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My sister, a cousin, and I went to see “Love Story” in 1971 at a theater in Minneapolis. The movie starred Ali MacGraw and Ryan O’Neal.

I almost giggled when the thunderous background music crashed down over some dramatic scene. The music was way too loud.

“Love means never having to say you’re sorry.” Yeah, right!

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The acting just wasn’t believable. Ali’s swearing seemed so rehearsed, and Ryan played the poor little rich boy who played hockey.

Someone in the audience (who wasn’t paying attention) asked where the movie took place. Being born in the Midwest, my cousin jokingly shouted, “Iowa!”

As the movie progressed, Ali’s character was diagnosed with cancer. It was sad; I understand that. But everyone in the packed theater— and I mean everyone—seemed to be crying. I was the only person sitting there like a rock, staring straight ahead.

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Ali’s character called him "Preppy," if I remember right. He attended Harvard and she went to Radcliffe College.

Finally, the music quieted down, and there was a 10-second lull. The only sounds I heard were people sniffing and sobbing around me. My sister was crying as well.

My cousin didn’t want to go, but he had a car and could drive us to the theater.

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I noticed heads bobbing and turning to look at the cold-hearted 16-year-old girl who didn’t cry. I lowered myself in the seat and tried to squeeze out a tear, but I couldn’t manage it.

Too many people heard her. Some guys behind us snickered at my sister’s remark.

That did it for me. I spat up my Coke and had to leave to clean up in the restroom.

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I was surprised that I wasn’t able to shed a tear. I am an emotional sort of person, but that movie just didn’t do it for me.

She glanced over at my dry eyes and loudly asked, “Why aren’t you crying?” I looked at her in surprise wondering why I wasn’t crying.