-From If Only I Could Tell You
As part of this year's Past Loves Day observance, we sponsored a story contest. Entrants were asked to send us a true story, in 500 words or less, telling how former sweetheart touched their lives. We offered two prizes, a $100 First Place and a $50 Second Place, with the winning stories to be read at an event on September l7 at the Kellogg-Hubbard Library in Montpelier, Vermont. And they would then be posted here.
But first, we would like to thank everyone who sent in a story to our contest. You made it so clear that memories of earlier loves remain powerfully in the heart, always available. Your stories remind us all that our past loves have become part of the weaving of who we are.
And we are sorry that the posting of winning stories has taken so long. When we had the idea for a story contest, we did not imagine that selecting "winners" would be so difficult. We received entries from twenty-six states and four countries other than the U.S., and the number of stories that brought the writers feelings to life was more than we anticipated. There was also the delicate balance between judging how well a story met the criteria we outlined, and saying that one person’s life experience was more "worthy" than another.
To help resolve our dilemma, we decided to add four Third Place prizes of $25 each and an Honorable Mention category.
Here, then, are those twelve stories.
FIRST PLACE
FACING THE FALL
by Autumn Conley
SECOND PLACE
FIRST STAR
by Katherine Johnson
The first night we slept side by side, he hooked our sleeping bags together and we held each other near. There was no sex, only the feeling of closeness and comfort — friendship that connected at the soul level. I felt as if we had known each other forever — that we had been friends from childhood, boyfriend and girlfriend in our teens, and lovers in our twenties.
Yet we had only known each other a few weeks. He taught me things that night I'd never dreamt. As we lay down on our backs, cocooned in sleeping bags on the cool earth, he pointed to the open, clear black sky. "There it is — the first star in the night sky!" He kept me up far into the night, talking of so many things, pointing out constellations, and the miraculous shooting stars. Early the next morning, he woke me from a groggy sleep state, "Wake up — there's the first bird flying!" This was a new pre-dawn wonder that embodied the sense of awe he brought to me. I began to see and feel this sense of awe for myself.
After an early morning camp breakfast, he told me, "I have a surprise for you. Meet me down by the river behind the old lodge in fifteen minutes." I, being a woman who loves surprises, couldn't wait, and as the appointed time approached, I circled around the old chinked log structure and found him waiting for me on the rough-hewn, weathered porch that hung out over the river. There was a dark brown, almost ebony wooden chair with a cracked leather seat that he patted as an indication for me to sit. His blue eyes twinkled in merriment. I noticed several pitchers and bowls on the brown planked floor.
As he poured water from a celadon ceramic pitcher over my hair, I could feel the warmth, and then his hands caressing my scalp. The shampoo must have been an aphrodisiac. Later, when he poured clear water from an old stoneware jug and rinsed the shampoo from my head, I knew that this was the stuff of movies. Something had shifted — one of life's magic moments, when friendship turned to love, and playfulness transformed into sensuality. My hair sparkled in the morning sun.
A new awareness filled me, the awareness of beauty all around me. From now on, I would notice the first star of evening, the first bird of morning, and the miracle of life lived fully in each moment.
THIRD PLACE WINNERS: Four Stories
UNTITLED
by Daisha Seyfer
Blonde and blue-eyed, David was the guy who dressed differently. Raised Catholic by a good family, he did his best not to look the part. He could usually be seen sporting holey camouflage pants (the holes held together by safety pins), black t-shirts, and chains around his neck that looked as if he had just removed them from a bicycle. I will never forget one of the first times I met him; he was wearing a spiked dog collar around his neck and had a ring in his nose, oddly reminiscent of a cartoon bull.
I was class valedictorian and captain of the cheerleading squad. I was a portrait of conformity. When I met David the summer before my senior year of high school, there was something about him that I could not resist. He was an artist and a true individual. He was constantly sketching, painting, and sculpting. He was a year behind me in school but only about six months younger in age. We worked together at the local movie theater, and I thought he looked fabulous in a tuxedo. We began dating shortly after we met, and we fell in love. We were poles apart in many respects, but found that our mutual differences were both intriguing and attractive. We were constantly together, and we were crazy about each other. It was not until many years later that I looked back wistfully on the powerful love that David and I had shared. When you are young, it does not occur to you that might be one of the only times, if not the only time, that you ever truly fall in love. I do not think either of us was aware of the treasure we had found until it was gone. Inexperience is equally the essence and tragedy of youth.
