I suppose it is erroneous to assume that women are all romantics.  As an adult, I realize it was my father who had the romantic heart and, as a girl, watching how he treated my mother inherently spoiled me.  Back in the ’70s (when people still actually got the newspaper) there was a “comic strip” entitled, “Love Is …”  I remember it was always one frame, in black and white, and had a saying in response at the bottom.  Daddy would often cut them out for my mother and leave them on the refrigerator.  Some were so cherished I remember pulling faded, yellowed ones down in the late ’90s after my father died.  It has been said that most people communicate in one or more of “The Five Love Languages” which are acts of service, gift-giving, physical touch, quality time, and words of affection.  When they were dating in high school, my grandmother asked that daddy stop bringing orchids every weekend because there was no room left in her refrigerator.  One of my fondest memories is that my folks always held hands.  They held hands in church, at the movies, walking into the grocery store, and at home when no one was around.  The sight of my half Choctaw father’s huge red hand dwarfing my petite half French/half Irish little mother’s dainty freckled one is indelibly etched into my mind.  In terms of quality time — when my father was not working he was home.  Oh I know many people pooh-pooh couples spending all their time with one another.  Of course they could spend time with their respective friends, but mostly they preferred to be together.  My father never failed to tell me or my mother that he loved us, or that he was proud of me.  He would say it every time he left the house and always before prayers at bed.  Freudian or not, my father shaped my life and how I view men.  I still believe I married the man who is the closest to my father in many ways.  He constantly leaves little things on my night stand he knows I might like.  He gave me a fossil he’d found in a parking lot.  It is a 3-D imprint of a shell he’d managed to spot that dates back to a time when Dallas was underwater … roughly 265 million years ago.  Fifteen years later it is still on my nightstand.  When we were first dating, he took me to a “society” ball and impulsively snatched a rose that was in the centerpiece of our candlelit, linen table.  As he presented it to me he said, “Baby Doll, you are not only more beautiful than this rose; you are the most beautiful woman here!”  My husband works INCESSANTLY and yet he never fails to call me during his sacred dinner time.  He also texts to see if we need anything from the store.  So, back to notes.  Now it is I who tend to leave them … mostly to our daughter.  I am so glad she really appreciates whatever it is I take the time to write.  That could vary from, “I love you so much!” to “Work hard and do your best!”  Recently we got a new refrigerator which is a “smart” one that stores family calendars, gives recipe ideas, lets you post photos, and suggests things to reorder for your shopping list.  It can even show you inside your fridge so when you’re at the store and you cannot remember if you have butter you can see.  I am hoping this high tech fridge keeps our little family more organized.  I do not always leave my daughter notes every day but, at a minimum, I try to once a week.  I envision her opening her lunchbox and feeling loved and encouraged.  The other day she was late getting out for her father to take her to school.  I kept telling her she needed to hurry but her little voice was so sweet as she asked me to wait.  It turns out she’d surprised me with a note of her own on Frosty (the name of our refrigerator.)  I am an only child and always signed things to my mother, “Love, Your Favorite Child.”  I’m not exactly sure if she was going for the same thing, but her sentiment struck me deeply nevertheless.  The American author and motivational speaker Leo Buscaglia, also known as “Dr. Love,” once said, “Love is always bestowed as a gift — freely, willingly and without expectation.  We don’t love to be loved; we love to love.”  I had left my now fourth grader a note in her lunchbox her first week of school, but it was her note to me the second week that made me feel so very loved … just a note on the fridge.