My Silly Valentine Stalker

Valentine’s Day 1972.

I remember walking into my second grade classroom with my little bag of drug store cards and a few treats, anxious to exchange.  But when I opened my flip top desk to store my bag, I noticed something was different.  Set gently on top of my glue and crayons were a tiny stuffed animal giraffe and a very large envelope.

My eyes widened, and I asked to use the bathroom so I could sneak away privately to study my stash.  Inside the envelope was a Valentine card, declaring love to a sweetie (me!) and signed John.  Oh yes, there were also two crumbly dollar bills inside.

I trembled slightly.  I had no idea John had set his eyes on shy little me.  He was cute.

John greeted me at the door when I returned to the classroom.  “Did you get my card and gift?” he asked loudly and unabashedly.  “I won the giraffe at the school fair last week, and my mom only let me buy one big Valentine card, so I chose you.  And then I asked her to put money in it.”

(Now that I’m a mother, when I recollect this part of the story, I can’t help but smile.)

I don't remember if John and I became a “couple” after that.  But I do remember that I saved the card and giraffe as a sort of prize, evidence to myself that I once had a first Valentine.  I still have them.

I moved away to Chicago in fifth grade; John moved to a neighboring suburb of our hometown.  In seventh grade, our family returned, and I reenrolled in my old school district.

Years passed, and though one never forgets her first cupid, I was soon a junior in high school, occupied with friends, academics and of course, boyfriend issues.

“Hi!” said a voice on the phone that winter.  “Do you remember John?  This is his brother, Tim.  John's going to be wresting at your school today in a tournament.  In fact, he’s wresting your boyfriend. He wants you to go.”

To say I was intrigued would be an understatement.  I was already planning to go.  Little did I know that I would be reunited with my first Valentine.

Fast forward to senior prom.  Yes, John and I had begun to date at some point.  I’m not clear on when and how, but I do know it was sporadic because he was heavily devoted to his sport, and I to my school activities.

When I think back to the times we were together in those days, I think about laughter and exuberance.  We never stopped joking about the giraffe and the card (and the two bucks!), often relating the story to anyone who was near – waitresses at restaurants, new friends we’d meet.  In some ways, revisiting that story calmed us, connecting us to the innocent kids we once were as we gazed together at adulthood on the horizon.

But then he broke up with me two weeks before his senior prom.  We had agreed to go to each other’s dances.  His prom queen needed a date, and he didn’t want to let her down.  He still wanted to attend mine, you understand.

Not so fast.  I was crushed, but dusted myself off and told him I’d make other plans for my own prom. And I did.

I think I saw him once during college.  In a bar over winter break.  We didn’t speak, but looked across the room and locked eyes. 

Decades past.  I got engaged.  And then disengaged.  Finally married the guy for me.  Blessed children came.  And so did my 20^th high school reunion.

He crashed it.  Though he didn’t attend my high school, he had heard we were having a casual gathering at a bar minutes from his house.  He wanted to say hello to his first Valentine.

This is not a creepy part of the story – or, it’s only as creepy as you’d like it to be. He had a lovely life of his own, (as did I) and showed me pictures to prove it.  He had current friends who were members of my high school graduating class, and he wanted to see his grade school pals.  We reminisced.  Danced.  And of course laughed.

And it’s not even creepy that he crashed this past summer’s 30^th high school reunion to say hello again, a full decade after we last saw or spoke to each other.  The minute I saw him across the room, we both just laughed heartily.  He spoke proudly of his wife and children, now adults. On the horizon were grandchildren who would soon be delivering Valentines to their own secret crushes.

There is something deeply endearing about your first crush.  A connection that, however strong your current relationship, cannot be weakened.  Time has a way of standing still when the two of you are in the same room.  Everything falls away, and you travel into yourself, to that eight-year-old little girl and boy whose definition of true love could very easily be reduced to a stuffed giraffe, a giant card and two bucks.  Before life got complicated.

“I’ll see you in ten years!” I shouted above the crowd as he left, after posing with me for pictures. And then I went home to my settled life of nearly 50 years made richer by my first Valentine.  And so did he.