I collect antique valentines. One is a 12-inch square with a windmill that spins and a sailboat that moves back and forth between waves. A lime-colored card from 1942 shows a boy riding a turtle and the verse, “If you my Valentine will be, you can come and ride with me.” Another, inscribed “To Grandpa from Douglas, February 14,1930,” features a grinning lad at a fishing hole. I assume it was Douglas, not Grandpa, who printed “me” in wobbly letters above the young fisherman.
My interest in collecting valentines no doubt flows from my happy memories of grade school parties. I remember laughing at funny valentines — “If you carrot all for me, peas be mine” — and enjoying divinity and cupcakes until sugar caked my core and coated my lips.
When I was in sixth grade, Mr. Ralphs, a teacher baffled by arts and crafts, wrote a letter to our mothers asking them to help us make valentine boxes at home, so he could devote more class time to multiplication.
My mother was the smartest person alive and could make anything; I knew she’d create the best valentine box ever. Sure enough, without even thinking about it, she suggested I glue the top on a shoebox, stand it on end, cut a slit in the back, and construct a roof from another shoebox lid to create a house. I could then cover it with white paper and cut out hearts for the windows, doors, and shingles — a sure winner.
But my glee turned to dismay when Mom informed me I was old enough to make the house myself. I pleaded and protested until I earned a fierce mom-look. Sulking and muttering, I went to work: spilling glue, scattering paper scraps, and shrieking when siblings of ill repute wandered too near. Mom calmly continued her dinner preparations, but took time to show me how to create a chimney with heart-shaped puffs of smoke rising on a red pipe cleaner. Finally, finished and filled with pride, I took a red crayon and printed my name over the front door.
The next day, I carefully carried my box to school on the bus, threatening and elbowing those who reached out to touch it. At school, instead of concentrating on Mr. Ralph’s rambling lessons, I gazed at my house, sitting on the windowsill, collecting bounty, surrounded by lesser efforts.On Valentine’s Day, when we were told we could open our boxes, I went to get mine and gasped with dismay. Some ne’er-do-well who could neither coordinate colors nor spell had used an orange crayon to scrawl “is my grilfrend” after my name. Outraged, I began tearing through my valentines, looking for a clue that would identify the dunce who’d done me wrong: orange crayon, wayward handwriting, confused spelling, or a clumsy expression of fondness.
Fortunately, before such a clue surfaced, Mr. Ralph’s pretty wife entered the room with a tray of huge, heart-shaped cookies, liberally frosted; and I discovered I had better things to do than seek revenge on a boy who evidently thought I was the bee’s knee.
As a teacher, I retained my fondness for Valentine’s Day even as my enthusiasm for other school celebrations faltered: I tired of Halloween festivities that featured costume malfunctions and children bopping each other with their fairy wands and cardboard guitars. During the busy Christmas season, I didn’t have the time or energy to laugh when children glued more glitter on their noses than on the ornaments for the school tree; and I stopped being so delighted by their unabashed wearing of construction-paper reindeer horns, elf hats, and snowflake crowns as they sang in the school’s Christmas program. I yearned for the uninterrupted calmness of a regular school day.
But every year I anticipated and enjoyed the valentine party. I relished the feeling that floated through the room as children spilled out the contents of their boxes and began reading their cards. Quiet chatter, giggling, and pleased smiles prevailed until the bell rang and they trooped home with their treasures.
Nicholas Sparks wrote, “Love is like the wind. You can’t see it, but you can feel it.” For many years, I felt it in classrooms on Valentine’s Day.
