We asked readers to write about their summer loves and they sent us dozens of stories that were funny, touching, sad and, most of all, heartfelt. We were forced to make hard choices. Here are some of the best. I was 18, a counselor at a residential camp in New Jersey for children with disabilities; he was 26, a special ed teacher who volunteered at the camp on Thursdays. I loved his creativity, thought he was cute and developed a huge crush. I started looking forward to Thursdays and we began talking, but I figured it was hopeless given the age difference. In September, I would be a sophomore at a university far away, and he lived and taught in a small town near the camp. We kept talking and, after a few weeks, we were spending my day off together. We would go to his house, walk in the woods, make a meal and play with his dog. He was a great dancer and a perfect gentleman. I assumed he thought of me as a little sister. One night at the end of the summer, there was one magical kiss, but I was afraid to read anything into it. I returned to school. We corresponded. He wrote newsy notes about his teaching and local events. I responded in kind and hid my feelings to avoid scaring him. Three months later, I met the man I was to marry and wrote to him about my new love. His response broke both our hearts — he had felt much more than friendship for me, but was afraid to tell me because I was young. He asked me to cease contact — a request I honored. Forty years later, I found him again on Facebook. We shared our stories, both now grandparents, but we haven't met again. He's happily married and I am widowed but with a wonderful partner. I still have his letters, and I still wonder what would have happened had we spoken from our hearts. Moonlight reflected off the ocean as we stood barefoot on the sands of the Jersey shore one night in the summer of 1957. Mary was 15 and I was a year older. Holding hands, we faced each other and kissed. The moment was magical and unforgettable. It was the catalyst for a lifetime together. I remember mowing the lawn at my house in Hopewell, N.J., two days after the kiss and not being able to think of anything but Mary. I was smitten. We spent that summer at drive-in movies, bowling alleys, roller skating rinks, outdoor block parties, taking walks and hanging out together as much as possible. We were in love with a love that it seemed no one else in the world shared. We attended the same high school. That fall, Mary was a sophomore and I was a junior. We became high school sweethearts. We never wanted to date anyone else — nor did we. We married after my first year in medical school. If happiness is what you seek, who you marry in life makes all the difference. I am a very happy man. Mary and I have three wonderful children, six outstanding grandchildren and fantastic memories of a wonderful life shared together. On June 27 we celebrated our 53rd wedding anniversary. The summer I turned 16, I traveled Europe with my cousins. We backpacked and stayed in youth hostels, most of which were crowded and unglamorous. The one in Koblenz, Germany, however, was an ancient castle nestled on top of a hill overlooking the Rhine and Moselle rivers and featured a babbling fountain in its courtyard. Stopping at the fountain after dinner, I noticed a blonde, athletic-looking young man speaking accented English with friends. He introduced himself to me as Freddy and we shared an immediate attraction. He offered to walk me around the thick castle walls, which we did, talking and getting to know each other until late in the evening. It turned out he was Dutch and was on his summer holiday. I was leaving by train the next day, and guessed I would never see him again, despite the wonderful conversation and sweet caresses we shared that evening. How surprised I was when he appeared at the train station the next morning. We exchanged phone numbers and addresses, promising to call and write. Then, as the train slowly pulled out of the station he jumped up and hung onto the window, giving me one last passionate kiss. It was thrilling and kept me on a high for the rest of the trip. When I returned to the states there were several letters waiting from him. He then visited the U.S. — after stowing away on a boat to come and see me — and lived with my family for three months. But, I went off to college and our romance came to an end. Fast forward 30 years and Freddy visited the U.S. again. We both had been married, and we realized that what we had was gone ... but it sure was exciting while it lasted! "Once upon a night, she came to me with love in her heart and a smile in her eyes." That is the first line in a letter from my summer love in early 1960s. We bonded under a blue cloudless sky next to a rushing river where we had set up camp in the Maine woods. We climbed out on jagged rocks to watch the river's white water rapids. He started whittling on a stick and suddenly there was blood over both of us. He had cut deeply into his hand. I rushed for our first aid kit. I poured Mercurochrome over the wound and applied pressure with a handkerchief until a bandage stayed on. It is true that patient and nurse can fall in love. He wrote about it in a letter: "You did a wonderful job on my wounded hand. It made me feel better with you just holding my hand." At the end of summer, he left for college and I went back home to my high school in Plainville. We kept in touch. He sent love song lyrics. I sent him poetry and drawings. We promised to meet again soon. "Moon River" became our song. In his last letter he wrote, "I hope it will never end. ... Only time will tell. ... Love, if you say it enough it might come true." Distance and war separated us. He was headed to Vietnam. My life went on with high school, other loves and marriage to my soul mate. But, I often wonder if this young man made it home safely and had a good life with a loving family of his own. Ah, summer love. I had one of those once, back in the distant era of high school, four long, long years ago. We met at a school dance. She appeared behind me suddenly. Her dancing, not quite clumsy, not quite graceful, sticks in my mind to this day. Her dress shimmered along the floor of the dimly lit gymnasium. She asked for a dance, and who was I to refuse?

