I am not concerned about mad cow disease, or mad bird disease, or other popular anxieties. No, my specialty seems to be foot-in-mouth-disease. At least that’s how Valentines Day unfolded this year.
Brent was very busy the week before Valentines Day, and I wanted to be sure he remembered. Remembered me . . . us . . . our 30 years together. So the day before the big V, I let him know that I had a gift for him. Then in case he didn’t get this subtle hint, I told him what to get me. “I would like some pots of yellow primula to put on the front steps, sweetheart.” Did you ever think about how many ways sweetheart can be said? He seemed too busy to pay much attention to me. Hmpp! Valentine’s morning had Brent out on an early house move. He had said nothing about doing anything together, so I geared myself for a low key day. I got up late and headachy, when I heard Brent back home. I soon found him, cooking something in the kitchen. “What are you doing in your dirty work clothes?” I snapped. “You should have cleaned up before working in here!” He turned to me with a frozen face and said he was cooking me a Valentines breakfast. Oops! I decided to sit down and shut up. After a small apology, aspirin, and 5 minutes of quiet I began to feel more human. Brent suggested I open my Valentines gift. I had already noticed the envelope that was propped up beside a cut glass dish he had filled with candied fennel. But I said I’d wait. Hmmm. An envelope, not flowers, and besides my gift to him needed assembly. I said I wasn’t ready. Brent turned away again and continued cooking with his back to me. More silence. Slowly it dawned on me that maybe I was not exactly getting into the spirit of the day. Brunch was baking, the sun was shining, a card was waiting for me, Brent wasn’t really dirty, it was just a bit of surface dust, and I could get my own flowers. So I took a deep breath and started again . . . another apology for my surliness, and yes please, I would like to open my gift now. Brent just smiled and sat down with me. I pulled out a hand written note. A white twist tie that had been made into a circle was taped to the top of the letter. Hmm, curiouser and curiouser. But no hidden flowers! It was a poem
A poem to cherish
A poem of his love for me And the twist tie? It was a ring to represent the lover’s ring he wished to buy for me. He had been shopping alone for it and thought it would be much more fun to shop together. More romantic. So you see, I have contacted foot-in-mouth disease. I should be quarantined so that romantic men are not infected by me. Luckily, Brent seemed to be immune. Maybe 30 years of exposure does that. We went out that afternoon to begin our ring search. We dressed up, had supper in a little Japanese restaurant we like; and Brent even got to open his own gift, a big red heart lollipop, and a tea set with the tiny white Asian teacups filled with red candy hearts and red and white jelly beans. I did slip in a little romantic rendezvous that night, that involved massage in a candle lit room. I may be slow, but I’m not a complete bozo. We are stretching out this ring search. We go for sweet drives and decide to drop in to antique stores and pawn shops. I lost my original wedding ring many years ago, and it was something we meant to replace, but kept not getting around to doing. I try on diamonds, and plain rings and odd rings. Brent is the perfect companion, with patience and joy in my playful experimentation. This ring is not being bought with the excited hope of youth. Rather, it is a circle to mark the grace and tears of 30 years together. It is a circle of faith, that we know each other, love each other, will walk through the dark holding hands together, and we will grow old together (if we haven’t already) – ready with a laugh for our foolishness, a kiss for forgiveness and wonder for what tomorrow will bring. And the yellow flowers? Well, my 14 year old son gave them to me. My men are very romantic! Lucky me.
