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I was 5 years old. His name was Kevin St. Germain and he was in my kindergarten class. I used to say his name at night, before I fell asleep. Kevin St. Germain. It sounded so beautiful.
On Valentine's day, I was in heaven. He sent me a valentine that said "You Are The Key To My Heart!" Signed, Kevin St. Germain. How glorious! I was the key to Kevin St. Germain's heart!
My mom tried to warn me. "Honey, all the Valentine's were printed with that." There was no daunting my love.
It was the day of our special kindergarten program for our parents. All of us kids were in a frenzy, running around before the parents arrived. Kevin St. Germain and I were playing house. "What would you like for dinner, dear?" I asked. "Pot Roast" was my beloved's reply.
As I slaved over the toy stove making dinner, I turned around. There was Kevin St. Germain, kissing another woman! And not just a little smooch on the lips... it was a hollywood, romantic bend over, swooped her up in his arms kind of kiss!
My pretend pot roast was ruined. My very real heart was crushed.
Rose D'Acquisto, St. Paul, MN
I met my future husband at a party. It was love at first sight. Our first date lasted three days and ended with our engagement. Our second date was not for a month or more. He lived in Omaha. We wrote a lot and exchanged our favorite books.
While driving to work I heard "Don't Tell Me That I Don't Belong With You" by Tom Paxton on the MPR Morning Show. I cried all the way to work. The phrase that got me was "Home for me is anywhere you are." I quit my job, got rid of almost everything I owned and moved to Nebraska to be with him. Five years later we are getting divorced. Now, I think five years should be a minimal engagement period.
I sing that song now in coffee shops and music parties. I don't always tell that story, but I am always thinking about it.
Liz Fish, Minneapolis, MN
On occasion throughout my adult life, letters arrived in my mailbox addressed to "Mrs. Peter Torkelson." Being unmarried, no "Mrs. Peter Torkelson" existed, and I would I toss them out. But around 1984, I decided to start accumulating them. Instead of discarding the letters, I placed them, unopened, in my filing cabinet.
After almost 20 years of stockpiling mail, I met Vicki. The relationship grew, and we began talking of marriage.
On a July evening in 2003, seated side by side in a rowboat on a Glacier Park lake surrounded by mountains, I placed a large stack of unopened mail on Vicki's lap. "Over the years," I said, "whenever I received a piece of mail addressed to 'Mrs. Peter Torkelson,' I would file it away. I always hoped that there would someday be a Mrs. Peter Torkelson whose mail this would become. Vicki, will you let this be your mail?"
"Please," she said. "Yes. Please."
Back at the lodge, in view of the sunset, we spent the next hour opening such treasures as Breezy Point opportunities, expired coupons, and offers from now-defunct businesses.
Peter Torkelson, St. Paul, MN
When I was just 13, I took swimming lessons from a lifeguard named Rod. Rod rhymes with god, you might notice if you're good with rhymes. He was tall, muscular, lean and suntanned. Sometimes I'd get lucky in class, and Rod would hold me while I floated to demonstrate some aspect of a stroke. I was always first in line to volunteer to be his assistant. When Rod walked his rounds—down one end of the Olympic-sized pool and up the other side—I would swim along behind him, like a little water-logged lovesick puppydog, all the way around the pool, and all the way around again. At the time, this seemed like a good idea, day by day. My siblings teased me, but why should I care. Destiny called. Sadly, my first "grand passion" remained unrequited, though my swimming skills improved considerably that summer.
Nancy Westrell, Minneapolis, MN
My college boyfriend and I shared an anniversary which fell about a week before Valentine's Day. Not wanting to be too predictable, I decided to surprise him on a day which fell somewhere between our anniversary and Valentine's. He had a single dorm room, so need to worry about disturbing (or being discovered by) a roommate. While waiting for him to arrive home from his PT on-campus job, I arranged myself on his bed and handcuffed one hand to the bed post (I'd borrowed the cuffs from a friend; they were the genuine article and did require a key to unlock them!). A full can of Redi-Whip rested by my side, I then waited......and waited. He didn't arrive back when he normally would. I started to nod off, and my hand and arm began to fall asleep.
Suddenly, I heard his key in the lock. I jerked upwards, and in doing do, I shifted my hip onto the Redi-Whip nozzle, activating the launch sequence. I was now perched atop a small pile of the stuff, still handcuffed, and in walked my boyfriend—along with two of his buddies. They'd stopped off for a couple of beers after work. They howled while he and I turned various shades of red. I spent a lot of time walking around with my head down after that! While mortifying at the time, I now think back on it almost wistfully, and most definitely with a smile.
Beth Helwig, Duluth, MN
Actually, it's something my husband did for me before we were married. He lived in England at the time and we had just discovered we'd fallen in love with each other after a couple years comparing notes on our children who are the same age. I woke up suddenly very late one night and went to my computer to download email, and a VERY long one started to download...it took nearly an hour! Then I saw it was a .wav file, and played it. It was him playing his guitar and singing my favorite Richard Thompson song "Night Comes In" I wept. He'd snuck into his downstairs room and plugged himself in and very quietly recorded it where no one else could here him.
Marie Booth, St. Paul, MN
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