Happy Valentine’s Day, Mr. Johnson (and assorted others)

I dig the cynical disdain for the holiday of lovers, I do. But it does seem to brighten my gray February a little, no matterhow not-Anthropologie-worthy my decor is and how not-Family-Fun-worthy my breakfast is. I had intended to get up and make those apple ring pancakes I found on pinterest, but then I slept in (till 8!) and maybe the kids had Cheerios?

When we lived in The Bronx, Tom brought home a bunch of little presents for Valentine’s Day. I remember especially a tiny sweet pot of African violets and a roll of duct tape. Both were appreciated at the time, I assure you. I couldn’t tell you what we did or got last year (if anything), but it is still a nice day, because fourteen years ago was our very first date — pizza and the nickelcade on State Street, which we both did not “get” and so ended up streetwalking and talking instead. (We were doubling with his roommate The Hairy Ape — he really was quite hairy, and happened to be in my Humanities class, where we were reading Eugene O’Neill, and he wore overalls (the roommate, not the playwright).)

This year we sent out Valentine’s Day cards instead of holiday cards, and it is a practice I highly recommend, if you are the card-sending type. Much less stressful, and again, something to brighten the after-holiday winter lull. The picture we sent out was taken by my dad at the Manti Temple (where we were married thirteen and a half years ago); the occasion was my youngest sister Karin’s wedding last month. It was the best picture we got that day (sad), completely unstaged (obviously), and the more I look at it, the more I like it.

I love you, Tom. I love you, Avery, Callie, Lucy and Molly. I may not get around to making fancy (or lame) valentines for you today, but that would be a lack of craftiness, time, and imagination, and not a reflection of the depth of my feeling.