I remember the day of my wedding. A fine September day, fine like the smooth silkiness of linen. Lightly run fingers over the grain and a sense of rightness enfolds - crisp, cool, and even. Usual concerns about customary details cluttered my thoughts: getting hair done, decorating the hall, debating whether to wear my glasses, checking the rings, praying that everything went without the dreaded “hitch.” But through it all I moved with deliberation toward Pat, my guiding light. I was stepping into my wedding gown in the dressing room when I heard his voice. “Is Kay inside?” “You can’t see her, it’s bad luck!” Mom’s reply was brisk and emphatic. “I just wanted to tell her I’ll see her at the altar.” No luck. I listened at the door, gown unzipped, veil askew, shoes off, make-up unfinished and smiled. His voice always conjured up a surge. Contentment. I eased the door open. A peek wouldn’t hurt, a brief flash of a tuxedo jacket as my parents pulled the outer door closed. Later, crossing the parking lot on my father’s arm, moving toward the church, I was surprised by Pat climbing up onto the six-foot fence and shouting, “I’ll see you inside, Love!” I married William Patrick Ferrie on September 14,1974 because I loved him, because inside that strong, compassionate man lived a lively little boy who still climbed W fences. I married him because our lives together promised to be so fine.