About a year later, I found myself at a birthday party where someone suggested we play Spin the Bottle, a game that seemed to appear at just about every middle school gathering in those days. The rules were simple. Whoever spun the bottle, and whoever it pointed to, disappeared into a small dark closet for thirty seconds before returning to the group. Up until then, I honestly thought the whole thing was pretty silly. I assumed you simply went into the closet, stood there awkwardly for half a minute, and then came back out.
Then she spun the bottle.
As the bottle slowed and finally came to rest pointing directly at me, my heart probably skipped three beats. We walked into the closet together, and someone closed the door behind us. It was pitch black, and for a few seconds I had absolutely no idea what to say. I could hear giggling and laughing on the other side of the door. Then, without warning, she leaned in and kissed me. It was my very first kiss—equal parts exhilarating and terrifying. I had no experience, no plan, and certainly no confidence. Somehow, though, in those few seconds, the girl I’d admired from a distance at Wa Du Shuda Days became the girl who gave me my first kiss.
However, somewhere between carnival rides, basketball games, and swimming at the dam, something unexpected happened. I finally did meet the first girl who would truly capture my heart. There are certain names that, even decades later, still carry a particular warmth when you say them out loud. Sue Ann is one of those names for me.
I first saw her in Bob's yard in New Lisbon, Wisconsin. I was 12 or 13 years old, newly transplanted into town in sixth grade, still figuring out where I fit in. The boys were doing what boys did in the 1970s — playing a rough backyard version of football, the kind where whoever held the ball was devoured like a rabbit by a pack of wolves. It was loud, dusty, chaotic.
And then Sue Ann walked over. In the middle of all that noise and movement, she stood out. I wondered who she was, where she lived, and why I hadn’t seen her before.
I soon learned she lived five miles away in Hustler, Wisconsin — a town so small it almost felt like an extension of New Lisbon. Hustler had its own elementary school up through sixth grade, which meant she wasn’t in our building yet. But that would change in seventh grade when we’d all merge into the same junior high and stay together through graduation.
At that moment in Bob’s yard, though, all I knew was that I was smitten.
When seventh grade came and our schools combined, Sue Ann and I became part of the same world. But in those early junior high years, we were just friends. At that age, “serious” wasn’t really in my vocabulary. I was still trying to understand myself, let alone anyone else. I grew up in a house full of boys. I was very much into sports and academics. I didn’t know much about girls — other than they seemed complicated and fascinating at the same time.
We shared space in that awkward, in-between stage of life when voices crack, and confidence hasn’t quite arrived yet. We laughed. We talked. Classes. Hallways. School events. There was something comfortable about her even then. 7th grade was the beginning of playing organized sports in school. Basketball was my game, and Sue Ann was a cheerleader, so our paths crossed outside of the school day as well.
Those two basketball seasons drew us into each other's orbit with surprising regularity. Our junior high teams were very good—if memory serves me right, we lost only one game in those two years—so there was plenty for the fans and the cheerleaders to celebrate. Home games were exciting, but it was the away games I remember most. The players and cheerleaders shared the same bus rides, and for a teenage boy, those trips always carried a little extra anticipation. There were quiet conversations, shy smiles, and those stolen glances that seemed to last much longer than they actually did. We were still just friends, but looking back, I can see we were slowly growing up together, sharing many of the same experiences and memories without realizing where they would eventually lead.
But it wasn’t until freshman year of high school that things shifted.
I still remember our freshman homecoming dance. Sue Ann was elected to the homecoming court. The football players voted on who would represent the team, and I naturally hoped my name would be called too. I started on both the varsity and junior varsity teams, playing offense and defense, so when I wasn’t chosen, it stung more than I cared to admit. At fifteen years old, recognition seemed important, especially when the girl you admired would be standing under the Friday night lights. Looking back, it was a small disappointment, but at the time it felt monumental. Regardless, I had asked her to the dance, and she accepted and would be my date.
That was one of the first times we went out formally. We didn’t drive yet, of course. We were 15. A senior named Jim offered to double date with us. Even in his older car, I felt like Sue Ann and I were in a fancy limousine. He drove us to dinner, then to the dance, and later allowed me the dignity of walking her to her door. I can still picture it. The nerves. The excitement. The weight of the moment. And I remember being too scared to kiss her goodnight. That was the beginning.
What started as a freshman homecoming date turned into an eight-year relationship — four years of high school and four years of college. We became, in many ways, inseparable. I thought she was beautiful - full of life, confidence, and intelligence. She had an independence about her that I admired as a young man.
