When I was a high school freshman, I was hopelessly in love with, well, my first love. When I arrived home from school on Valentine’s Day, there was a huge vase of red roses on my front porch! I was so excited I could barely stand it! Then, because we couldn’t be together on that day, we talked on the phone for hours about how desperately we wished that we went to the same school and how cool it would be when he got his license and could visit me much more often. I think I still have one of those roses pressed into a book somewhere; maybe.

Those first dozen roses, given to me by the first great love of my life, spoiled me for years after. I thought that this was the way love goes, as the song says. Not exactly, I was soon to find out. I call it “the great drought of the 60’s”; the total lack of male attention once my first boyfriend and I broke up. It was a very, very depressing chapter in my life.

I was not a great beauty in high school. Speaking of flowers, I was, as one might say, a very late bloomer. In fact, I went through the world’s longest ugly stage. From Eighth grade until my senior year of high school, passing a mirror was a very unpleasant experience.

During those years, I’d get up in the morning, go to the bathroom to brush my teeth, look into the mirror and cry. It was my pathetic morning ritual. Good Lord, I thought, how come other girls had creamy, smooth complexions and I had zits? Why were other girls blessed with long, thick straight hair and mine was thin, stringy and unmanageable? Why did the pretty girls flash beautiful, white smiles, and I was stuck with braces. UGH!

And it got worse. In 1964, there wasn’t a lot of talk about “inner beauty.” We had Marilyn Monroe to contend with, and Elizabeth Taylor, as well. Even the very young Natalie Wood was gorgeous. And I was sure that I was doomed to a life of ugliness. To make matters worse, when other girls were developing curves, I had not a boob to my name! I was built like an eleven-year-old boy when I was 15. This was horribly tragic, I thought. Why hadn’t I developed a chest? I didn’t realize that at 85 pounds, a bust line was not going to happen any time soon! And it didn’t, it turned out, not until 30 years later! If I had known back then that I would be flat-chested that long, I’m certain I would have been suicidal. It was all about the chest in those days. Boys liked busty girls and I was doomed to be without a boyfriend forever.

I was still the hopeful romantic when I was 15. Even though the boy in my life was now gone, I still hoped that, by some miracle, one would notice me and that he would fall deeply and passionately in love and sweep me off my feet. So, on the Valentine’s Day of 1965, I got off the school bus and ran home, hoping that roses would again appear on my porch. I’m not sure where I thought they would come from since there was no boy in my very sad life, but I was still hopeful.

As I opened the front gate that afternoon and looked toward my porch, there it was; nothing. I had so hoped that my lost love would return, say he was sorry and that he was still in love with me, and roses would be in his hand. I began to cry. I cried a lot in those days. I had no idea that my life was pretty damn good. I had a wonderful family, caring parents, the normal little pain-in-the-ass sister, and I should have been happy. But, no way! Without male companionship, I was a sad-sack, for sure! No adoration from boys, just a few close girlfriends, and they certainly couldn’t make my life complete.

My mother tried to console me. She told me that those beautiful girls would burn out; that their beauty was fleeting. She assured me that I was a pretty girl and that I would blossom soon enough into a beautiful woman. Yeah, sure, I thought. What do mothers know anyway? I should have stayed at the convent school where I went to elementary school. I should have become a nun! Then I could put the veil over my face and I wouldn’t have to deal with my homely state of affairs every single day!

By the time I was sixteen, as Valentine’s Day rolled around, I did indeed have a boyfriend. He was a nice guy but always broke. I had a job teaching dance and had made some fairly good spending money since back when I was fourteen. So, I had a car and I drove him around. I paid for the gas and I picked up his friends for school, as well. On Valentine’s Day, there were no roses, no candy, not even a card. Just a whining guy who complained about being cash-strapped. It’s called a job, I thought; get one!

Soon I was bored with his good looks and his basic laziness. I didn’t need a rich guy, but a guy with a little drive would be good. So, I lost the whining loser and learned the first good Valentine’s lesson of my life; even if they’re pretty, a lazy guy is a lazy guy and he’s not going to get better any time soon. Bye bye!

Senior year Valentine’s Day was pretty much the same story. This time I was beginning to look somewhat more socially acceptable. Still no bust line had arrived on the scene, but amazingly, my skin cleared up and the braces were off. Yeah! No more tin grin. I had spent the previous summer in France on a student study trip, and while there, cut my stringy hair off into a chic bob. I still wasn’t pleased with myself, but I no longer cried immediately when I looked in the mirror; that, I figured, was a step in the right direction.

Also, there were bigger things to worry about. Guys just a bit older than I was were being sent off to die in Vietnam. Suddenly my bust line didn’t seem quite so important anymore. The war had been going on for years but now it was hitting closer to home. One of my best friend’s brother was killed in Nam. It was awful; the family had escaped from China to flee the Cultural Revolution where professors and the educated were tormented and often killed. This sweet little guy, Zim, their youngest son, was sent away to die for a lost cause.

One of the guys in the drum corps that marched with our majorette unit was sent to Vietnam. Tommy never came home either. And there were lots of others. Neither Valentine’s Day, nor lack of male attention, nor almost anything seemed so urgent that year. It was a sad time; but for once, the sadness didn’t revolve around me.

My sophmore year in college I met a nice guy. He had the most beautiful blue eyes I had ever seen. I saw him across the Student Union from where I sat with friends. “Who is that?” I asked, “and why don’t I know him?” From that time on, we were joined at the hip. He was not only “cute,” as we referred to all attractive men in the 70’s, but he was intelligent. He was the first Bio-Chem Major that I had ever met, much less dated. We spent weekend days studying in the lab. I met him in October of 1970, and I don’t remember Valentine’s Day of 1971! We were more occupied with the real business of being in love.

I looked at my grandson recently and said, “Ky, you have your grandfather’s beautiful blue eyes!” My granddaughter, Ashley, has my husband’s focus, and desire for perfection. My son has his gentleness and big heart, and my mother-in-law’s sense of humor. Our daughter had his determination and work ethic. Our littlest granddaughter, Mikayla, has his fearless zest for life and adventure.

This Valentine’s Day he might bring me a single rose and I will be sure that he has flowers on his desk when he arrives at the office. The flowers that we give to each other remind us that we are still a couple, despite the craziness of our life and being surrounded by our family, thankfully, on most days. This romantic man that I married reminds me every day of what it means to love someone, and to be loved. I know it on those days when he is tired but still gets up to be at work because wants to keep providing for his family. I know how much he loves me when he gives our grandchildren a piggyback ride to the car as they leave for home. I know how much he cares for me when he holds me up as we both cry at our daughter’s grave.

Valentine’s Day celebrates the outward symbols of love. But real love lives everyday in our home. In those intimate moments when he holds me close and we are alone, I don’t worry about the lines around my eyes or the skin on my arms that is no longer young and taught. I don’t worry about the bust line that finally arrived! I don’t think about what flowers or candy or jewelry he might surprise me with on Valentine’s Day. It is no longer about the red roses on the front porch; it’s about living every day with the one, great love of my life, and celebrating love and life on those other 364 days each year.