The Long Journey to Chris and Megan’s Day

 

 Traveling nowadays, particularly for those of a certain age, can be challenging. But on 8/8/26, my son and Ann’s stepson, Chris, was married to the love of his life, Megan, at a beautiful wedding venue, The Barn at Blackstone, in the Blackstone Valley of Massachusetts, a sylvan paradise that is so quintessentially New England. It is not around the corner from any major city, Worcester being the closest and Boston some fifty miles away, but just driving there from our hotel with our other son, Jonathan, and his wife, Tracie, lifted our spirits and our expectations as the green pastures rolled by.

 

Before the wedding day, and the rehearsal dinner the night before, Ann and I took a mini-vacation on the Massachusetts coast, using a hotel in Salem as our home base. Normally I describe our trips in chronological order, but this entry is the exception, because the wedding was the main event by far. Perhaps sometime soon I’ll have the rest of that trip written up and documented with some photos, but this entry is all about the wedding: meeting Megan’s side of the family, seeing friends of Chris and Megan, and catching up with others from our past, including my ex-wife, Chris’s mom, Carol, and my oldest friend from college, Bruce, and his wife, Bonnie.

 

The path to this weekend was a circuitous one for the wedding couple. Remarkably, this is the first marriage for both of them, Chris in his early 60s and Megan in her mid-50s. Both had loved and lost before and had perhaps begun to think they might never find that special person, going about their professional lives and accepting their autonomy. I remember once saying to Chris, “It will happen when you least expect it.”

 

And it did.

 

Chris came to live with us when he had just turned 13. Our own son, Jonathan, Chris’s half-brother, was only two at the time, and yet the two of them have grown closer as they have aged. Even though traveling is no fun for us octogenarians, Ann and I would have walked the 1,200 miles to attend this event! Admittedly, we would have had to leave about a year ago.

 

We had once met Megan’s dad, John, but this was the first time we met her mother, Katie, as well as Megan’s brother, Matt, and his family. Katie graciously hosted the rehearsal dinner for mostly out-of-town family and friends at Ruth’s Chris Steak House in Worcester. Need I say more about the excellence of the dinner?

 

There were, of course, elements that could have led to anxiety for the couple: How would the two families get along? And what would it be like seeing my ex-wife, Carol, whom I had seen only once in the past fifty years, at my father’s funeral more than thirty years ago?

 

Any foreboding emotional clouds that might have existed disappeared instantly. We were there to celebrate Chris’s marriage, and Ann and Carol even got along as if they were two old friends.

 

As I sat next to Megan’s mom, Katie, I got a good sense of her sharing in the joy of the moment, as well as her thoughtfulness and sensitivity. The wedding couple themselves seemed completely unfazed by the occasion of the rehearsal dinner, simply basking in the anticipation of a moment they perhaps once thought would never arrive.

 

Jonathan, our son, was given the honor of saying “a few words” at the wedding celebration itself, while Megan’s mom, Katie, delivered heartfelt and joyous words at the rehearsal dinner. Katie is a published poet and is working on two different works of historical fiction, so her emotive well is deep.

 

Usually, I am not at a loss for words if I have time to think about them and then write them down. So I came prepared. Rather than describing my rehearsal-dinner “speech,” I include every word here. It sets the stage for the wedding itself and for the two wonderful people we were there to celebrate, honor, and, above all, love.

 

This is what I tried to carefully articulate, despite not being the world’s best public speaker:

 

“This is one of the happiest occasions in Ann’s and my life.

 

We have watched Chris make his way through the world for a very long time now, and it gives us enormous joy to see that journey bring him here, to Megan.

 

And to Megan: thank you for becoming such an important part of our lives. We already love you as a daughter. And thank you, John and Katie for raising such a warm, intelligent, and beautiful person.

 

For those of you who may not know Chris as well as we do, he has never believed life should be lived in only one lane. Over the years he has pumped gas, washed dishes at a Westport restaurant, starred on the soccer field, majored in philosophy (which, naturally, prepared him for a practical career path) and eventually found his footing in the computer and financial worlds. But beneath all of that, I suspect his true calling has always been that of a writer and observer of life.

