Mt. Washington in my home state of New Hampshire boasted of having the world’s worst weather.
I was around nine years old on that first visit on a hot sunny summer day when our family went there to ride the Cog Railway up and back down the mile high mountain.
Stopping at a roadside stand on the way, uncle persuaded this finicky eater to try fried clams, which I was sure I wouldn’t like.
Once we reached the summit of Mt. Washington, visibility was reported as double zero, because the fog was so thick you couldn’t see very far in front of you while the air was cold and heavy with misty rain.
On the way back to their camp where we stayed a lot of the summer, we had to stop for more fried clams.
My family never let me forget that replay.

This couldn’t be happening, I told myself, as, in my underwear, I paced the upstairs hall in Grandma’s house between my aunt’s old bedroom and the bathroom. It was the afternoon of September 10, 2005. In the yard, I heard strains of music from the string duo my father hired for the occasion and the chatter of arriving guests. Soon the ceremony would start. Would I have to walk down the aisle on my father’s arm in my underwear? Where was my sister–in–law, Kathleen, who agreed to be matron of honor?