News

Last week, with the launch of True Romance , we asked for your tales of love. Here, we publish a selection of your submissions.

Morgan Oliviero from Canada writes: I was 18, and like all 18-year-olds, absolutely convinced of my own infallibility. A peculiar addition to my ego (ephemeral battlements of arrogance on the fortress walls of vanity if you will) was that I had never actually had a girlfriend. I was waiting, I had told myself, for a perfect literary romance to unfold like the pages of a fresh copy of Pride and Prejudice.

The truth was that I had coped with the whirlwind of hormone and emotion that plagues adolescents badly. My head was too old; my heart too young, and so I spent much time watching romance from the outside. People standing at windows, noses pressed to the glass, rarely notice someone sneaking up on them. I was lucky: she was beautiful, strong, witty in her own way. She also had a boyfriend. I told myself we were just friends, while she shamelessly evoked envy in her peers.

I was a first-year at the Royal Military College. My blue #4 uniform, mandatory for first-years about town, made her feel like a princess. Within a month I had confessed affection for her. She begged my patience. A week of fear, and I knew she was mine (irony: I was hers, really).

My roommate teased me endlessly, as I am not known for excessive masculinity. She worked on cars, played rugby, looked better than I did in pants. She was a patient teacher; I knew nothing of the physical side of love. She held my hand (among other things) and gently pulled me past my misconceptions. I like to think I made her happy - she expressed her feminine and artistic side around me, something most of her acquaintances never saw.

I broke her heart less than a year later. She wanted me too much, and I was afraid. I justified it to myself with the truth that I couldn't be there for her as much as she needed me. I told myself it was for her own good. I patched my own heart with gun tape, and solaced myself in remembered solitude.

A battered and worn copy of Pride and Prejudice sits on my shelf.

Kevin Collins from Mississauga Canada writes: Our only refuge was her bedroom. She had her PC on a table near the edge of the bed, she had a few hundred MP3s downloaded, I would cue up a weird mix of love songs. Butterfly would echo. There was nothing butterfly like about her but I always associated her with that song.

Courtney lived in an apartment overlooking the basket weave of the 401 intersecting the Don Valley Parkway. This is the busiest intersection of traffic in Canada. I would stand on the balcony late at night looking at the flowing river of taillights. Courtney came out.

"Whatcha doing out here?"

"Oh, just looking, it's quite a view you have here."

"Sure, if you like traffic. I didn't pick this place for its view."

"Why did you pick this place?"

"So I could be close to school. It's tough to get a place close by."

"I bet you don't eat out here very often."

"I can't stand this grime, it's so gross."

We climbed into bed together naked. I cued up my quirky love song list. "You know you get a funny look on your face when Kissed by a Rose comes on," she said.

"Really?"

"Really, it doesn't seem like one of your kind of songs."

"Didn't you know I'm just a big romantic mush ball? I love that song."

"I bet that song has something to do with someone else."

"No, I just like the song."

Of course I was lying. It was at that point I realized that she reminded me of Vanessa in many ways, same build, same style of hair and glasses. It was odd sitting in this room how my reality suddenly shifted. Here we were in her homey room, wood, pillows, candles. It was earth colours, greens, gingham, this could be a room in country house like I had it briefly in Picton with Vanessa.

But we're here in this little pollution-choked cavern 35 stories over the Don Valley and 401 in the middle of a city.

Courtney and this whole thing was a totally derivative love. I had done like Jimmy Stewart in Vertigo, found someone who looked like some long lost love and tried to make her over and imagine she was Vanessa.

Richard Hawrelak from Sarnia Canada writes: This is a true story of awakening. The time is 1943 in Sheep Tracks, Alberta (Daysland). During the winter, a gang of us would meet at the CP train station. Mr. Way would build a coal fire in the round pot-bellied stove at the centre of the waiting room.

