I have never given my wife flowers, candy nor any other gift for Valentine’s Day.
To some of the men out there, that might sound preposterous or unbelievable, if not outright dangerous. To some of the ladies, it might sound insensitive, selfish or loutish, if not downright disgusting.
Of course, there is more to this story than just the opening sentence.
Due to a career path that kept me moving around the country on a regular basis, I was the new guy in a brand new town, and in dire need of an over-due haircut.
As luck would have it, just a half-block from my newly rented apartment stood a salon that had a sign in the window that welcomed “walk-ins.” So I walked in.
Waiting patiently for the stylist to finish chatting with the perfectly coiffured, blue-haired lady that had just received her weekly “tune-up” (I have since learned that it is called a “wash and set”), I indifferently paged through a Cosmopolitan magazine, hoping no one (in a town where no one knew me) would notice.
When it was my turn to sit in the chair, the beautiful, young, blonde stylist smiled alluringly, caressed her cape around my shoulders and began to run her fingers through my hair.
Right then and there, I knew this woman was going to be my wife (this is my story and this is how it’s getting told).
That was on a Thursday, and I sent her flowers the next day — and continued to send her flowers every Friday thereafter (some have accused me of stalking).
Eventually, I wore her down and (against her better judgment) she married me.
Even after we were married, I continued to send flowers to her shop every Friday (and you ladies thought I was a disgusting lout, didn’t you?). However, every year, around the middle of February I refused to knuckle under and send her flowers, citing the other 51 weeks of the year when she received artfully assembled blossoms of fragrance and color.
I refused to be bullied by the romantic guilt trip manufactured by the combined forces of the big floral, big jewelry, and big dining industries. I didn’t like being told that I had to buy flowers, that they had to be roses, that they had to be red, that they had to be delivered on Feb. 14 and that they had to cost three times the usual rate.
Luckily for me and my annual impassioned rant against forced romance, she was good with it. She liked getting flowers every Friday and so did all the blue-haired ladies who insisted on scheduling their appointments for Friday afternoons just so they could live vicariously through her floral deliveries (there were a lot of husbands in that town that didn’t like me).
However, life did what life does, and eventually my wife came to me and suggested that I cut back on the Friday flower deliveries. Yes, my wife told me to quit sending her flowers.
It came down to a question of economics over romance. With the cost of gas at that time, I needed the flower money to put gas in my car, so I could drive to work, so I could make enough money to put gas in my car, so I could drive to work.
A vicious circle and a reality of the times.
Without Friday flower deliveries, it was starting to look like my annual histrionics against the evils of big ardor was going to crash and burn. I might have to succumb to the rules and do Valentine’s Day like all the other guys.
That’s when I decided to alter the rules. It turns out there is an obscure and barely observed holiday known as St. Swithun’s Day, named after an Anglo-Saxon Bishop, once celebrated by 40 days of feasting beginning on July 15.
Because no one seemed to be using this holiday, I decided to commandeer it and move it to the middle of February. I also managed to pare down the 40 days of feasting and attach the new St. Swithun’s Day traditions of giving peach colored roses (she carried them in her wedding bouquet) and candy in boxes shaped like a woman’s derriere (turn a heart-shaped box of chocolates upside down and you’ll figure it out).
I have never given my wife flowers, or candy, or any other gift for Valentine’s Day.
However, on St. Swithun’s Day? Now that’s a different story.

Larry Wilson is a mostly lifelong resident of Niles. His optimistic “glass full to overflowing” view of life shapes his writing. His essays stem from experiences, compilations and recollections from friends and family. Wilson touts himself as “a dubiously licensed teller of tall tales, sworn to uphold the precept of ‘It’s my story; that’s the way I’m telling it.’” He can be reached at wflw@hotmail.com.