Atlanta, GA
August 6, 2026
We’d first met about a year before.
When we did, I lived in San Francisco. But that weekend I was in Atlanta visiting a friend.
One afternoon, a friend of that friend paid a visit. When she arrived, “we” decided to go to the High Museum. The two women walked ahead, hardly noticing any of the art.
My friend listened intently to the woman with her, who seemed to do most of the talking. Apparently, this girl was engaged to be married.
But after meeting me, she had second thoughts about her nuptials. By the end of the afternoon, she only had one.
She couldn’t go thru with the wedding. Soon thereafter, she ditched her fiancé. The engagement was off.
Unfortunately for her, the prize she craved still lived across the country. But that would change the following year. When it did she took action. This woman knew what she wanted, and wouldn’t be denied.
My engineering firm had recently moved me to Philadelphia. That was close enough. Having heard from our mutual friend where I was, the girl from the museum decided she’d move there too.
A few weeks later, she did…and tracked me down.
We became friends, then began to date. By the end of that year, we were engaged. Almost nine months later… thirty-two years ago today…Rita Morgulis did me the honor of becoming my wife.
Slight Revisions
At least that’s how I remember it, and is the version I usually tell when my wife isn’t around. Rita has a different recollection, while accepting certain elements of my self-serving fable.
Both our versions acknowledge and appreciate our mutual friend (Shelly Guerrero). We each recall that afternoon at the museum, me lingering behind, their intense discussion, and the choice Rita made to end her engagement.
Rita’s main revision might be that I had absolutely nothing to do with that decision. She hardly knew I was there at the time and, if not for my fantastical and repeated retelling of the tale, might not recall it now.
That we wed on this date three decades ago also isn’t in question, nor that both of us moved to Philadelphia about a year and a half before we hitched. But Rita didn’t go to Pennsylvania because of me.
She’d recently earned her Master’s Degree from Georgia Tech, and was relocating to start her career. She couldn’t have cared less that I was there.
When I was transferred from San Francisco to Philadelphia, Shelly told me Rita would soon be there too, and gave me her number. I remembered Rita from our brief meeting the previous year in Atlanta. But we truly met after she got to Philly.
Neither one of us intended to date (at least not each other). She nor I knew many locals. We just wanted to make friends in a fresh place.
As often happens when people move, our respective networks gave each of us names to call when we reached our new town. Rita and I were among several numbers in our respective Rolodexes.
Our occasional get-togethers were usually impromptu and casual. We’d grab a bite to eat, go to museums, see a movie, take a walk, or see sites around the city. Over the course of a couple months, we became friends.
“Just Friends”
But slowly things began to change. For me at least. I looked forward to being with her, and started thinking about her more and more.
When Rita’s birthday rolled around, I wanted to take her to dinner. I made a reservation at Deux Cheminees, at that time one of the finest restaurants in Philadelphia (and priced accordingly).
Rita is one of the most perceptive people I know. Her instincts are incredible. Nothing gets by her. But somehow, she missed this blaring signal.
Her friends tried to alert her to the fire alarms, tornado sirens, railroad crossing lights, and falling oxygen masks that only Rita seemed unable to notice. Based on what she later told me, their incredulous conversations went something like this:
“You sure he just wants to be friends?”, her roommates wondered.
“Yes. Why?”
“I don’t know. Seems like he might like you more than that.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“OK. So where is he taking you to dinner?”
“Deux Cheminees.”
“Ha ha ha ha ha!!! Right. He wants to be ‘just friends’ the way the Pacific Ocean is ‘just a puddle.’”
After seeing the restaurant, Rita began to believe her roommates were right. And, of course, they were. But was the feeling mutual? I wasn’t sure… till a Saturday night a few weeks later.
Becoming a Couple
I needed a vacuum cleaner, some cleaning supplies, and to restock my inventory of bachelor-pad “groceries” (beer, ice cream, cheese, chips, cookies, and other essential vitamins and minerals). Rita offered to join me on this exhilarating expedition.
Having seen my apartment with its empty fridge and Sahara of dust, she probably insisted I go. But the point is that she chose to come with me.
The next few months we became more of a couple. That Fall, Rita joined me in Tampa to meet my family. I’d previously met her father when he’d visited Philadelphia. But if memory serves, that was before we started dating.
Soon after we returned from Florida, my mother urged that I not let Rita get away. I assured her I had no intention of doing so.
Just Desserts
That November, I invited Rita to San Francisco, where I’d recently lived but where she’d never been.
In my bag I brought a small box. When we arrived, I called Rita’s father for permission to slip the contents onto his daughter’s finger.
He agreed. Now, I needed her to.
The night before Thanksgiving, I planned to take Rita for an intimate dinner at La Folie on Polk Street… and to bring the ring. Beforehand, we met my friend Ken Miller and his date for drinks.
As the gin drained from our glasses, I mentally prepared for what was about to be the best… or worst… night of my life. Until I was certain which it would be, I’d kept my intentions quiet from all my San Francisco friends.
When we finished our cocktails, Ken had an idea.
“Why don’t you and Rita join us for dinner?”
Uh oh. This wasn’t part of the plan.
“Ordinarily we’d love to”, I explained with an anxious stare toward my unwary friend, “but we already have reservations.”
Then Rita jumped in, and unwittingly pushed me further into the corner.