Benches lined the four walls in the small room. Our age group ranged from grade eight to grade six. I was in the latter group, a new member, shy in all respects. One night one of the older girls brought a book to our nightly meeting. It was called A Night In A Moorish Harem. A story about concubines locked in a castle without their master to serve. The ladies were hungry for love. One night they spotted a knight riding away from bandits. They called to him and offered him shelter from the thieves. He was tall and handsome and all the girls immediately set out to seduce him. He obliged but said they would have to take their time as he needed time to recuperate. To do so, they each made love with him and between each session, they told a story of their first encounter with love. This was meant to arouse him quickly.

The object of our meeting was that each member had to read aloud a chapter of the book to the rest of the group. The book was passed down the line from member to member. I recall the thrill of listening to each chapter and watching the eyes of the older girls as they giggled and nudged each other when I blushed. That is, until it came time for me to read. How do you correct a stutter? The more I read, the more I stuttered. The more I stuttered, the more the girls laughed at me. I was totally mortified.

After my reading we walked home in the crunching snow. One of the older, grade eight girls who lived near my house branched off with me. She took me under her wing and said there was nothing to fear about making love. I received my first kiss that night and I remember it as though it happened yesterday. Thank you, Elizabeth.

Robyn Grant from Sudbury Canada writes: It was while in the high school band that I met him. He sat to my left, and we both played French horn. Ours was a short two months of dating, as I, being extremely painfully shy and easily persuaded, took some awful advice from a couple of "friends" and broke it off.

He still took me as his date to prom. He still called me at least once a week for almost a year afterward. Through the years that followed, I would think back to the time I had spent with him, remembering how sweet he was, how thoughtful, considerate and kind. He was the first guy to ever bring me flowers. He covered the passenger seat of his car with a towel the night he took me to prom to prevent anything from getting onto my dress. And when a lot of guys around that age would have probably been trying to go all the way with me, he refrained. I thought of all these things and kicked myself repeatedly for having let such an incredible guy go.

After eleven years, I was sure that he had already married some other girl. I wished for a time machine so that I could go back and talk some sense into my sixteen-year-old self. A little over a year ago, we got back in touch through one of those online social networks. To my complete surprise, he was not attached and was still living in my hometown. After half a year of wondering if I could somehow get him back, I took a small leap and asked him out for coffee. He said yes. Six-and-a-half months later and I am still grateful for this second chance.

Submitted anonymously: I've always tried to live my life with a "no regrets" mantra, but that became increasingly difficult when I made a big mistake. The motivation I had for breaking up with the only woman I ever loved was that I didn't want to regret never playing the field when I had the chance. The tragic irony here is that that decision may just end up being the biggest regret I will ever have.

By the time the relationship ended, it was all I knew. We had been dating since the middle of high school and had remained together throughout our post-secondary experiences. We battled long distance woes at times, but it was never really a problem. My problem was that I didn't want to wake up one morning when I was 40 and feel like I missed out on something. I knew I loved my girlfriend more than anything else I could imagine loving, but who knew if there was more out there than I could imagine? I watched people test the limits of promiscuity for years and was often astounded yet rarely jealous. I was deeply in love and nothing could beat that in my mind.

Still, I had this gnawing fear that one day it wouldn't be enough any more. I would always be the guy that had only been with one woman. I don't mean just sexually, I mean emotionally, spiritually and intellectually. I trusted her more than anyone else I had ever met. I had bared all to her, opened up like I never thought possible. I now know there are things that only she will ever know because I don't want to share them with anyone else.

I guess when it comes down to it I was scared, petrified really. I was scared of myself. Scared of making the wrong decision by not deciding at all, and just riding the wave of young love. I built the problem up in my head and then over-analyzed it to death. I barely slept for weeks and yet made the hardest decision of my life in that emotionally exhausted state.

And now? I wait. I pine. I imagine what would have been. I still love.

Submitted anonymously:

I always dreamed of finding true love. Early on, I determined that, when it came to love, I would never settle. So I grew up with a romantic ideal in mind, rejecting guys more than accepting them. Then I met Him.