From there a romance blossomed, one that carried on to the summer, a whole month later. I got passes to the local amusement park where we rode the wild rides, played the rigged games and stepped over the cotton candy colored vomit to reach the highest point on the hill overlooking the park. We talked for hours about nothing really important, but what felt so important at the time. And after such a perfect day, with the sun setting in the distance, hardly a soul to disturb the obvious chemistry between us, I did the obvious: I asked for a kiss. For a moment, her eyes lit up like shooting stars, but then fear and apprehension set in. She refused, shattering the illusions I had cast for myself and bringing me back down to reality. I immediately dropped the matter, because smacking faces was surprisingly not that appealing to me either, but, nonetheless, the ride home was suitably awkward. Here's the joke, I turned out to be gay. Nina Fournier and Jim Pappas found each other and rekindled the sparks that had flown between them one night 45 years ago. Nina Fournier and Jim Pappas found each other and rekindled the sparks that had flown between them one night 45 years ago. (Courtesy of Nina Fournier) "Will you be my girlfriend?" Despite this rejection at the end of eighth grade, he signed my autograph book "Love, Jimmy," a bold declaration for any almost 14-year-old boy, especially one spurned. We had known each other since fifth grade: tempestuous school years fraught with the prescient waves of excitement, petty arguments, deep-down flutters and endless heartbreaks that come with grammar school crushes. With graduation, however, our future weighed heavily. He was going to a parochial school and would move across town, a rebel traitor to those of us destined for the public high school. One sultry late June evening, the stars aligned, our worlds collided and together, we navigated the rocky cusp of adulthood. Sirens wailed menacingly in the distance, but we knew only a night awash with watery moonlight and alive with humming insects. Against this summer backdrop, we shared our first kiss ... reached out with a tentative touch. This closeness confirmed all that we had intuited. Both of us felt the stirrings of our first true love but, at the same time, feared all that it entailed. Unaware that this was the first and last evening we would share for nearly half-a-century, we parted that night, faintly sensing that our innocent intimacy sealed a moment that would link us forever. During high school and college, our chance meetings began and ended with a good-natured wink, a blushing laugh and a quick hug. By then, however, we were well on our way toward our own lives, decades of adulthood, celebrating life's joys and enduring its inevitable sorrows. … Until a year ago in June, a lifetime later, a breezy e-mail, "How are you … children and grandchildren ... retirement …" and the playful, poignant closing, "Do you recall that beautiful summer night? I do. Love, Jim." Thus our relationship rekindled. Jim had retired to Florida. Old-fashioned as we are, we wrote to each other — casually at first — but we soon shared revelations of the lives we had lived. Not long after, he came to Connecticut. We arranged to meet. I was running typically late. When I arrived, I apologized for my tardiness. "Jim, I'm so sorry. How long have you been waiting?" A recent picture of Edyse and Bob Smith of Old Lyme who eloped and got married in 1971. It all began one summer on the beach where they met. A recent picture of Edyse and Bob Smith of Old Lyme who eloped and got married in 1971. It all began one summer on the beach where they met. (/) In the summer of 1967, there was a cute cop, Bob Smith, who worked at my beach. I was 14 years old. He was friendly and, for that summer and the next, we said hello. He was six years older than I was. Then came the summer of 1969. Now 16, I became more interested in that same cop and we began secretly seeing each other for the next two years. In June of 1971, we eloped to Maryland without parental permission. It was the only state to allow it. People said it wouldn't work. We raised two wonderful daughters just down the road from that beach, and are blessed to have two fabulous granddaughters. We renewed our vows 11 years ago on June 30, our 35th anniversary, on the same beach corner where we first hung out. Through the good and bad, sickness and health, we are still together. Our song, "You Made Me So Very Happy," by Blood Sweat & Tears in the summer of '69 is still true today. I've never had a summer love. This is not a cry for sympathy, rather a reflection on my summers spent cleaning up the heartbreaks leftover from other people's summer love. When June 21 rolls around, summer is in full effect. The humidity is suffocating, the sunshine is blinding and the only thing floating through the air besides pollen is love. Yes, love is as widespread in the summer as mosquitoes on a hot night. Everyone is doing it. If you haven't found your three-month fling, you'd better find something else to occupy your time. I called myself "The Cleaner" in high-school, because no matter what, I always had to do damage control. Being the one to make my friends feel better gave me much more satisfaction than talking to a boy all summer. Not being in a relationship gave me the opportunity to love and support the people who are still in my life — instead of wasting my time with someone who would forget about me once school started. My grandma tells how she and my grandpa would go to the county fair together in the summer, and spend every day together — ultimately falling deeply in love long after the summer had passed. Those were the days before having a Snapchat best friend who wasn't your girlfriend caused a nasty breakup. And before tracking your partner on Find My Friends was a way of catching someone in a lie. If cleaning up after summer loves gone bad taught me anything, it is that summer love is a myth. Love shouldn't have an expiration or a use by date. Love isn't a loaf of bread that gets moldy. Being in a relationship or in love should be a 365-days-a-year commitment — not one that lasts from June to August. Not having a summer love has never bothered me. Summer is a time for relaxation, not relationships. An Afternoon At The Acropolis It was Sunday. The Acropolis of Athens was open and admission was free. I met a Danish girl named Katrina at the entrance gate. She was 18 and traveling by herself. We struck up conversation, and she asked me if I'd like to walk with her. Katrina and I spent the afternoon inspecting the ruins and marveling at the statues. We talked about America and Denmark, about stereotypes and preconceptions. She told me that I was nothing like how she imagined Americans were supposed to be.