One year after we found love at the movie theater, I found myself packing my belongings to go to college. I had big dreams of attending medical school. I do not remember our goodbye, but I distinctly recall crying myself to sleep at night for months during my freshman year of college because I missed him so badly. I did see him a couple times that year, and a couple times the year after that. After his high school graduation, art school was a natural next step for David. He moved to a large metropolitan area about 400 miles away from the small Midwestern town in which I was toiling away towards my undergraduate degree in biology.
Ten years later, my heart still aches a little when I think of David. We moved on. I went to medical school and became a doctor. He finished art school and is now a photographer. There will always be a special place in my heart for the guy with the wavy blonde hair and dazzling sapphire eyes who taught me how to love. His memory enfolds and comforts me. It reminds me that love is possible. It gives me faith.
UNTIL THE TWELFTH OF NEVER
(anonymous)
In a small mill-village town, about the only place to hang out was the corner drugstore, and that's where I was, when I met Howard. Having led a rather sheltered life, as the daughter of a minister, I was surprised that anyone could be interested in me. To think he chose me, even though I was not as pretty as the girl I was with. Imagine that!
His intense blue eyes held a depth of surprise that I'd never seen before, and I knew he liked what he saw in me. There was an immediate connection. As fate would have it, his brother was with him. That meant my friend, Susan, and I could double date, (which was the only way I would be able to go out with him.) In retrospect, I think we were dazzled by men in uniforms. They were Marines, and handsome, to boot!
That summer night began a whirlwind romance that changed my life. He was experienced; older than I, but very respectful and intuitive . He recognized my immaturity and naivety. I knew he wanted me, but he never pushed the envelope. Why, I'd been taught that having sex with anyone, before marriage, was the "unpardonable sin." I didn't dare, but I experienced feelings I'd never had before.
The summer wore on, and I supposed those days and nights were going to be endless. He hadn't told me that he was going to be sent out of the states in just a few weeks. When I looked in the mirror, I saw a wonderfully happy seventeen-year-old girl, who knew the meaning of "desire" for the first time in her life. Howard made me feel alive and beautiful.
In the weeks preceding his departure to Puerto Rico, we played in the pool, hiked near a local reservoir, shared peanut butter and banana sandwiches, and I told him every thought I'd ever had. (He was a good listener.) Being an amateur photographer, he also took dozens of pictures of me, which I still have. Some memories were made to be kept forever. I think I loved him, but I had reserved the right to say, "I love you," for the man who'd eventually want to marry me.
On a balmy, autumn Sunday afternoon, which would be the ending of a chapter in an unfinished book, he told me he was leaving. While I sat in his lap, I cried, as the 45- RPM repeated itself over and over, and the words to "The Twelfth of Never" ingrained themselves in my memory.
He shipped out the following morning, with my virginity still intact, and I never saw him again. I'm married now, for 46 years, to a minister who reaped the rewards Howard sacrificed.
But until…"The Twelfth of Never", I'll remember my past love, and in some ways regret that I can't add the "r."
UNTITLED
by Dickens Ihegboroh
Nigeria
I spent unusually more time drying the last plate than I'd done its now spanking clean brothers which sparkled with the Palmolive's green apple's freshness, where I'd arrayed them on the dish rack. My hands worked dexterously. It was more of a polishing than drying — a sacrosanct practice in other words, and I handled it with a delicacy and fondness that would 'rub the other plates the wrong way' so to say. Gleaming now in golden-buttery — for that is its color — I wrapped it gently in a soft cloth . . . as a mother wraps its newborn.
Made of ivory, and by at least 5 years older than the rest of the dishes in my kitchen, the plate may not have been of any use in my kitchen, yet I value it more than every of my other culinary items. It is a reminiscent of my first kiss . . . a vestige of Rashiniqua.
