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I just saw in the newpaper that it's been 31 years since my first date. No, the paper did not have a headline saying "Heggy Finally Breaks Dateless Streak -- Read All About It!" Nor was there an announcement of a candlelight vigil to commemorate the event down at the local Burger King. Nothing like that.

It was one of those filler pieces they stick down in the corner of the page to make the columns come out even when the reporters simply CAN NOT think up 2 dozen more words to describe how much money sympathetic local residents raised for the lady who had 87 cats in the back of a van that ran out of gas on the Interstate. (It's probably a good thing they didn't write more. I don't even want to think about what that van must've smelled like. Oy!)

The piece I'm talking about said "On this date in 1971, Stephen Spielberg made his TV directorial debut with "Duel" starring Dennis Weaver as a salesman menaced by a mysterious truck driver." (Someday I'll subject you to my harangue about why "debut" should either be spelled day-byoo, or pronounced dee-butt, but I'll spare you that for now.) Anyway, "Duel" was one hell of a debut -- it's a great film. Thirty-one years later, I still get goosebumps thinking about it. Dennis Weaver is perfect as a normal guy who becomes increasingly freaked out as his never-seen nemesis torments across miles and miles of lonely highway. You cannot watch this movie without thinking, "Jeez, what would I do if something like that happened?" And the next time you're out on a lonely highway, you'll be looking in your rear view mirror just a bit more frequently. Guaranteed.

But I was talking about my illustrious foray into the dazzling world of dating. You see, there was a guy on my swim team named Nyberg, and he had a very cute, very smart, and very charming sister. I must admit I fell pretty hard for her. Anyway, after much mutual flirtation, we decided that we'd get together over at her house to watch some TV. She lived with her parents, so there would be chaperones, of course. (OK, so why isn't "chaperones" spelled "shapperones", huh? Crikey!) In any case, this being my first "date", I was still a LONG way from developing any "moves" to use on her, so adult supervision wasn't really necessary no matter how you cut it.

We did hold hands while we watched Weaver drive his piece-of-crap Dodge Dart down the highway as the Giant Evil Truck tried to swat him into the sagebrush. I think I was more frightened than Nyberg's sister, because I had actually been IN a Dodge Dart -- which is scary as hell even if you don't have the Smoke-Belching Semi of Death barrelling up your tailpipe.

I do remember that we both had trouble sitting still. Part of it was sexual tension (at least on my part), but some of it was due to Spielberg's mastery of emotional manipulation. It wasn't a particularly romantic evening (we saved those for later in the relationship), but I think we did form a tighter bond from the shared experience. For me, it is a very warm and magical memory. I'll always have a special place in my heart for her, and for Dennis Weaver. (No, wait, that didn't sound right. Scratch the Dennis Weaver part. Never happened, OK?)

Anyway, I'd be willing to bet that we all have a memory like that stored away somewhere. Something sweet and fuzzy from long ago that brings an automatic smile whenever we see the little newspaper blurb that triggers the recollection. Perhaps yours doesn't involve a homicidal highway jockey, screeching tires, and twisted metal...maybe yours is about standing at the lakeside in the rain listening to Deep Purple on the radio. Maybe it's about having an ice cream sundae at that funky little Ma and Pa shop that was eventually torn down to make room for a Toys R Us. Maybe it's about snuggling while listening to your parents' Harry Belafonte records on a beanbag chair in the basement. Whatever it is, you should take time every now and then to appreciate the fact that you were able to cherish those kinds of moments back before life got to be about finishing your boss's stupid sales report and then rushing to the store to get a Lotto ticket and some new wiper blades before the snowstorm moves in.

I'm sad to say that I don't know what Nyberg's sister is doing these days. When I went away to college, I broke up with her... because my stupid idiot friends told me to. They assured me that I'd be able to date thousands of super-hot erotic babes every single day...and therefore would forget about Nyberg's sister within a week. Well, it didn't happen; I've never forgotten her.

I've learned a lot since then. It wasn't really my friends that were stupid. I was the stupid one. I should never have listened to them. When it comes to matters of the heart, the only source of advice you should pay attention to is... well, your heart.

I did run into her about a dozen years later. And I still felt those same sparks I'd first felt while holding her hand and thinking that if Weaver only had a Mustang he could outrun the truckin' SOB. But there weren't any Spielberg movies on the tube this time. We'd both moved on with our lives, and there was to be no replay of our earlier romance. (Sigh.)

Which is the way it should be, I suppose. My life has certainly had plenty of sparks and romance since then, and they occur with much higher energy and frequency today. But I'll confess I took a brief mental trip when I saw that newspaper blurb, and it was a very pleasant little journey. I'd like to think that wherever she is, Nyberg's sister might have seen the same article and might have taken a moment to smile at the memory. I really hope so.

Have a wonderful day, my friends.
Terry