We’ve been sort of mesmerized by the Winter Olympics and dangerously thin athletes speedskating, one hand behind the back, taking the turns semi-horizontally, and others flying off a ski jump spinning in the air so as to give their mothers cardiac arrest, and downhill events won by a margin of one-hundredth of a second, and all of it taking place in arid hills near Beijing, on artificial snow, and then seeing the Italians win gold in curling, which is like Bryn Mawr placing first in boxing. One astonishment after another, but I’ve kept my eye on Monday the 14th, knowing that attention must be paid.
I am contracted to the woman I love, but the vow to love and honour (at the altar, I whispered the word “obey” to myself) left out a great deal, such as, “Take careful aim at the middle of the toilet bowl” and “When asked what you’d like for dinner, the correct answer is ‘a green salad with oil and vinegar, please’.” Over the 26 years of marriage, other addenda have attached to the contract, including, “Do not give me articles of clothing as gifts, because I will only have to donate them to the Salvation Army.”
“Who buys this dreck? Men who just realised on their way home that it’s the 14th and there’s no time to shop around”
I remembered the 14th when I walked into the drugstore to pick up a Baby Ruth candy bar, which is a vitamin supplement for a man on a green leafy diet, and I saw the aisle stocked with garish scarlet heart-shaped trash, gifts so ugly they’d be grounds for divorce. Who buys this dreck? Men who just realised on their way home that it’s the 14th and there’s no time to shop around.
It’s easy for the day to slip up on a person, since there’s no St Valentine’s day service at church, but it’s an important day, especially for us Northerners of Anglo/German/Scandinavian persuasion who were brought up to be cautious with declarations of affection, who are not huggers, who save “I love you” for birthdays and anniversaries, and don’t say it in front of the children. This day is meant for us. We ignore it at our peril.
Flowers are a better idea than chocolate, but the best idea is a poem. For example:
You and I, my dear love,
Are a pair I am gladly part of,
Like carrots and peas,
Or salami and cheese
And when push comes to shove,
We fit like a hand in a glove,
Snug as the hug
Of two bugs in a rug,
Or birds in a nest up above.
A double limerick. A sonnet would be better, but you don’t want to write a third-rate sonnet, especially if your true love is someone who actually reads poetry. You could, of course, simply write, with a good fountain pen, Shakespeare’s “When in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes” or, if you’ve never been in disgrace, Liz Browning’s “How do I love thee? Let me count the ways” or Robert Dylan’s “I’ll be your baby tonight”, but only if your penmanship is good. A love poem that looks like it was written by a child or a physician is not a good idea.
Valentine’s Day was traumatic for me as a child, because I was shy, not a popular kid, and I had a home haircut that was not nicely tapered in back, but was cut in a series of terraces, and I desperately wanted to be liked and when I looked at my Valentines from classmates, I could see that they were the inexpensive kind that came six to a page and were torn out along a dotted line, and the edges had little bumps. Mine were bumpy Valentines, not particularly meaningful.
If you’re reading this Monday morning and you have no Valentine and she’s still in the shower, write my double limerick on a card and sign it and give it to her. Don’t say I wrote it, claim it as your own. She doesn’t want a Valentine from me, she wants one from you. And put your arms around her and tell her she’s your best friend and she makes your life wonderful. It’s an important moment for old lovers, this meaningful embrace. The woman knows all the worst things about you, every single one except your undercover work for Rafael Trujillo. She knows your messiness, your ineptitude, your extensive ignorance, but she stands by you. God bless her. He’s already blessed you. Without our wives, we’d be living in a boxcar, sniffing glue and would’ve missed the Winter Olympics, and been mesmerised by hoot owls calling, “HOOOO!” Who? Her, of course. Who else?
Originally published by garrisonkeillor.com and reprinted here with permission.
