Consider this my attempt to avoid watching the State of the Union Address. My system can be spoon-fed just so much before the old B.S. Detector goes off – which usually happens as soon as that guy walks down the aisle and says ``Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States.''

Besides. I'm feeling much too good today. And no, I'm not going to explain why.

However, I have been in a wistful mood today, in between writing three different feature stories. And I'm waiting for Gilmore Girls to start. That ought to just about explain to you what kind of mood I'm in. Some days you need a Col. MacKenzie fix; some days you just need Lorelai Gilmore.

When I get in a wistful mood, I bring out a story that I haven't been able to put together without the need of insulin. It's a short story that had its genesis in an actual event that had an Aww factor of about 999.9, and it was one of those events that make that sign of Ahhhhhhh come out of your throat because it just says something better than words could possibly express.

The original moment took place at a writer's conference I had attended, and where I had gotten to know the people who ran the event. A very nice couple who had built a little writer's conference that drew a few locals into a Writer's Conference that drew headliners. This particular year, it was Dave Barry, Mitch Albom, Ridley Pearson, Terry McMillan, Carrie Fisher, Dan Millman, John Saul . . . You get the picture.

J had this dream to create a community for writers that could nurture and support the creative people around him. He envisioned a workshop where writers could meet with other writers – and meet with editors – to improve their craft. This particular year seem to be a watershed year for him. J and his wife S worked year-around on this one particular event, which took place the week leading up to, and including, the Labor Day Weekend.

So it was Sunday, the last full day of the conference, and I had been sitting next to S in the corner of the grand ballroom of this gorgeous resort hotel that was the home of this Cadillac of conferences. J took a moment to say a few thank-yous – something he does every year.

He started talking about what he had done before this dream took over his life. He talked about what a gamble it had been to give up a 9-to-5 career, a successful career at that, to pursue a dream. He talked about what it had been like to get that first conference off the ground.

And then he began talking about S. He talked about what she, too, had sacrificed to his dream, and how she had taken the dream into her heart. That's when he began to tear up. He told an anecdote about what a great partner S had been. Then, for the first time, he looked at S. And he started to say thank you.

He began by thanking her for believing in him when there were lots of reasons not to, and for believing in a dream that could easily have been too big. And then he couldn't speak.

He paused for a minute.

But the words wouldn't come. And he began to sob.

You could hear a pin drop through a ballroom crowded wall-to-wall with people from a dozen countries and maybe three dozen of the 50 states.

No one moved for what seemed like forever – it always seems like forever when you watch someone cry.

And then S stood up and walked to the portable stage, climbed the stairs and crossed to the podium to her husband's side. She put her hands on each side of his face and held it for a moment, looking into his eyes. Then she put her arms around him and held him. And then she walked him off the stage.

At the time I watched this moment unfold, I was divorced six months and feeling not-at-all in tune with the whole man-woman thing. But in that moment, I knew what it was that I wanted in my life. I wanted to be so incredibly thankful to someone for being in my life that I couldn't express it. Someone that would reach with me for the stars – both mine and hers – a couple that steadied each other when they wobbled.

Never accuse me of setting my sights low.

More soon.