First Love

I was in grade six when I went to the Friday night movies with a young man in grade five. We were both very nervous as we met in front of the theatre. He was there with some friends as I walked up with my girlfriend. There were three couples meeting that evening, all arranged by friends. The group of boys were all snickering and punching each other as they tried to cover their shyness. What I didn’t know at the time is that they were afraid. Afraid their friends would tease them. Afraid the girl wouldn’t like them. Afraid of the strange new feelings and the awkwardness they felt. They were in uncharted territory and no one wanted to make the first move. Of course us girls were unsure as well. The boy and I locked eyes and looked away just as quickly. My heart was beating faster. I kept walking past him and the throng of moral support he had with him. Inside were more girlfriends. A couple also waiting for their first boy girl movie date and a few more just as excited to watch the drama play out. Such is the way of blossoming womanhood.

As we huddled together at the back of the theatre, giggling and twittering as girls do, we were unsure what our next move was. Finally, after much discussion, it was decided we would all take our seats in the theatre. The three girls on dates sat in a row together with one seat between us, leaving room for the boys. Who, by the way, were nowhere to be seen. The other girls were scattered around us in pairs so as to not look suspiciously like spies or bodyguards. The entire nonchalant attitude was completely orchestrated during the hallway group meeting. None of us knew what to expect, but the general consensus was that we had to set the scene for the boys. Our female manipulation techniques were developing early in life. As the pre-show cartoons started and the lights went down there was anxiety throughout the group of girls, all wondering if the boys would even show. I was a little nervous. It wasn’t as if he was my one true love. In fact it was his friend who approached my friend about a date. But being scorned at this stage of the game was a bit horrifying.

Then there he was, making his way down the row towards me. I watched him from the corner of my eye as I sat perfectly still with my face pointed straight ahead towards the screen. As he sat down he held out a small bag of popcorn without even looking at me. I took it and our hands touched and my heart went straight through the roof. Was it attraction or just sheer relief that I hadn’t been ditched at the last moment. I can’t remember the movie. I can’t remember much of anything. But I do remember how my senses were on high alert to every move he made. I remember how he inched his hand closer and closer to mine until the backs of our hands touched. How we sat, hands touching for what seemed like hours. Afraid to move lest the contact be broken. Until finally he moved, and placed his arm around the back of my chair. He didn’t draw me close. In fact he barely touched me but as his arm rested there I felt a comfort. I think I was relieved. It wasn’t a cruel joke. He really did like me. As we made our way out of the theatre we walked side by side, not touching. Outside, he turned to me and asked if I had a ride. My Dad often picked me up either at the theatre or at my friends house as we lived a little south of town. I said yes as I looked for my Dads car. He wasn’t there yet. And so we stood together in silence, leaning against the building. All the other kids had moved away and we were alone. When I saw the car, I turned towards him and he straightened up. Hands in pocket he leaned in and kissed my cheek and quickly turned to walk away. And so it began. A years long on and off love affair that lasted until grade eleven when we parted ways. Not for the first time nor was it the last.

You never forget your first love. The intensity is almost unbearable. As it progresses you go through a mini lifetime of ups and downs, all preparing you for the real world. And then a real love. But at the time it is real. It is the deepest love that anyone could ever feel. It is your whole life. It is mind numbingly real. And everything else takes a back seat. When it ends there is so much grief and anger. And ultimately sadness for what was lost. For me trust was gone after a secret was revealed. Although in the end it was best for me, trust was always an issue after that. I was careful. Reserved. Less apt to hand over my heart with wanton abandon, I know I held others at arms length in order to protect my own heart from being hurt again.

But there was the young man I had crushed on since I was in grade seven. Just from afar, as he was older and cooler but so beautiful. And of course I had a boyfriend. But there I was, older, single and in the same crowd of party types. I was thrown into his path often and one night, when my parents were away, and no curfew was looming, we sat in his car talking until the wee hours of the morning. No topic was left uncovered. It was the first of many such nights when we would just sit in his car out in the country, sharing thoughts on life and the world. Sharing our hopes and dreams. It became our place. Somewhere in a farmers field sitting on the hood of the car as we watched the night sky and he surprised me with his knowledge of astronomy. He was big and tall and strong and yet somehow soft and vulnerable. Like the night he ran screaming from the car when a june bug flew in the window. Luckily I was able to find it and send it on its way. I knew he was where I belonged. He wanted to be married and I did too but I went away to school. I had dreams I needed to fulfill and it included going away. Weekends weren’t enough and in time we both felt we were losing something good yet neither of us would give in. We couldn’t. Timing is everything.

I dated some but never was there the same pull on my heart. My best friends older brother had been a peripheral guy for years, but I never saw him as anything other than her brother. And suddenly we were thrown together through circumstance and he asked me out. He wasn’t the dating kind. He was a guys guy. In fact we dated for six months before we went out just the two of us. Not with his sister or his friends. Just us two. He didn’t talk much and he didn’t share much but he called me every night for an hour just to hear my voice. Life was hard for that guy. And so he protected himself by keeping it all inside. His familial bond was based on an unhappy childhood and it was tight. But it was hard for me to get past and so it was time to move on from a great guy with too much baggage. But, he couldn’t let me go. Cards. Letters. Stalking. Yes he sat outside my apartment just hoping to see my shadow on the curtains. I know. I was creeped out when he told me. He even had his sister beg me to give him a chance. And so over a few bottles of wine, she and I made a pro/con list and the pro list was so long that I called him immediately. We were married seven months later. I just celebrated my fourtieth anniversary. Alone.