If you looked around New Lisbon High School in those years, you probably saw us together. We shared a locker together. We sat together. We were lab partners together. We studied together. We walked the halls together. We were connected at the hip. We would even walk to my house for lunch on school days so we could have alone time together.
Much to my mother’s concern. It didn’t matter that it was Sue Ann specifically — my mom just didn’t think I should be “going with” anyone that seriously at that age. Like any good parent, she worried. She understood the risks of young love and young hormones better than I did. But when you’re 15 or 16 and in love, you don’t think about consequences. You think about the next time you’ll hold hands. The next hug. The next slow dance. The next kiss.
We did all the things young couples do when they’re trying to stretch time together. We biked between towns. When we obtained our licenses to drive, we borrowed our parents’ cars whenever possible. Sometimes “borrowing” when my mom didn’t know about it. I guess that wouldn’t make it borrowing then? We spent all day in school together and then called each other at night. Our phone sat right in the middle of the living room, which made private conversations nearly impossible. So sometimes we’d just sit there, quietly, almost listening to each other breathe. Neither of us wanted to say goodbye. It sounds strange now. But back then, it felt like everything.
When I turned 16, one of my first paying jobs was a busboy at Target Bluff in Camp Douglas. It required that I drive from New Lisbon to get to work. Not only did it provide some much-needed cash for living and entertainment expenses, but it also gave me a chance to take a small detour and stop to see Sue Ann on the way home. That was definitely a highlight on Sunday nights. I would sit in one of their recliners, and Sue Ann would nestle in under a blanket as we watched TV with her family or just talked. I did not own a car, and being in a one-car family, there was always some negotiation with my parents to get the wheels. Unless it was for work…
Growing up in a small town meant you had to create your own entertainment, and in many ways, that was part of the charm. A lot of our time was spent hanging out with friends or driving around aimlessly just so we could be together. Sometimes that meant parking somewhere quiet and stealing a few kisses; other times it meant heading to the dam for a swim or slipping away to a more private lake outside of town. We had matching football jerseys back then. She was No. 10 Fran Tarkenton, and I was No. 44, Chuck Foreman. I loved that she wore the Viking purple and gold in a state of Packer green.
We’d go to the drive-in for a burger and ice cream, sit on the hood of the car, go behind the school in Hustler and talk about everything and nothing. There was something special about small-town living — the simplicity, the closeness, the feeling that the world was small but full at the same time — and sharing all of that with her made those ordinary moments feel extraordinary.
We would end up going to every Homecoming and Prom together. Like most high school romances, there were the highs and the lows, the petty jealousies. We had our short break-ups and make-ups. But we always seemed to find our way back to each other.
We were both immersed in sports. For four years, I played football and basketball and even gave golf a try for one season. Sue Ann played volleyball, basketball, and softball, and she was a cheerleader for both football and basketball. She had a bright smile, boundless energy, and the kind of personality that naturally drew people in. I couldn't have been prouder to call her my girlfriend. On game days, I especially loved seeing her in her cheerleading uniform. I have to admit, every now and then during a timeout or while standing on the sideline, I'd sneak a glance her way—strictly for motivational purposes, of course. Looking back, we were living the classic high school movie cliché: the star athlete and the head cheerleader. The only difference was that nobody was following us around with cameras or a Hollywood soundtrack.
Sue Ann also saw me through some very tough times in my life during high school. There was the case of mononucleosis, also known as the “kissing disease”. I was out of commission for a good part of December in my junior year and lost about 30 pounds. Sue Ann brought over my homework to my house so I wouldn’t fall behind. She met daily with each of my teachers to get the assignments and dropped them off after school. She also made a banner to cheer me up. It read “RUBES,” and I hung it up in my bedroom. So thoughtful.
My father passed away between our junior and senior years when I was 17. I can still visualize her face that day on Sunday after she had gone to church and discovered the news of my dad’s death. She drove to see me at my house to make sure I was OK. I broke down and cried in her arms. We spent the entire day together, and she was the best friend I could ever have.
After four years of dating, during our senior year, we crossed another threshold in our relationship, and we were intimate for the first time. We were both young, inexperienced, and learning as we went. It was a season filled with intensity, closeness, and discovery, one that deepened the bond we already shared. Looking back now, I see how much we were still just kids. I believed this feeling would last forever.
And then to cap off our senior year, my mother became deathly ill from a misdiagnosed burst appendix. We were both in the class play (Go figure, me as the football star and her as the cheerleader in love with the jock. It was a stretch for our acting talents!).
