"The beginning of a relationship, when just being in each other's presence is enough, no activity is necessary. We've all been there, and if you haven't been yet, your time is coming. If you're young, hang in there, if you're old, take a chance, love is worth the risk." ~ Bob Lefsetz Describe a time when you risked loving.

I doubt I’m unique when I say that my first true love was probably the riskiest. It was scary to open up and make myself vulnerable for the very first time and risky to expose myself both emotionally and physically. Uttering the three words “I love you” seemed perilous, as though I was jumping off a cliff.

I met Bob J. when I was an 18-year-old college freshman and he was a sophomore.  We were together for almost two years, from 1972 to 1974. It seemed like a long time back then. He was from coal-mining country in West Virginia. His dad worked in the mines and Bob came from a hardscrabble, Italian family with seven children. Several of the boys’ names rhymed—Larry, Terry, Gary—along with Bob, Rick and Billy. Additionally, there was the doted-on baby girl of the family, Lynn. When I met her she was starting to show signs of being quite spoiled and I’ve often wondered what kind of woman she grew up to be with all those older brothers. Bob was the oldest of the brood, and he took his position as role model for his younger siblings quite seriously. The first in his family to get a scholarship and go to college, he was successful in his quest to be a good example. The next two brothers in line, Rick and Terry, followed in his exact footsteps and I wouldn’t be surprised if the rest of them did as well.

Bob first approached me in the dorm cafeteria and oddly enough, I really don’t really remember our first date. I know that we saw the movie “Billy Jack” early on—we went to the movies frequently. We quickly became inseparable. Bob was a chemical engineering major and had a rigorous class schedule, so we studied together a lot, which was definitely beneficial for me. Sometimes he’d get exceptionally frustrated with a math problem or equation he was working on, and he’d suddenly get up and knock his desk chair over, or throw all the books off his desk onto the floor. It was startling, but I never saw these little fits of rage aimed at people—only at things. He loved intramural sports and played on soccer and baseball teams; he also played racketball regularly.

For some reason, Bob was a controversial figure with my family and friends and I never quite figured out why. It was mostly the males that didn’t like him. Maybe it was his intense, competitive nature when it came to sports and academics. My brother didn’t care for him from the first time they met—it was winter, and Bob picked up a snowball and heaved it at Mike. I knew that he was just trying to “break the ice” and get my brother to horse around with him like guys tend to do, but Mike thought he was being picked on. My parents definitely disliked him. Mainly because they thought we were too young for such an intense relationship; but I also knew that Bob’s long, wild, out-of-control hair probably labeled him as a “hippie” in their minds. However, Bob was an R.A. in our dorm and he had to pass a stringent selection process in order to be chosen for the job. He came across as congenial and responsible to people who got to know him.

Bob came out to visit me in Montana the summer I worked in Glacier National Park and while we were apart he wrote lots of letters, always starting them with the words, “Dear little one.”  He was attentive and kind, buying me flowers and record albums, and paying lots of compliments. He and I had the same taste in music and we listened to the Moody Blues, Cat Stevens, and Gordon Lightfoot as we studied. We went to see Neil Young in concert at Cobo Hall in Detroit. Bob liked to play the guitar; I listened as he practiced playing "American Pie." I felt loved and respected and downright euphoric when I was with him. I went to West Virginia to meet his family. They lived in a tiny, no frills house, but they all seemed happy and friendly, making me feel very welcome. His Italian grandmother, speaking very broken English, embarrassed me when she asked us when we were getting married. The truth was, we had talked about marriage, agreeing to wait until we were out of college.

I took it extremely hard when Bob broke up with me during my junior year. He told me he wanted to date other girls. In hindsight, at least he had the courtesy to be honest and direct with me. Interestingly, it was a rocky break-up for both of us. He got upset when I briefly dated another guy on his floor and oddly, he even protested when I agreed to sew some patches on the jeans of another guy he knew who had just broken up with his girlfriend. Somehow, through it all, we still remained friends for quite awhile afterwards, only losing touch after I moved out to California in the summer of 1976. I found his brother Rick on Facebook and attempted to get back in touch with Bob once, but was disappointed when my attempt was rebuffed. I figure he either has a jealous wife, or he’s the type that wants to leave the past in the past. Regardless, in the treacherous waters of first love, I consider myself lucky that Bob was “the one.”