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lose, considering I was only getting my journalistic feet wet. Boy, was I naive. The town councillors, not used to having the spotlight shone on them, didn’t much appreciate an outsider, particularly one who knew a number of cottagers from Toronto, writing editorials about what I believed to be their poorly thought out and wasteful decisions. One councillor, who later became Gravenhurst’s mayor (after I left town), called me one day crying after I criticized him in an editorial. He informed me he’d never been treated that way. (That was in 1989. He should ask politicians in Toronto what they think of me now.) My cottager friends from Toronto loved what I wrote. The town councillors obviously felt differently. They were so upset, I joked that I’d better find a job in Toronto before I was run out of town. Lucky for me, the owner and publisher of the papers, Ted Britton, supported my efforts 100 per cent. He was as irreverent as me. I would often hear him telling off some local politician or another on the phone. He did not seem to care if the powers that be threatened to withdraw their advertising dollars, and he owned enough papers in Muskoka to have a powerful presence. He, too, felt it important that the truth get out, and had the integrity not to be bullied into backing down from his convictions. Sadly for the citizens of Gravenhurst and Bracebridge, and for freedom of the press, he sold the papers to Metroland, a subsidiary of the Toronto Star conglomerate, in 2005.
    After seven months in Muskoka, I was eager to get back to Toronto. I put out feelers and was offered a job at the
Canadian Jewish News.
That would get me back to the city, but my real ambition was to work at a daily newspaper. I called my old friend from journalism school, Peter Howell, for advice. Hehad been at the
Toronto Sun
for years and had just moved to the
Toronto Star
when I contacted him. He told me to use my connections – namely then publisher Paul Godfrey, a close friend of my uncle. As much as I abhorred the thought, having prided myself on doing it on my own, I wasn’t too proud to realize that the connection would get me a foot in the door. I soon realized the rest was up to me. Les Pyette, the
Toronto Sun
’s colourful editor-in-chief at the time, agreed to meet with me, but he wasn’t going to make it easy. I marched into the interview with Mr. Pyette full of bravado, claiming that despite my lack of journalism experience, I was not afraid to tell it like it is. I waved my editorials from Gravenhurst in Mr. Pyette’s face as what I hoped would be proof of my irreverence. He agreed to give me a tryout in the business section, but with no guarantees I’d get hired. I grabbed the opportunity, thanking the
Canadian Jewish News
for their kind offer but telling them I couldn’t take their job. A month later, I was moved over to news as a general assignment reporter, and I never looked back. My ballsy efforts earned me the nickname “The Feisty Girl from Gravenhurst” – a name that has stuck to this day, at least for Les, and despite the fact I’m not from Gravenhurst.
    By then, I was several years into what was to be a twenty-year relationship with my ex, and I remained deeply closeted for the first sixteen years of my career at the
Toronto Sun.
I was as much, if not more, married to my job at the newspaper. I threw my energy and passion into it with abandon, which helped me cope with my deteriorating personal life. The years flew by, all becoming a blur of shift work, fascinating assignments, and a willingness to work overtime. Early in my career at the
Sun
, in 1991, I was assigned to cover thefuneral of Dr. Carolyn Warrick, who was viciously stomped to death in the underground parking lot of her downtown condo by two druggies looking for cocaine money. The story struck too close to home. I hadn’t told anyone about my 1978 near-death experience because I had convinced myself that it was far behind me and that I was better off