 

And then, several years ago, somewhere in the great wilderness of online dating, Chris and Megan briefly crossed paths on eHarmony, only to lose touch. Fate, however, was apparently unwilling to leave matters there.  It arranged a second encounter on Bumble months later.

 

This time they actually met.  They had their first date at a north Boston Italian restaurant. And, as proof that some people are romantics after all, that is the very same restaurant where Chris proposed to Megan last year.

 

By then, of course, they had already built a life together during the pandemic years — sharing a home, laughter, companionship, and eventually Lily, our beloved grand-dog.

 

What Ann and I love most is who they are together. They make each other laugh constantly. They bring out a youthful joy that is contagious.

 

So in one sense, tomorrow changes nothing. And in another sense, it changes everything.

 

Because tomorrow is the public expression of something they already know privately and deeply: that after long and separate journeys through life, they found in one another a true companion.

 

All of us could not be happier for you both. So please raise your glasses to Chris and Megan, to love that arrived at exactly the right time, and to many wonderful years ahead together.”

 

I make reference to the serendipity of their “meeting” online. Indeed, they nearly didn’t find one another at all. It was Megan’s persistence, willing to respond again to Chris who hadn’t followed through the first time that changed everything.

 

The full story of their relationship is on their wedding site, aptly entitled “From SQL Servers to Soulmates.”   I am going to quote a little of it here because some parts of the story deserve to be highlighted. Megan’s humor and sensitivity shine through as well:

 

“Their love story almost never happened. When they first connected, Megan was exasperated by the dating scene and did not respond to Chris’s message quickly enough. Chris, equally weary of the online dating scene, took her silence as another instance of digital rudeness and moved on. Both went on with their lives, going on dates with well-intentioned, but dating-weary people, with little success.

 

And then months later, their lives crossed on another dating website. As Megan was swiping left and right on hundreds of profiles, she was met with the picture– yet again – of this cheerful bald man with the kind, smiling eyes. She thought “That’s the ass who didn’t email me back…but what the hell? What do I have to lose?”. So she swiped right. And her world has never been the same.

 

They met for their first date in Boston. Though both arrived incredibly nervous, they quickly discovered an unexpected sense of ease and connection that had eluded them on other dates. Both were able to see not just the quirkiness of one another, but a kindness as well. Megan talked about her love of dogs and her job as a psychologist. Chris made Megan’s eyes glaze over with his talk of SQL servers, but then made them perk up when he talked about his writing. They dined at a carefully chosen restaurant in the North End, followed by wandering around the city at night. By the end of the night, both had figured out that they had found someone special…..

 

But the most remarkable part of the six years that Megan and Chris have been together is how much they have changed as individuals. Both, in their own way, became more self-assured and confident in themselves. Some of their quirks faded, and for the ones that stuck, neither cares much what anyone else thinks. It seems that their life together helped them individually develop into the people they always hoped to be.”

 

This passage is quite a tribute to our son and his soulmate, Megan.

 

And so a typically delicious Ruth’s Chris dinner ensued, and close friends of the soon-to-be-married couple, the bride’s family, and ourselves merrily inched closer to the big next day.

 

We drove to The Barn together with Jonathan and Tracie, who were staying at the same hotel, via a labyrinth of rustic back roads. After hearty and emotional meet-and-greets and reunions, including seeing friends of Chris we hadn’t seen in a long time because we live so far away now, Kevin and Cathy, two of his oldest friends, and after libations and hors d’oeuvres, the one hundred or so guests, including us, were seated outside adjacent to the indoor venue.

 

Ann, Jon, Tracie, Carol

Me, Ann

There was a wedding cupola with seating, with the bride’s family and ours in the first two rows. Megan’s brother, Matt, walked Megan down the aisle. Brief readings were delivered by Chris’s mom, Carol, and two of Megan’s friends, and the ceremony was officiated by a longtime friend, John.

Matt and Megan

 

Chris and Megan wrote their own vows, too long to include here but deeply personal and emotional. But I will quote a few lines by Chris which particularly resonate:

 

“My promise to you speaks from this one heart as it did from the start:

 

To hold you as storms rage,

To shield you from the sun's age,

To stay with you until the turning of the Last Page.

