My Funny Valentine

Once upon a time, I sprinkled a little pizzazz over Valentine’s Day, wrapping up small treasures for our young children. The night before, once everyone was asleep, I slipped into our dining room and decorated our breakfast table with shiny heart confetti, cards, gifts, and a slew of candy.

Those mornings were happy occasions. Four children’s mouths stuffed with pre-breakfast candy, and as sunlight streamed through the blinds, I heard the echoes of notes read aloud, four offerings shyly gifted to my husband and me. We oohed and ahhed over the handmade cards and tricked ourselves into believing these moments would never end—mornings sugared in simplicity and love.

Yesterday, I reached tippy-toe, to the highest shelf, and retrieved a few precious remnants from the depths of my keepsake box. The children’s handwriting has endured, four unique slants winking at me—precious curves I would recognize anywhere. The faded red and pink scraps of paper take me back to a season hushed by the annals of time.

Do you remember? the cards whisper.

I remember.

//

As a young mother, I determined to keep up the tradition of valentining—Forever! Until the end of time! or so I dreamt in a flair of she-bear instinct: wild, ferocious, tender: My precious cubs!

As the hourglass sands trickled like a soft and gentle snowfall, February celebrations waned. Little boys grew tall and chiseled, our daughter spun into a fair maiden, and in a blink all four waltzed into adulthood, some marrying Valentines all their own.

While my bone-strong devotion never dimmed—perish the thought—Valentine’s Day celebrations with our children breathed a quiet and natural exhale, rather than a sudden death. My husband and I exchange gifts and dine out, with conversation unapologetically circling back to our growing family.

Do you remember?

I remember.

//

During my elementary school days, come February, Miss White lined us up—coats on, my dears! Zip-zip your zippers up to your chin!—and marched us outside—no talking! straight line!—leading us to art class. Across the icy sidewalk, down the brick steps, and inside the poorly lit, musty halls of the primitive brown building. The air was frosty but never mind, we were New England children, accustomed to winter’s frigidity and accouterments—snowsuits, scarves, mittens-on-a-string, and enormous pompom hats—children most eager to decorate our Valentine boxes.

Mrs. Gorss, our art instructor, a teensy woman, wore a silky brown blouse and a floral scarf wound and knotted tightly around her aging neck. She floated about the classroom with her chipped, almond-colored coffee mug in hand, edges smeared by salmon lipstick, a horrid shade. These sights gave me the shivers, both the choking scarf and the lip-stained mug, so much so that I longed to race back to my tidy second-grade classroom and Miss White with her icy Nordic eyes, a teacher who chewed minty gum and smelled as clean as a bar of soap.

Mrs. Gorss was kind though, as she passed out cardboard boxes, placing them alongside bottles of paste, scissors, dixie cups full of glitter, and thick construction paper: red, pink, and white. We spent the next hour hard at work, cutting, pasting, sprinkling, and copying each other’s artsy ideas, pretending they were our own.

Put your names on the box, Mrs. Gorss reminded, smiling, a streak of salmon dotting her front teeth as she unsheathed her exacto knife and snipped a rectangular opening atop each one of our boxes.

When Valentine’s Day officially arrived, we raced from the bus and into our brick school, straight down the shiny-floored corridor, unzipping our snowsuits and slinging our hats and mittens over pegs, smoothing the static from our untamed hair. Cheeks red from being thrust from freezing temperatures into the overheated classroom, we hurried to our desks and studied our finished boxes. Soon we dropped our Valentine’s cards into each box. Instructions had been firmly issued to parents, making clear the path of inclusion. No student was to be left out. Period.

It was such a happy day given that everyone was included, even those who were sometimes forsaken. Classmates like Roger, a quiet boy who stood hunched, wearing the same shaggy brown cords everyday, Melissa with a lisp who was ushered off to speech therapy three times per week while the rest of us met in reading groups, and Jason who had a disease that left him forever the size of a three-year-old, with a squeaky voice and mottled skin.

But on Valentine’s Day, all of us were on our best behavior, and generous in spirit. I remember walking up and down the aisles wearing my cherry red turtleneck, slipping cards into each of my classmates’ boxes. We had a fancy party complete with ruby punch, pink frosted cookies, and chewy cinnamon hearts that turned my tongue scarlet. But our favorite were the boxes of Sweethearts, candies with stamped messages that made us giggle: True Love, Kiss Me, Sweet Pea, Love You, Marry Me, XOXO.

//

Valentine’s Day in high school proved nerve-wracking. One of the clubs held its fundraiser on February 14th, and for two dollars, students could purchase a rose to be delivered to any student’s homeroom. Red for love, pink for friendship, and white for secret admirer.

I remember the popular girls (who blazed through boyfriends at lightning speed) smiling as their tangle of long-stemmed roses grew higher and covered their desks, the scent filling homeroom.

The social outcasts, wearing chiefly black and gray on this day of love, cracked open their textbooks during homeroom, supposedly reading without once turning a page. The rest of us, feeling vulnerable and terribly average were relieved to receive a pink rose or two, from one kind friend or another who understood the pain of a vacant Valentine’s desktop.

Yes, ninth grade was oceans apart from the stuffed boxes of elementary school.

//

Life has come full circle, and now I have another Valentine.

He is three-and-a-half years old, handsome, bright, and fun.

His newest pastime is telling jokes, and I am completely undone.

Last Saturday, my husband and I awakened before dawn and drove to cheer on his early morning basketball game. It was a time. Our grandson scored his first game basket ever and it was better than any Super Bowl, which is saying something, at least in our family. My husband and I went wild.

At one point during the game, our little fellow ran out of steam and made for the sideline, shoulders drooping, telling me he was so, so hungry. I opened up a packet of gummies, and he revived, returning to the court, a lump of gummies in his cheek, plus a few more tucked in his fist while his other hand held the basketball.

Our visit ended all too soon, but not before I handed our daughter-in-law our little man’s Valentine’s Day present, plus a package of gummies, just in case.

I picked him up and twirled him, humming our Valentine’s song that we enjoy singing year-round. I told him how much I loved him and then kissed the sweetest, most magical spot right beneath his ear.

He giggled, grabbed my neck, and said: I love you!

And then:

Can I go to your house now?

Well not today but soon, I said.

His eyes started to fill so I told him a joke and he smiled and in turn, made up his own joke.

My funny Valentine.

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Love one another with brotherly affection. Outdo one another in showing honor.

Romans 12:10