Before I dive into Valentine’s Day, here’s a very special shout-out to my dear friend Marion Lisotto, who recently celebrated her birthday. She is forever young and will always be my Lauren Bacall.
Now, onto February, the month of hearts and flowers, of red candy boxes and conversation hearts. Jewelry stores have ads to tempt you, and card shops have a valentine to suit anyone’s taste.
Television has commercials to remind you, and the Hallmark channel is set in romantic code. Restaurants expect revenue increases, and schools stock up on red construction paper.
Long before I heard the legend of Saint Valentine or knew about romantic love and all of its wonders and wounds, I was in love with the day. Being an elementary school student in Detroit, Michigan, in the early ’50s was such an innocent time.
My biggest problem then was finding the right shoebox to bring to class, where we would convert it into a Valentine’s Day postbox to contain the valentines of my fellow classmates. Our parties seemed so special at the time.
Every student got a card from every student back then. We hadn’t yet reached the age of popularity contests. Those, at times hurtful, days were still ahead.
My mother always made homemade cupcakes for the parties, way back in the dark ages, before mothers had to purchase store-made items. They never tasted as good as mother’s.
When I heard about Saint Valentine a few years later, it was sort of a letdown: one of the stories was that the martyred saint had been killed. Now, that wasn’t very romantic, was it?
I was told that he miraculously cured his jailer’s daughter of blindness while he was in his cell. Then they killed him! Ugh!
The other story was that he was killed for marrying Christian soldiers to their loved ones. This was forbidden because the emperor said so. Again, a sad ending. This all happened in third-century Rome. Valentine’s Day didn’t become attached to romance until around the 14th or 15th century.
Love, I guess, began to be in the air. Then in 18th-century England, it became customary for couples to express their affection by giving flowers, candy and homemade cards. I guess that Lord Hallmark hadn’t been born yet.
It was in 1784 that Joseph Johnson wrote a poem that probably has the best-known first line in history: “The rose is red, the violet’s blue, / The honey’s sweet, and so are you. / Thou are my love and I am thine; / I drew thee to my Valentine: / The lot was cast and then I drew, / And Fortune said it shou’d be you.”
Sadly, the days of homemade cards began dwindling by the 19th century. By then, commercially made cards were available. They were an instant hit.
In 1855, before the days of postage stamps, the English still managed to send 60,000 cards to loved ones. In 1840, when the postage stamp was available, the number of valentines sent rose to 400,000.
Now, before I go any further, love, hearts and flowers had nothing to do with the Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre in 1929. I had a friend who stated that the day was named after her husband, who left her. Not true. That massacre happened in Chicago during prohibition with a machine gun, not with words.
Next, let’s jump to the present day (talk about the speed of light), where there are people over a “certain age,” whatever that means.
I may have gotten a clue last week. As I was looking at Valentine’s Day cards at a local supermarket, a young, male voice called out, “Watch out! I do not want to run into an old lady!”
For a moment, I looked around to see who he was talking to, realizing—to my embarrassment—that she was me. Ouch. How swiftly go the days: sunrise, sunset.
For many of us who are over that certain age, live alone, are single, divorced or widowed, Valentine’s Day can be a painful day when all you want is to hide out with a gallon of ice cream. Maybe that was too honest. OK, maybe half a gallon?
The truth is, Valentine’s Day is splendid and exciting when you’re in love and have someone in love with you (or, at least, in like with you). When it seems that everyone else in the world but you has somebody, the feeling of being alone is on the other side of that joy.
I am fortunate to have my two fur children, Yogi and Lola Bunny, to tell me they love me with their licks and purrs. Still, not quite the same thing.
I look back at my life and find contentment, as some of you may do, by remembering my days in the romantic sun. My first proposal was when I was in third grade. While our engagement was short-lived—less than 30 minutes—I look back at Douglas Miller with fondness.
By the time I was 16, I was head over heels and back again with my children’s father and my husband of 17 years. Lawrie was drop-dead handsome and literally took my breath away.
He sent romantic cards, wrote poetry and made me have to catch my breath. While our marriage, alas, did not last, our friendship did.
Then, on a white horse (which was actually a Triumph motorcycle), he rode in. My husband of 30 years, Ron Ingram, was over 6 feet 3, broad-shouldered, handsome and with a Southern accent to boot. I learned lightning can strike twice: I was a goner the moment I met him.
Romantic? Oh yes, and he made me feel 16 again. Once more, Valentine’s Day was a jubilant occasion. His death, over 15 years ago, did not put an end to the story. While he is busy elsewhere, I remain smitten down on earth. I look forward to that reunion.
Ever the romantic, when my next attempt to find a happily ever after didn’t succeed, I went on to get to know myself better. Still, a bit of that little girl of my childhood remains deep inside.
Note to Mr. Grocery Clerk: do not judge a book by its cover. I may be, indeed, old on the outside (79 this month), but inside, I’m just a wee girl wanting to find the right shoebox.
To all my readers, of whatever age and whatever status: may you find happiness being who you are now. Remember, wherever you go, there you are. You may as well love yourself, so send yourself a card and then act surprised.
