My ambivalence about Valentine's Day arose in Mrs. Duff's first grade class. There I was, a profoundly shy six-year-old participating for the first time in an exercise in which I would be graded by my peers, by the tally of the cutout cartoon hearts I would receive from the "Valentine Mailbox" that was set up in the corner of the classroom. The mailbox, which had started life as a brown corrugated grocery box from our local IGA, had been the focal point of an entire art period, and blazed with red glitter and paper hearts from the centre of a huge frill of doilies. In the morning, before we took our seats, popular girls who were allowed to wear their hair loose in pretty ribbons clustered around the box and giggled. I didn't really "get it." I didn't know what I had to do to get a valentine, and I didn't know what I would do if I got none.
The night before Valentine's Day, my mother sat down with me at the dining room table with a box of small cards, a soft pencil, and a list of everyone in my class. My job, with my newly acquired printing skills, was to print the first name of each child in my class on an envelope and the top of a card, then to print my own name on the bottom. Then, my mother explained, I was to put all the cards in the Valentine Box in the morning. That's how it works, she said. That was how we get valentines. Even nasty Gary, who pulled my braids at recess, was to get a valentine from me.
The next morning I dutifully lined up and stuffed my wad of tiny envelopes into the box. Then we puttered through the day, spelling and reading, recess, and arithmetic. 20 minutes before the bell, Mrs. Duff told us it was time for valentines. She asked for a volunteer to be "mailman." She picked Elizabeth, a pretty girl with curly dark hair that her mother had done up in red ribbons that day. We watched while Elizabeth opened the box and poured the little envelopes into her "mailbag." Then she walked up and down the rows of desks, handing out the cards, one at a time. She went to some desks again and again, to some desks sometimes, and to some desks hardly at all. The popular girls squealed and tore their envelopes, the popular boys shuffled their cards and squirmed with embarrassment, and those with nothing much to do did nothing much, but wish that this was over. Over now.
I didn't have a lot of cards, but I had enough to get by with. There was one from a shy girl with short dark hair who sat two seats over by the window. By the end of that year, we were friends. We're still friends. I had one from Mrs. Duff. That was good; I liked Mrs. Duff. I had one from nasty Gary. Looked like his mother had the same theory as to "How it works" as my mother did. And I had seven cards from Secret Admirers. Seven! Seven kids in that class admired me! They liked me! I didn't think that seven kids in that class had even noticed me. That meant I had 10 cards all together, from a class of 20 kids, not bad for the class wallflower.
When I got home, I showed everybody my valentines. I laid them out on my bed, and counted them and spent hours trying to figure out who my Admirers were. Then I put them away in my treasure box, and being six, forgot about them. Later, a long time later, I came across them again while I was cleaning out a closet. There they were, neat in the little box. With "To Joan from her Secret Admirer" printed neatly on the back of each one. Printed carefully in different coloured pencils in my mother's distinctive, almost cursive printing. And added to the wad that I had dutifully stuffed into the mailbox. That's Valentine's day for me. Bittersweet.
Joan Barton is not only a great writer but an excellent pickler.
