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February 2007Ah, the sentiment of it allby Lindsay Thompson “That’s nonsense,” said Laura. “One is always ready to fall in love. It isn’t something you have to train for.” When I was a lad, February was “The Month of Holidays.” There was Lincoln’s and Washington’s Birthday, and Valentine’s Day, all observed in the public schools of Hoke County, North Carolina. The big holidays were the occasions for “chapel programs” in the auditorium. I suspect the name outlived the original programmatic material: by the early 1960s, they were largely vaudeville revues choreographed by the school music teacher. Tall for my age, I was cast as Abraham Lincoln in one of the February entertainments. Decked out in my best clobber, with a construction-paper beard and stovepipe hat, I recited my lines about Lincoln and retired into the staged throng. I can’t remember a word I said. Most vivid was the 1965 Easter Program, when we thespians got to march down the aisles and up on stage, wearing the most outrageous hats our parents would admit to owning, singing: Who will wear a hat to the hat parade today? Valentine’s Day was a different order of business. It was full of anticipation of undying declarations of friendship of the sort only seven- and eight-year-olds can come up with. Lincoln’s Birthday falling on the 12th, we had to hustle his life and career lessons double-quick to make room for Valentine’s Day. Because for the latter, we got to make stuff. Crayons, mucilage, blunt-ended scissors, and construction paper all came out, and we busied ourselves making pouch-like envelopes to hang from the blackboard chalk trays. They bore our names and illustrations that would have had the Lascaux cave painters doubled over in giggles. Back then, you could go to the five-and-dime, and for a token sum, get a packet of 30 or so valentine cards, tailor-made for the grade school fete. You had to make one out for everyone else in class. The teacher passed out a class roster to everyone to make sure. On the day, after some hortatory sentiments from the teacher, we all lined up and made the rounds, filling the pouches with cards and small candies. They were mainly heart-shaped and bore expressions like “Be Mine” and “Not if You Were the Last Boy on Earth.” Then we got to collect our booty and go through it — 28 valentines each, most bearing scrawled names, a few here and there with additional comments that would mark their authors out as achievers in the coming days of high school yearbook inscription. In Seattle, among the voting-age population, the tradition continues in a weekly called The Stranger. People pay money to spread the most gelatinous sentiments about their loves. There are pages upon pages of the stuff, and no search feature. I take it as a given there’s none in there addressed my direction. My friends have an authorization: When I start talking about falling in love, they are to roll up a Sunday New York Times and beat me with it till I come to my senses. For me, it has been the most errant folly. I was the Maginot Line of Love: Just when I thought I’d fortified myself against past errors, someone would pivot around through Belgium and attack my flank. Trench warfare always followed. So I view these things from the sidelines now. As Shakespeare says in As You Like It, “My age is as a lusty winter/Frosty but kindly.” Happy Valentine’s Day. Editor Lindsay Thompson practices law in Seattle and can be reached at barnewseditor@wsba.org.
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