When I told someone that this was my topic for today, his response was, "and you are going to perpetuate this fallacy?" I am not surprised. While, many, including Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin, have crooned this Irving Taylor ballad, it is pure heresy in a politically correct society where divorce is rampant, self-esteem rules and ‘I’m OK, You’re OK’ is our national motto.

While I still believe that rugged individualism is what made this country great, I also believe that Taylor’s premise is ultimately correct. At first glance, it sounds like the brooding of someone alone on a Friday night. But if you take it in its broader view, it is like the tree in the forest riddle. If I am experiencing success, joy or sorrow but have no one with whom to share it...am I somebody? Have I made a sound? Have I caused a ripple? Who will remember me when I’m gone and my shadows have dissipated?

I have been working on a collage of photos that I am hanging in my living room. They are the pictures of the people that I love and that love me back. Pictures of people who I talk to every day and those who I would give the world to talk to one more time. When I placed the last picture, I laid it down and looked at all of the faces staring back at me. I was overwhelmed with memories and it struck me for a moment that when I lay dying, I hope this is the vision that I see. That is when the line of that song came into my head. ‘You’re nobody till somebody loves you’.

Where would I be without those who love me or without having someone to love? How would it feel to walk around in a world full of people, conversations and interactions...but never share a single intimate moment? To never know the experience of loving or being loved. It is a haunting thought, like wandering into into a Salvador Dali painting and growing old there.

I remember the first party that I was hired to do. I needed the money so I did all of the work myself and worked on it for days. Everything went smoothly and it looked beautiful. Every detail was perfect. The food was good, the table stunning, and I had several people ask for my card...my card! I did this, I thought to myself, and to be truthful, I could hardly contain my excitement. It was late when I finally got home and the girls were at their dads. I walked into my dark house and plopped in the chair completely exhausted but still riding on the adrenaline of my success. I was dying to share it with someone...but, the house was empty...and then I was empty. A tree in the forest.

I am blessed. My empty house and empty heart lasted only until the morning. My collage is full of faces. They are my history and my future. They are the people who remember all of the bad things that I’ve done and never fail to mention it over the dinner table. They are the people that I belong to.

How nice it is to belong to someone. To know that there is someone out there who cares if you get a paper cut, hemorrhoids or a cold. Someone who nags you about your eating habits, teases you about the time your perm looked like pubic hair or encourages you to pursue your dreams. Someone with whom you can share a thought, a bowl of ice cream, or pillow talk before you go to sleep.

I have little fear, I am strong willed, and I believe that I am capable of accomplishing anything that I set my mind to. Perhaps, all of those things are true, only because I know that when I am afraid, when I feel weak, or when I do need to ask for help... I can fall backwards into the net of love, support, generosity and kindness, that has been knitted for me by the faces of the people in my collage. The people who know me best and love me anyway.

Maybe, I am the perpetuator of a fallacy. Life is not, afterall, like the Brady Bunch. It never was. If couples, siblings, parents, and children always got along, Jerry Springer might still be a politician in Ohio. If love wasn’t a risk then half of the songs and every self-help book ever written would be unnecessary. To love is a risk that sometimes ends up hurting. There are times when we have a heart full of love to give but do so unwisely or we withhold it because of unrealistic expectations. People get sick, people get bored, people change and sometimes people leave. Often, we keep a part of ourselves at bay waiting for some assurance that we won’t be hurt again and end up sacrificing our future because we can’t let go of the past.

Love is as frightening to give as it is to receive; but, to lock away our hearts and throw away the key, is a million times more frightening, because you are throwing away the opportunity to know that you have made a sound or caused a ripple. You end the book because one chapter closed and you ransom the opportunity to ever become a part of someone else’s story.

I’m glad that my story is intertwined with so many others. We are not perfect but you will probably never see us on Oprah. We are, as a group, very loud and have our fair share of drama queens. We swear when playing board games and serve that pink fluffy stuff for Christmas. One Thanksgiving, we nearly lost the devilled eggs when Megan wrestled Linda to the floor over a comment about her hair color and my 11 year old niece won’t bring friends around until we have agreed to a list of appropriate conversation topics. We still threaten to tattle and there are at least two people who have an illogical fear of tornadoes, expressways, and foreign women handing out orange juice in supermarkets.

That’s what’s nice about the people who love you; they don’t stop because you make them sit on the floor at a dinner party or because you were the one who told their daughter about french kissing. They love you when you are without make-up, without money and without a clue about the future. That’s why, despite the skepticism, despite the risk, and despite the fact that they told dad you were the one who stole the car...being loved by someone will never go out of style.

Shakespeare had his sonnets, Irving Taylor had his song, and I have my collage. The form may be different but the message is the same. Perhaps some fallacies are meant to be perpetuated.

Cedar Point Amusement Park, 1979. Bliss. A pastel colored terrycloth tank top held up by spaghetti straps, thick reddish brown hair feathered and flowing like Farrah Fawcett in all of her glory, the intoxicating aroma of French fries drowning in vinegar and even more intoxicating-- the aroma of Randy. Ah, Randy, but we will come back to him.

Our goal was clear and upon reaching our desired destination we came face-to-face with a sign informing us that from this point there is a 2 hour and 30 minute wait. Methodically taking our place in line, we blended into a sea of faces and colors following one another like cattle through a maze of hot metal railings. It seemed to be a reasonable trade off two hours in the noon sun for the unparalleled thrill and three-minute adrenaline rush of the Gemini.

By today's standards this huge wooden beast was about as exciting as a bologna sandwich. But this was the summer of 1979 and as I clasped Randy's hand, climbed into the red car of the Gemini and pulled down on the safety bar, this was what it meant to be eighteen. Eighteen, where life happens at lightening speed. We are immature, uncontrolled and without direction yet we are wise enough to enjoy each hill for what it is. Luckily, we are also innocent enough not to give in to fear, if we fear at all.

At that moment it all came down to the click of the bar, the speed of the race, the feel of his hand and the smell of his shirt. Had I constantly worried about the hill ahead the angle and speed of its descent-- I would have missed the thrill of the ride up. The paralyzing click, click, click of the chains as we climbed the hill in slow motion. Eventually you reach the point where the front of the train has seen the other side and you know it is only a matter of time. I don't believe that it is a good idea to rush it, to see over the other side too soon. Had I known the intensity of the fall or looked into his eyes and seen that very soon they would be saying goodbye I might have skipped the ride altogether. How sad it would have been never to know the touch of his hand as he brushed the hair from my face and kissed me in front of the Gemini.

A roller-coaster will never be made that can surpass the tumultuous ride of loving someone for the first time. My ride with Randy was short but sweet. It ended with a period of mourning lasting twice as long as the relationship itself and included the mysterious loss of a "Bread" album at the hands of my father. How lucky I was to be the brown haired girl in the pastel tank top hopping into the Gemini and fearlessly experiencing what it meant to be eighteen. Ah, the aroma of Randy; so glad that I got in line. Life is all about the ride; so hop in, throw your head back, close your eyes and hold on.