Selecting the shelf farthest from the sink — its sanctuary — I, slowly, with a greater cautiousness than I'd done the others, stowed it away. I hung the towel on its rail, and the next moment, I was a 21-year-old again . . . I was taken 7 years back again. It wasn't this same house, much less this same kitchen; but it'd been at this juncture, and that very ivory plate had peculiarly been the last she washed and the last I dried. Having hung the towel over its rail, I'd turned to . . . I couldn't remember what I'd turned to do; but whatever it was I didn't just do it. She was waiting for me to turn. It wasn't brisk, yet it was quick enough that I didn't see it coming: my first kiss. Instantly my lips opened, and my eyes instinctively closed. Our lips, in their utmost sensitivities and hers in its full succulence, as wet as the ivory plate was few minutes ago, glided irrepressibly and inseparably for what seemed like eternity.
What can I say of Rashiniqua? How do you describe color to the blind? Beauty, strength of character, and intelligence are the attributes men usually look for in women. I don't know what I'd looked for in her, but what I found — if actually I'd ever looked for any — transcended all those. "It's because she was your first date," Kay: my closest friend disagrees. But does being my first date explain why dishwashing, and cooking too — which until I met her were things I detested to do — gradually became things I passionately love to do?
Whenever Rashiniqua was mentioned, people usually wondered what the sudden brief silence engendered in me concealed. Anybody who walks into my kitchen, seeing the conspicuously empty space meant for a dishwasher, will wonder why I don't have one; or why I had the inescapable 'KITCHEN: THE HEART OF THE HOME' inscribed on its wall. However, these are but inanimate, destructible reminiscences of Rashiniqua. But my heart, forever, is where she ineffaceably exists.
UNTITLED
by Barbara Stanley
He was the first boy to ask me to "go steady". The year was 1969. Tall, dark hair, and yes, he was handsome. I loved him and I loved the way he adored me. Even though my family moved eighty miles away, he drove up to see me as often as he could afford to. As usual, when teens move away from each other and attend separate schools, the temptation to see other people is very strong. I had started dating a young man who made me question my undying love for D. Not wanting to give either one up, I just didn't tell them about the "other boy". Things went well for a few months, but my mother, sister, and friends badgered me to make a decision. I was told that I wasn't being fair to either boy. I chose the new boy. We've been married for 36 years.
Before my wedding, D. wrote a letter expressing his continued love for me with assurance that he would always be a phone call away if I should ever need him. I ran into him once when our children were young. We talked for a couple of hours. He was divorced at the time. As we said good-bye, he hugged me close and told me that he still loved me and would always be there for me. Throughout all the good and bad times in my life, I kept the special knowledge that someone loved me no matter what. I found out a few weeks ago that D. had died several years ago in a tragic automobile accident. For me, it was as though he had just died. It was more than the death of a person I once loved and always cared for; it was the total and complete loss of my first real love and the emptiness of the space he occupied in my life for so long.
HONORABLE MENTION
FIRST KISS
by Sam Turner
"Sammy, we forgot the ice cream. Will you and Ruthie drive back and get it," my father asked innocently.
"Sure," I gulped.
There was a twinkle in his eyes.
There was jubilation in my heart!
Our families had been visiting a friend's home deep in the Kaibab forest. Ruth would be alone with me for a round trip of ten miles. I never sat this close to any girl, let alone sparkling, thrilling Ruthie! Her crinoline skirt crunched against my leg. Concentration on my solo drive was difficult.
It was dusk when we loaded the mixer into the trunk of the '49 Chevy. Ruthie slid in on my side requiring me to crowd next to her. She may have been younger but Ruthie proved more experienced than I.
The winding curves forced me to move the wheel so that my right arm continually brushed against her soft sweater. Left curves were best! She leaned against me.
I searched the wall of ponderosas for the break indicating a turnout. Once parked, I worried how this thing would happen. What should I do first? Do I lean over and peck her on the cheek?
Ruthie took charge and firmly planted her lips on mine. I heard buzzing. My eyes were closed, yet I saw lights of silver and gold flashing. Was that my heart or hers beating against my chest? I removed my glasses.
Don't lose those, Sam, or we'll never get back!
The second kiss was less frantic. This time, I could feel the softness of her face next to mine.
"What do you know? The nose fits!" I blurted. Now, she would surely know that I was a beginner.
"Of course. See?" And once again our lips touched. I couldn't let go, but as if on a signal, we broke apart. She sat up and, somehow, I found my glasses.
