Be My…What?

I don’t normally post on Saturday. But today is Valentine’s Day. When I announced that fact to hubby this morning his response was:   VALENTINE’S DAY ON SATURDAY?  

If you read the title of this post, I hope you raised your voice to a high-pitched squeal as you said “my what?”  Feel it slide up there. WHAAATTTT?

That was how he said Saturday?  Like how could a loving God ever allow February 14 to fall on a Saturday (slide upward again, please)

Yep. I married a true romantic.  And the picture accompanying this post proves it. 

Now, we’ve been married 56 years, and I’m sure that I’ve forgotten a LOT of fine details. You know—love doesn’t keep track of wrong doings! You do realize that is a biblical statement, don’t you?

SO, that being said, I must share one of the most tender moments–the Valentine’s Day that needed no prompting. No subtle reminder at all.  Nope. This was indeed a surprise.  

The gift box was HUGE. 


VERY, VERY, heavy.  

Anticipation nearing the squealing stage, I tried to guess what it might be. I mean, it was definitely heavier than the usual spatula I got for Christmas. And he already gave me the last two Laura Ingalls Wilder books—that we needed to round out our set—when our boys were born. 

I carefully—don’t ask me why—removed the duck tape bow, and tore away the newspaper wrapping. And what that box revealed brought tears to my eyes. Of course, I was laughing.

There was the biggest cast iron skillet I had ever seen (although, since then I have seen bigger ones at Silver Dollar City). We could have put a whole side of bacon in the thing. Well, at least I think we could have. We first had to get a crane to lift the lid before I could actually witness the width, and height, and depth of this man’s love. 

“For camping,” he said. 

I’m not sure if we were supposed to sleep in the thing, or pull it behind us. However, even after all these years I can still count on one hand—actually, with one finger—the times we’ve gone camping.

But you know what? It was one of those times when you knew that no matter what the years would bring, that skillet would be there. We’ve had oh-so-may laughs with the retelling of this story. 

As I write this, hubby is building a fire in the fire pit down in our timber. During the day he will keep it going by feeding it deadfall branches. Around that fire pit he’s made benches from logs, and there are a couple of old metal lawn chairs. Even a silly little table he’s rigged up so he’d have a place to set his every-present stainless steel coffee cup. 

I’ll not get flowers, or candy or a card. And I probably won’t get taken out for supper. 

But I know, just as surely as Valentines Day is on Saturday this year, that every time he comes into the house he’ll be singing “will you be my valentine”.  

And I’ll offer to take HIM out. And afterward he’ll tell me I fixed him a right nice little Valentines supper. 

How do I know? Because even when he fixes his own bologna sandwich to give me more time to write, he’ll tell me I fixed him a right-nice little meal. 

He’s romantic, like that. 

And that’s perfectly perfect for me. 

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