Valentine Perfection: simple and pretty

I love my heart-shaped meat-loaf on Valentine's Day, and still love making one in my dotage, even if I'm the only taker. When my kids were little they always decorated a valentine box and put cards in it throughout the week before. When those school busses rolled home on February 14th and the kids came through the door, the house was magical for all of them, across their eleven year age span. I loved watching their faces as they came through the door to a wonderland Valentine party, so sweet and simple, candy kisses and balloons, a few little packages, and the meatloaf for dinner- heart-shaped with a celery stick for Cupid's arrow. And always, tulips on the table, a forecast of spring to come.

Now they're grown, and they carry the sweetness of this day with them. I'll always be happy on St. Valentine's Day, just basking in the memories. I most specially remember the time I passed out valentine hearts of candy to the four oldest and announced that they were going to have a sister in the Fall. I can still remember the thrill so clearly: little "faces looking up, holding wonder like a cup*". So much love and life within us all!

I also remember the days of romantic love and hope they are all experiencing those feelings on Valentine's Day. If not, I know they know that some flowers, chocolate and a heart-shaped meatloaf can do the trick to lift the spirits and stimulate dreams of future love. I hope they all feel a little blip of magic, an electric glance, a gentle touch, a sense of lovingkindness.

My son, the man in my life, sent me roses and brought me chocolate. My daughter sent tulips from Texas. They all sent love and fond memories. I'm a woman blessed, and I can dream of past and future loves. Hail to that mysterious St. Valentine! Hail to Cupid! Hail to the sweetness of love!
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"Life has loveliness to sell,
All beautiful and splendid things,
Blue waves whitened on a cliff,
Soaring fire that sways and sings,
And children's faces looking up,
Holding wonder like a cup.

Life has loveliness to sell,
Music like a curve of gold,
Scent of pine trees in the rain,
Eyes that love you, arms that hold,
And for your spirit's still delight,
Holy thoughts that star the night.

Spend all you have for loveliness,
Buy it and never count the cost;
For one white singing hour of peace
Count many a year of strife well lost,
And for a breath of ecstacy
Give all you have been, or could be.

Sara Teasdale

"Barter" by Sara Teasdale

How I Learned to Skip the Christmas Parade and Love Myself Anyway

I love parades, I really do. But I’ve done my bit. Over the years I took my five kids to parades galore, they got bundled up or adorned in costumes, they marched in them or not. At least until they weighed fifty pounds, I held them high so they could catch glimpses of Santa and pieces of flying candy. They drank hot chocolate and waved light sticks. We willingly froze for the Christmas parade. We survived the brawls in the car coming and going. Come hell or high water, we gave it our all.

And now, tonight, the parade is going on less than a mile from here, I can hear the thumping of the distant bands, and some of my kids are there, my granddaughter too. I have a wonderful friend who lives on the parade route and who always cooks the best stews or soup on this night for our fabulous group of friends. I could walk back and forth from this group of peers to various groups of young adults containing at least two of my family members. Most of the time I would think this was heavenly, an opportunity I couldn’t miss. But tonight I’m staying home. And that’s OK.

Could it be a cold coming on? Or could it be THE cold outside, those measly thirty-three degrees Fahrenheit? Just one little itsy bitsy dip and it will be one degree too cold for a spoiled old soul like me. Is it the lonesome walk from group to group? Did I eat lunch too late to be fighting my way towards that stew? Am I a little too far up the scale on Maslow’s hierarchy of needs? Or too far down?

I heard there were going to be fifteen bands, and I think that’s probably it. Interlopers from far and wide are coming to compete with our very own community kids’ music, dance and flag routines. Fire trucks from towns I’ve never heard of will be there. Vendors I’ve never seen before and whom I have no reason to trust will be selling pricey balloons and light sticks. I don’t want to rain on anyone’s parade, I just don’t want to go.

Then just now, thanks to modern technology conveying loving impulses across the swelling parade crowds, I get a text from my daughter saying “Miss you.” I picture my daughter and son-in-law at the parade, holding their daughter high. I picture my other daughter and son-in-law, bundled up in scarves and hats, offering cider and hot chocolate from the parking lot of their family store site. I picture my son and his partner, handsome, stylish, funny and warm. A silver flask of brandy in the deep lined pocket of a black wool coat. I picture my daughter in Texas, who's at the gym. I picture my daughter in New York, who's at the Laundromat. I picture my semi-gray-haired friends on the parade route with their mugs of mulled cider or beef bourguignon, steam piping out of their mouths as they cheer the floats on. And then I picture my precious granddaughter, her little face looking up - holding wonder like a cup - waiting for Santa.

OK. It's not too late. There’s no way I can skip this parade. Where are my keys? Where the hell’s my mother’s old mink coat?