Multiple marrying does two things.
It makes life more varied and interesting, and that is usually good. It also adds terror and pain, and that is bad.
Looking through the photo album, I found these two shots. The first was taken in 1966 in New Orleans.
My first wife went by the name of Ginger, a nickname for Virginia. She was “with child,” and we were standing on St. Charles Avenue, Mardi Gras Day.
She has been married to a more suitable fellow for a long time now. She is 67, a therapist and still lives in New Orleans where she was born.
Flash forward almost exactly a decade, and here I stand with Julie, my second wife, outside our apartment, also in New Orleans.
I was bent at the knees for this shot so that our faces would be almost level. Julie is short, and I am tall. I also weighed about 50 pounds more than in the previous photo. I was not really fat, but I was a very big fellow.
Julie is 66 and lives in Houston, Texas. She makes her living as a computer whiz, and she has not remarried. She remains in the same house that we shared for nine years, a house she has remodeled very nicely.
Interestingly, I was her second spouse. She was born in St. Louis.
By the way, I shook those 50 pounds in the early 1980s and now weigh what I did in the top photo, so I’m no longer a very big fellow, just tall.
You can’t shake that.
I wish both my previous wives well.
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