My parents taught us to love Valentine’s Day. And I do.
When my mom got flowers from Ed’s Dainty Corsages on 31st and Cherry from our dad, the three little tow-headed blondes who had climbed into the back seat for the adventure to midtown got single roses wrapped in waxy paper and tied with a curling ribbon bow.
When our mom got chocolate from Godiva or Panache, we received tiny boxes of chocolate. Sometimes heart shaped, always delicious.
When my mom helped us make valentines from construction paper and crisp paper doilies, she always made ones for us. Over the years her “Love, Mom” on the backs and fronts of things makes them hard to recycle. So, I just don’t.
They always made the day about loving everyone, not just your lover.
My parents married young, and I was born to young parents. We celebrated holidays, and traditions were embraced. Valentine’s Day always seemed to fall during the dreariest time of the year – when the sun seldom reared her magnificent head – and we were at our least sun-drenched and most vitamin D deficient. I watched my parents, and I mimic their behavior still.
Tonight, while I was removing the first glass pendant my son ever gave me from around my neck, I remembered his chubby hands when he handed it over. My husband stood behind him with a look of “Don’t ask me!” as I tore back the tape and beheld a handcrafted glass heart with the main color of orange.
Orange holds a place of rare significance in my life, as it was a high school color. I wore it with pride and in spirited fashion for four wonderful years. It is also a color I have ceased to embrace in the 35 years since graduation. Not a favorite is an understatement.
The heart is heavily highlighted with neon green and hot pink, with touches of white. And I treasure it. I sling it on with pearls and love its heft at my neck.
I dig it out on more days than Valentine’s Day, but not as much as I used to when tiny eyes watched me dress and a little voice would say, “Mom, I think that shirt would look good with my heart.”
Cajoled, I wore it more then. However, I am wearing it all this week, mixed liberally with the glass heart Casey gave me years before Dakota, my son, gave me one. Same artist, different memories.
I looked around my dressing table last night as I unwound and undressed from the long day and found these other treasures, both handmade by a little boy who is no longer little. A button-festooned piece of wood with a safety pin secured to the back with glue makes the perfect brooch. Hand-dyed pasta and a jumbo paper clip secure a paper-decorated heart that is intended to be worn about the neck, which I did for only one day before placing it on the wall of my office.
Valentine’s Day is still celebrated in our home and with our family. A box was dashed off to our son in college a week ago. Dinner is planned this weekend with our niece and other family members. Little gifts will be handed out to and will be received from all in attendance.
And this tow-headed blonde(ish) woman will try and remember all the Valentine’s Days. And I will fail.
p.s. We still represent the woman who makes these glass hearts. Each is different, and each is magical. Come and see them all.
SHARE THIS: 
