I met Sam at the Stables, a dingy little coffee house off Bloor Street, while I was on Scholarship at the Opera School in Toronto. I was seventeen years old and away from home for the first time. It all happened so suddenly, so unexpectedly, I didn't have time to think. This strutting pony-tailed young man appeared out of nowhere, sallied up to me:

"Hello, beautiful," he said, "Come dance with me." And taking my hand, he led me onto the dance floor.

I did not resist. One minute I was sitting at a table sipping a drink with my opera friends, the next, I was on my feet whirling around the dance floor in the arms of a total stranger. For me, at that moment the cheeky directness of Sam's approach and the romantic challenge in his deep blue eyes were irresistible. My friends watched in astonished disbelief as Sam and I swooped and swayed in complete abandon to the seductive beat of the music. All I can remember was the wonderful sense of release, of unqualified freedom - a sensation I had never before experienced. All sense of time and responsibility evaporated, and eventually I wandered back to the Conservatory dorm in a blissful romantic haze. That's how it all began.

Next morning when I awoke, reality intervened. I scrambled to combat my romantic inertia, and finally managed, with musical scores tucked under my arm, to set out for my daily 10:00 a.m. vocal lesson. I was ill-prepared and Madame, my formidable teacher, was not pleased.

"Jane," she said, "you have a fine natural voice, but unless you are prepared to be more disciplined and to work more consistently, you will never be a good operatic singer. Now off you go - get to work. Please don't disappoint me." And with this admonishment, she dismissed me at the studio door. As I walked wearily down the hall, I ran into some of my opera friends.

"Where were you this morning? You missed rehearsal," they chided me. "We did the second act today - if you want a part in our spring production, you'd better get serious. You said you wanted a part." I mumbled some kind of excuse and hurried on. I didn't want to talk about it. I tried desperately to fulfil my musical commitments but I was so madly in love, so mesmerized by the force of Sam's magnetic charm, all other considerations seemed secondary and unimportant. Any qualms I might have had as to the wisdom of my behaviour were swept away in the intensity of desire. Sam was convincing and I wanted to be convinced.

Word of my musical defections had reached my family at home, and anxious letters started arriving from my parents. There were also disturbing rumblings from the Conservatory administration. The vague feelings of guilt that all this unearthed in me merely drove me back into Sam's arms for comfort and understanding. Sam was my refuge and I was not prepared to part with him. Despite all these ominous warnings and the recognition that my scholarship was in danger, Sam and I recklessly plunged ahead - I left the Conservatory dorm and moved in with him.

At first, it was such fun. I loved it. In our own little place we could live and love as we pleased. Sam was a generous and affectionate lover, and I was captivated by the novelty of our laissez-faire existence. Sam did all the cooking, and since he nearly always slept till noon, he was content with my early morning forays back to the Conservatory. Only when my Conservatory commitments impinged on his plans and his convenience did Sam make a fuss.

"Life was meant to be enjoyed," he said, "I'll be damned if I'll permit 'the establishment' to run my life."

Sometimes I gave in - sometimes I didn't, but Sam could always charm me back into good humour. We played little games with each other. One of these was prying Sam out of bed in the morning.

"C'mon Sam, get up - get out of there you lazy bum," I would say playfully to a half-asleep Sam sprawled untidily across the bed, his head stuffed firmly beneath the pillow.

"Go 'way - go 'way, you witch, leave me alone," he would murmur, pressing the pillow more firmly over his ears. Once when I doused him with a jugful of water, he merely grabbed me and hauled me into bed with him - romancing me into submission with his passionate love-making. Almost every night we partied or went dancing. We imposed no limits on ourselves, no curfew, and often arrived home in time for breakfast.

After a few months together, the stress of trying to maintain my two worlds began to tell on me. I was tired, and the novelty of our lifestyle began to wear off a bit. We did not make love quite so often and there was some bickering over money shortages. We managed to get through the summer together, but come September, I found we could not pay the rent. It didn't bother Sam very much, but it was a source of rising anxiety for me. My middle-class upbringing told me that it was Sam's duty to do something about it. One day I tackled him:

"Sam, stop horsing around for a minute. Sit down and talk to me. Do you realize if we can't come up with the rent money, we'll be out on the street?"

"Relax, baby, you worry too much," Sam drawled, "something will turn up. Don't get your shirt in a knot." When he put his arms around me, I pushed him away. I tried to reason with him:

"Sam, get serious," I said. "We can't romance our way out of this one. We need money and soon. It's time you got off your butt and did something. You haven't even looked for a job in weeks." My frustration was showing.

"Jane, honey, get off my back, and stop telling me what to do. I don't feel like looking for a job right now, and I'm not going to." And with that he casually crossed the room, turned on the T.V. and flopped down on the couch.

