Love stories from

Sydney Allen was on the playground at Rosemont Elementary in second grade when she met Bobby Allen. Sydney grew up on Colorado Boulevard, and Bobby grew up on the corner of Salmon Drive and Tyler Street.

Both graduated from Texas A&M University in 1990. They stayed friends when they moved back to Dallas. The old country-and- western dance club near NorthPark Center was a favorite spot.

It wasn’t until 1994 that Bobby convinced Sydney they should go out.

“My roommate at the time said, ‘You know, you really should consider dating him. He just looks at you in a very different kind of way’,” Sydney says. “And I said, ‘Oh my gosh, I’ve known him all my life. I don’t know if it would ruin a friendship.’”

Their friendship turned into romance seamlessly — she doesn’t quite remember the first official date, just that they started being more than friends in October.

In December, they were having dinner at El Chico on Beckley and Davis. Bobby told her he had talked to his best friend and said he really “couldn’t afford to get married, but he couldn’t afford not to.”

“You know, I think at that moment I was pretty confident that he was the one for me,” Sydney says.

In April, Sydney and Bobby stopped at Rosemont Elementary. Bobby had a little sack lunch with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, orange slices and small cartons of milk, just like their lunches in second grade. They had a picnic right there at the playground.

Bobby gave her a ring and said, “This is where we had met. And you know, this is where I want to be with you for the rest of my life.”

“It was kind of a magical moment,” she says.

Their wedding included 500 guests at a ceremony at First United Methodist Church Downtown.

“It was like a neighborhood reunion. Most of the time, you know, the bride knows certain people, and the groom knows other people,” Sydney says. “But we have so many people in common.”

—by Jehadu Abshiro

iIt was 1976. Kirby Warnock was an editor for Stoney Burns’ music magazine Buddy. He was rubbing elbows with the Vaughan brothers. He was shooting pictures of Jerry Hall, who was dating Mick Jagger at the time. He was doing drugs.

And he had a rock-n-roll marriage with Jennifer.

Warnock met Brian Moore-Jones, and they decided to start a video production company. They took out an $8,000 bank loan in 1982.

Instead of buying the equipment, Moore-Jones spent the money on cocaine, fatally shot a man who tried to collect the owed money and headed to prison for 35 years. Moore-Jones’ wife Sarah divorced him. Then, Warnock’s wife filed for divorce — his three-year marriage ended. It was time for church.

A Baylor University alumnus, Warnock went to First Baptist Church Oak Cliff’s single adult Sunday school class, the first time he stepped in a church in 20 years. And there was Diann.

“There was just something about her — she’s attractive, there was a kindness about her that just made her almost glow,” Warnock says.

Their first date was at Cajun-inspired Andrew’s, located in the building that now houses Breadwinners. Warnock knew she was “the one” shortly after that.

“I thought: This is a different kind of woman than I’ve ever met before,” he says. “And I think I just want to be with her for the rest of my life, you know, and we didn’t date a real long time.”

They eloped March 12, 1987, in Crested Butte, Colorado.

He’d left Buddy magazine by then. He got a day-job writing business proposals. Diann and Kirby raised their three children.

“She’s made my whole life better. She just made me a better person,” Warnock says. “That’s my little story of my love letter to her.” —by Jehadu Abshiro

while growing up in Dallas I had no way of knowing that I would be embarking on a lifelong search for my cosmic twin, who was born the year before me near Los Angeles, in 1947.

In hindsight, I liken the feeling to having a vital limb, an arm or a leg, missing. You can feel the existence of the missing limb but when you look down, you only see an empty sleeve.

When I was 14, my parents sent me to a summer camp near Palm Springs, California. I traveled to the camp with two girlfriend/ sisters. After camp, the three of us spent time with relatives in and around the Los Angeles area. That’s when I could feel his presence the most. Wherever we went, I continued looking behind me for any approaching stranger; I knew he was there … somewhere. During that torturous summer, I had a feeling the person was a “him.” Never finding the “person” was a source of pain for me and depression I would not get over for years.

But life must be lived anyway, so I continued my life and school studies. It's an interesting fact that when I returned to Dallas, I didn’t feel his presence nearly as strongly as I did in California.

After attending a college near Dallas, I decided to move to California during my junior year, after I met an attractive man at a friend’s wedding. I married the guy. It didn’t work out and we were divorced within a few years. I was left with a young son to raise and started attending one of the local universities to finish my education and obtain a degree. That's when I met a blueeyed transplant from Wisconsin. His name was Eric. We soon married, and he called me his soulmate, which we were not. Eric was a voracious reader and “schooled” me on such subjects such as reincarnation and soulmate culture. I didn’t pay much attention to it but always politely listened anyway. About a year before we were married, Eric asked if we could go to a local nude beach. I was not so much into going to a nude beach and never would have gone without Eric’s urging. After we arrived, Eric dropped his shorts and went directly to the water, so I was left alone to spread my beach blanket and remove my shorts and halter top, which I did reluctantly.

Soon after, I heard a voice from behind me say, “Hi.” I turned to my left. He then said, “I’m Daniel.” The year was 1973, and I was face-toface with the man I would know and love for the rest of our lives.

He saw me arrive and approached me, even though I was accompanied by another man. He told me he was married but his wife was not at the beach that day. They had moved from Virginia, where he’d been discharged from the Navy, and they were looking for new friends. He was easy-going, friendly, with a valid explanation for everything. The next day Eric, my 3-year-old child and I were at Dan’s apartment to meet him and his wife, Cassie.

At the time, all I knew is that I would feel more balanced and grounded whenever I was in Daniel’s presence. We went on couples’ vacations, attended parties and generally hung out together until Eric and I were divorced in 1980-81. I remained friends with Dan and Cassie after my divorce. I told Dan that I was his friend and could not properly connect with his wife. He said nothing, but I knew he understood. Both Dan and I had similar personalities; we were both quiet and reserved.

