In 1994, Shelly Berenbaum, 42, was an emotionally exhausted synagogue office manager and single mother of four. Her marriage of 20 years had fallen apart, and she hadn’t yet found the will to try dating again.
Berenbaum’s daughter, Marni, 12, decided to take matters into her own hands. One Saturday morning, while reading the Toronto Star, Marni found the classified ad that would change her mother’s life.
It had been taken out by Chuck Litman, a 45-year-old Jewish real estate lawyer and self-described “teddy bear type” with two teenagers. He was seeking a “caring, witty and charming counterpart.” Twenty-eight years and 11 grandchildren later, the ad still hangs framed on Berenbaum’s wall.
“(Marni) thought he sounded cool, so she dialed the number on the ad, threw the phone at me and goes, ‘Here, talk,” said Berenbaum. “I wouldn’t have done it on my own.”
Back then, newspaper ads were a popular way for singles to meet. The Star had published many thousands over the years before the launch of dating websites in the mid-1990s ushered in a completely new era of matchmaking.
Berenbaum and Litman met a week after they spoke on the phone at the now shuttered Lox, Stock & Bagel restaurant. Right away, both knew they were sitting opposite someone special. They talked for three hours about everything — family, values, hopes, desires. Berenbaum returned home to gush.
“I told my daughter, ‘This could be the one,’” said Berenbaum. “And it was. It was the one.”
Litman felt the same. Berenbaum was the 137th woman he’d been out with after taking out the ad. She would be the last.
“I’d already gone on 136 dates, so I had a pretty good idea of what I wanted,” said Litman. “When she walked through the door of Lox, Stock & Bagel, I knew right away, from the way she looked, the way she carried herself, she was it.”
Litman called Berenbaum the next day — but not to arrange a second date.
Knowing he was her first date since her divorce and worried she might not be aware of the breadth of her options, Litman suggested she try going out with other people and return to him if the feeling was still there.
“And so I did go out on another date,” said Berenbaum. “I walked into the restaurant, the guy said something, I left after 20 minutes. I came home, called (Litman) and said, ‘I went on another date, it was a disaster, forget this. When do you want to go out again?’”
That outing was lovely too. So lovely, when the third date rolled around, Litman told Berenbaum he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.
“I just knew she was the one, so why wait around?” he said.
In the following years, the couple moved in together, became parents to each other’s children, travelled across Europe and the United States as a family and took a boatload of cruises.
In each other they found exactly what they needed, Berenbaum and Litman said. Litman loves her kindness, her devotion to her family. Berenbaum loves his grace and level-headedness.
“I’m outgoing and I fly off the handle easily,” said Berenbaum. “Chuck is very calm, reassuring, nothing fazes him. He’s like the Yin to my Yang. He’s very, very patient.”
Despite making a lifelong commitment to each other nearly 30 years ago, Berenbaum and Litman were only wed last month, at the ages of 70 and 73 respectively. Life got in the way, they said. Then the pandemic brought a sense of urgency.
“We looked at each other and said, ‘What are we waiting for?’” said Berenbaum. “‘Let’s throw a party when this is all over. We’ll have all the family together and do something positive.’”
The wedding itself was “magical,” she said. Berenbaum wore a skin-tone dress with ornate flowers embroidered into it, Litman, a dark suit with a matching flower tie. They were surrounded by old friends and loved ones at the Royal Canadian Yacht Club, and their wedding was officiated by a rabbi from the synagogue Berenbaum used to work at before she retired.
“It was very emotional, everybody cried — including me,” said Litman. “Even the rabbi and the cantor cried.”
There was no honeymoon. Why?
“Our whole life is a honeymoon,” said Litman.
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