Reflecting on the little slice of heaven my wife and I share — and how she’s still as sweet as ever
by Jim Dodson | illustration by Gerry O’ Neill
She has a birthday this month. It’s one of the biggies.
It’s not every day you reach an age when you’re permitted — even expected — to kick back and reflect on a long journey that has shaped so many lives for the better.
Her kindness is exemplary, guided by a heart that is as compassionate as it is brave. Over the years, I’ve seen her take on tasks that seemed almost hopeless, inspiring significant change in others around her. That’s just her nature.
No wonder her birthday is a national holiday — at least in France.
It’s hard to believe that my wife, Wendy, born on Bastille Day, is 65. She’s never looked more youthful and beautiful.
Yes, I know. America also has a big birthday this month. So, roll out the bunting, strike up the band, hand out the confetti poppers and light the fireworks. Even in times that try men’s souls, it’s good to pause and reflect on how our beloved nation got here — and where it may be headed, for better or worse.
My birthday gal, Wendy, is as all-American as apple pie and just gets better with age, an infectious optimist and embodiment of what it means to be a fully engaged citizen, a wise counselor and the most capable human being I’ve ever known.
Because she’s also a gifted baker, I call her my Miss American Pie.
I’ve said for years that she’d make a great president. But please don’t spread that notion around. I’d hate to give up her enlightened leadership skills to a struggling nation and lose her famous roasted apple-crumb pie in the deal.
Meeting her almost 30 years ago was the luckiest day of my life — an encounter that in retrospect seems providential, if not presidential. It’s a story I’ve told only once in a book many years ago. This is as good a moment to share it with you as any.
On the heels of a wearying, monthlong, national book tour for Final Rounds, my memoir about taking my wise old man back to play the courses on England’s Lancashire coast, I was invited to give the keynote speech during the American Lung Association of New York’s three-day golf event and fundraiser in Syracuse.
I’d been amicably divorced for a couple years and shared custody with my former wife of our two goslings. The last thing I wanted to do, however, was trek to Syracuse for yet another golf event and rubber-chicken speech.
But my host was relentless. He not only talked me into coming but set me up with dinner “companions” for the three nights of the event. I don’t know why I said yes.
But I’m glad I did.
The first night’s blind date met me, my host and his wife at the stately Onondaga Country Club in Fayetteville, New York, where Walter Hagen once belonged. My date was a local poet who showed up late to the table and said nothing until I was asked by my host’s sunny wife if it was true that I received (and replied to) hundreds of letters from fans of my new book. I confirmed that I did.
“That’s nothing,” piped up the poet.
“I get pictures from prisoners. They send me photos of their [use your
imagination].”
The formal dining room around us was full of elderly diners. Audible gasps and crashing crystal sounded throughout the room. As I walked her to her car, the poet laughed merrily and declared, “I love making rich people uncomfortable!”
“Everybody needs a hobby,” I told her.
The next night’s match was worse. She was the town’s historian. I borrowed my host’s car to take her to a lovely restaurant in the Finger Lakes. She wasn’t planted on the seat beside me for two full seconds before she exclaimed, “I hear you wrote some beloved book about golf. I hate golf. It’s a fascist sport. Golfers are fascist doughboys.”
“So, I guess hitting a bucket of balls before dinner is out of the question,”
I remarked.
“You’re &%$#@! right,” she declared. (Please use your imagination again.) Every other word was a charming expletive. I guess she hated history as well. I got her home in record time.
I asked my host for Number Three’s phone number to cancel the final date. He refused. I demanded her phone number. He wouldn’t budge.
“Her name is Wendy. She’s an incredible baker and mother of two young boys. Everyone in the neighborhood adores her. If you break this date, Sparky, I’ll be as lonely as you are and sleeping on the couch for a month.”
The final dinner was held at the home of our hosts with two additional couples. At the appointed hour, I forgot to walk down the block to meet Wendy Ann Buynak at her house. She walked up by herself bearing a plate of homemade chocolate chip shortbread cookies in the shape of acorns. They looked too good to eat and tasted even better.
The minute I saw her standing in the open doorway with that plate of cookies, I realized there was a God after all. Third time was the charm. We sat at the end of the table talking only to each other for three solid hours. Then I walked her home.
The next afternoon, we went for a drive and wound up at a local golf course, where I kissed her. She smiled and kissed me back.
Two weeks later, I drove seven hours for our first official date. She put me to work helping to box up 75 beautifully made miniature wedding cakes for a Syracuse bride. I got to eat the 76th cake. It was love at first bite. She also made me a roasted apple-crumb pie to take home to my kids.
Is this an all-American love story or what?
Three months later, I introduced Wendy Ann to my two little ones, who instantly fell in love with her and her key lime pie. Two summers later, she and her two young boys joined our family, doubling our size in a lovely backyard marriage ceremony in Maine. I saw the spectacular cake she made but never got a taste. It vanished without a trace before I could get a piece.
This summer marks our 25th wedding anniversary. Miss American Pie and I plan to slip away to our favorite inn for a few days of golf and relaxation, and later this summer, we plan
to renew our vows.
I’m reliably informed there will be pie.
This story originally appeared in the July 2026 issue of WALTER magazine.