Our paths crossed twice before our official meeting so when he approached me on the dance floor I already had butterflies. I wanted him to talk to me. Not only did we talk, realizing our ability to converse so easily indicated we were like two peas in a pod, but he asked me to dance, too. I'm admittedly old-fashioned when it comes to romance. Sure, it wasn't some crooner singing love songs - it was Radiohead, Fake Plastic Trees, and it was amazing. I felt something - not yet love but a connection.

A few chats and e-mails back and forth and we knew something was there. Alas, he was starting to see his ex again and I was being pursued by an old crush. So, we stayed friends. It took a year of getting familiar and dropping in and out of each other's lives for our friendship to grow into something significant. I recall how our friendship seemed to light on fire after my mom died. I think maybe he felt he had to rescue me. I'm sure he knows now that I'm not the type to need rescuing, but he was, and will always be, the type to give all of his support, unconditionally. We were both going through changes and our bond comforted us and carried us through. Our likeness and devotion allowed us to grow closer. We were best friends.

And while we remained just friends for a long time, it always felt like we were destined for more. We supported and inspired each other. We made each other supremely happy. I realized I was in love with him on different occasions. We had such honest talks about our feelings. I learned how to be vulnerable, how to be patient, how to really have faith. Eventually, it all came together. Changes in our lives enabled us to finally get together as more than friends. I am convinced there is no more beautiful thing than lovers who are best friends.

Anne Wilson from Kingston Canada writes: When I was a teenager in Willowdale, Ontario, I used to babysit three little boys in the house next door. The boys' uncle, a very handsome young man, lived in the basement apartment of their house. I had a huge crush on him, and one day while I was in our back garden, he leaned over the fence and invited me to go to a movie with him, that Saturday night. I was so shy and flustered, said yes, then ran back into my house. He never did show up to take me to the movie, and we didn't have any more communication, for 16 years.

We moved away from that area, and 16 years later, after my father passed away, and the lady whose boys I had looked after, invited my mother and me to her home on Victoria Day. Well, forget the fireworks outside, when my mother and I went into the living room, there was my old flame, Harry!

Anyway, Harry called me around the end of June, and we arranged for him to visit me on Canada Day ... more fireworks, outside and inside! Finally we started seeing each other, and really fell in love. We were married in June the following year.

As they say, "The course of true love never runs smooth." That was true in our case. We were separated for nine years. However on Canada Day, 1990, in the glow of the fireworks, we got back together, for good! Needless to say, Victoria Day, and Canada Day always have a very special meaning to us now. Our relationship, has become a very beautiful one, filled with love, understanding and great communication. We have grown together, and this is very special!

Catherine Fast from Vancouver Canada writes: In 1993 I was in my late 30s, a student with two young children, no money and an exceedingly troubled and troubling soon to be ex-husband. Faced with the prospect of dating I realized the last time I had been on a first date I was 17.

I have always secretly believed that there is an answer in a book for every trouble in life so I spent way too much time reading self-help guides. One pointed out the obvious. After a break-up we are usually quite clear on what we don't want in a partner, but what we are looking for is less obvious. The author suggested reflecting on all the men you had known in your life — your dad, brother, friends, even the dreaded ex — and think about what qualities they had that you liked or admired and make a list. And so one night I made this list while sipping my way through a bottle of red wine.

Great, I thought, if I ever meet anyone who isn't gay or living with his mother this will come in real handy. And then I promptly tucked it away.

I later made the re-acquaintance of the husband of a friend who had recently passed away at a tragically young age. Given my divorce and his recent loss we proceeded cautiously. This thing had rebound written all over it. But then I remembered my list and lo and behold, he got 19 out of 20. I thought, this is as close to perfect as I ever expect to find in this life.

Next March, we'll have been married for 13 years and have had precisely one fight (about what I can't remember). We've survived a big mortgage, career turmoil, raising four kids in a Brady Bunch family and I still think he's (almost) perfect.

People always ask what item on my list he didn't get. I like men who are musical — who sing or play an instrument. He argues he should get part marks because he owns a lot of CDs.

