Over the weekend, Laura and I get married at Niagara-on-the-Lake’s Pillar and Post Inn. It is a small, private wedding: us and fourteen guests, family only. Vows by us. She keeps her last name. Our venue is a room called the Olde Library — not a real library but gamely playing the part — whose walls are done up in glass-paned cabinetry of stately mahogany, book-filled and rising to the ceiling, presided over by mysterious portraits depicting candlelit alchemical scholars, powdery English noblemen, doll-eyed schoolchildren romping in parlors, and animals both saddled and skinned. A few fancy meals later, real life resumes.
