It's cold and bright here in southern Wisconsin, a pretty Valentines Day. I enjoy finding vintage cards like this one at my local consignment shop. The back of this one has a signature in pencil: from George Stewart. No love, but maybe this was from a school boy who didn't give his heart freely. When my sister and I were little in the 1950s, my grandmother worked at the Rexall drugstore in Elkhorn. She always made sure we got wonderful fancy Valentines (wish I still had them), and usually a big satin heart-shaped box of Russell Stover chocolates. We made those candies last forever, and we played with the little pleated papers that each one sat nestled inside. We kept the boxes for ages too, usually putting our costume jewelry or doll shoes inside once the candy had been eaten.
These days I pretty much consider Valentines Day an artificial holiday, designed to boost the bottom line of card manufacturers, florists and restaurants. Not that there is anything wrong with that. But we just decided to have pizza and play Scrabble, and skip the commercial side of the thing. Dick did bring home a bog of Hershey kisses with almonds inside, just what I need to maintain my lovely figure.
Happy Valentines Day to all of you who celebrate it; I hope your day is as good as you hope it will be.