Leslie Cochrane writes: At the age of twelve, I was in love with the perfect man. Drawn from the romantic comedies popular during my adolescence in the early 60's, he was tall and dark like Rock Hudson and my grade eight French teacher, both whom conveyed a virile maleness that stirred my emerging hormones. It would be another three years before I could realistically embrace some semblance of this fantasy.

Take a giant leap-of-time forward from that coming-of-age moment - to a couple of years ago, when I was contacted by my first "serious" boyfriend. Looking back, I recalled a very tall, lanky, dark-haired Paul McCartney look-alike. I only had one picture of him - a credit to my mother, who took photos of my dates as if taking inventory.

I was driven by intense curiosity and so we agreed to meet for lunch. He made a reference to his hair; said there was some "snow on the roof". What I wasn't prepared for was that the "roof" was missing a few shingles and, there wasn't an inkling of resemblance to the handsomest Beatle.

I was surprised at how little I knew about him. But then, much of our relationship had been spent in hours of lip lock. The thrill of mere kissing would eventually be left behind in favour of more carnal pleasures, with others. But nothing will ever again compare to those first moments of sensual enlightenment with him. Simple kissing was enough for periods of profound arousal. The intensity of feeling he stirred in me was incomparable to any prior idealized imagining. My only motivation was to hold onto the incredible sensation as long as possible.

He must have felt the same because he walked through miles of snow to be with me, trudging home late at night while I went comfortably to bed. Over our lunch, he mentioned how he hated snow to this day, but added that he would have gone even further to see me. I reflected on the power a young woman wields in reducing a young man to the equivalence of a dog in heat.

When the subject of our split ultimately came up, it was apparent that I had left a greater emotional wound at that time than I had realized. I couldn't simply explain that I had the attention span of a goldfish, that I traded him in for a "bad boy" - a shorter, but more exciting model who had the potential to sap my self esteem, along with my innocence. So I lamely provided, the "It wasn't you, it was me" defense.

Simple gestures . . a glance, a touch, a word…everything feels so much more intense when we are young. And like a dog's seven years squeezed into one, so are compressed moments of experience exaggerated. The three or four months we spent together seemed like a very long time.

After the lunch, I went home to my family. My husband knew of the meeting. My daughter did too, and she teased me. "How was your date?" she asked. It only made me feel foolish and I just wanted to be alone in order to absorb the shock of how many years had slipped by. I soon realized my feelings of regret weren't really about him but were about the loss of youth and the innocent discovery of sensation that he embodied.

Later, In a better mood, I checked my emails and saw one was from him, sent just after we said goodbye.. He told me what a wonderful time he had and that I was even prettier now than he'd remembered.. .

. . . .mmm . . . Suddenly I was a chocolate melting in the warmth of such charming sweetness. . . but . . . no, there's no going back.

Donna Farron Hutchins writes: It was a humid summer's day when we moved up the street to a two storey with a large porch. Being four, I was pretty much in the way of everyone, and so I took my chair under the elm tree, where I sat and wept. Then Kermit appeared, a gawky little kid, peeking at me curiously through thick horn rimmed glasses that his mother kept tied to his head with ribbon. It was his cowboy hat that intrigued me, because I had one as well. Our friendship began instantly as we broke into a chorus of "Happy Trails".

In the midst of suburban Toronto, Kermit's Mom raised chickens in her garage and dumped manure on her gardens every spring. He and I lived our fairy tale in the magical backyard that our families shared; rich with fruit trees, rows of vegetables, and giant flowering shrubs where bumble bees and dragon flies flourished. We were good kids, much to our mothers' relief, and the only time we ever got into trouble was when we went skinny dipping in his red pool. For two years we were inseparable, confidently planning the home that we would build ourselves and my dog-Trixie, by the black currant bushes. As long as I had Kermit I would never feel alone.

Then the 'FOR SALE' sign went up that changed everything. Kermit was moving, not down the street, but to a huge farm in Pennsylvania. As the truck came to take my one true love away, we clung to each other and sobbed and made forever promises.

