Once more, I invite you to travel back in time with me to delve into my personal box of Valentine’s Day chocolates. It is 1954 in the middle of our shortest month. February is known as the snowiest month, and that year was no exception in Michigan.
I was 7 years old at the time. I was exhausted that Valentine’s Day morning after staying up way past 10 decorating my shoe box, which would hold whatever valentines I might receive at my class’s Hearts Day party.
Listening to my mother’s sage advice, I wrote a card for every classmate, which meant 25 cards, and I had to tape lollipops on each envelope. Whew!
That morning, I changed my clothes three times, only to mess up my final choice with a heavy coat, ugly boots and a hat that squished all my golden curls, just so I wouldn’t get a cold. Mothers!
After lunch in the cafeteria, we were allowed a 15-minute airing out (or freezing period) before returning to our cozy classrooms for our Valentine’s Day party.
Douglas Miller followed me out and asked me to sit with him on the bench under the big oak tree. The tree was bedazzled with webs of snow glistening amid the dangling ice cones, almost like diamonds.
Douglas was an “older man”: he’d just turned 8 and was cute for a boy. He and I had much in common, as we were the first two students in our class to learn our multiplication tables.
I knew we would have a serious conversation the minute he took out the box of Cracker Jacks. We all knew what could be inside one of those shiny boxes.
Quickly, Douglas pulled out a shiny silverish ring with a shiny stone in the middle. He gulped and asked the big question. “Joyce, will you marry me?” he said. Of course, I said yes. Who knew when I might be asked again?
Then Douglas, being the serious young man he was, said, “Now, there are some things we need to discuss.” His face was serious, almost pensive.
This was big stuff we were talking about. We were planning our future. This doesn’t happen to a 7-year-old girl every day, you know.
Douglas said that we had to discuss goals. I kid you not, he spoke of stocks, landholdings and appropriate life insurance. I may have yawned but kept smiling as if every word was golden.
I rambled on when it was my turn, saying, “I want to live in a two-story home, have lots of kids and hundreds of cats. And live somewhere where it doesn’t snow. And I want to drive a Cadillac.”
Then firmly—almost like a father speaking to a foolish child—Douglas began his rebuttal. “Where to start, where to start. Two-story houses are extremely dangerous and expensive to heat, and children are noisy and messy. My mother always tells me she wishes she never had them,” he said.
Douglas continued, “Cats are out of the question, as my mother would never allow them in her house. And move away from Michigan? Never! I live with my mother, who lives in Michigan and always will! And Joyce, I love Plymouths!”
It had to be a record of sorts. Ours was the shortest engagement ever. I ran back to class and the party. Shortly afterward, I noticed Douglas walking in with a grinning Gloria Brown, showing everyone her new ring—my old one—and saying, “I just love Plymouths, don’t I, Douglas?”
That was my first lesson on love. Know what you want, and don’t say yes to everyone who asks. As my mother always told me, you have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find your prince.
It is now Valentine’s Day in 1962, during another freezing February. Any minute, my entire class would arrive at my home for my Valentine’s Day party. I’d pulled off a social event.
The most popular and by far the cutest boy in our school was Rodney Paulick. I had asked him first, and, miracle of miracles, he’d said yes. I knew then that all the boys in sixth grade would come, and that ensured even the most popular girls in school would also come.
I changed my outfit three times that morning. Finally, the doorbell rang for the first time, and lo and behold, it was Rodney.
He pulled me in close and pressed something into my hand. I opened the bag he’d given me to find a beautiful pearl necklace. I swooned and kissed him on the cheek.
I was way too easy back then. I walked around most of the afternoon with a broad smile on my face. At the time, I didn’t notice all the other girls at my party smiling too.
As was to be expected, all the boys left around the same time, leaving us girls to do the dishes. Almost simultaneously, all the girls opened their hands and squealed, “Look what Rodney gave me!”
Yep, you guessed it: each of my friends held out a pearl (but not really a pearl) necklace. Our expressions unified, turning to shock, sadness and then anger.
Janet said it aloud for all of us. “The jerk! Well, isn’t he the smooth operator? And to think I kissed him on the lips!” she exclaimed. At least I’d only kissed him on the cheek, I thought to myself.
It was my second big lesson about Valentine’s Day, men and love. Cast not your pearls before swine—especially if the swine gives pearls to all the girls!
I learned to be more careful with my heart as I aged, for the most part. I said a serious yes for the first time when I was 16 and was given a ring that stayed on my finger for 17 years. Then I had my heart broken.
The next time was way more romantic and more real in every way. That lasted for 30 years until the day he died. Then I learned how bittersweet future Valentine’s Days could be. I’d been so lucky, but now I felt the pain that all those who’ve lost their loved ones experienced.
I learned that what was such a special holiday can become a day you wish could just be skipped. Over time, it has given me some wisdom on the matter. Some.
I tried one more time, feeling so left out and eager to have one more try at the proverbial brass ring. It turned out bittersweet because not all stories have happy endings.
So, now I enjoy watching my children and grandchildren live out their great romances and highly anticipated Valentine’s Days. I share their joy, remembering my golden days and, yes, I admit, watching way too many Lifetime and Hallmark movies and eating chocolates.
I wish you all a lifetime of happy Valentine’s Days, an overload of wonderful memories and an appreciation of those we’ve loved and lost. You can reach Diana Ingram at dingramthurston21@gmail.com.