Toward evening, we sat on the large stones before the gate and watched the sun begin to set. "How long are you in Athens?" asked Katrina. "I am here for two more days, then to Corfu," she said, and stood up. "Why aren't you tall like other Scandinavian girls?" I asked. "That is an American stereotype!" said Katrina, but she was smiling. Then she said, "I'm the short one in my family," and blushed. Mustering up my courage, I said, "Since I won't see you after tonight, could I have a kiss to remember you by?" "Have you kissed a Danish girl before?" she asked. Then Katrina leaned forward and kissed me with her eyes open. I ran my fingers through her hair. "Is it like you imagined?" she teased. "Too soon to say," I said. Katrina slapped me on the arm, and kissed me again, quickly. Then she stood up on the rock. "I am a Danish goddess!" she shouted, and laughed at herself. "Yes," she said, and jumped down to my level again. We walked holding hands for a moment, and then dropped them to our sides as we entered the shopping district. Terry Wolfisch Cole video conferences with her husband Andrew at their home in West Simsbury Aug. 1. Terry Wolfisch Cole video conferences with her husband Andrew at their home in West Simsbury Aug. 1. (MONICA JORGE | mjorge@courant.com) In March of 1991, I answered an ad in the personals section of a magazine: Former journalist, current teacher, future summer camp professional seeks bunkmate for fun times around the campfire and more. My first date with Andrew was a phone call that lasted for two hours. Our second date was in person. That one lasted until the next morning. Throughout the spring, Andrew and I commuted back and forth between my apartment in New York's Chelsea neighborhood and his in New Jersey. When the summer came, he left for camp and I stayed home. I sent him a greeting card daily. He sent me flowers, delivered to my desk at work where everyone could see them. I visited him in the Berkshires on weekends. A year later, we moved in together. Six months after that, we got married. In time, we moved to Connecticut and had two children. In June, Andrew packed his car and set out with our son for another summer at camp. Our daughter is grown and working in Boston. I'm at home with the dog. We don't send cards and flowers anymore. We video chat at night. It's nice to be able to see his face every day. For almost all of the 26 years that we've been together, Andrew and I have spent our summers apart. It's unusual, but it works for us. As they say at camp, the days are long, but the summer is short. My husband will return soon enough, and I'll be glad to have him home. In our case, it's true: for eight weeks every summer, absence really does make our hearts grow fonder. The best thing about summer love is that it doesn't have to be new. We never talk about the way you fall into comfortable arms and inhale deeply the scent of an old familiar lover your first year back from college. There is a special type of summer love that you settle into. It creaks the way an old sofa does and is just as comfortable because it's well used. On a day in May where the temperature isn't quite at crawling-out-of-your-skin hot, he opens his door. He smiles a smile that says I missed you. I've missed the way you snort a little when you laugh and your obsessive compulsive Netflix binges even though we always argue about what to watch. I barely register it before I dive into arms that have been both my comforter and pillars. I am certain that for another summer they will be. We settle into each other and into the couch. We turn on the television bicker about which series will be the best to binge on and what food to fill our bellies with. He and I know it really doesn't matter because he'll fall asleep and I'll eat all the food anyway, but we've missed the routine. I've missed the routine of the rhythm of his breathing when he's asleep. I'm sure he hasn't missed me poking his nose when he sleeps. He let me know that he didn't miss my attempts to cuddle in 90-degree weather. He let me inside anyway. We decide to binge watch all seven plus seasons of "Supernatural." It has something for the both of us; fight scenes and magic. Summer love is something for the both of us. We settle into it and hope for more years of fight scenes and magic. The writer graduated in May from UConn with a master's in public administration. Judy Ryiz, left, and Natalie Grasso Campbell in 1974 the summer they met playing softball. Judy Ryiz, left, and Natalie Grasso Campbell in 1974 the summer they met playing softball. (Courtesy of Judy Ryiz) She put her hand on my knee. The feeling was electric. Divorced for less than a year, I rarely dated and only men — until now. Judy Ryiz and I met playing softball in the summer of 1974. I pitched, she played left field. My straight friends cautioned me, she was gay. This intrigued me. Long