The following year my parents bought our first car, a shiny blue 1950 Chevy sedan. I was ecstatic when it was announced that the Hewes' family had invited us for the summer holiday. Their white clapboard house with its long driveway, surrounded by acres of corn and wheat, welcomed us; along with hugs and cold lemonade. Stunned by Kermit's absence, I found our eventual meeting awkward and puzzling, particularly when he kept making cracks about me being a girl.

Next day a rooster called me down to an early breakfast where Mrs. Hewes urged me to join Kermit outside. With relief I found old Kermit, smiling at me as he held the reins of his tan and white pony. With his guidance, I cautiously mounted the saddle, and prepared to take my first ever ride. In that instant a sharp slap came from behind and the animal bolted. Shrieking in terror I held on tightly, before eventually being rescued. It was the picture of Kermit rolling on the ground laughing that told the story of his betrayal.

I spent the rest of the holidays alone. I soon learned how to collect eggs from the chicken coop, and that you must walk carefully through rows of wheat fields, that rabbit tastes like chicken, the thrill of milking a cow, and that you can churn fresh cream into butter. But mostly I learned about the pain of a broken heart.

Theo Dimson writes: I want to tell you about the time l met and fell madly in love with a wondrous girl from Oklahoma.

I had a summer job working at Manitowaning Lodge on Manitoulin Island in Ontario .

My job at the lodge was "HandyKid". Gardening, garbage disposal, snake annihilator,Skeet Shoot operator, in other words l did everything

that no one else cared or dared to do.

Then...

One bright golden summer's day, an immaculate car pulled up to the entrance of lodge office.

I was nearby on a 25 foot ladder refreshing the paint on a 30 foot totem pole that decorated the main entrance.

l first noticed the Oklahoma license plate and then, "have you ever seen a dream walking? Well l did, and she stepped out of black Cadillac.

She saw me, ME! Her smile reached me on the wings of a snow white dove. She waved and suddenly the ladder "climbed clear up to the sky!'Oh! what a beautiful moment.

Captain Cummin, the lodge owner called to me, "Ted would you show these nice people from Oklahoma to Cabin 6. They will be with us for a week, take good care of them."

Would I!

I would, l will l did, because I'm in love, I'm in love with a wonderful girl.

They were a handsome and successful looking family of four. A Charming mom, a vigorous Dad, a Newtonian son and, and her... andher name was 'Lis' as in Lisabeth. Perfect name for a perfect girl.

I was in a movie, a musical, a Broadway musical, "OKLAHOMA!" Overture. Lis and l simply smiled and stared a each other. Love was 'bustin' out all over! Lis had a magical Oklahoman accent that enhanced her beauty.

Lis asked me if l had time to show her around the lodge property. Her father approved, and l simply sighed and gazed at her,

We walked and talked and laughed. Innocently and politely we were falling in love. Truly, Madly, Deeply.

Dinnertime for the guests. Lis and l agreed to meet at the totem pole after dinner.

We met at totem pole and holding hands for the very first thrilling time, we floated under the starry night. We stopped at a point over looking the bay. We expressed in unison our love for each other, slowly embraced and kissed.

The next 7 days were Delightful, Delicious and Delovely.

Lis, Oh how l loved her, she persuaded her family to stay an extra 7 days.

Her sighs were so like mine, Her eyes always glowed like mine. People would say we're in love.

We promised to love each other forever, write each other everyday, and somehow someday we would be reunited again. Forever!

The Long Goodbye.

We corresponded while l finished my ' tour of duty' at Manitowaning Lodge.

Autumn.

Home and back to The Ontario College of Art & Design.

Lis and l kept up an epic correspondence. But...after 6 months, our passionate letter writing ceased.

The Magnificent Obsession. Had it become a Grand Illusion?

A year passed and in a sentimental mood l wrote Lis a long letter.

She responded!

She was well, her wonderful parents were well, but tragically her brilliant, likable and witty brother died in a hunting accident.

Joy and sadness.

We corresponded intermittentally and then ... fade out, THE END.

Not a day passes without my thoughts of Lis and our glorious romance.

Did l tell you this 'affair to remember' happened almost 60 years ago.

The summer of 1949 .