They were introduced by mutual friends, which is how they met.
But maybe not why they met.
It was that fateful year of 1963, and they married the following year.
First, let’s go back—decades, in fact—to South Burlington, Vermont. A young lady lives with her sisters in a convent, being raised by nuns. In that same small town, an Italian immigrant youth walks past, going to work. The young girl and the immigrant fellow do not meet. But they will.
The years go by.
The young lady’s family is in the small central Massachusetts town of Fitchburg. So too, now, is the young Italian-American. Their paths almost certainly cross, as small as the place is. They do not meet. But they will.
The lady is a mother and grandmother now, living in Watertown, Massachusetts. A bigger, but not big, town. In recent years everyone’s heard of it because of the terrorist Tsarnaev. The lady’s youngest daughter is still single, still at home. The Italian gentleman lives there too, in another part of Watertown. He has a family. One of his sons is still single.
Of course the woman’s daughter and man’s son marry. A brief courtship, until you consider the coincidences of the people who just happened to be in three distinctly different places. At the same time. Strangers.
The wedding: April 4, 1964. Notes are compared, as families and in-laws get acquainted. One by one, the dots are connected. You were in Burlington? Me too! Fitchburg? So were we!
Happy Anniversary, Mom and Dad. It would’ve been 53 years if he was still here with us.
To me, the story says that our lives are always in motion, though not always guided by our plans.
But sometimes guided by a plan, nonetheless.