This is the 23rd in an ongoing series of personal Memories. All the others are in links at the bottom.
Forty-three years ago this week, I got married. I’m told for the last time.
It happened in the same old Toronto church where my parents had been married 43 years before that. It was very Canadian; we had a bagpiper and signed the same thick, old marriage register as my Mom and Dad had.
Since we were both journalists, my final wife picked late November because all the election coverage would surely be over by then, and neither of us anticipated 2000.
The honeymoon was to begin on a transcontinental train trip. I had previously made the same peaceful journey to write a feature about Johnny Bryk, a jolly man who had been a railroad chef who had cooked no one knows how many meals on how many trips.
For 40 of his 55 years, Johnny had clicked along the rails all…