My husband died five years ago from pancreatic cancer. He was 63. My first love had died from a heart attack when he was 45 and the beautiful man child died in a car accident when he was 33. As I told my daughter once, there is no one from the past thinking about me as one who taught them about young love. My memories are mine and mine alone. My first love never married although he did have a son. I saw his sister now and again and she often commented on his anger and grief at losing me. Although he was Catholic, his funeral was held in my home church. I had a chance to have coffee with my old Pastor and we discussed his life and death. As a young man he was so smart and so athletic but his home life was messed up. He turned to drugs in a big way and although alcoholism was huge in his family, he also drank to excess. He did finish a criminology degree and soon found his way first working in the youth detention system. Eventually his life led him to working with troubled kids. I always believed leaving him was the best gift I could have given us both. We both found our way and perhaps went farther apart than we could have together. It took me a long time to forgive him for the past. The cheating and lies. Now I embrace the sweetness of that young love. How we grew up together and explored life in a beautiful childlike way as we navigated our way into adulthood.

My beautiful golden man child was also a little lost soul in so many ways. I think that was why he wanted to get married so young. I think he just needed to be loved. He didn’t want kids he said. But he wanted marriage and a home with just the two of us. When we were together it was wonderful. Weekends home from school always ended too quickly. He waited patiently for me that first year, but I wanted to attend a University three hours away. He didn’t understand why. I tried to convince him to come with me. Live there together. He couldn’t. That was the thing with my guys. All small town boys who struggled to leave their small town world. The comfort of the familiar. The friends who formed their support group. It ended with tears and so much unhappiness. Six months later he married another girl. I never did go to U of A. A surprise baby kept me closer to home and I attended the University in Calgary. Like he wanted. Marriage wasn’t all he thought it would be and soon he was reaching out. I saw him a lot and we talked often but our paths had diverged. He was married and I was with someone new. My dreams were still on education. The last time I saw him before his accident was during a slow pitch game. I was on third base and he was on the other team. He hit a triple and we hugged as we stood chatting. It was wonderful. We tuned out the game as we caught up until someone hit a ball and both teams were yelling at us. Afterwards we agreed to meet soon for a coffee. I never saw him again. My mother called with the news. My heart was broken. A couple of years ago I went to a school reunion. The golden boys sister in law gave me a beautiful memory. When his Mom passed away, the family was cleaning out her home and they came across a giant card I sent on his birthday just before we parted ways. He had saved it and when he married and moved out, his Mom kept it in his room. For 45 years.

My husband was the guy who fell hard but pretended not to. He was the one I had nothing in common with. And yet it worked. I had my head in the clouds and he was under water. I pulled him up and he kept me grounded. He was pragmatic, and sometimes a bit too much. I was a dreamer and flitted from idea to idea. We were attracted to our differences. Something that was missing in our own lives. At first it was amazing. And then it became what annoyed us. Yet we filled voids in each other and although it was hard for both of us to let our guards down in love, we finally took a chance. For all of our differences, it soon became apparent that what we did have in common was what really mattered. Our values were the same. Honesty. Integrity. Our differences were something we split the difference on. I lived for the day. He thought about the future. We worked on that and found a happy medium. He learned to let go a bit. I learned to think past tomorrow. We taught each other lessons we learned from our own upbringings and tried to reconcile them. He was cheap. As was his family. Mine were generous. Giving. He started to give more to charity and in time was very involved with fundraising for Terry Fox and the United way. His family was concerned about appearances while mine was pretty open and cared much less. Eventually he became the man who strived for wealth yet lived a simple life. He taught me that marriage was more than a partnership. We needed to be each others best friend. He told me that the day after our wedding. I laughed but he was right. He made me understand the importance of respecting my parents. He showed his Mom kindness and truly honoured her until the day he died. I was not a fan of hers nor was she a fan of mine, but he stood up for her right to choose as she aged, when others dismissed her as a dotty old lady. In the end, as his time came to a close, our conversations were more and more open as he bared his soul to me. About life. His fears. His childhood. Our love was one that was mature and deep. One that grew through time. Overcoming our differences. In the end he trusted me. He placed his life in my hands.

As I think back on these beautiful people who loved me I am struck by their similarities. All three lost their fathers at a young age. The first love was 19. The golden boy was 10. My hubby was 27. All had struggles with drugs or alcohol either at home or in their own lives. All struggled to break away from a small town and families who held on tight to keep them in the fold. All three just needed to be loved. I learned a great deal about myself through these three young men. I was blessed to have loved them all but more so to have been loved in return. I often think of the palm reader I met at the Stampede one year. My hubby laughed as I parted with my ten dollars. Giving only my first name, his insights into my life were amazing. My age when my son died. The fact I went to a boarding school. Even details about my Mother. It was after the death of the Golden boy and I thought of him often. Many thoughts of what if would invade my waking hours. After a truly amazing reading, the man looked me in the eyes and said, “You are not with your High School sweetheart. And you couldn’t have saved him had you stayed together. You are right where you are supposed to be.” Silly I know, but as my hubby and I walked away arm in arm I knew he was right. We were meant to be.