The first spark of love often grows into fiery flames of passion, and sometimes it fades to a softly glowing ember -- but it never completely burns out.
My one & only
By Peter Carter
The Northern Ontario summer sky was cobalt blue when we started for home. The canoe ride that Helena and I were on in Killarney Provincial Park had been serene, but now, heading for shore, we realized it was going to get rough. Helena was up front; I sat at the back. The wind grew stronger. Waves swelled. Water splashed over the bow. The breeze seemed determined to render even our most heroic paddling futile. The quartz rocks and pine trees on shore that should have been crawling by with each paddle stroke appeared to stay put. Ahead of me, though, sat this fascinating European girl; so pretty I couldn't believe she had agreed to go out with me.
I was the local boy who lived in a tiny village on the very shores of the lake that we were on. Helena had arrived from Toronto a few months earlier. That's how we met and ended up going for a paddle together. She was a city girl, but once the wind came up, I started sweating while she remained calm. And to every third stroke of her paddle, she added a joke. Bad bear puns are actually what they were. "If bears have cooling pots, what's bruin' in them?" Helena asked aloud. And, "Do you think some might be bipolar?" A lesser woman would have griped, but Helena paddled and punned her way into my heart. On shore, our journey got a lot easier. We've been married for just over 20 years now. And laughter still makes the rough waters navigable.
We could have danced all night
By Elena Lobsanova (as told to Kathryn Dorrell)
Nehemiah Kish and I met while rehearsing for the annual Spring Showcase at the National Ballet School in Toronto. He was a second soloist in the ballet company, and I was just graduating from the school.
Some of us at the school were learning the second act of Swan Lake, and when my partner got injured, Nehemiah was called in as a replacement. Over the course of three weeks we would only have about six rehearsals to piece the tricky partnering together. In such a short period of time we would rely on each other for inspiration and passion to make it work. During rehearsals there wasn't much time for words, but I remember there was a lot of unspoken communication between Nehemiah and me.
Three weeks before our first date, Nehemiah surprised me by showing up to my graduation ceremony. When I first caught a glimpse of him coming into the building, I was happily surprised. It was a four-hour ceremony, and he sat through the whole thing. Afterward he found me, and we shared our first kiss.
I then went to Europe to dance, and I really missed him. We kept in touch by e-mail and phone when I was away. When I returned we went for a walk at Harbourfront Centre in Toronto -- our first official date. It was a misty afternoon, and the Toronto Symphony was playing Brahms' Hungarian Waltz at the outdoor stage.
We've been together for two and a half years now, and this past fall we moved in together. What have I learned in this, my first romantic relationship? That it's so vital to listen. Everything stems from listening.
Oh, what a feeling
By Tom Allen
I was 21 when I first saw Jane. She was across the stage from me, reaching for something. The morning sun was pouring in on us through the trees. It caught her hair and gave a softness to the light around her face. She was up on her toes, her right hand arcing above, like a dancer. I held that picture of her in my mind. It gave me a feeling that stayed with me for years.
It was the summer of 1982. We were both playing in an orchestra in Pittsburgh. It was my first real job as a musician, and my first time in Pittsburgh. It's not the place people go to find love stories, I know, but it has rivers, hills and leafy parks, and that's what I remember. We walked together, held hands, laughed, and I realized I was in love. It was my stomach that told me. I had butterflies most of the day.
Ours was an innocent kind of love. The orchestra couldn't afford hotels, so we were put up in people's homes, with kids and dogs and church memberships. Jane and I didn't get much time alone, but we made the most of it. We watched mediocre movies that became delightful. We made up our own words for things. We floated through the month of June on a river of giddiness as fizzy as ginger ale. I called Mom and told her I thought I'd met "the one."
Then July came and I had to go home for another gig. I remember the feeling as Jane's and my hands slipped apart at airport security. I remember looking down on Pittsburgh from the plane and seeing the rivers and the trees sinking away.
For the longest time I couldn't explain why the romance hadn't lasted. That was the hardest part. Five, 10, even 15 years later, with so much water under so many bridges, it still hurt to wonder why. There were all kinds of practical reasons: youth, distance, restlessness.… None of them really fit, though, and nothing ever explained away that first feeling – that this was what was meant to happen, that this was a joy I would always know.
Eventually, that feeling outlasted the rest. Youth and restlessness finally did explain themselves. Mediocre movies are now just that and nothing more, but that joyous fizz is still there, and always will be. It doesn't need to be anything more.
Page 1 of 2 — on page 2, read about a beloved companion who helped a girl through tough times in Vancouver in the late '50s.