“Well, I don’t know. You and I can have dinner another night, right? You and Ken don’t see much of each other, so it’d be fun to join them.”
“Um… yeah. I guess so,” I stammered, trying to find a way out of this. “Ken, before we go, can you come with me for a second?”
We went to the bar, where I explained my plans for the evening.
Realizing what he’d inadvertently done, Ken said he’d step aside to “call” his restaurant, and then let us know they couldn’t add two more to the reservation. I returned to the table. Ken followed a few minutes later, bearing the “unfortunate” news.
“Oh, that’s too bad,” I lied, and quickly escorted Rita from her chair, and to La Folie.
When we arrived, I excused myself, and found the Maître d. I’d called earlier to inform of my intent, so he was aware I’d brought a ring, which I now gave him. He assured me the waiter would bring it to Rita as her “dessert”, just as I’d instructed.
We had a wonderful meal at a peripheral table. As the main course cleared, I was relieved everything was finally falling into place. It was perfect.
The time had arrived, and so had the waiter, ready to take our dessert orders. He requested Rita’s first.
“Nothing for me, thanks.”
What?!?
“You sure?”, I implored. “So much of this looks wonderful. Maybe just a little?”
“No, I’m fine. Just some coffee. But you should have something.”
Like a drowning man, I looked desperately at the waiter, who tried to toss a lifeline.
“Perhaps the lady would like a small portion of le mousse, no? It is très délicieux. Or…le crème brûlée is also fantastique!”
“No, really. I don’t want anything.”
“A fruit plate, peut-être? Some sorbet?”
“No…nothing”, she replied, becoming a bit annoyed. “Just coffee. Thank you.”
The waiter looked briefly at me, raised his eyebrows, lifted his shoulders… and returned to the kitchen. As he did, Rita remained miffed that he’d kept pushing the dessert.
“How many times do I have to say I don’t want anything?”
“It’s probably really good”, I pleaded.
“I’m sure it is. But I was pretty clear I didn’t want it. Not sure why that was so hard to understand.”
A few minutes later, the waiter returned. With a covered dish.
When he put it in front of Rita, I could see her lips tighten and her eyes begin to roll. I thought she might lose it. But before she could, the waiter lifted the silver dome, and walked away.
Rita gave the plate a puzzled look. I gave an anxious one. Then, as her eyes widened, the corners of her mouth began to turn.
Upward.
Her hands covered the smile before it finished forming. But it already told me what I wanted to hear. With the restaurant almost empty, and several staff watching from a distance, I rose from my seat, went beside hers, and took a knee.
Vodka and Whiskey
Now it was time to make plans. In a harbinger of things to come, Rita did most of the work. Our wedding would be in Atlanta, where her father and many of our friends lived...tho’ neither of us did. But much of my family was in Tampa, which isn’t too far away.
Yet before long, I would be much further. That June I accepted a job as civil engineer on the Golden Gate Bridge, and moved back to San Francisco. Rita would join me after we married.
But first she had to plan the wedding… from a distance. My mother assisted, travelling to Atlanta several times to help her future daughter-in-law make arrangements.
When her wedding day arrived, the bride was exhausted. But she was too beautiful for anyone to notice. The groom flew from San Francisco with some friends, and did his best to play his part.
They married at the Shrine of the Immaculate Conception, the oldest church in Atlanta, and the only one in the city that pre-dated The War. Sherman… in a rare moment of sentimentality… spared it at the behest of Pastor Thomas O’Reilly.
With our friends sprinkled throughout the nave, Rita’s Russian relatives filled one side of the aisle, and my Irish contingent occupied the other. As we’d learn at the reception, vodka and whiskey never mixed so well.
The festivities were held several blocks away, at the Ritz-Carlton. To our relief, the weather wasn’t too warm. We were lucky. In Dixie, a mild day in August is rarer than the letter ‘R’ in New England. But it didn’t matter. Inside, the drinks were cold and the string quartet was cool.
After the celebration, our equipage awaited. We left by carriage to begin our marriage, which has been marvelous ever since.
As with any, it’s had its struggles, challenges, and tears. But nothing devotion, love, and joy can’t overcome.
And they always have, encapsulated in the many marvelous moments that mark my life with Rita. Of the blessings we’ve received along the way, our children are the pinnacle.
But side roads offered significant memories and major milestones, many of which fade as time carves its course. After thirty-two years with this wonderful woman, it’s these small moments that matter most.
Morning coffee, evening walks. Roaring fires, gentle breezes. Drinks on the deck, leftovers in the living room. Cats in our lap, dogs at our feet. Argument, and reconciliation. Mistakes, and forgiveness. A smile, a hug…
…and a kiss.
It’s astonishing how my wife could make three decades fly so fast.
We don’t know what the next thirty-two years will bring. But if we assume the sound of the future lies in the echoes of the past, with her beside me I don’t care where we go.
I’m just happy to be taking the trip.
JD
Happy Anniversary. The photos accompanying your recollection of how you found and wed your wife affected me the most: Two young, good looking, young people with the rest of their lives before them who wed in a church that was spared during Sherman's destruction of Atlanta. It suggests to me that you and your wife have and will endure the vicissitudes of life with elan.
I can vouch that it happened! You're a lucky man, JD Breen!