I think it was the 5th grade when my anxiety about Valentine’s Day reached the first episode of fear and anticipation about what valentine to give to which person, more specifically which girl.

I was nine years old. For some reason my memory doesn’t remember the 4th grade Valentine’s Day party. But the 5th grade, that’s different. I might have had a pre-adolescent crush on one of the girls in my class or perhaps more than one.

What I do remember is staring, more than a little intently, at the boxes of valentines (complete with little envelopes) on the shelves of the local variety store in my hometown of 1,046 people. There was not a great selection and as I stood and stared I thought, do I do little pieces of candy in some of the valentines or not? And, what do I get my teacher?

These were weighty decisions for a nine-year-old. My whole future might rest on what valentine I gave THE girl in my class that I liked or what gift I would give my teacher. Small town Valentine’s Day politics plays a major role in the lives of those who chose to play, sometimes for years to come.

Finally, with a few crumpled dollar bills in my hand and some change rescued from my change bank that I was supposed to save, I chose a box of valentines, and a small package of wrapped chocolate hearts. My teacher would come later in my selection process.

I took my box of valentines and my small package of candy and walked at a brisk pace up the street the four blocks to my home. When I got home I broke the plastic seal on the valentines and poured the cards and the envelopes on the floor. Then I began the process of sorting, looking I suppose for the serious ones that would pledge my heartfelt love for Lois, or Margaret, or Candace.

Some of those old greetings floated through my memory, here are just a few: “You’re Sum Valentine” and below the greeting, a series of added numbers; “Let’s Strike Up a Match Valentine” (written over a book of matches with one match ready to strike), (not a very safe message for my 5th grade classmates). Then there were others and as I sorted, I looked for just the right message. One shouted out the words: ”I’ve learned to love you.” A little to bold I thought. Using the L word was risky at age nine.

I looked through the valentines and did not find the right one and then I saw it: three cats on a card, not people, and words that could be interpreted many different ways. The card said: “You’re nicer than nice; you’re sweeter than sweet, without you, Valentine’s Day would be incomplete.” It appealed to my need for subtlety all the while extending the affection I thought was necessary for the one girl who was going to receive this message. Now I had to decide if I was going to sign it. Signing was always another risky proposition. Send it anonymously I thought and let her guess it was me. Finally I decided on just my first name.

I stared somewhat vacantly at the pile of valentines. Now that I had decided on the one, what to give to the rest of my class? Our teacher had given us a mimeographed list of names so we wouldn’t leave anyone out. I needed 22 valentines, 21 now that I had eliminated the one I thought was an expression of my love and now I needed to put valentines in envelopes and write the names on the envelopes and choose one for my teacher. There was also the matter of the candy hearts and whether or not to put them in some of the envelopes. As I looked at the pile I saw one that made me giggle: “I’m gonna Pop a Corny question, Will you be my Valentine?” I decided I’d send that to my special girl with no signature.

I worked my way through the list and found in the box one that would work for my teacher. It would save me money (wouldn’t have to buy a big card) and I could put some chocolate hearts in the envelope and it would be just right. The one I chose had a blond boy and a brunette girl looking out from the card with the words, written on chalkboard: “Teacher, please be my valentine.”

Valentine’s Day came and there were a variety of cupcakes and cookies and the valentine exchange, all seeming a bit anticlimactic after the anxiety of choosing the right cards for the right people. I don’t remember if the girl I gave the cards to acknowledged me or not, but I do remember one of the girls giving me a valentine that contained the L word and when I opened it and I looked up, she gave me a very shy smile, and I smiled back.

So Cupid shoots an imaginary arrow
and where it lands no one knows,
except when it penetrates the world of
a fifth grade girl or boy, the result is a
lopsided silly grin and shining eyes and
so many sideways glances looking for
a glance in return.

So Cupid shoots an imaginary arrow
and where it lands no one knows,
except when the girls and boys go
to buy boxes of valentines and chocolate
candy, there is great care taken to pick
just the right valentine for some and a
particular chocolate heart for others.

So Cupid shoots an imaginary arrow
and where it lands no one knows,
except when we do the dance of love
even though we don’t know the steps
and we cannot hear any music,
we understand it’s Valentine’s Day
and we wait with expectation for a
reaction for the one to whom we would
profess our love, a glance a look, a
smile, some slight reaction that let’s
us know, that maybe we should have
used, the L word.

Write a story about the Valentine’s Day that is in your memory bank, one that stood out for whatever reason, good or bad. Tell the story, write the limericks and the words of love that you once proclaimed when you were in the 4th, 5th, or 6th, grade. But no matter what the memory: “Write On.”