My mother always enjoyed buying Valentine's Day presents.
My father did, too.
When I was a child, my mother and I each received a vase of beautiful flowers on Valentine's Day, courtesy of my father and delivered from our town's local florist. I could always count on seeing Dad's big loopy signature along with an X and and O, festooned like he was signing a very important document on a small rectangular card tucked into its clear plastic pick. It was such an extravagant gesture, especially during a time of great inflation when the cost of ordering flowers was so exhaustively high and my mother was reusing tin foil and patching (and re-patching) all the knees in our jeans to make them last just a few weeks longer.
My senior year of high school, I photographed my very last red rose bouquet from my father atop my dresser, unintentionally surrounded by an array of 80s hair products. It's a snap in time and I am very grateful to have that picture.
One of the other Valentine's Days I often reflect upon has, at its core, the item that I won't be buying today...it's Englebert Humperdinck's After the Lovin' record album.
My mother purchased this popular album for my Nana and my Papa in February 1977 and on Sunday the 13th, we jumped in the car and drove it to their home. Up past all of our bedtimes the evening before, Mom traced and cut out pink paper hearts and taped them to the album's cellophane covering. In her careful, deliberate, upper case penmanship, Mom wrote cute candy heart sayings like TRUE LOVE and BE MINE. With Englebert's features peeking through the pink paper hearts, the whole presentation was fun and visually gratifying. I was excited when Mom asked me to hold it in the car and I recall repeatedly flipping it over, reading the tracks, and finger-tracing the zippy script of the Epic logo. The anticipation of giving this gift to my grandparents made our ride seem extra long.
Nana opened the door and Mom gleefully presented her with the record. A big fan of Englebert, Nana smiled broadly, looking as pleased as I felt! We ambled into the house, all the adults professing love for the way he sang. At seven years old, I said his name aloud, stretching out the syllables and giggling to myself under the din.
After appreciating all of the handmade hearts, Nana swiftly turned down the television, sliced the cover open with her metal nail file, lifted the lid of the record player, and, with both hands, placed the album carefully onto the turntable. After The Lovin', began, with its swelling orchestra, and pinging xylophone. Nana had the volume generously high and she stood next to the record as it spun 'round and 'round. Her smile was sassy, like she was hiding a secret, and the corners of her eyes crinkled with delight. She moved her arms from side to side and sashayed her slippered feet to the mellow groove singing the words she knew out loud. Papa, from his chair, watched and grinned, his gold capped teeth glinting from the gentle backlight of the nightly news and their amber hobnail table lamp. My parents listened from the couch, enjoying Nana's little impromptu recital and I settled on the floor, my perpetual spot at any relative's house, with my legs bent in angles behind me on the braided oval rug, patched denim knees front and center. The smells from our Polish dinner of kielbasa and sauerkraut filled the room and our collective joy bubbled over, supported by a popular love song played on a simple hi fi that probably cost less than the bag of groceries I bought last night.
Replaying this scene is important to me because moments like this are the greatest gift my family ever gave me, and if I were buying this album today, dropping that needle on the vinyl would bring me right back to that living room and a time where a perfect evening could be borne of something so simple.
So tonight, when you are picking a syrupy love song for your Valentine and you, maybe you'll consider dialing up one of Englebert's serenades. I hope the music feels as sweet for you as it did for me, back on that night in February 1977.
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