That did it.

"Listen, you lazy good-for-nothing," I exploded, "if you won't do something, then I will. I'm sick to death of your leisurely posturings and lack of responsibility. Do as you damned well please, but I'm going job-hunting. Somebody around here has to pay the bills." I slammed the door and left.

I got a job as a part-time waitress, to start the following week. It wasn't much and the pay was small, but at least it added a little stability to our situation. The trouble was it stretched to the limit the time and energy I had available for study. And, as I feared - the bad news arrived, my scholarship had been formally revoked.

I didn't sleep well that night, and although Sam tried his best to comfort me, I was inconsolable. The enormity of my loss hit me the following morning. I sat on the side of the bed and sobbed:

"It's over, Sam, it's all over. Everything I have worked for is gone - down the drain. I've thrown it all away, and for what?"

Sam was sympathetic. He had never seen me like this before.

"C'mon, honey, it's not so bad. We still have each other." When he tried to comfort me, I would have none of it, and the tears would not stop.

"Sam, you don't understand," I sobbed, "this is a disaster for me. My whole world has fallen apart - my future is gone. And it's all my own fault. I've made a mess of things and now I don't know what to do. How can I face my friends? And my parents - O God, my parents!" A couple of days later, red-eyed and dishevelled, I answered a knock at the door, and there they were, my mother and father in the flesh. I stood in shocked silence, completely immobilized. But moments later, we were hugging and kissing, completely enveloped in each other's arms. Choking back the tears, I blurted:

"Of course, Mum, come on in and sit down. It's so good to see you." I cleared off two chairs for them. The place was such a mess, it was embarrassing - unmade bed and dishes in the sink. Poor Sam didn't know where to put himself.

"Mum, Dad, this is my friend, Sam." Barefoot and clad only in jeans, Sam edged forward gingerly to greet them.

"So this is the charming young man you have been talking about. We're pleased to meet you, Sam," said mother in a polite and civilized fashion. "We gather that you and Jane have had a happy time together. However, I think we need to sit down and talk. Tell us what happened - what went wrong? Maybe if we can figure that out, we can put things right again."

I watched Sam's face, and could see from his expression he was marshalling his defences for the onslaught.

"Mum, please understand. We were so madly in love, we got carried away and neglected our responsibilities. We blinded ourselves to the consequences."

"Young man,' asked my father, "where do you work? how do you earn a living?" Sam's eyes glowed belligerently. He was losing his 'cool'.

"Mr. Morley," said Sam determinedly, "I don't have a job at present. There's more to life than hard work, and to me, freedom is more important than money. I have no intention of being trapped in your 9-to-5 rat-race."

"I see," said my father quietly. "Tell me, then, how you manage to pay the bills and put food on the table?"

"That's part of the problem, Dad," I interrupted. "You see, Sam has this defensive philosophy - no one can tell him what to do - only Sam decides. We're out of money and I can't persuade him to look for work."

"Look, Jane, I didn't kidnap you," retorted Sam, "you came to live with me of your own free will. I hope you will stay. But if you're unhappy here with me, you are free to leave any time you want."

"I believe you, Sam," said Mother. "But you must realize the price Jane has paid for loving you - the opportunity she has lost. Music is important to Jane. All her future hopes depended on her scholarship, and now it is gone."

"I think we understand the situation now," said my father finally. "I see no need for further discussion. But Sam, take it from me, you can't live on love alone. If you persist in your present attitude, I think the future is pretty bleak for you both. However, it's up to Jane. She can choose either to stay here with you, Sam, or come home with us. Now Mother and I must be off. We'll be at the Holiday Inn for the next week. You can contact us there, Jane, when you've made up your mind."

So saying, my parents shook hands with Sam, kissed me good-be and left.

When the door closed, Sam's reaction was angry and indignant:

"Who do they think they are," he demanded, "coming in here and giving me the third degree! What I do is none of their damned business! All they think of is money, money, money. I've no use for people like that," he said contemptuously, "and I sure don't want to be like them."

"Stop it, Sam," I said softly, "you are talking about my parents - people I love. You know we can't continue the way we are. As long as you feel as you do, it's impossible."

"Forget it - just forget it!" barked Sam, and deliberately moved away from me.

"I'm sorry, Sam," I said, "in that case I guess I really don't have a choice. I'm going home."

A few days later I returned home with Mum and Dad. Their love and support offered me a second chance and I took it. With their help, I enrolled again at the Opera School, determined to leave my passionate adolescence behind me, and to justify their faith in me and my musical career. I think of Sam occasionally, sometimes with affection, sometimes with anger, but comfortable in the knowledge that the Sam's of this world will always get by - somehow.