When I became a high-fashion couture model, Daniel took outdoor location photos of me for my model’s portfolio — he had been an amateur photographer since he was 15. Even though I felt close to Dan, we never disrespected his wife or my then-husband, Eric. Dan and I went on many excursions together, yet his wife never acted jealous of our relationship. He once asked me for an affair, but I would require more from him than sex, so I turned him down. Our closeness continued.

It was now 1985. Daniel moved his wife and child to Ankara, Turkey, for overseas employment. He would keep in touch with me over the years until he and his wife came to visit me in Denver, where I’d moved in 1988 with my third husband, Mel. After the Denver visit, I would not see Daniel for 30 years, but he insisted on constant communication between the two of us, now by email and overseas phone calls.

He worked all over the world, but would send emails and photographs of his exotic times away from the states, while always imploring me to visit wherever he landed. I would say “no“ because he usually worked in troubled areas of the globe. I asked why he didn’t ever work in France.

In the fall of 2006, Daniel called to tell me that Cassie had passed away. I extended sincere condolences but didn’t mention our getting together because I’d been married for many years by then. We continued our communication, however, until my own husband, Mel, passed away in 2020. Daniel somehow used our great silent telepathy with one another and called to inquire as to what was going on. When I told him, he said to visit. He was now retired and living in a suburb of Los Angeles.

Now we were talking several times a week and making exciting plans for travel and fun times as though we were teens. When we were both vaccinated against COVID, I traveled to Los Angeles. We spent a blissful — and the most intense loving time of our lives — for a week. And then the love of my life passed away from a massive stroke. I was with him when he transitioned and was very grateful, not only for our brief and wonderful time together, but for his peaceful transition.

I believe Daniel and I shared a soul and were cosmically drawn together. We were in fact, cosmic twins or twin flames — not soulmates, as that designation cannot fully describe us. Our relationship never changed during the 48 years that I knew him; we never quarreled or became angry with one another, not once. Our love only grew in depth and complexity. Even though we both had other relationships in our lives, our relationship together was the one that truly mattered to both of us.

I will grieve and love him for the rest of my life. But just as we are all imbued with stardust from the universe, my connection with Daniel can never be lost. I am sure I will see him again.

Daniel was 74 when he passed away. I was 73. He was white, and I am Black.

During the 48 years of our “conversational love affair,” we never discussed that fact once.

m

y late husband, Herb Summers, and I met on Valentine's Day in 1977 at Theater Three in Dallas. The play we saw was This Living Hand about the life of John Keats. We knew immediately that we would spend our lives together. Herb's ex-wife had asked for a divorce the day before. He had recently had knee surgery and asked to trade seats with me since I was sitting on the aisle and he could stretch out his leg. He later told me he really just wanted to sit next to me since he thought I was prettier than my friend.

Herb and I shared an interest in art, music, history, literature and sports. We were married Dec. 23, 1977. He told me every day that he loved and appreciated me. Herb died on Nov. 19, 2017. This is always a difficult day for me because I miss him so much. He always gave me beautiful valentines because this was such a special day to him. His greatest delight in our marriage was our two sons, Trevor and Christopher. How lucky I am to have been loved by this wonderful man. —As told by Shirley Summers

fernita grew up in Wichita Falls. In the 1940s, pilots were being trained at nearby Sheppard Air Force Base. On Sundays, Fernita’s parents used to invite airmen to their home for lunch after church. Fernita remained a friendly and welcoming person like her parents throughout her life.

Merle Swalin was a pilot being trained at Sheppard. He was from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and appeared rather more serious than Fernita. One evening, Fernita and her friends were “cruising” and stopped to talk to two airmen. At first Fernita wasn’t interested, but when Merle asked if they would like to get some ice cream, she said OK, because she didn’t think there was a nearby place to get ice cream. Merle had spotted one already, so the foursome had ice cream that evening.

This was in 1942 or 1943. They stayed in touch as Merle moved from base to base for training and finally, was going to be at Billings, Montana, a while. So Fernita took the train to Montana. They got a license and married there.

Soon after, Merle was on his way to war. He was a pilot that flew the dangerous “hump” to deliver supplies to Chinese soldiers who were struggling against the Japanese. The hump was an air path from India to China over the Himalayan foothills. It was the Army Air Force’s most dangerous airlift route because of the height of the mountains, the lack of oxygen at that height and because of the supply planes that were often called "The Flying Coffin" — the Curtiss C-46 Commando.

More than 1,000 men and 600 planes were lost over the 530-mile stretch of rugged terrain during World War II, and that's a very conservative estimate. It was dubbed the "Skyway to Hell" and the "Aluminum Trail" for the number of planes that didn't make it. If the winds and weather didn’t get you, a Japanese Zero would try. Merle survived the war, they raised their two children in Oak Cliff, and their marriage lasted until his death in 1990.

I don't think I ever saw the uniformed picture and that would have been their wedding photo, I think; note that she has a white Bible in her hand. She is my personal example of what an active Christian could be - though both of my parents were also active in church. We are all Presbyterians. The Swalins and my family went to Sunset Presbyterian Church at Jefferson and Westmoreland while their son Richard and I were in high school. Then both families moved to Glendale Presbyterian, and Fernita and my family ended up at Oak Cliff Presbyterian when my younger sister was in high school. I am 76, and when the memories start coming they are fun to relive. I have worked with kids and done some of the kinds of things that Fernita did for us. She was a very special person in my life and in my younger sister's life, too. In fact, I would guess that most of us in my church youth group have never forgotten her.

—As told by Shirley Campbell