I read this a few years ago, and kept it around to read each Feb. 14th.
Sit Next to Me
Candy brings back memories of lost Valentine's sweet gifts
By Emily Priddy
I know women are traditionally the recipients of flowers rather than the senders, but I've decided to celebrate Valentine's Day this year by sending flowers to the man I love.
We parted years ago, but I think of him every year around this time, and something buried deep under my cynical shell aches to see him again.
It was the candy that made it "all come back to me," as Celine Dion says, this year.
Every year, the bravest, kindest man I've ever known would come over, sweep me into his strong arms, and give me a bristly, whisker-itchy kiss on the cheek.
Then he'd open the bag he'd brought and show me the treasures he had for me: foil-wrapped chocolates, raspberry-flavored gumdrops and -- best of all -- conversation sweets with words of love printed on them in pink food coloring that somehow made me believe in Cupid.
I never gave a **** for romance after I learned there was nothing magic about February 14th (the only holiday you can abbreviate "V.D." -- go figure).
I grew up, figured out that federal regulations prohibit winged toddlers from bowhunting, and realized that there was more to love than tearing Superman Valentines apart along the perforations.
But despite my cynicism, I still miss my noble knight in Big Smith overalls.
It all came back to me the other night at Wal-mart as I passed a display of conversation hearts.
Grandpa died when I was 13, but as I looked at those bags of candy, I suddenly saw him sitting in our dining room, my little brother on one knee and my little sister on the other, looking through his bifocals to tell them what the letters on their candy spelled.
I bought a bag and took them home, where I discovered a harsh reminder that things can never stay the same.
I opened the bag and looked at the words on a white heart, expecting to read, "Be mine," "Kiss me" or "I love you."
Time marches on, I suppose, but my fond memories of Grandpa and his Valentine deliveries crumbled as I read the words: "Fax me."
I grabbed another. "E-mail me," it said.
I know it's the '90s and Internet love is a wonderful thing, but something just doesn't ring true when a conversation sweet says "e-mail me."
Grandpa didn't send me faxes for Valentine's Day. He didn't leave me his beeper number or point-and-click to tell me he loved me.
Grandpa was there for his kids and his grandkids. No virtual reality. No quickmail. No html address. He was there, with real candy and real hugs and real attention for us.
It's awfully hard for Bill Gates to compete with the smell of Grandpa's truck, the sweetness of the M&Ms he brought, or the sincerity of his smile as he used to wave each time he passed our house -- just in case somebody happened to be looking out the window.
I won't be calling FTD to put those roses on my plastic this year.
I'll be paying cash for them as I talk to a real florist in a real florist's shop before I go out to the cemetery in peron to put the flowers on Grandpa's grave.
I think I'll leave him one of my conversation hearts, too -- the one that says, "Miss You."
I hope he can read it without his glasses from where he is.
Sit Next to Me
Candy brings back memories of lost Valentine's sweet gifts
By Emily Priddy
I know women are traditionally the recipients of flowers rather than the senders, but I've decided to celebrate Valentine's Day this year by sending flowers to the man I love.
We parted years ago, but I think of him every year around this time, and something buried deep under my cynical shell aches to see him again.
It was the candy that made it "all come back to me," as Celine Dion says, this year.
Every year, the bravest, kindest man I've ever known would come over, sweep me into his strong arms, and give me a bristly, whisker-itchy kiss on the cheek.
Then he'd open the bag he'd brought and show me the treasures he had for me: foil-wrapped chocolates, raspberry-flavored gumdrops and -- best of all -- conversation sweets with words of love printed on them in pink food coloring that somehow made me believe in Cupid.
I never gave a **** for romance after I learned there was nothing magic about February 14th (the only holiday you can abbreviate "V.D." -- go figure).
I grew up, figured out that federal regulations prohibit winged toddlers from bowhunting, and realized that there was more to love than tearing Superman Valentines apart along the perforations.
But despite my cynicism, I still miss my noble knight in Big Smith overalls.
It all came back to me the other night at Wal-mart as I passed a display of conversation hearts.
Grandpa died when I was 13, but as I looked at those bags of candy, I suddenly saw him sitting in our dining room, my little brother on one knee and my little sister on the other, looking through his bifocals to tell them what the letters on their candy spelled.
I bought a bag and took them home, where I discovered a harsh reminder that things can never stay the same.
I opened the bag and looked at the words on a white heart, expecting to read, "Be mine," "Kiss me" or "I love you."
Time marches on, I suppose, but my fond memories of Grandpa and his Valentine deliveries crumbled as I read the words: "Fax me."
I grabbed another. "E-mail me," it said.
I know it's the '90s and Internet love is a wonderful thing, but something just doesn't ring true when a conversation sweet says "e-mail me."
Grandpa didn't send me faxes for Valentine's Day. He didn't leave me his beeper number or point-and-click to tell me he loved me.
Grandpa was there for his kids and his grandkids. No virtual reality. No quickmail. No html address. He was there, with real candy and real hugs and real attention for us.
It's awfully hard for Bill Gates to compete with the smell of Grandpa's truck, the sweetness of the M&Ms he brought, or the sincerity of his smile as he used to wave each time he passed our house -- just in case somebody happened to be looking out the window.
I won't be calling FTD to put those roses on my plastic this year.
I'll be paying cash for them as I talk to a real florist in a real florist's shop before I go out to the cemetery in peron to put the flowers on Grandpa's grave.
I think I'll leave him one of my conversation hearts, too -- the one that says, "Miss You."
I hope he can read it without his glasses from where he is.
