Valentine’s Day is seen as a celebration of love, with hearts and affection, flowers, joy, and gift-giving. For some of us it may serve as a day not only of reminiscing and love, but also as a time of grieving and devotion. Sometimes with a few smiles tucked into the corners of our mouth, we recall both joy and sadness.
For me it is a day of fond memories, but also of grief. The day of love, Valentine’s Day, 2015, was the moment my beloved husband said, “Goodbye.”
And that’s how it should have been. Love was a way of life with Willard Boggan. He brought so much happiness and love into my life, and also into the lives of so many others. When he practiced medicine, he was a healer in the truest sense of the word. He knew how to bring hope when it was possible, solace when it was needed. He took loving care of his patients as he did his family and his wife, for 59 years. But there is no way I can bend my knees and say prayerful thanks to “Saint Willard” because there were some stumbles and bumbles along the way. And come Valentine’s Day, a few times he made me shake my head and grumble, “More, more. I want more.” Those words play tunes in my ears as I recall a few of his faux pas.
***
Willard was a “count your pennies” gentle man. Going back in time, on most Valentine’s I would receive a box of chocolates (my husband loved candy) and even though it would be hard to read, always a card with a handwritten message. Every now and then there were a few more last moment, inexpensive gifts having to do with the sports we both loved, like golf balls or a tennis lesson.
Now, to say the least I never opened up a box of jewelry, heard the honk of a new red convertible in the driveway, slipped into a furry jacket, or to be more realistic—opened a gift certificate for dinner at a five-star restaurant of my own choosing.
Which is to say, my Scotch-Irish husband wasn’t big on gift-giving. So, one year, thinking ahead I gave him a list, topped with two things I didn’t want that he had mentioned; both having to do with the sports we loved—a yellow golf bag and red tennis shoes. Well, guess what? I got both from my proud presenter. He never saw the “Don’t want,” at the top of the list.
I slumped my shoulders, shook my head in disappointment and made sure I blew out painful martyrdom sighs for several days.
Finally, very early one morning before Willard left to make rounds at three hospitals, and before I was good awake, he served me coffee in bed, a slight sign of worry deepening his dimples.
“I have some thoughts,” he said, his hand unconsciously tapping his back pocket.
“Gentlemen may forget a birthday, an anniversary, or Valentine’s. But we should always put our wives on a pedestal.” Leaning forward he brushed his hand across his mouth. “When a lady enters the room, if men are seated, they should stand. We should pull out their chairs.”
A dimpled smile creased his cheeks. This warmhearted man looked down at me with tenderness.
“My brother Bobby and I were raised to be gentlemen. If there’s a line, ladies go first.” He plucked a piece of lint off the conforter and began rolling it between his fingers. “A man with a lady should always walk on the outside of a sidewalk.”
I gave him a small smile. “Well, I must say, you’re not from Possum Bend.”
His chin dipped as he pulled a small tape player from his pocket where we had recorded a few songs from the internet.
An old Irish folk song, “Oh Danny Boy,” began playing. When the pipes are calling faded away, they gave place to an old hymn he and I both loved, “In the Garden.” He held me in his arms; I rested my head against his chin and fell into dreamland. I never felt him lay me back on my pillow or tiptoe out the door—and I forgot that my gift for Valentine’s Day that year was recorded music.
Yes, Valentine’s Day is traditionally seen as a day of joy, love and happiness. It can also be a time of memories. I may not think of my four girls, my daughter’s Pat Cummings and Linda Gail Boggan and granddaughters Brent Riddell and Lindsay Lee Boggan, who have also slipped away to heaven, everyday. But they and my Willard are always with me. Though the road between us stretches off, sometimes in the stillness, just before I drift off to sleep, a guitar strums in the background. And I hear the words of my beloveds, “You’ll know where we are, by the songs that we sang.”
This I do know. They wait for me.
***
I wake from dreams of the past. I heave a sigh and pet Lettie Lou’s head. She’s my canine valentine.
I whisper to her, “Grief is always hard, but it’s okay to feel sad, especially for some of us on Valentine’s.”
And on that day of love, which will soon be here, I think I’ll get out my Broadman Hymnal and hum, “In the Garden.” Then, I’ll slip on some sparkly tennis shoes, shape my thinning hair under a rhinestone headband, and put doggie Lettie Lou in the car with me. Despite the prediction of rain, we’ll drive to the cemetery and put silk roses on my dear Willard. On the way home, we’ll stop at the store where I’ll go buy Lettie Lou some heart-shaped treats and ME a big box of CHOCOLATE CANDY.
