I loved St. Valentine’s Day when I was a little girl in grade school.  There was one decorated hat box in the front of the room with a slot cut in the top where we all placed our cards, usually hand made during “art time.” They were distributed at he end of the day.  No refreshments were served. The local dry goods store would donate a hat box.  It was covered in red crepe paper.  Remember crepe paper?

These days, I’ve become a bit of a cynic.

Freddy’s opened an hour early this morning at 6 o’clock so folks could stock up on stash on the way to work. I always fees sorry for the many men I see there, throwing everything in their baskets so they can feel safe going home:  flowers, candy, jewelry, underwear, champagne. I hope they keep in mind that romance and sex are not synonymous.

In recent years, the only valentine I have received was from my dearest aunt who died a few weeks ago.  No valentine for me today.

I do always decorate just a bit for every holiday, in spite of any lurking cynicism.

And this on the front hall table:

My collection of old Valentines from years past. Some from Mary-Margaret are actual antiques from a shop in Berkeley. Daddy’s Purple Heart in Grandmother’s hands.  Just above that is a handmade card from my much-missed Aunt Stevie with an antique Valentine mounted on it.  And a bunch of flowering quince from the garden being forced into an early bloom.  Aunt Stevie, and I think everyone in Oklahoma, always called flowering quince “japonica,” for some unknown reason.   It was the first thing to bloom every winter there.

Whatever.  I hope you feel loved, as I do, every day.