Maria and I got married on June 12, 2010, in the big old Cathedral of a barn at the first Bedlam Farm in West Hebron, N.Y., a million miles and a hundred lives ago.

It was a happy day, and our honeymoon marked the first trip we ever took together after getting married.

We drove a couple of hours into Central Vermont to an old and beautiful inn on our wedding night. A friend had recommended it; we had never been there.

We had a beautiful room; the staff said Paul Newman loved the room when he came to stay there, once or twice a year.

We were both seriously broke at the time, but we figured this was the last time we planned to get married, and so we blew what we had on this inn, noted for its beauty, its rich history, its wonderful staff, and its beautiful rooms.

When I told them it was a honeymoon visit, they dropped the price even further and wouldn’t let us pay for the first dinner.

The first thing we saw in that suite was a big and beautiful old tub. Maria drew a foaming bubble bath, and we both got in.

Our honeymoon was sweet and short. We only had enough money for two nights, and we didn’t feel at ease leaving the farm and the dogs and the animals for any longer than that.

We still don’t.

We’ve taken one long vacation – a  week in New Mexico – it was a wonderful trip but a difficult one, and very expensive.

Maria read some short stories to me, and our bath together marked the wonderful sense of relief and joy we felt at finally being married after long years of struggle, fear, and hurt.

We had the most wonderful time at this inn, and once a year (we missed two years after the bankruptcy), we try to go back and stay in that same room, Paul Newman’s favorite room our favorite room. Daniel Webster liked it also.

They always remember us as a honeymoon couple; they get quite emotional about it.

When we go there, we can look back and remember those often painful and turbulent, and terrifying days. But our love was and is nothing less than a miracle.

Otherwise, we don’t think much about them or talk much about them. For me, nostalgia is a trip; it enables the illusion that everything that was is better than anything that is.

Our lives are better than ever; I remind myself of that every single day. Time is always a surprise; our honeymoon was pre-heart surgery and before the country settled into the ugly rhythms of the Trump era. It was becoming clear we couldn’t sell the farm, nor could we afford to continue to live there.

I worried that Maria was walking into a big mess, and she was, but she was open-eyed about it, and we thought we could handle it all together. And we did.

This beautiful inn is too expensive for us most of the year, but sometimes, in the off-season, they offer super special weekends – Friday and Saturday for less than half their usual price.

It’s strange because it’s precisely the kind of upscale, WASPY, proper place we usually avoided. We were younger than most people, didn’t dress up for dinner, and were decidedly informal. Yet, we felt comfortable there from the beginning.

We became friends with some of the staffers and had some great talks about life in Vermont, writing, and animals.

Sometimes two or three years go by, and we can’t get there. We could see this year; it was an impulse but a good one.

If I get the e-mail announcing the special weekend rates and notice it and get right on the phone, I can sometimes get that room, and if I can, I grab it. You have to be quick.

I got it for Friday and Saturday.

June 12 is our anniversary date, but I can never get a room in time at that price for that day.

The old inn is full of magic and history, and it is quiet and peaceful. They are often more sentimental than we are. But we feel a lot of emotion when we go there.

We talk walks in the quiet town, sit on beaches, even meditate in some beautiful open gardens.

We usually get to sit at the same dining room table we sat at on that first honeymoon night.

The food is always wonderful. Breakfast is free and early. And the giant porcelain bathtubs are remarkable. We both love baths, even though we can rarely take one.

It is a place of great pace and sweet memory for us; we relax there in ways we never relax anywhere. It is the best place to celebrate us; the honeymoon seems fresh and so real. Neither of us dwells much on the past, but we don’t wish to forget it either.

We fled to this place for affirmation and peace, and we found both there. We were somewhat in shock; We couldn’t believe that we were actually married, that all that trouble was finally behind us.

And time passed so easily with each of us; we never ran out of things to talk about or stories to share. We still haven’t, more than a decade later.

When we got married, we had both just come out of a few years that can only be called hellish; we had clung together like two passengers tossed overboard a storm. Together, hand and hand, we got through it and then some.

We’ve had some challenges from the wedding day, but the memories are happy and rich.

The honeymoon opened the gates for a new chapter in our lives; we were so happy to be married. And still are. We never take what we have for granted; we didn’t have it for most of our lives, and we never expected to have it.

We still take a bath together when we get to room 15, and Maria read me a long and beautiful poem from Mary Oliver last night while I sank into my warm bubble bath.

Afterward, I gave her a foot massage with some Almond Oil I bought for the occasion. She loves foot massages.

Saturday, we drove to Bellows Falls.Vt., our new favorite town, and I bought her a straw hat. Since I met Maria, Thrift Shops have been a feature of both of our lives. Wherever we go, we stop in them; Maria gets all of her clothes from thrift and consignment shops. I’ve never seen her buy a piece of clothing retail.

Some years ago, I bought her a leather bomber jacket for 5 dollars on one of our trips to Vermont. She rarely wears it. Saturday, I brought her a strat summer hat with a paper rose for $3. I think she likes it.

I read two books in our short time – a novel called Mayflies by the wonderful Scottish writer Andrew O’Hagan about friendship and a much-hyped summer mystery called The Plot by Jean Hanff Korelitz, which got many rave reviews and which disappointed me.

I thought the plot was loopy and, at times, just absurd, and I realized the raves were mostly because the book was about writers and how they suffer too much and publishing and how cold it is.

Thus the glowing reviews.  Writers love to read about themselves.

I wouldn’t say I liked it and can’t recommend it, even though it is the summer’s hottest book. On the other hand, Mayflies is a brilliant treasure,  set mostly in young, working-class Scotland and Manchester, England; it is beautifully written, wise, funny, touching, and poetic.

We read in the room Saturday for almost eight straight hours, something we can never do at home.

It was wonderful to climb into the tub again.

We are not especially sentimental or giving to marking dates or rituals. Our lives are very busy, pragmatic, and in many ways, business-like. We don’t like to look back. We take our work very seriously, requiring living in the new with some peeking down the road.

But we never take our relationship lightly.

We do look back to room 15 in that inn and our annual bath together – you could never fit both of us into our bathtub here. And we wouldn’t do it at a motel; it would feel sacrilegious.

This morning, we got up and went to the dining room. I saw a big mirror on the far wall and couldn’t resist a selfie. Maria had to take it; my face kept getting in the way.

After breakfast, we said goodbye to the tub and headed for home. I’ll miss is.