Father's love wrapped in little pink boxes

Well, by the time you read this, another Valentine’s Day will have come and gone.

To tell you the truth, I’ll probably be glad.

Some years I can jump right into the romance of it, indulge in the sweetness of the Hallmark moments that Feb. 14 invokes.

I know I’m lucky to be married to the greatest cowboy in the world. And it’s nice to have a holiday that really encourages you to show it.

But this year I don’t feel like a red hot. In fact, I feel blue. I’m missing my little pink box of candy.

You see, when I think of my memories of Valentine’s Day, sometimes I picture the ones I spent as a little girl.

Every Valentine’s Day my mom and I were the object of my Daddy’s affection. She’d get a big red heart-shaped box, full to the brim of the prettiest chocolate candies you’ve ever seen.

And Daddy didn’t forget his other valentine. There was always a smaller box – a pink one – just for me.

Just picturing us lifting the lids to our boxes still invokes the faintest trace of the scent to my nostrils. The white paper pushed aside, we’d gaze at the morsels contained within.

I’ll have to admit this here. I come from a family of pinchers.

Maybe that’s why the first gaping look into the box was so memorable. Maybe I knew it wouldn’t be long before the thin plastic cubbyholes would be empty, their sweet indulgences sweetly indulged upon.

And, left in their wake, would remain the pinched-up smooshies. These were the least favorable of the lot. In my own case, those would be the orange-filled variety.

Yuck.

Just picturing the bright orange center cocooned inside the deep brown chocolate sends me cringing. Much less the taste of it.

So pinching became a part of the ritual. And I’m afraid this habit was inherited from my mom, no slouchy pincher in her own right. We’d pinch and poke and peek at the confectionary innards.

Then, upon confirmation that the center of the candy in question was not offensive, we’d dine in style.

Mmmmmm.

But those days passed on when Daddy did.

I don’t know if everyone who’s lost a loved one remembers the little things more around holiday time. As much as I still miss him in my day-to-day life, it’s usually ten-fold when there’s something to celebrate.

For 17 years, Daddy brought me little pink boxes. And the memory is as sweet as the treasure those boxes contained.

I know I can never go back and relive my childhood. But sometimes I wish I could.

My Daddy wasn’t one to wear his heart on his sleeve. He was more the strong, silent type, always on the ready, protective to the core. He didn’t gush or put his feelings into words very often.

But you always knew he was there.

And now he’s not.

I know there’s so much to celebrate on Valentine’s Day. There’s so much fun in exchanging cards and gifts and being allowed – even encouraged – to show your feelings to the world.

I know, Lord willing, Arnie will have gotten me a valentine. He’ll have hugged and kissed me and told me how much he loves me. He might even bring me home some candy in a big red heart-shaped box.

We’ll laugh and inhale and let the pinching begin.

But, oh, how I miss those little pink boxes.


* Originally published 2-16-00

Some valentines you will never see in the Hallmark store

Well, folks, Valentine’s Day is nearly upon us once again. That time of year to tell that certain someone how much you love them. (Or if you’re a high school student with thumbs attached to your cell phone, text how much you “lv” them.)

Enter any card shop, drug store or Wal-Mart and you’ll see the rows and rows of reds and pinks, heart shaped balloons, boxes of candies, and assorted gorillas that sing and dance in their boxer shorts to “Hunka Hunka Burnin’ Love” or “Wild Thing.”

Having been married for 14 years, I kind of dismiss all of these available tokens of esteem. Even though I am sure my husband will always be my hunka burnin’ love, I am in no need of anything that professes “Wild Thing,” And stuffed animals at my house either gravitate to our boys’ already cluttered room or more than likely wind up as a gift for the dog.

So saving the money on merchandise, I head for the card department. Rows and rows of cards declare those three little words. Some are funny, some are sweet, some are x-rated, and others… well, I am not sure I get it.

Valentine’s Day has become a marketer’s dream, with so many cards targeted specifically to everyone you can think of. Husband, wife, sister and brother are just the tip o’ the lovey-dovey iceberg. You’ve got the aunts, uncles & grandparents. Then here come the nieces, nephews & cousins. Can’t forget all the in-laws… Now you’ve got friends, best friends, boyfriends & girlfriends, teachers, and to those who are “like a mom,” or “like a dad.”

Lo and behold, there are even cards for your boss, hairdresser, pastor, and “significant other” in your life.

But I’m wondering if perhaps the folks at Hallmark and American Greetings aren’t missing out on another demographic entirely. While sending messages of love out to those we truly care for is wonderful, how would it be to send out little greetings of “love and inspiration” to those who fall into a slightly different category, namely the people we’d most like to see on a milk carton?

Here are just a few examples of valentines that I am certain could be best sellers but will somehow never make their way to the Hallmark Store:

To the person who broke your heart: “Violets are Blue, Roses are Red, It would tickle me pink if you turned up dead.”

A little over the top, but still lots of potential there.

Or how about the card for the auto mechanic who charges you through the roof while never fixing the problem?

“Roses are Red, Daisies are yellow, Fix it right this time you jerk, or I’ll pound you to Jell-O.”

I’m thinking this one has possibilities.

There could also be the card to the obnoxious soccer, T-ball or wrestling parents who do nothing but cheer and brag about their own kids all the time...

“Cherries are red, Mudpies are brown, Enough about your kid, already! Shut up & sit down!!)

(On second thought, this is not a good one. My own mailbox might not be big enough!)

My favorite is the card for the telemarketer who calls your house for the umpteenth time hawking his great deals on satellite television or for consolidating your credit card debt. This one would be delivered to his home as a singing telegram just as he’s sitting down to eat dinner. (Sung to the tune of “You Ain’t Nothin’ But a Hound Dog.”

“You ain’t nothing but a moron, hounding me all the time… You ain’t nothing but a nuisance, driving me out of my mind… Well, I ain’t buying what you’re selling, and you ain’t no friend of mine.”

Even better, if we change the song to “Hunka Hunka Burnin’ Love,” this telegram could be delivered complete with a hunka hunka burnin’ cow poop in a paper bag on the front porch… Ring the doorbell, then hide and watch with glee as the telemarketer tries to stomp the fire out!

Perhaps this is a good time for me to ad a legal disclaimer that I am NOT responsible for the results if you send any of these cards, and please do not actually light any cow poops on fire. That would be childish, immature, and not to mention immoral and illegal.

(And horse poops burn longer.)