When I was young and beautiful, Valentine's Day had no place in my life. The Great Depression covered the land like a pall, and twelve million people were unemployed, my parents among them. Our main concerns were supper, or whether we could pay the month's rent, or whether we could earn enough money from part-time work to keep us in school until we graduated.
Then World War II broke out and the Depression lifted, but our husbands and brothers were overseas, losing their limbs and lives. When the war ended, I had lost my husband and Lila, our daughter, had lost her father.
During the following years, while I struggled with single motherhood, Valentine's Day still meant nothing to me. Not yet.
The day was named for St. Valentine, a Roman who converted to Christianity, for which he died a martyr on February 14, 269. Coincidentally, pagans believed that February 14 was the day that birds chose their mates for the year. Eventually, the date and name melded, and February 14 was observed as a lovers' holiday. In old England, young people drew lots for lovers. The person who was drawn became the drawer's valentine and was presented with a gift. Later on, greeting cards accompanied the gift.
When Lila reached fourteen, she began referring to Valentine's Day with dread, and I began to understand its classic relevance to young love. She would peer at her face in the mirror, pick at a pimple, and mutter, "I can't stand myself." Still carrying some baby fat, she would pirouette before the mirror, grimacing at herself, saying. "I'm so fat."
"How fat can a size 12 be?" I'd ask. My heart ached for her.
"Plenty fat," she'd answer. "The boys don't like me. My nose is a blob, my hair is too curly, I'm ugly, and I don't have a boyfriend."
Her self-deprecation continued for weeks. She would cry out, "Rosalie [her best friend] has a boyfriend. So has Sheila. But nobody likes me. You wait and see. Valentine's Day is coming. They'll get cards and presents, but I won't. Oh, Ma, what'll I do? I'll be too ashamed to face them."
As February 14 approached, I began to dread it, too. What could I do to help her? I discussed it with a male friend. "Why don't I send her a card?" he asked.
"She doesn't want it from you," I replied, annoyed. "She wants it from a young man her own age."
Then an idea came to him. "Barton's [a famous candy store chain of that period] sells chocolate holiday bars that can be sent through the mail," he said. "Why don't I send one and enclose a Valentine's Day card with it? I could sign it: 'From your secret admirer.' "
The idea was excellent, for as she had never seen his handwriting she would not guess her anonymous admirer's identity.
Valentine's Day dawned bright, crisp, and snowy. But Lila looked glum and moped around the
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