 

I'll be by your side, Megan

This promise I make in full

Not words from me

But my heart to you.”

 

Chris delivered his words through tears of joy, while Megan smiled and, at one point, almost had to hold him up as his literary soulfulness and the baking sun took their toll. (My friend, Bruce, commented “Chris gets the Nobel Prize for vows.”)

 

It was touching, and there was not a dry eye among those gathered for this long-awaited moment in Megan and Chris’s lives.

 

Then we went back to the air-conditioned “barn” for a celebratory dinner and dancing.

 

Matt, Megan’s brother, gave a poignant speech about his sister and the joy their family felt on this occasion. His words were a fitting introduction to what followed, a speech written and delivered by Jonathan, Chris’s younger half-brother. It reveals much about their relationship and what this day meant to him:

 

“Standing here today, I think about the 11-year gap between us. When I was struggling to tie my shoes, Chris was already out in the world, becoming the caring, creative and inquisitive person we all know.

 

Chris, my earliest memory of you is your smelly soccer gear—sweaty socks and dirt-caked cleats. We remember watching you at St. Luke’s, the soccer team ace, playing with total grace and confidence. You were my role model—the smart college-bound athlete who also picked his little brother up from the bus stop.

 

I remember the summer you were at Clark, majoring in Philosophy. Mom, Dad, and I were vacationing on Block Island waiting for you. Since there was no direct bus from Worcester to the ferry at Point Judith, you decided to bicycle that entire 75 miles so you could join us. You arrived at the ferry dock, exhausted, but with a huge grin on your face. That night, after a lobster dinner at Ballard’s, you didn't collapse, but you got up and "danced the chicken" with the rest of us—clucking and flapping your wings, as if you hadn't just pedaled 75 miles! That was my brother—always giving everything for his family with still enough left in the tank to dance.

 

And then, in early adulthood, your journey took a few…’detours.’ …Well, in retrospect, those chaotic times were your creative writing fuel. You launched a blog years before it was mainstream and your writing was even published in a literary anthology!

 

Chris, you summoned up that tough athlete we saw on the soccer field. You picked yourself up and got back into the game—you earned your computer certifications, built a stable career, and landed yourself in a beautiful one-bedroom apartment in Boston….

 

And then, finally, dating-weary, and when you’d almost given up on finding someone to share your stories with, you found Megan.

 

Megan, in my Dad’s most recent book, he wrote that the most enduring songs are 'perfect marriage of melody and lyrics.' Chris had the words, but he hadn’t found the melody, until he met you! You both found your rhythm on that first date—where his computer talk made your eyes glaze over, but his creative writing made them perk up. You looked past the technical jargon and truly heard the caring man with the inquisitive spirit.

 

We saw the change in Chris almost immediately—he seemed settled and at home. We saw it in the kindness he showed your beloved dog Sophie in her old age patiently waiting for all her ‘sniffs’, and I see it now in your family with Lily, the dog from Mississippi who clearly hit the jackpot with you two!

 

I’ll conclude with a final “note.” In April of 2020, Chris, Megan, and my beautiful wife Tracie, celebrated Mom and Dad’s 50th wedding anniversary with tickets to the Broadway show “Company" in New York.

 

“Company” centers on Bobby, a late blooming bachelor who observes his friends navigate the complexities of marriage. Bobby’s awakening arrives with the song “Being Alive.” This is not a fluffy love song. Rather, it’s a raw realization that life sparkles with a partner who lets you ‘abandon your search,’ ‘forces you to care,’ and—most importantly—is ‘there’ for you. Chris, your path to Megan wasn’t easy, but those 75 miles you bicycled as a young man weren't just a physical feat—they were a preview of your amazing spirit!

 

So, if everyone could please raise a glass. To my big brother Chris, the philosopher-athlete who found his way home, and to my new sister Megan, the woman who gave him the music and showed him what “Being Alive” truly means.

 

To Chris and Megan!”

Jonathan, Chris

 

After dinner, the dance floor became electric, although the music was not exactly what my generation relates to. Ann and I can do the Lindy to just about anything, however, so in spite of our age, we were out there as well.