My mom was in the hospital at LaCrosse and I was trying to navigate school and final tests, the senior class play rehearsals, and visiting my mom every night after school was finished. I will never forget how she consoled me in our Biology class when I broke down and started crying at our lab table. Almost losing both parents before I would graduate high school was just too much for this 18-year-old to handle. Roger McCallum, the teacher, was also nice enough to give me “a pass” on the test that I had missed during that week.
After graduation, life started to pull us in different directions. I went to Iowa State for Engineering. She went to school in La Crosse, WWTI (Western Wisconsin Technical Institute) for nursing. For the first time, we had to figure out what long-distance meant.
We took turns visiting. We wrote. We called. Boy, did we call. Long-distance bills were out of this world even when you waited until 11:00 PM to get the cheaper rates. Yes, that was a thing back then. But we made it work. We were both moving into adulthood together as a couple. When she moved to California during my sophomore year, I took my first plane ride to go see her. We were stepping into a bigger world—one that stretched far beyond New Lisbon and Hustler, WI.
When I arrived at her sister's house in Los Angeles, where Sue Ann was staying, I discovered another pleasant surprise. One of our classmates, John, happened to be in the area. I honestly can't remember what had brought him there, but while Sue Ann was at work during the day, John and I had the chance to catch up and create a few adventures of our own.
One evening, the three of us decided to splurge on a trip to the Playboy Club. To three kids from small-town Wisconsin, it felt like we had stumbled into another world. The women in their famous bunny costumes glided from table to table serving drinks that, judging by the prices, must have been mixed with liquid gold. For an hour or two, we felt sophisticated, successful, and completely convinced we belonged among the well-dressed, glamorous crowd.
Then the check arrived.
Our illusion of high society disappeared faster than free popcorn at a ballgame. As I stared at that bill, I remember thinking there was a very real possibility we'd be spending the rest of the evening in the kitchen washing dishes just to earn our way back out the front door. Somehow, we managed to pay it, but it was a lesson I'll never forget: looking rich and being rich are two entirely different things.
I went to the state of Washington between my junior and senior years for an internship with Weyerhaeuser. Sue Ann and I were taking some time off as a couple that summer, and I had turned to another classmate for solace over the phone. But once I returned and saw Sue Ann at her job in LaCrosse we started right back up again. I have to admit I was in the best shape of my young life after lifting weights for the entire summer. I was full of confidence, and maybe it showed. She was at college in LaCrosse again after one year of working in California.
We saw each other frequently my last year at Iowa State. Looking back now, I understand something I couldn't have seen then. This long-distance relationship had a way of putting our lives on pause. We saw each other on weekends, holidays, and special occasions, when both of us were excited simply to be together again. Most of the time Sue Ann visited me, but on occasion I went to her. Neither of us owned a car, so the Greyhound bus was the mode of transportation. I can still remember the anticipation of her arrival in Ames, IA on Friday, only to have the heartache of her departure on Sunday. We spent our time together dancing, drinking, laughing, and making love. Many times Sue Ann was with me when Beth and LeeAnn were also visiting Phil and Ted. We had fun as a larger group. We explored the campus, celebrated milestones, laughed about old friends, and picked up right where we had left off. The anticipation of seeing each other often overshadowed the ordinary realities of building a life together. Distance made it easier to focus on what we loved about each other and easier to overlook the differences that only reveal themselves when two people finally share the same everyday world.
Eventually, after graduation, we both landed in the Twin Cities in the summer of 1981. It felt like destiny lining things back up. After all the miles, we were in the same place again. But over time, something shifted. We had talked for years about getting married. In fact, during our junior year together, Sue Ann had filled every available writing space in my New Lisbon yearbook with a love letter about our life together in the future. When you date someone that long, marriage feels like the obvious next step. It’s almost assumed. However, being together as adults in a new city was different than being together as teenagers in a small town or a long-distance relationship during the college years. Sometimes proximity reveals what distance hides.
We were no longer in New Lisbon, where high school sports and the Rockets dominated conversations and Friday nights seemed to define life. I was no longer the hometown athlete, and Sue Ann was no longer the cheerleader everyone recognized. We were stepping into adulthood, each beginning our own careers and trying to figure out who we were beyond the identities we'd worn for so many years. My job with 3M took me on frequent business trips, especially to Alabama, while I was also adjusting to life in the Twin Cities, the corporate world, and the unfamiliar feeling of having a steady paycheck after years of counting every dollar as a college student. Looking back, I can only speak for myself, but what I expected would bring us closer together gradually exposed the cracks that distance had hidden. As our lives expanded, we began to realize we weren't growing in the same direction. The interests, dreams, and priorities that once seemed so naturally aligned no longer fit together as effortlessly as they once had.
