Thoughts of a boy’s first valentine
Every Valentine’s Day I am reminded of my first experience with
it. It was on Feb. 14 of 1940 at Marshall School in Toledo.
The previous September a group of anxious 5- and 6-year-olds had
been ushered into a classroom festooned with pictures of clowns and
bluebirds by a smiling woman who introduced herself as Miss
Hildebrand.
Thoughts of a boy’s first valentine
Every Valentine’s Day I am reminded of my first experience with it. It was on Feb. 14 of 1940 at Marshall School in Toledo.
The previous September a group of anxious 5- and 6-year-olds had been ushered into a classroom festooned with pictures of clowns and bluebirds by a smiling woman who introduced herself as Miss Hildebrand.
She directed us to our desks, then announced, “I am your teacher and I know that we are going to have a happy time together for the next nine months. By the time that June arrives you all will know how to read and even to print words. But for today, we will sing merry songs and just have fun.”
Miss Hildebrand was a tall lady, quite thin, with iron-gray hair and thick glasses but we warmed immediately to her generous heart and ready smile, which never seemed to lose its ardor.
As we issued into class on the morning of Feb. 14, the smile was bigger than ever. After we took our seats, she explained what Valentine’s Day meant. She had put up some pictures of men wearing wigs and dressed in pants that extended to their knees, with stockings carrying on to their buckled shoes. Many were kneeling before women in great skirts who had turned their smiling faces to one side.
“These are gentlemen from a long time ago paying court to their ladies fair,” she explained, with the shine of her eyes matching her smile. “When you are young men and women you may do the same.”
The girls seemed particularly interested in that part but we boys were more caught up with the swords that some of the men wore at their side.
Miss Hildebrand sighed, perhaps remembering a gentleman of her young womanhood, but her face lighted again. “Today we are going to make valentines for the most wonderful women in the world, your own dear mothers.”
Two girls distributed sheets of heavy red paper and chains of paper lace to each of us. Miss Hildebrand held a sheet of the red paper aloft and showed us how to cut a heart from it. She printed “I love you, Mother” on the blackboard as a model for us to inscribe on the heart. Then she showed us how to paste the paper lace round the heart.
We all were delighted with our creations, not withstanding the sometimes wavering letters and patches of dried paste left by an errant brush.
Miss Hildebrand distributed tiny chocolate hearts to us. When class ended, she stood smiling by the door as we filed out, reminding us to deliver our valentines with a kiss.
My mother’s eyes shone like Miss Hildebrand’s had as I kissed her and gave her the valentine.
Miss Hildebrand missed the role of wife and mother she was destined for in life but she inspired many young lives. I know what I would say to her if I could erase the intervening years:
I love you, Miss Hildebrand.
