Loves Means...

“Love means never having to say you’re sorry.” Is there a gal alive who grew up in the 1970's and doesn’t remember that line… who doesn’t have those immortal words tattooed on her brain for all eternity? When “Love Story” by Erich Segal took the publishing world by storm in 1969, I was 11 years old and barely had breasts. Puberty hadn’t taken siege yet, but I was ready. I just couldn’t wait to get my period and be a woman. I thought it was going to be great!  In the meantime, I brought “Love Story” with me to summer camp, read it in one sitting and sobbed my eyes out. I passed it along to all my cabin mates and they cried, too. Our counselor didn’t know what to do with all these hysterical girls. Then she read the book and joined our uncontrollable sob fest. A lot of tear-stained sheets went through the laundry that summer.

The story of Jennifer Cavilleri, the beautiful, feisty daughter of a humble baker, who falls in love with rich, snotty Harvard jock Oliver Barrett IV, only to die of cancer, hit me on many tender levels all at once. My own dear uncle had just passed away from bone cancer, leaving a lovely young widow and two sons behind. So I sobbed for Jenny, I sobbed for my mom who’d lost her only brother, I sobbed for my cousins who’d lost their father, I sobbed for my aunt, I sobbed for the entire universe. The experience was cathartic, to say the least.

I had just about recovered when the movie version came out the following year, starring Ali MacGraw and Ryan O’Neal. Suddenly, this tragic tale came alive, in all its angst and glory. Jenny and Oliver were real! Thanks to director Arthur Hiller (insert name drop: a close family friend) the story had color and personality and humor. Don’t get me wrong, it was still a total sob-a-thon, worthy of an entire box of Kleenex, but it was a classy, well-made sob-a-thon. My friends and I required numerous viewings to let it all sink in and fully saturate our beings. Quite simply, this was my definition of heaven.

Or so I thought, until I learned that Erich Segal himself, the famed author, was coming to my house! Dear God, to a 12-year-old girl in 1970 with braces, still waiting for her period, could anything have been more exciting than that? I think not. This was nirvana personified.

It was a Saturday night and my parents were throwing a party. Arthur Hiller and his wife Gwen were on the guest list and they were bringing Erich Segal. I alerted my close friends to this astonishing, historical event and they all begged me to come over immediately. Wisely, my mother vetoed any sleepovers. She feared pandemonium might ensue, that Erich Segal would be mobbed by a bunch of insane 12 year olds. It might prove embarrassing for all concerned. She was probably right, but at the time, I wasn’t too thrilled with her decision… until I remembered that Erich Segal himself was coming to my house. Erich Segal!

So I waited. And waited. And waited. I was on the phone with my girlfriend Jan, rehearsing what I’d say. Finally, she got tired of waiting and went to sleep. By now it was eleven o’clock and Erich Segal was a no-show.   Do I have to tell you I was devastated? My life was over. I’d bragged to everyone within phone range and felt like an idiot. A disappointed idiot. There I was, in my flannel nightgown, wearing my head gear, fighting to keep my eyes open, when at last, the doorbell rang and guess who appeared in the flesh? Erich Segal himself, accompanied by the Hillers.

Tentatively, I tiptoed downstairs to get a glimpse of him. Truthfully, he was not a dashing figure, but a skinny, bald academic in a navy sport coat and loafers. Very East Coast. I didn’t care. To me, he was my everything. My parents looked up and motioned the shy girl in her jammies to come forward and meet her idol. Right about then, my mind went blank. Here it was, the big moment, and I couldn’t speak. Erich Segal stared at me in anticipation, smiled sweetly and shook my hand. I took a breath, then another, and out it came: “Mr. Segal,” I whispered, “I loved the movie… and the book.” That was all I could muster. He stepped back and clutched his heart in one sweeping, grand gesture, and said, “Thank you. I am so pleased.”

With that, I went back upstairs, delirious from the encounter. Sure, I wished I hadn’t been so tongue-tied and awkward. But I couldn’t help myself. I’d met Erich Segal, and that was all that mattered. Of course, I scored a lot of points with my friends. I was 12 years old. I was a happy girl.  Ten years later, I got married at Arthur Hiller’s house. Erich Segal was a no-show.
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