It was, ironically, Valentine’s Day when I once saw a broken heart worthy of the saddest country song.
I do not know the young man’s name, or what ever happened to him, but he was the epitome of everything ever written by Hank Williams, Willie Nelson, Patsy Cline or any of the other true artists from the days before automation and market studies and clothing-optional awards shows.
The day was a typical “false spring” afternoon, sunshiny and warm. I needed a photo of the lock and dam at Elizabethtown for a story, so without too much complaint and with remarkably little encouragement, I headed out the door and down the street.
He sat alone at one of the picnic tables above the dam, staring out at the river. The grass at his feet was scattered with small bits of paper. I nodded a greeting and went about my business, not wanting to interrupt anyone’s moment, much less embarrass a young man who had obviously been crying. He returned my nod, and while I was trying to get the right photo, he shuffled slowly to his truck and peeled out of the parking lot at a speed that would have drawn the ire of even the most soft-hearted law enforcement officer.
I honestly did not intend to be nosy, but I was a bit annoyed at the trash he left behind, just feet from a garbage can. I decided to clean up after him, since doing my part as a good citizen would buy me a few more precious minutes closer to the river I love so much, smelling the tannin and pine from the spray that occasionally flashed a sheet-like rainbow across the dam.
Even if I could recall exactly what was written in a typical girl’s hand on the lined paper, I wouldn’t share those words; I read just a few lines, enough to know it was the end of something, and he apparently wasn’t taking it well.
I did think it was rather savage of the young lady to have broken his heart on Valentine’s Day, but not knowing the full story, nor wanting to, I reserved judgement. Once upon a time, my own heart was crushed, torn and set on fire on the day after, so I could at least relate to his pain. I could gloat that she went on to live a perfectly miserable life and eventually married a fellow whose only qualities were that he wasn’t a drunk or violent, but that would be petty. I wish her well (and to be real truthful, they kind of deserved each other.)
Feb. 14 is one of the few bright spots about the second month of the year, in my opinion. It’s an opportunity to be silly and shamelessly, openly romantic, if one cares about the person with whom they spend the holiday.
From the brown-eyed girl in kindergarten to the one who has been my Valentine for the last 33 years, there’s always been something special about the holiday. I guess it comes from watching my folks together.
My parents always had some kind of a date, even if it was nothing but hamburgers or a cup of coffee. Every Valentine’s Day, Papa would stress over finding the right card. He always talked about how he was once called out at 6 a.m. on Feb. 13 for a round-the-clock narcotics roundup. He realized as he was on his way home the next morning at around 3 a.m. that he hadn’t located that perfect card, nor bought anything else for Miss Lois.
The sole clerk at an all-night grocery store helped Papa find a card that was waiting for Mother when she woke up the next morning, and it was one she always said was her favorite. I truly believe she meant it, too.
In these days of storebought cards and autofilled text messages with emojis and ordering gifts online and posting long descriptions of love via social media, Miss Rhonda and I still make cards by hand for each other. It started on our first Valentine’s Day, before we were married. I was dead broke, as in counting change for gasoline broke, and dashed home to see her while covering a murder trial hours away. I thought I could get a card at a particular store, but they had everything but Valentines. So I parked under a streetlamp and drew a card on a piece of lined paper from a legal pad full of notes about the trial.
Somewhere we may still have two Valentines my grandfather sent to my grandmother, before my father was born. My grandmother’s Spencerian script is faded now, as is Grandfather’s scrawl (which I somehow inherited, but that’s a column for another day). Cards 115 years ago were as flowery as they were still very Victorian proper, but you could tell from just the few lines that they meant every word. Folks had class back then; they understood that love and romance were not synonymous with sex and nudity.
I think about that heartbroken fellow every once in a while, and wonder how things turned out for him. I hope he found another girl, and they lived happily ever after, maybe even creating their own Valentines every year.
I hope his sad country song turned out to have a happy ending, like all good love stories. After all, love is what Valentine’s Day is supposed to be all about, not chocolates and flowers or torn-up letter and a broken heart.
Be the first to comment