Attendance was small. Anne and I, my old friend the Rev. John Blackman, and Anne’s Canadian cousin Joan stood together in the field. And on hand as my best man was Arrie Hecox, dressed in his all-purpose scowl and a heavy wool suit that he may have worn at his own wedding. That was well before Pearl Harbor.

When he strode into the living room that afternoon, Arrie made a startling announcement to John Blackman and me.

"You have a problem!" he said. "I can’t button up these pants." Sure enough, his paunch had him clutching the gaping waistline shut with his left fist. Undaunted, Arrie stood that way through the whole wedding, holding his clothes together. I was sure that when he went to hand me the rings, the pants would drop to half-mast. But the rings were in his coat pocket, and the pants stayed up.

A grand day to remember, that one; and of course Anne and I wanted to celebrate its tenth anniversary. Since at our age, we’re not promising ourselves a fiftieth, or even necessarily a twenty-fifth, we thought we’d make something special of this one. And so, as a salute to the earth’s well-being beyond our own time on it, we bought a Toyota Prius. It’s a hybrid car and is astonishingly easy on gas. (Prius’ motto, said our salesman, is "Whoever saves the earth first, wins.")

The car is great, if unnerving when you push the ignition and it starts without a sound. Shift into reverse and it drifts backward out of the garage; shift to drive, and it drifts silently down the driveway. It’s eerie, but I’m now used to its gas engine coming on only at certain speeds or when you start up a hill. While gas is powering the car, it’s recharging the powerful battery. And the bottom line: a heady 51 miles to the gallon.

That’s what we got on the maiden voyage, an anniversary trip through the White Mountains to Norwich, Vt. We had supper in a country-French bistro that drew its meats and produce from local farms, and then we spent the night in a B&B that made us feel very much at home: a very old farmhouse whose owners also raised sheep and chickens.

"And why," you may ask, "did you make Norwich your trip’s destination?" Because we both wanted to visit the factory store of King Arthur Flour. "What?" you now gasp. "That’s what you did on your anniversary?" Yep, I answer; and we had a great time.

You’ve seen King Arthur Flour on the shelves of groceries and, I hope, have bought some. It’s the best on the market, bar none; and in Norwich, Vt., the company has set up a store that is a Toys R Us for bakers. In a high, bright, octagonal wooden building, it lays out, not just its whole line of flours, but everything remotely related to baking. We left with lots of flour for ourselves and a cart-load of Christmas gifts.

After King Arthur’s we lunched with old friends in Thetford, only 10 miles away. Art Sharkey was a Christian Brother confrere of mine; he and Diane, now grandparents, have retired from running their own B&B on the Connecticut River. We lunched and reminisced on their shady lawn, then started east in our Prius. I was thinking of home; but Anne, who was driving, proposed one more stop.

"We’re going to pass close to Plymouth," she said. "The map says it was Calvin Coolidge’s birth place." I explained to my Canada-born bride that Silent Cal was a fairly colorless president, not one I’d go out of my way to honor. But she’d already made the turn, and so I put the seat back to drowse the extra 20 miles, and perhaps through the visit, too.

I was wrong. Plymouth was worth the detour. The hamlet, a beautifully preserved historic site, is like a 19th-century time capsule, right down to the general store, replete with covered porch and rockers, that was known as the "summer White House" when Coolidge was in town. But the real find, I thought, was up a steep hill from the General Store. It was the Frog City Cheese Company. Silent Cal’s father was one of the founders, and the factory is home to a granular, raw milk curd cheese that is, locals claim, "better than cheddar."

And it is, hands down. I love a sharp, dry cheddar, but the Plymouth cheese called "Hunter" is sharper, drier than any cheddar I’ve ever tasted. A small sample on the tongue pulls in your cheeks, draws all the moisture from your mouth, almost crosses your eyes. It’s a cheese-lover’s cheese, and I think the plaque out the turn from the main road ought to have an addition to it. Yes, it should tout Plymouth as Coolidge’s birthplace, but also as the home of Frog City Cheese. That old clapboard factory is a cheese-eater’s nirvana.

And now I’ve grasped just why Silent Cal was so taciturn. He grew up on that cheese, and through his boyhood its desiccating power pulled the color right out of his personality. The cheese explains why, when told that Coolidge had died, Dorothy Parker asked, "How could they tell?"

Why, I’ll bet that Cal’s pursed lips in so many Washington photos probably stem directly from that dry curd cheese. I’ll bet that, right through his presidency, he habitually slipped himself small bits of the stuff, shipped down from Vermont.

And so: an eco-friendly new car, a scenic trip with a great lady, and a spectacular cheese discovery. How’s that for an anniversary?