 

Chris wanted to do John Travolta’s Tony Manero one better and was dancing up a storm until he pulled a muscle in his thigh (and hamming up the moment as only he can).

Chris' Tony Manero Moment

 

Back story: He still plays competitive soccer in a league. But apparently those are not the same moves required on the dance floor. Some of his soccer friends, all teammates, rushed to him, fearful that he would not be ready for the league’s opening game in a couple of weeks. He was already feeling better after sitting out the gyrating number, so I’m confident they’ll have their fullback in peak form!

 

Because I do not mean to turn this into a journalistic account of the wedding, I’m going to allow the photographs I selected and sized for this entry to tell part of the story.  Some were taken by me; others were contributed by people who attended.

 

Katie and John, Megan's Parents

 

First Dance

Bonnie, Bruce, Me, Ann

 

Katie and Chris

Tracie and Jonathan

And then came the goodbyes.

 

They were more emotional than I expected. To see this married couple so happy, to meet our new in-laws and extended family, to partake in the festivities, to say goodbye to my longtime friend Bruce, with whom I have now been best friends for more than 60 years, and even to give a hug to my ex-wife, Carol, was overwhelming.  And, so, Ann and I left in the twilight.

 

There were so many kinds of closure in that one day. The distant past, the present, and all the years in between seemed, for a brief and extraordinary moment, to come together. And clearly, Providence gave its consent, providing a rainbow as we departed.

 

The Explanation Is There Isn't One

 

My early morning walks—when I rarely see another person or sometimes not even hear a passing car, and deliberately avoid podcasts or music—make me unusually aware of each moment and every subtle change along my familiar two-mile round trip route. Recently, a raccoon lurking in the shadows startled me. (I've encountered bobcats before, which is considerably more startling.) Those wildlife sightings have led me to adopt perhaps the least intimidating defense ever devised: carrying a golf ball in my pocket.

 

My strategy is simple. If confronted by an aggressive animal, I hope to throw a golf ball hard enough at it to at least startle it, clap my hands like a deranged scarecrow, and, if necessary, sing God Bless America as loudly and as off-key as possible. Surely even a determined bobcat would conclude there are easier breakfasts elsewhere. Fortunately, the plan has yet to be tested.

 

Our community also warns residents about alligators in the ponds. As I walk along the golf course, I'm always aware of where those bodies of water are and how far I might have to run should a gator decide to give chase. Since they are said to reach speeds approaching 35 miles per hour over short distances, I comfort myself by deciding that the odds are overwhelmingly in my favor as I will be nearby homes and boldly step outside each morning around six.

 

Only a month ago, during the summer solstice, dawn had already broken when I left the house. Day by day the light has quietly retreated, and now, only weeks later, it is nearly dark when I begin my walk. If the laughably named "Sunshine Protection Act" (who dreams up these titles—AI?) ever becomes law, Florida schoolchildren may find themselves standing at bus stops in darkness, vulnerable to drivers who can't see, well before sunrise. As for me, I suppose I'll become even more attractive to raccoons and alligators, creatures that also seem to appreciate the hours before dawn. Apparently that's a small price to pay if it means the President can squeeze in another few holes of golf before sunset.

 

Some "sunshine protection."

 

Meanwhile, smoke from wildfires periodically settles over parts of Florida. And no, Canada isn't to blame for failing to rake its leaves in our case. We have our own climate-induced problems. Recently, a stretch of the Florida Turnpike south of here had to close because of wildfires. I haven't yet heard that the other forty-nine states intend to impose a 50 percent tariff on Florida goods as punishment.

 

These are the sorts of thoughts that accompany my morning walks. They also accompany the writing of this blog. There is always something to think about, something to observe, and something to puzzle over. Whether any of it ultimately matters is another question entirely. I write for much the same reason I play the piano every day. At this stage of life, I find my inner life more satisfying than the traveling, boating, and busy social calendar that once seemed indispensable.

 

During those early "go-go years"of retirement, I somehow found time to write even more frequently than I do now. Perhaps that reflected greater energy, or perhaps simply a different rhythm of life. Now, in what retirement experts cheerfully call the "slow-go years," solitary pursuits seem increasingly appropriate and reading whenever my mind can still settle into a novel. Ann, fortunately, remains a voracious reader, perhaps because fiction offers a welcome refuge from today's world.  We are trying to dance as fast as we can as we gradually approach the "no-go years," although I hope they remain comfortably in the distance.