She snuggled next to me as I drove. One stop wasn't going to be enough. We parked outside the gathering. The kiss was long and sweet. Again, there were bells, buzzing, and fireworks. Taking a tissue, I wiped off any traces of lipstick. We carried the ice cream in together.
I took the first servings out to the guests. Everyone smiled at me. Ruthie smiled with a blush. People knew something I didn't. I looked at my maroon shirt. It was covered with fuzz from Ruth's white Angora sweater!
Retreating to the kitchen, I brushed the telltale evidence off.
Putting his arm around my shoulder, my father said, "I wouldn't brush it all off, Sammy. You can wear it with pride. She's a fine young lady."
I gave him an embarrassed smile and continued brushing, but I saved the fuzz in my pocket. The strains of "My Buddy" came from the living room. I heard the music, but a different tune was playing in my heart: one that sang of love and the thrill of my first kiss.
MY JOHN
by Sierra D. Johnson
Since I wasn't the most popular girl in high school, I though that I would never have a boyfriend, get married, and have my own happy family. I was just a nerd with no friends. I was lonely, but that changed when I met John W. Penston at the dance. He was just sitting by himself, so I sat by him. He seemed to enjoy my company. We had a long conversation, until he asked me to dance. It seemed like that dance lasted a lifetime. Then he walked me home and we became friends ever since.
At the end of the year, we both graduated. As a gift, John finally told me he loved me and we shared our first kiss. His father wanted him to go to college, but he didn't because he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me. He told me he loved me five times a day. One day, when we were on a date, John proposed to me in front of the sunset. I said yes. That was the most beautiful moment of my life.
One day before our wedding, John was killed in a car crash. After I got the news, I felt as if my heart got smashed into a million pieces. The police found a paper in his car that said, "Wedding Day Speech for My Wife." It was a speech John had written for me. The rest of it said, "People have always told me that there is no such thing as perfect, but I don't think that's true. There is only one perfect thing I have seen in my life and that perfect thing is you. No matter what happens, I will always be yours. I love you." That speech means more to me than anything. It's the best thing I have left of John, and it always puts a smile on my face.
HIGH SCHOOL SWEETHEARTS
by Ann DesLauriers
Tommy and I were high school sweethearts. We lived in Small Town, USA, in the Fifties when Rock & Roll was the coolest and the boys tried to look like Elvis and the girls wore crinolines and ponytails. Young love was sweet in those days. I wore his class ring on a chain around my neck. We were "going steady."
We could hardly wait to get to school each morning to meet at our lockers, hearts pounding, for just a brief touch and then off to class. The anticipation of meeting for lunch kept us going. It was all so normal and innocent, but my mother didn't see it that way. She kept us apart as much as she could and didn't allow many dates. When he could get his dad's car, we'd go to the movies where we shared popcorn and held hands. We weren't supposed to go to the drive-in, but once in awhile we did anyway. Little did she know how we steamed up the windows of that car! In those days, only bad girls went "all the way," and Tommy and I were still virgins when we graduated.
In senior year, my parents dropped the bomb that we were moving across the country after graduation. "I won't go," I told them. My best friend and I were going to college together in the fall, and Tommy and I were going to get engaged as soon as we were 18. No, no, my mother was having none of that. First it was the guilt trip: "You wouldn't hurt me that way, would you?" That didn't work, so she delivered the ultimatum: "If you stay here, we will not pay for your college." Tommy and I were devastated. There had to be a way for us, but we weren't 18 yet and in those days, kids did what their parents told them. We pledged our undying love and promise for the future; and three days after graduation, I moved away. We wrote letters faithfully all that summer, but none were ever received. Our hearts were broken. Neither of us could believe the other hadn't meant all those sweet words we shared. In the fall, he went to college and I went to a business school.
Twenty-five years later, we got in touch and spent a wonderful day together. One of the first questions we both asked was, "Why didn't you write?" We figured out that one or both mothers had either not mailed the letters or didn't give the received ones to us. We saw each other for about a year, but it was too late. Between us, there were three marriages and divorces and four children, not to mention we were both working toward pensions on opposite ends of the country.
Our teenage love was pure and intense, and who knows how it might have turned out if circumstances had been different? One thing is for certain: we both will always remember our first love.
