ago this summer and the youngest attendee on the big day was my six-month-old nephew Eric. Flash forward to the summer of 2025 where we watched him and his beautiful bride Julia tie the knot at a church in Nebraska. Talk about a full circle moment.

Back in 1990 at our ceremony, the six-month-old Eric didn’t hold back his emotions, crying openly and unapologetically at the tender ritual enfolding before him. We were touched by his raw expression of joy and silently vowed to return the favor if we were fortunate enough to be invited to his wedding some distant day.

So there we were at St. Thomas More Catholic Church in Omaha, wedding watchers ready to let the waterworks flow. The only hitch was we were feeling much too cheerful to sob. I’ve been to my share of weddings through the years, and for me they generally fall into two categories. There’s the “Good Luck, You’ll Need It” ones, and the “This Looks Like The Real Deal” ones. This was the real deal. 

As I watched the bride and groom exchange vows, I thought back to the first time I saw pictures of Eric and Julia together on social media. They had just started dating and every smiling photo revealed what the passage of time would confirm: these two were madly in love and destined to build a bond that could go the distance. Contrast that with the lifecycle of a typical celebrity marriage:

Week 1: Head over heels.

Week 2: Trouble in paradise.

Week 3: What was I thinking?

Week 4: Drifting apart.

Week 5: I just can't do this anymore.

Week 6: Divorced.

The wedding ceremony and reception were filled with solemn traditions and joyful exuberance, but it’s the little things I’ll remember most, including:

- The bride and groom requesting that there be no cell phones, cameras and other electronic devices at the ceremony so that guests could be fully present in the moment. It was very Amish of them. I loved the low-tech touch.

- Listening to my sister-in-law Sandy read an Old Testament passage during the wedding ceremony that included lines like “Hark! My lover – here he comes springing across the mountains, leaping across the hills!” She brought a quiet dignity to the words that I would have turned into inappropriate comedy.

- Seeing my brothers Jim and Bob looking dapper in suits and ties while remembering our rural boyhood attire of dirty t-shirts and jeans on a par with the cast of The Waltons. Good night JimBob, good night John Boy.

- Discovering the adult versions of my nieces Kristen and Rachel who had grown up to be bright, funny, spirited women. In an uncanny coincidence, Kristen’s husband Scott and Rachel’s fiancé Brent turned out to be bright, funny, spirited men. What are the odds?

- Witnessing my mom embrace her role as the family matriarch posing for photo after photo with guests excited to rub elbows with an historical figure who was also “a hoot.” 

- Looking on from the sidelines while members of the younger generation bounced wildly from one part of the dance floor to the other like human pinballs on energy drinks. When a couple of them fell to the floor near where I was standing, I wasn’t sure if it was a dance move or a dizzy spell. 

- My wife Sherry and I dashing onto the dance floor when we heard the song Tennessee Whiskey, confident we could slow dance our way through it without going into spasmodic gyrations that would risk injury. (We were waiting for a Johnny Mathis tune, but chances are it was not on the playlist.)

- And through it all there was the bride and groom, graceful, gleeful, seemingly everywhere at once and intimately in a world of their own.

So many moments, so many memories. Reflecting on the day, one thing was abundantly clear to me: Eric and Julia are two people who are loved as a couple and unique individuals and who mean a lot to all the people who have shared their journey so far. 

In the eyes of this wedding watcher, it was a truly wonderful day. Here’s to a wonderful life ahead!

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