Third time was the charm. Twenty-five years later, we renewed our wedding vows in our garden.
By Jim Dodson | Illustration by Gerry O’neill
Not long ago, with family and close friends in attendance, my wife, Wendy, and I celebrated 25 years of marriage by renewing our wedding vows in our garden.
Our original wedding took place in late June 2001, but we decided a day this past September was more appropriate for renewing our vows because ours was an autumn romance that led to a summer wedding three years later. As I noted back in July, the way we met and fell in love was something out of a madcap romantic comedy.
Briefly, it involved three blind dates, two of which were comic dating disasters, followed by a third that transformed my life in the most unexpected and wonderful way.
The third blind date was with Wendy Anne Buynak, a gifted baker and beautiful mother of two small boys who was in the process of divorcing her husband. After a quiet afternoon first date at a local park, we decided to take our budding romance out of town and motored along New York’s Cayuga Lake on a beautiful November morning and lunched at a winery. There, we met a minibus full of five young married couples who invited us to join them on a tour of the Finger Lakes wine country.
On a lark, trailing their bus, we joined them for three wineries in a row. At each stop, the couples toasted us and demanded to know more about our romance and my intentions.
“I have a great idea! You guys should get married today,” one of the young wives blurted out, prompting cheers from her tipsy companions. “We’ll even find a minister!”
We politely demurred, pointing out that we had a dinner reservation at a legendary restaurant in Ithaca, but thanked them and wished them well.
On the way to the restaurant, we passed an old-fashioned roadhouse called Glenwood Pines, set charmingly in the woods above the lake, and decided to stop for a cold longneck beer. We had such fun talking to the owners and playing shuffleboard bowling that we decided to skip the restaurant in favor of a cozy Glenwood Pines supper for two. At one point, Wendy wiped away a tear, and I asked her if all was well. “I’ve never felt so happy,” she simply replied.
A full moon was shining, and the owners told us about a great spot by the lake in Ithaca where they had courted once upon a time. We parked there, and an hour or so later, a cop tapped gently on our steamed-up window with a flashlight.
“Are you OK, ma’am?” he politely asked Wendy.
“I’m fine, officer,” she replied. “We’re just talking about our children and what a lovely November day it’s been.”
“She’s in danger of being proposed to very soon,” I chipped in.
“In that case,” he said with a smile, “you folks have a nice evening — and a great life together.”
A few weeks later, we met once again at a historic inn in Williamstown, Massachusetts, for our official third date. I read Wendy a poem I’d written, inspired by our wonderful day in wine country.
I also formally proposed to her. She kissed me and accepted.
Three years later, on what would have been my parents’ 58th wedding anniversary, we got married on a rainy June afternoon in Maine with only Wendy’s parents, my widowed mom, and two dear friends from Georgia, Susie and Rick Berta, in attendance. Susie, who sang with a famous Atlanta chorale, did a beautiful version of John Lennon’s “Grow Old with Me,” with its perfect lyric: Grow old along with me. The best is yet to be.
We postponed our reception until September 2001—a lobster roast under the stars with an Irish fiddle band for 100 friends and family who were coming from everywhere.
I was buying flowers for the party that clear, blue Tuesday morning when the World Trade Center’s towers fell and America stood still in grief and disbelief. Since air travel was cancelled nationwide, we cancelled our lobster roast. Besides, all the available local lobsters were spoken for due to a major fundraiser in New York.
Two days later, however, Susie and Rick phoned to say they planned to drive all the way to Maine, wanting just to be with us at such a sad time for America. Their call opened a cosmic floodgate. The phone never stopped ringing with friends far and wide who wanted to do the same, including the lobster guy, who called to say the fundraiser was postponed and he had several hundred lobsters on his hands. We could get them for a dollar apiece.
The lobster roast was suddenly back on.
Locals in town who’d planned to go away for the week also called to ask if they might come and bring friends and children. Naturally, we said yes.
Instead of 100 guests, we had almost 200, including kids and dogs. Wendy’s amazing wedding cake vanished before I could even get a taste. Because most of our guests hadn’t been at our wedding, we did a brief repeat of our wedding vows, plus a blessing for the victims of 9/11 and their families. The music, the dancing, and the tears went on until midnight.
This past September, our grown children, new granddaughter, and a dozen or so close friends gathered in our front garden on a balmy evening. I marveled at how quickly time had passed. Susie was there, despite having suddenly lost Rick last January after 46 years of an extraordinary marriage. When I told her she wouldn’t have to sing “Grow Old with Me,” she laughed and said, “I’m not sure I could!” Her simple presence was the perfect gift.
I surprised my bride of Irish heritage with a small gold necklace featuring a Celtic knot, a symbol of eternity, and she surprised me by appearing in a gorgeous new wedding dress—an upgrade from the one that was ruined in the rain at our first wedding ceremony.
Before the Rev. Ginny Inman conducted her short but beautiful renewal of our vows, I told our gathered friends about our first dates 26 years ago and read the poem I proposed with. They seemed to dig it.
Maybe the third time really is the charm: this time, I finally got to taste Wendy’s marvelous wedding cake.
This article originally appeared in the November 2026 issue of WALTER Magazine.