practices provided the kind of camaraderie that lends itself to lots of laughter. Slowly, I remembered her from New Britain High School. As I recalled, we were decent tennis players and competed in a tennis tournament. I invited her to play. After several evenly matched games we called it a draw and went for pizza and beer. As we chatted a comfortable closeness began to develop. Now, here we sat in the largest gay bar in Hartford, the Warehouse. In the 1970s, the Warehouse was a bastion of freedom for closeted gays. She invited me for a drink and, as we sat sipping and taking long drags on our cigarettes, I found myself drawn into a more intimate relationship. When she asked me to dance I never hesitated. Instead, as we moved together I felt warm in her arms. As our bodies touched I enjoyed the sweet smell of her perfume. My defenses were gone and — although confused and conflicted — I allowed myself the pleasure of her touch. We celebrated 43 years of togetherness on July 14. This summer love proved permanent. Who knew? My summer love happened in 1964 when I was 16 years old. My uncle rented a cottage for a week at Sound View Beach in Old Lyme. I was excited knowing that for the next week I would be at the beach having fun. I never dreamed that I would meet a girl who would change how I felt about girls. She was staying with her parents at the cottage next to where we were staying. I met her at the beach swimming. She had blonde hair and beautiful blue eyes. We started talking and agreed to go play miniature golf later that day. From there on, we spent the rest of the week together doing different things at the beach, playing golf, getting ice cream, walking up and down Hartford Avenue and just having lots of fun together.

I was shy, and I knew that in a few days she would be leaving. I still hadn't asked for her phone number. I was getting nervous, knowing I had to ask her sooner or later. I knew she lived in Springfield and her last name started with a Z. It was a long name of Russian origin. Well, they left, and I didn't get her phone number, but that didn't stop me. When we got back home in Hartford, I went to the phone company and looked at the Springfield phone book to find her number. Well, I was successful. I called her and then took the bus to see her. We spent the day at the lake, but it wasn't the same. That was the last time I saw her, but she did leave a lasting impression on me. I never thought about girls the same way again. Sixty years later, whenever I hear the song "Eddie My Love," it brings me back to the summer I'll never forget. I was 16 when I met him at a dance that I attended with Peter, a long-time friend. I was looking around when I spotted him at another table. Sparks flew as we made eye contact. A few minutes later, Ed came over and asked me to dance. I obliged and, in those brief moments, he swept me up into a romantic world I'd never known. He was handsome, athletic and a wonderful dancer. Peter warned me that Ed had a reputation at their school for being a heartbreaker, but when Ed called, I said "Yes." I lived in a fairytale for the next two months, going out to dinners and even horseback riding. I was so in love. Toward the end of the summer, he invited me to his company picnic. He had to get there early and help set up, so he asked me to meet him there. I found him sitting at a picnic table with another couple and another girl. He had his arm around her and they were laughing, obviously enjoying each other's company. He was embarrassed when I approached, and soon after ushered me away, explaining that he was sorry, but needed to break up with me. He walked me to my car and said goodbye. Somehow, through my tears and sobbing, I managed to drive safely home, totally heartbroken. I continued to play my 45 record of "Eddie My Love" for weeks afterward, crying my heart out each time. Peter remained my good friend through it all, never once saying "I told you so." He didn't need to. A prom night promise 65 years ago: "I'll be by to pick you up on your birthday next month and we'll go back to Atlantic City to celebrate." On that premise, I sat on my front porch steps. My crisp pink dress was moist against my legs. I took off the white strap sandals to cool my feet and I waited. Richie never came. The July heat made me limp in spirit. My cheeks were wet with tears. In September, Richie joined his father's hometown realty business. I went to college in Iowa. Richie never came to any high school reunions. I went to each one. I married a Midwesterner, had a career and a family. Now I have a 1-year-old great-grandson. Did Richie marry? Did he die? Will he attend our 65th high school reunion in September in Atlantic City? Was it summer love so many summers ago? Summer promises come on a summer breeze as a fragile and frothy as a cappuccino topping.
U.S. lawmakers break for summer recess.