First Love

It must have been sometime in late 1975. Barely out of high school, a friend and I were drawn to cruising in downtown Denver.

At the time I had a Mustang, a pretty little car. My friend owned a Camaro. Between the two of us we had lots of fun making the rounds.

Then one weekend I met Bob, a handsome fellow in an orange-and-black muscle car, a Chevelle. After some initial flirting across lanes of traffic, we finally pulled into a parking lot and took the time to get acquainted.

We were inseparable after that.

A year older than me, Bob was from Kodiak, Alaska. His parents sent him to Denver to attend the Denver Automotive and Diesel College, so he could learn engine maintenance in anticipation of taking over the family fishing business: mostly crab, salmon, and halibut.

We grew close very quickly. Then at the end of spring semester in 1976, he returned to Alaska.

Bob left his beloved car with me. We parted with hugs and kisses and promises, and Bob suggested I visit Kodiak later that summer. His parents were eager to meet me, and I was eager to learn more about what might potentially be my new home.

And such a wonderful visit it was! Bob took me all over the island and introduced me to some of the wildness that is Alaska.

There were places on the island where you had to stop and look both ways before crossing a dirt airstrip. Ridge top bunkers installed during World War II remained, silent sentinels looking out to sea, still watching for a Japanese invasion. The beaches were filled with black volcanic sand that formed soft round rocks around sea fossils.

Bob showed me rivers filled with spawning salmon, and taught me about his business. The time we spent together seemed to have “future” written all over it. But did it, really?

In re-reading the letters Bob sent before my visit, the tone seems soft, romantic, filled with repeated proclamations of love, tales of his daydreams about us, and his hopes for the future.

After I returned home, the letters became more matter-of-fact, less about romance and more about providing me with detailed instructions on the care and feeding of one super-hot Chevelle.

The story ends just as you might imagine. Eventually we broke up, although I never really understood why. Bob returned to Denver for his Chevelle (quite possibly his real love) and went back to Alaska.

And I mourned the loss of my first love.

This journal was spurred by a writing prompt: Found, by San Diego Momma. Thank you for the inspiration!