Valentine’s Day in my Eightieth Year: No drama, a good memory.

Valentine’s Day has come and gone, and although I am a widow, I didn’t feel sad. This might surprise you. After all, my husband loved me deeply. But to Boyd, Valentine’s Day was a holiday jointly run by Hallmark, candy companies, florists, and elementary schools.

Our children grew up in the era when each child was required to create a Valentine “box.” Not just any box—a box decorated to reflect their personality. Not so easy, as we had three children with very different personalities under our roof: one perfectionist, one “just-so-I-fit-in,” and one proud member of the “I don’t care” club.

It was my job to assemble the supplies: doilies, stickers, red tissue paper, white tissue paper, construction paper, tape, glue, assorted hearts, and—most importantly—three pairs of scissors so no one would have to share, therefore avoiding crying over scissors. We gathered around the kitchen table for a family bonding crafting experience. I insisted Boyd joined us for this event.

What followed was a heroic evening of agony, arguing, negotiating, and compromise. Eventually, the boxes were completed. Spirits lifted. We had survived.

Then came signing the valentines.Two of the three children blasted through their lists. Sign name. Next, Done.

But not our perfectionist. He insisted on matching each valentine to the exact recipient based on the wording. This required reading each card multiple times, deep reflection, and what appeared to be ethical deliberation. Boyd watched this unfold, doing his best to move the process along to his son’s great annoyance. When the task was completed Boyd had visibly aged.

By the end of the evening, Boyd disliked Valentine’s Day even more than when we had started—which I had previously believed was impossible.

Over our 58 years of marriage, Valentine’s Day usually passed with little fanfare. Occasionally we exchanged cards. Sometimes I would make a special meal. Mostly, we agreed to ignore it, after all our love was above commercialization.

One Valentine’s memory of Boyd is a bit unconventional for him. He brought me a rose. A very sad rose, but still a real rose.  This was highly unusual behavior that I greeted with great surprise.

He was developing dementia but still able to do simple errands. I had asked him to pick up a prescription at Walgreens. The next day, when I went there myself, I spotted it—the saddest, most wilted roses, half-price since it was Feb 15. And I knew where this gesture of love came from.

Even with a shrinking world and a failing memory, he had seen that rose and thought, This is what you do. This means love.

Not perfect. Not pretty. But entirely us.

My eightieth Christmas… started with chaos

For years my role has been matriarch in charge. My descendants would agree with that label—perhaps too enthusiastically. But recently things have changed. Two years ago the patriarch in charge made a comment at the Christmas table that inspired all. Shortly after he gained his wings. Now only his love and spirit join us. 

I prepared for Christmas with my usual mindset of matriarch, despite the fact that I’m living in a Temporary Multigenerational Commune. Chaos, it turns out, thrives in communal living.

I like to plan and I like to plan in advance: the menu, the gifts, the timeline, the attendees, the agenda—all within the timeworn traditions. 

This did not happen.

There is no “in charge” in the commune–it’s non confrontational avoidance. Say what you will—but I’ll do what I want…

And when this is your 80th Christmas, you believe some things are written in permanent ink.

• Brunch is at eleven. 

• Bacon lovers will arrive early to help fry it.

• Menu will include the breakfast casserole from the Calvin Coolidge Mother’s Club cookbook, circa 1976

• We gather happily around the table

• We open our Christmas Crackers, put on our crowns and enjoy the meal. 

Mistakes were made. 

My first mistake was waiting too long to buy the Christmas Crackers. None could be found 

My second mistake was not being specific enough about the 11:00 brunch plan.

My third mistake was making a new healthier casserole. 

My fourth mistake was not clarifying my need for bacon frying help.

I’m the only Baby Boomer left and the majority are part of the Gen Z generation. Their reassurance was gentle but firm:…”it’s OK, grandma, we don’t need to plan”

At ten o’clock I learned that most attendees won’t arrive until 11:30. At eleven the food I cooked–no bacon– was ready.  My neighbor and I sat down to enjoy our brunch.

Meanwhile, my inner matriarch was preparing for a full emotional meltdown.

Instead, I went and sat in a chair.

No one noticed. 

Everyone was perfectly self-sufficient: filling their plates, gathering at the big dining table, eating, chatting, laughing and enjoying themselves.

As I sat there, I calmed down and realized that all my self-imposed expectations had nothing to do with the joy of our family being together.

Chaos might not be my preferred style—but love, family and the joy of being together were all mine.

My Eightieth Thanksgiving… I’ve still got it

This was my eightieth Thanksgiving…obviously I don’t remember my first one–I was only required to eat, burp and not create too much havoc.

Over the decades I have collected a variety of memories. Generally we went to my father’s side of the family. One year it was held at my aunt and uncle’s farm. The pigs had been released into a corn field to eat any of the leftover cobs–the children were sent to a field to round up the pigs. I hated it and knew farm life was not for me!

This year we went to my daughter’s for the Thanksgiving feast. Only the second year since my husband’s death—I was still feeling a little tender. It did not deter us from having a beautiful spread—reminicing, and enjoying each other’s company.

Later in the day my granddaughter and her family–currently living with me in what I call a Temporary Multigeneration Commune–complete with a baby and toddler—went off to paternal grandmother’s gathering. All seemed well…
…until the next morning, when I awoke to the unmistakable chorus of violent vomiting. My granddaughter, pale and miserable, whispered, “I’ve got food poisoning.” As she flops into my bed and turns over the toddler to my able care. 

And just like that, Great-Gram sprang into action—drawing on my many years of sick children and grandchildren–I was able to provide care to yet another generation. I spent the day tending to all, coordinating reinforcements from my daughter and the neighbor, and making a heroic dash to Walgreen’s for Sprite and Squirt, the universal cure-all of family illnesses.

Meanwhile, the Thanksgiving leftovers languished untouched in the refrigerator, slowly aging until time for the garbage can—the pumpkin pie—I rescued and rewarded to myself. A woman must maintain her strength, after all.