A man is not complete until he is married. Then, he is finished.

It is a crisp, clear day in Monterey. In fact, it is the coldest day in 83 years. 40 degrees ambient; and with the wind chill from the coastal wind, the effective temperature is easily in the low 30′s/high 20′s.

Through a confluence of planning brought about by compromise with my soon-to-be spouse, we are holding a wedding on the beach at Lover’s Point (my idea) on a day that is less than ideal for outdoor activity (she favored a wedding sooner rather than later – perhaps because she was concerned that I might change my mind.)

The bride didn’t wear blue; she was blue. My brother in law commented: “This warms my heart, but no other part of me.”

The day started with the family rallying at our little cabin in Scotts Valley before  heading down to Lover’s Point. During this trip, Sherri’s parent’s elected to stop along the way to acquire some film for their camera. This is before everyone had a cell phone and could Twitter what they were doing to a thousand friends at once.  The rest of the wedding party stood in the chilly breeze, with an increasingly anxious bride wondering where the heck her parents were. In a fit of pique she exclaimed, “This is the worst day of my life!” (Maybe in her life up until then it was the worst; I would deliver many more worse days to her life in the years to come – because I love her and that’s what husbands do for their wives.)

Presently, her parents showed up with profuse apologies for their tardiness, and we got on with the business at hand.  I think it worked out okay…