Post #78 – Women’s Memoir Writing, ScrapMoir – Matilda Butler and Kendra Bonnett
WELCOME TO WOMEN’S MEMOIRS CONTEST VALENTINE’S DAY READATHON
This is the ninth Valentine’s Day Memoir Contest story to be published in our first-ever ReadAThon. In this blog, we’re announcing the Honorable Mention for our third category — Best Valentine’s Day. Each hour, for 11 hours, we are publishing an award-winning Valentine’s Day story.
We have four categories–
Worst Valentine’s Day
Worst Valentine’s Day Eventually Becoming Positive (Might Take Many Years)
Best Valentine’s Day
Most Humorous Valentine’s Day (In Retrospect, If Not at the Time)
and are publishing the award winners in that sequence. For each category, we publish the grand winner followed by the runner(s) up in alphabetical order.
Best Valentine’s Day: Honorable Mention
LOVE IN A BOX
When I was a little girl, I found love in a box all because of a class assignment. On a Friday night I made an announcement at the dinner table. The words bubbled out in a torrent of excitement I could no longer contain. “My teacher said we have to bring a box for our Valentines on Monday. But it has to be a special box all decorated.”
Mother said, “We’ll see,” and she continued eating.
Nancy, several years later, at age 10
All day Saturday I waited, and I worried, but there was no mention of a Valentine box. Sunday arrived, and my concern increased, but I knew an inquiry about the box might trigger anger and loud voices. I kept an anxious eye on both my parents all day. In 1947, children only asked once. More than that invited punitive measures; at least in my house it did.
My dad, a few years earlier
In the next hour, my father transformed the empty shoebox into a valentine box I would never forget. Crepe paper covered the ugly cardboard. My father fashioned a ruffled piece of the pliable paper and glued it around the middle. He cut a slot in the lid and covered it with more of the white paper. Next came red hearts attached in what I considered all the right places. He hummed a tune while he worked, and I kneeled on my chair witnessing the magical conversion of the shoebox and handing him the glue when he needed it. When he finished, my father’s eyes sparkled, and a smile stretched across his thin face. “What do you think of that?”
My answer was a hug and a “Thank you, Daddy.”
Inside, joy danced all the way to my heart. It was the first time that my father devoted so much time to me. His world consisted of working hard to support his family, adoring my mother, disciplining my brother and me, and listening to every sports event broadcast on the radio. Suddenly, a new door opened in my life. My father loved me.
Monday morning, my mother found a brown grocery sack to protect the beautiful box while I carried it to school. I barely felt the bitter cold of the February day as I held the precious treasure close to me. I would let no harm come to my special Valentine box.
My teacher cleared a space on a long, wide windowsill where the decorated boxes would stay until Valentine’s Day. I studied each one as it was placed on the sill, and none compared with mine. Every time I peeked at my Valentine box, I felt my father’s love. My pride knew no bounds. There were moments when the box actually glowed in a spotlight all its own. No doubt the only one who witnessed that glow was me.
Every day some of my classmates brought Valentine cards to school and slipped them into the slots of the special boxes. The holiday party arrived, and we brought our boxes to our desks to open the Valentines. Frosted heart cookies, red punch, Valentines and giggles filled our classroom. Chaos reigned until dismissal time arrived.
I carried my Valentine box home proudly. It wasn’t hidden in a grocery sack but held out for the world to admire. I showed it to the policeman who guided us across a busy city street. He patted me on the head and exclaimed over the box. I made sure everyone along the way took note of my Valentine box. My father had made it for me, and the love that filled the box meant more to me than all the valentines nestled inside.
From that time on, I never doubted my father’s feelings for me. The valentine box became a symbol of his love that lasted through decades of other Valentine Days. He gave me other gifts through the years, but none ever compared with the tender love I felt within the confines of the old, empty shoebox.
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You can follow Nancy Julien Kopp on her blog: http://writergrannysworld.blogspot.com
This story was originally published in Chicken Soup for the Soup: Fathers and Daughters.