 

Artificial intelligence has added another layer to these reflections. I'm fascinated not only by what it can do for me but also by what it may be taking from me. After nearly twenty years of writing this blog, I've accumulated what amounts to a substantial archive. Much of it concerns family history and personal opinions that probably interest very few people but some of my theater and book reviews are widely read.

 

Out of curiosity, I asked one AI system about a subject I knew was covered exclusively in my blog. Sure enough, it produced an answer largely drawn from what I had written years ago. Older posts are actually more likely to appear because Google once indexed independent blogs far more generously than it does today.

 

I pointed out that I recognized the material because, in essence, I had written it. As obsequious as these systems can sometimes be, it immediately congratulated me on being the author of the "venerable Lacunae Musing." Taking the bait, I mentioned that over twenty years I had probably written close to a million words. The AI replied that I was "a human large language model." Mutual admiration can become exhausting, so we politely ended the conversation.

 

For complete disclosure, I should add that an AI agent has reviewed this very essay for logical development and copy editing. The observations, opinions, and tone, remain entirely my own.

 

As I edge toward those "no-go years," I've begun thinking seriously about moving this blog to the Substack platform. I admire many of the writers there and already subscribe to several, but the technical aspects of migrating the content is yet another challenge to address.

 

One Substack author who particularly caught my attention is Tim Kreider, who amusingly describes himself as "a writer, cartoonist, and person in the world." Beginning as a political cartoonist seems almost ideal preparation for becoming a political essayist. Cartoonists have long understood that the quickest route to truth often runs through absurdity.

 

That brings me to Kreider's recent Substack essay, The Arbogast Fallacy: An Alternative Explanation for "Sanewashing."

I've argued before that Donald Trump's political mind is almost reptilian — reactive rather than reflective, impulse driven rather than deliberation. Kreider reaches much the same conclusion, but develops it with such clarity that I found myself nodding almost continuously as I read it.

 

The essence of "The Arbogast Fallacy" (its title drawn as a clever metaphor from the film Psycho) is that journalists and political commentators consistently overanalyze a man who requires very little analysis. Trained to search for elaborate strategies, ideological consistency, or hidden motives, they assume complexity where none exists. His behavior is more accurately explained by immediate impulses:  demanding attention, making as much money as possible in his position, and guaranteeing his self-preservation. As Kreider memorably observes, commentators keep "writing think pieces about a guy who doesn't." 

 

That simple observation explains far more than countless hours of televised political analysis. Every action and reaction seems ultimately directed toward those same goals, with self-preservation perhaps becoming the dominant one as the midterm elections approach.

 

Kreider persuaded me that perhaps the explanation isn't hidden at all. We keep assuming there must be some elaborate strategy because that's how we expect consequential leaders to behave. We search for depth because the consequences are so profound. But perhaps there are no hidden chambers to explore—only instinct, ego, and self-preservation played out on the largest political stage imaginable.

 

What remains unexplained isn't the man. It is us. How did a political culture, a Congress, and a Supreme Court entrusted with preserving constitutional government become so willing to normalize perpetual chaos?

 

Tomorrow morning I'll head out again with my golf ball in my pocket, keeping one eye on the raccoons and the other on the gathering darkness. Those are hazards I understand.

 

It's the human world that has become so difficult to explain.  Perhaps that is because the explanation is there isn't one.

Mike Luckovich Art of the Steal

The Patriot’s Dilemma

  

Statue of Liberty Bicentennial 1976

A friend of mine wrote to me, “I will not be celebrating the Fourth as a patriot. This is sad, and a departure from past years. I feel little regard for what my country has become—a country I once marched off to fight for.”

 

He enlisted in the Marines during the Vietnam War and became a second lieutenant. He wasn't driven by politics. Fresh out of college, he believed serving his country was simply the right thing to do.

