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By Myron Kukla

Valentine's Day has always had a special place in my heart among holidays. That's because I learned some very important lessons about life one Valentine's Day many years ago.

One lesson I would never forget: girlfriends cost money.

You have to appreciate that this happened in a time before political correctness, a time before the Equal Rights Amendment, a time before I had a job and money.

I was in the sixth grade and just coming out of that awkward stage where boys think it's fun to show girls bugs and moving into that next stage where guys do other stupid things instead.

There was this girl, Rosemary, who used to wear her beautiful brown hair in ringlets that were popular in the days before orange hair. I had admired her from afar since we were in the fourth grade. Well, it wasn't that far afar. We sat beside each other in class.

I can remember even now how daintily she ate her crustless peanut butter and jelly sandwiches at lunch, and how amazed I was that anyone could be so neat. I actually had decided in the fourth grade to ask her out, but had waited a few years so as not to appear over-eager.

Asking Rosemary to the Dance

Our school that year was throwing this big Valentine's Day dance in the gym. It was to be the social event of the season for all the sixth and seventh graders.

Somehow, I managed to talk to Rosemary without a bug in my hand and asked her to the dance. And with the faintest hint of  a blush on her cheeks, and a demure smile on her face, she agreed.

I was the happiest boy in St. John's School that day. I literally floated home on air, carried by cherubs while Cupid tossed rose-petal hearts before me.

Sauntering into our house, I announced as casually as I could, that I would be going to the school dance on Saturday with Rosemary.

"You're going to have to get her a corsage,'' said my father, not looking up from his evening paper. "Girls like corsages."

This was something I hadn't planned on. Unwise as I was to the ways of the world, I didn't realize the guy had to pay for the girl's dance corsage. I just assumed corsages came with the girl. What a dumb system, I thought.

On the day of the dance, I pulled out my life savings of $5.78, which I had put away to buy a pocketknife. "Oh, well, this is for the love of your life,'' I thought, stuffing the money into my pocket and heading out for the florist shop.

Now I have to say on a scale of 1 to 100 of the most useful things in the world, flowers hadn't ever made my list. Entering the florist shop that day I had no idea of what kind of flower I should buy her. Luckily, the florist seemed to know something about flowers and recommended I buy a red-tinted chrysanthemum with my school's letter on it.

"She will love it,'' he advised me. It's a good thing he was there to help, because, left to my own instincts, I probably would have bought her a potted geranium, or a flowering shrub.

The corsage cost $2, which was a lot cheaper than a flowering shrub, and I felt pretty good as I headed home with my tissue paper wrapped, red-tinted chrysanthemum in its heart-covered florist box.

Candy Tribute for Everyone

Back at home, with all of the naive delight of a schoolboy, I showed my mother the corsage and she said: "Did you remember to get some candy for her mother? They like that, you know."

It still amazes me that as wise as my parents were in the social graces of the day, it never occurred to them that I had no money to pay for these things.

Trudging down to the local corner store with the remainder of my pocketknife fund I bought not one but three boxes of candy — one for Rosemary, one for her mother and one for my mother. I wasn't taking any chances this time, unless Rosemary's father was also owed some sort of Valentine tribute. If so, he was out of luck.

My dad drove me to Rosemary's home to pick her up. I have to say she was a dream in her organdy taffeta party dress, and with as much aplomb as I could muster, I distributed the gifts. I even pinned the corsage to the top shoulder of her dress without causing her any pain.

The Last Dance

I'd like to say the evening was a huge romantic success. Actually, for most of the evening, the girls huddled on one side of the gym comparing chrysanthemums while the boys stood on the other side complaining about how much this dance had cost them. It was my guess that this one evening had thrown the pocketknife industry in our town into decline, if not outright collapse.

As the evening wound down to its final dance, I found myself at last alone with Rosemary, dancing to a slow song in a dimly lit corner of the gym. As the strains of the last dance came to an end, Rosemary looked up at me and said, "thank you," and gave me my first kiss.

And at that moment, I learned there were more important things in life than pocketknives. 

— Myron Kukla

Myron Kukla is the author of several books of humor, including Guide to Surviving Life.