SHEILA
by James McKinty
U.K.
I'd knocked at a door in Barry, South Wales. The door was plastic, with fancy glass. But years before, it had been peeling green paint on pine. The woman had told me that Sheila had moved away. Disappointed, by mind strayed back to 1944.
I was fourteen years old and I loved Sheila Cunningham. Sheila was seventeen and as beautiful as any film star. But she was as remote from me as those screen goddesses in the Tivoli. Three years…three million miles.
Sheila lived across the road from the Dinam Hall, and I lived two streets away in a larger house.
The Hall was the leisure club, the PX of the American soldiers. The Yanks had invaded our town and their camp was on the moors just outside.
The club was the Magic Kingdom of those days and we boys would hang around to hear those fantastic accents and beg an odd donut.
Then came that night in September, 1944.
It was dark and the light from the Hall bathed the street. Glitteringly near the steps but diminishing ten or twenty yards away. Glenn Miller was stringing his pearls in the club and there were two or three boys lounging near the entrance.
Sheila came out the front door and closed it quietly. I was a short distance down the slope, and I smiled and gestured for her to come to me. She did, and I seemed to feel her warmth from twenty feet away.
"Sheila, I had a bet with the boys that I won't kiss you." She smiled, took my hand, and led me further away from the light. She stood me on a doorstep.
She slipped her arm around me, one hand at my waist and the other, warm and gentle, at the back of my neck. We kissed. She parted her lips and I drowned in a roiling sea off Nell's Point on Barry Island.
I cannot remember ever seeing her again after that. I only know that after all these years, the blood she heated that night still courses through my veins.
I leant on the roof of my posh car.
I looked across the road to where the Dinam Hall had stood. It was a rubble wasteland, surrounded by sagging chain link fence. In my mind's eye, I could see Sheila sashaying down the road and I could hear the swish of her skirt against her legs. He eyes would be sparkling, and I could once again sense the clean smell of her. Sheila.
My back straightened. I would find her. I would look once again into those green eyes and see what I would see. Sorrow, contentment, hurt. But I hoped for recognition and perhaps an ember of that burning pixie look she'd given me in 1944 when she captured me not fifty feet from where I now stood…
I slapped the roof with a flat palm and jumped into the car.
THE VINN MAN
by Brittany Johnson
The first time I met Vincent, I never would have guessed that he would steal my heart. But before long, his electric guitar and uncanny ability to make me laugh were enough to make my heart flutter at the sight of him.
We finally started dating a week before his graduation. Watching him walk across the stage, diploma in hand, made my heart swell with pride. The following summer was the best of my life.
I had just finished my sophomore year of high school. I had no job, no commitments, and my only ambition of the summer was to spend as much time as possible with Vinn. Luckily, both his parents and mine were willing to allow us to see each other nearly everyday. Because both of my parents worked and his mom didn't, I spent most of my time at his house. We would spend five or six hours watching movies, roaming the woods behind his house, playing guitar, and sneaking kisses. We would talk and laugh, just enjoying each other.
One night, we were on the phone, and he just said it. The words spilled out so easily, as if he'd been born to tell me he loved me. I found myself saying it back, and it wasn't until that moment that I realized it was true. Somehow, through the laughing and the joking, I had fallen in love.
Unfortunately, life doesn't slow down for those in love. I started my junior year of high school, and Vinn started his freshman year of college. Although he was only forty miles away, it felt like an impossible distance. Vincent and I struggled to find time to see each other.
On my seventeenth birthday, after four months of trying to find time for each other, he surprised me with a promise ring. My jaw must have hit the floor upon seeing it, but my heart swelled with love and fear. I wanted so badly to spend my life with him, but I was afraid of commitment. That night, I did the unthinkable — I gave the ring back. Tears were streaming down my face as I tried to explain the mountain of emotions I was feeling. In the end, we called it quits.
I cried for weeks, wishing I hadn't given the ring back. I wanted him so badly that it broke my heart to think about him. Even today I can't explain what made me give the ring back.
My time with Vincent taught me to enjoy every second. Although our relationship ended, I loved him with my whole heart. There was never a moment spent with him that wasn't lived to the fullest. He showed me how to hold onto the one I love for as long as possible, and for that he will always be in my heart.