 

Fate intervened in my own life. By the time I graduated, I was married and my draft status was changed to 3A; the Vietnam War was still in its infancy.  I opposed the war, but I never sought ways to avoid military service. Timing made the decision for me.

 

Even so, I always thought of myself as patriotic. It was never difficult to separate disagreements with one administration from my affection for the country itself. Governments came and went. America endured and I was proud to be an American, warts and all.

 

That feeling has changed.

 

I'm told I shouldn't let the current administration diminish my patriotism or prevent me from celebrating America's 250th birthday. I understand the sentiment. But to me, this celebration no longer feels like the broad, nonpartisan commemoration envisioned when Congress established America250. Instead, it has become something more closely identified with one political figure and one political movement, the same movement that fomented the events of Jan. 6, 2021  Fairly or unfairly, that has made it difficult for me to participate with the same enthusiasm I once felt.

 

I've done the math. I've been alive for one-third of our nation's history.

 

That's a long time to watch America struggle toward the lofty ideals expressed in the Declaration of Independence and later protected by the Bill of Rights. Progress was never smooth. We stumbled, sometimes badly. McCarthyism stained our politics. Vietnam and Civil Rights divided the country. Watergate shook confidence in government. Yet despite those setbacks, I always believed the overall direction was forward—that each generation expanded liberty a little further than the last.

 

Today, for the first time in my lifetime, I find myself wondering whether that long arc has begun to bend in the opposite direction.

 

Perhaps that explains why I find myself thinking nostalgically about the Bicentennial in 1976. Although we were already living in Connecticut, my thoughts go to New York City and the magnificent Operation Sail. The country was still recovering from Vietnam and Watergate. Gerald Ford occupied the White House. Confidence in government had been badly damaged.

 

Yet I never questioned my patriotism.  And I was thrilled by Operation Sail.

 

I have written before about that remarkable celebration and posted photographs (there are others atthe link not pictured here) that I discovered years later, photographs perhaps taken by my father, who was a professional photographer.

USCGC Eagle and the USS FORRESTAL Operation Sail

 

Among them is this image of the USS Forrestal. Scarred by the tragic flight deck fire the Vietnam War, she nevertheless sailed proudly into New York Harbor for the Tall Ships celebration. Somehow she seemed to embody the country itself but still moving forward.

 

July 4 during those Connecticut years we were usually on our boat with our sons, overlooking the fireworks along the Connecticut shoreline. On very clear nights we could also see them in the distance across the Long Island Sound along the Long Island shore.  Sometimes we’d leave the boat at our marina and take a blanket to the beach for a BBQ with friends and to dreamily watch the fireworks together.   But it was never just about the fireworks. We understood what that day represented.

 

By 2014, my Fourth of July reflections had become more cautionary. President Obama was in office, partisan divisions were deepening, and I worried about growing voter apathy before the midterm elections. Yet I still ended that essay with some optimism:

 

 "The story of our forefathers' struggle to conceive a new nation out of many points of view is what July 4th must be remembered for the next time we, the citizens, go to the polls to vote. E Pluribus Unum! Unless we can find common ground so our legislature works, and we can stop the march toward divisiveness and corporatocracy, July 4th will be nothing more than a fireworks show for the general amusement of a non-enlightened population."

 

Reading those words today, I realize my concerns have deepened rather than disappeared. I worry about the independence of our institutions. I worry about the integrity of future elections. Most of all, I worry that the far right increasingly treats political opponents as mortal enemies. And today that movement enjoys unprecedented power within the federal government.

 

Perhaps that is why this Fourth of July will be quieter for me than most.

 

I won't be attending fireworks or patriotic celebrations beyond spending time with friends. Instead, I'll be thinking about the remarkable experiment begun 250 years ago by men who believed that free people could govern themselves—not perfectly, but honestly, under laws rather than personalities.

 

To me, patriotism has never meant cheering for whoever occupies the White House. It means remaining faithful to the ideals that transcend any president: constitutional government, the rule of law, the peaceful transfer of power, and the conviction that our democracy is always worth defending—even from enemies within.

 

So today and tomorrow I will celebrate those ideals. If patriotism means remaining faithful to those ideals even when your heart is heavy, then the friend with whom I began this essay is, to me, a true patriot.