Whither, Bliss?

As if Christmas were not enough to knock us into January, where light and heat are scarce, we've been killing off our darlings. Well, that's what it's called writing. The clever phrase, the startling logical leap. They've got to go.

Seaside house? Gone. Pocasset was our second choice. But the good folks there gave us a belated maximum guest count of eighty five. One of you would not have been able to come. So, we looked North to Maine, and here in Boston again.

I struggled to find a story to tell you about why that beautiful warehouse space in Boston was worth considering, until we learned that the package starts - yes, starts - at $22,000. (Three zeros, not a typo.) And where's the drama in the icy, snowy visit to a Maine house that TWIL loved. The nice lady kept saying it's possible while also saying no. She was encouraging, and it was impossible. We could have the wedding, but next door. It wasn't a story. It was just spooky.

And then to the place that I loved, still farther North in Camden ME, where there was no punchline either. We went so far North that I feared it was Bhutan to our guests and the way there a death march to our joyous day. Hell, it's a five hour trip from Boston, allowing for traffic! The rambling place would still be perfect for friends, who it turns out could not come for the pre-wedding idyll we envisioned. And so we let the vision fade.

That's what we've been doing. Killing our darlings: Plan A, the destination house on the shore. Plan B: the modern, elegant location here in the city where we live (nearly). I won't go into the ideas that never reached "plan" status.

We would not have killed these dears and darlings if we hadn't had an ace in our hand. We'd have been over a wallet-extracting barrel, as many people end up. Our ace - I call it the knife in our sock, that is, the way you ward off the wedding thugs in the alley - turns out to beat the house.

Tomorrow: The NEW DATE and Playing the Ace.