I realize that the more I write the more apt I am to repeat myself.  However, I do not believe I have written about Valentine’s Day.  I do not like the term “V-Day” just as much as I detest the term “Turkey Day” when referencing Thanksgiving, observed in North America and Canada.  Given that I am now blessed to have a world wide audience, I am not quite certain if every country even observes Valentine’s.  However, I feel there may be certain cultural parallels.  On the surface, Valentine’s Day is a chance for school children to send notes and/or candy to their classmates.  It may be as a friend or as a sign one person is smitten with another.  As one grows older it becomes more complicated.  “It is just a commercial holiday used as an extortion attempt for a guy to buy a girl flowers and chocolates and take her out to eat,” says every crummy guy whom you should not be dating.  While I did have a few memorable, chivalrous Valentine’s Day dates involving surprises, lovely meals, white teddy bears, and red roses — they were few and far between.  I have probably said countless times I am a hopeless, incurable romantic.  Call it Freudian, but I must have gotten it from my daddy.  Every year without fail he would bring Mama and me a fancy heart-shaped box of chocolates, cards, and little stuffed animals.  Then he would take us both out to eat.  As I got older I realized they should be alone more, but often times that only served to heighten my loneliness.  Once I had a boyfriend show up three hours late (after our dinner reservations) and with three red carnations.  Growing up poor I understood the expense of flowers; conversely it also made me realize their import.  Mama told me once that every week when they were dating Daddy brought her a corsage.  She was quietly disappointed when my grandmother asked him to stop bringing flowers because she had no more room for them in the refrigerator.  I grew up watching my father write poems to my mother; leave her love notes on the refrigerator, and treat her like a queen whenever he could.  At a precocious age I started voraciously reading historical romance novels.  I am sure I have quite literally read thousands.  Then there was the handsome, strapping blond Air Force guy who brought flowers for my mother each time he came over to pick me up for a date.  He was a creep who would ultimately wind up cheating on me.  Ironically the one truly romantic guy I dated, who took me on the best, most thoughtful dates, was just not someone to whom I was amorously attracted.  Ultimately, I was incredibly blessed to marry the man of my dreams.  However, I have discovered he shows his love in different ways.  He does the dishes, helps with the laundry, and tells me he he took out the trash for me.  I have never uttered a WORD of my hopeless romanticism to our daughter.  By kindergarten I discovered she was exactly like me and since that tine I have strived to neither discourage her (so as to crush her spirit) nor to encourage her (to set her up for disappointment later in life) in that respect.  Most importantly, I know our child sees the love between my husband and me; just as I did with my mother and father.  However, I discovered she has been quietly coaching her daddy upon how to be more romantic.  “Daddy, you said Mama looks beautiful but you didn’t LOOK at her!!”  “Daddy, tell Mama she made a wonderful dinner.”  She has simply taken it upon herself to point these things out on her own.  As this Valentine’s Day approached she proclaimed we had not had a date in “ages” and proceeded to instruct her father to make reservations for a nice restaurant.  Somewhat at a loss, he came to me and asked where I would like to go.  I told him it was not “my” dinner but “ours” so we should select something we both would enjoy.  It turns out this was our best Valentine’s Day date ever, and I knew I had my little one to thank for it.  On the way out they handed me a red rose and I told my husband he should give it to our daughter.  She was SO delighted!  Wrapping her little arms around his neck, I heard her whisper, “I love you Daddy!”  She then proceeded to whisk me away to hear all about our date.  The history of Saint Valentine is muddled.  Some say the third century priest defied the Roman Emperor Claudius II and performed marriage ceremonies in secret when it was said that single men made better soldiers than those with wives.  Others suggest he may have been imprisoned and killed under the same emperor for attempting to help Christians escape harsh Roman prisons.  One legend claims he actually sent the first “Valentine” himself after falling in love with a young girl — possibly his jailor’s daughter — who visited him during his confinement.  It is alleged that before his death he wrote her a letter signed, “From your Valentine.”  Regardless, I find love is the common denominator in all three of these stories.  I have known the undying love of my parents, both of whom have passed away.  I have known innocent love which painfully failed, passionate love which did not last, and one-sided love which remained unrequited.  The Saturday Evening Post writer Franklin P. Jones once said, “Love doesn’t make the world go round.  Love is what makes the ride worthwhile.”  And so, dear readers, I encourage you — whether it is the love of God, a friend, family, a spouse, a child, yourself, or a beloved animal — make the ride worthwhile.