There are a couple of memories that stick out during this time period.
I lived with my brother for the first two years out of college. He lived on Lake Long in New Brighton. Sue Ann lived in an apartment off 35W in Richfield. We were probably about 30-40 minutes apart. I wasn’t an avid water skier prior to moving in with my brother, but I certainly became one after. We skied just about every day that we could, weather permitting. That first summer was nothing but waterskiing and finishing a deck off the back of his house. Given that much time, I became very good on one ski, i.e., slalom. In fact, we built a slalom course on one side of the lake. One weekend Sue Ann joined us for a day of boating and skiing. We each took our turns in the water. She gave it the ol’ college try and did well on two skis. I skied through the buoys a couple times, and I still remember how she made me feel when I knew she was watching me carve up the course. It felt like old times back on the basketball court or the football field in New Lisbon with her cheering me on. I loved that feeling.
Sue Ann gifted tickets to my brother and me for a MNF Minnesota vs Oakland on September 14, 1981. She knew me well and gave a great gift! Although my Vikings were drubbed by the Raiders 36-10 on that night, there was the lone Viking highlight of Eddie Payton (Walter’s brother) running a kickoff back 99 yards to score a touchdown. In the Star Tribune the next day was a picture of Eddie in the end zone, ball raised high, on the front page, and who did I see in the background of a very fuzzy picture? Dave and me! What also made that night memorable was a visit from Sue Ann just prior to the game. She had gifted me the tickets weeks before, and now she showed up at our door just as we were leaving for the game. I thought she had her nights messed up, and she was dressed to kill in white jeans and heels. I think she wanted to remind me what I would be missing. Well played.
But like many good things, our relationship came to an end. She probably realized it before I did — that we didn’t quite have the glue needed for a lifetime commitment. There’s a difference between loving someone deeply and being aligned for the long haul. I was in no way ready for that type of commitment. Even when we were together in Minneapolis, I wasn’t the best version of myself. I had a lot of growing up to do and much more to learn about relationships. I can admit that now even though I didn't realize it at the time.
Early in 1982, we broke up. I don’t think we made Valentine’s Day. Eight years. And just like that, it was over. I was heartbroken. She had been my first real girlfriend. My first love. The only woman I had been with. I remember still being very sad during a fishing trip to Canada in June of that year. When you tie your identity to someone for nearly a decade, separating feels like losing part of yourself. But time has a way of revealing grace.
The next time I saw her was first at Doug and Terry's wedding in La Crescent, WI and then at our first high school reunion in the summer of 1982. She had moved on and was with her future husband at both of those events. I was not in a place where I could be happy for her. That would come later.
Sue Ann taught me more than she’ll probably ever know. She taught me how to care for someone. How to listen. How to compromise. How to fight and then make up. How to navigate the emotional world of women — a world I knew nothing about growing up in a house full of boys. She taught me that relationships take effort. That affection matters. That presence matters. She taught me about tenderness. And maybe most importantly, she taught me that sometimes love is real and meaningful—even if it isn’t permanent.
We still communicate occasionally. We last shared texts on her birthday this past December, when I sent some of my posts that mention her. She shared how I made her feel during our time together. I sent the first draft of the chapter you are currently reading, and she texted, "Just read your blog... nicely written! Send me a copy of your book when it's done." That made my day. We do share the same high school class. Some of the same friends. In 2027, we’ll celebrate our 50th class reunion. Part of me wonders if she’ll be there. If she is, I imagine we’ll smile. Maybe laugh about the senior play. Maybe remember Jim driving us to freshman homecoming. Maybe acknowledge how young we were and how serious we thought we were.
There’s no bitterness now. Just gratitude.
When I think of Sue Ann, what I remember most is her smile. The way she made me feel when we were together. The innocence of that time. The awkward late-night phone calls in college. The inseparable years. She was a foundational chapter in my life story. Not the whole book. But an important chapter.
Even now, when my mind drifts back to Bob's backyard, I can still see it as if it happened yesterday. The laughter fades into the background, the dust slowly settles, and there she is. At twelve years old, I didn't have the words for what I was feeling. I only knew that life somehow looked different from that moment on. First loves may not always become lifelong loves, but they forever become part of the story of who we are.
Even today, when I think back on those years, I realize Sue Ann wasn't simply my first love. She was part of the bridge between childhood and adulthood. At the same time our relationship was growing, another battle was unfolding inside our home—one that few people ever knew about.