Trent Ernst, Editor
Warning: This editorial may get sappy ahead; if you don’t want to get covered in the stuff, you might want to skip. You have been warned.
When you’re 24 years old, twenty years seems like a lifetime. In fact, looking back, it is your entire lifetime, as very few memories survive from before the age of four. (Some of you may not be able to remember much before college…)
But now, twenty years on, it doesn’t seem so long at all. In fact, looking back, it seems like no time at all.
You see, twenty years ago yesterday (July 9), I got married to my bestest friend and favouritist person in the world.
(No, not you, Byrun, I’m talking about Colette. My wife. Sorry, dude.)
And while I can’t remember much from when I was four, I still remember many of the details from that day.
Like how I forgot my wallet when we went to pick up the guy’s tuxes, and I had to drive back home in a panic to find it.
Or how, as we waited in the tiny back room at the church, I started blubbering like a little baby because I was getting married, which lasted until my best man’s cummerbund snapped, and we had to figure out how to fix it before we walked out.
Or how I had a friend and guitarist playing before the wedding started. Instead of the traditional wedding march, I asked him to play a song that I had written for the guitar. Weeks before the wedding, I had taught him how the song went, but he had forgotten everything but the chords, so Colette walked down the aisle to a song that in no way resembled what I had written.
Or how I started crying again when she said I do, and how her remembrance of that first kiss as man and wife tasted like snot.
Or how, once we went down the aisle as man and wife, I never wanted to let go of her hand again.
I remember the banquet we had and how the hotel where we held it loved the decorations so much they used photos from our wedding reception in their promotional brochure. I remember how, instead of a dance (because Trent doesn’t dance), we held a concert, featuring many of my musical friends.
I remember afterwards going back to the hotel and … well, I remember that, too. Or how the day after we packed up and headed for the Sunshine Coast where a friend was building a cabin. There was no bed, no plumbing, no nothing but the two of us in that shell of a building, having to heat up water for baths on a camping stove.
I remember the good, and I remember the bad. The high points, and the low. The last twenty years have been far from perfect, and our marriage has been far from perfect, but the great thing about life is that it is about the journey, and not the destination, and that, as long as you keep moving forward, each day you’re farther along than you were the day before.
It’s about learning to live together, to compliment each other, to have and to hold, to love, honour and cherish.
When I started on this journey, I wasn’t sure I wanted to be a dad, but if it hadn’t of been for Colette, I’d never have discovered that being a dad is one of the greatest things in all the world.
Okay. You can all stop reading now. All of you except for you, Colette. Because I want you to know that I love you, and I don’t say that nearly often enough, but I do. I’m still as mad about you as that foolish 23-year-old who was so scared of his own emotions that he proposed via comic strip. More so. And I’m still so scared of my own feelings that I am using an editorial to tell you.
Spending time with you, just being with you, is still my highest goal and favourite past-time and my greatest victory is when I can get past all your concerns for the day to day and make you laugh.
And I just wanted you to know that the last twenty years have been a remarkable journey, and I’m glad I got to spend them with you.
I love you. Happy Anniversary.