Two or Three Lifelong Lessons from a Heartless Valentine

How open are you to receiving inspiration in a scary moment? I remember my first time.

It was February 13, 1964. Cold. You know. Where your breath catches because moisture freezes on the microscopic hairs in your throat. Cilia seizing cold.

Still, I didn’t mind. I was giddy, clutching a Munroe Shoes shoebox that Mom had dug out of the back of her closet the night before. I made my way to Lewis & Clark Elementary School in South Fargo. Swaddled in a woolen version of Saran Wrap of cap, mittens, scarf, and coat, I glided and bounced lightly, 6-year-old expertly, across snow-moguled sidewalks.

Why so happy? That day in Kindergarten, we were going to create Valentine’s Day boxes with which the next day we would store all our cards, suckers and Sweet Tarts that we collected from each other.

I entered through the South-facing doors and stopped in a puddle of melting snow at the first door on the left. My room. Mrs. Melby’s room. The room where my Kmart-purchased royal blue and cherry red plastic nap mat was stashed in a cupboard. The room where each day, I rested on that festive mat after eating a snack and drinking milk from a square, flat top carton that had a resealable thin silver strip in the corner.

I stood in line in the hallway with my classmates, waiting for the grand Mrs. Melby to come out and welcome us. Like a kind-voiced cattle rustler, she would ensure we entered in an orderly fashion that “only grownup five- and six-year-olds could master.”

Inside the classroom, Mrs. Melby and a couple of volunteer mothers neatly wrapped each of our boxes and the lids with white or red tissue paper. They cut rectangular shaped holes in the covers of our shoebox tops where we would stuff Valentine Day gifts for each other.

Toting my freshly sheathed white box, I headed to a row of tables near the windows, then climbed into a chair next to a boy named Patrick. Patrick was a perfectionist even though I didn’t know the word yet. He sat up straight and kept constant eye contact with Mrs. Melby except when he looked down his nose at those around him who weren’t doing as they were told.

On my other side, sat a pleasant girl with wispy blonde hair and a white frilly dress. I don't remember her first name, but her last name probably started with an S or a T because we were seated next to each other almost all the time. I remember this because frilly girl was lactose intolerant. I didn’t know that term either back then, but I knew she passed gas each day after drinking square-cartoned milk. I worried others thought it was me gunning methane into the ether. At home, my siblings and I called each other out for flagrant flatulent fouls, but at school I held my tongue and my breath.

That day, I sat Beaver Cleaver-like with hands folded, so excited and flushed that I probably competed with my gassy classmate. I could not wait to get started on making my Valentine’s Day box.

Then Mrs. Melby and her helpers placed in front of each of us a small pair of scissors, a tub of paste (great smelling and tasting, but don’t eat it especially you frilly girl), and two—just two—two-inch squares of construction paper (one red, one white). They told us not to pick up the materials yet. Some of the boys—of course not Patrick—disobeyed and immediately picked up the scissors and dipped into the paste.

After what seemed like eternity, Mrs. Melby okayed us to take up our pieces of construction paper and scissors. I inhaled deeply and a big grin spread across my face. We were about to begin. Finally!

Mrs. Melby went into a rapid dissertation on how cut into the square to make a heart out of it.

"Do this. Do that. Then do this, then that, then this. Then voila!" she said.

"Then walleye what?!" I thought, alarmed.

I dug my fingers into my ears to check if they were clogged with paste. I couldn’t understand Mrs. Melby even though the rest of the kids were following her demonstration like inspired recruits in an adolescent boot camp. I tried to fall in line, but instead, hacked my two pieces of construction paper to smithereens. I dropped my scissors in horror when I looked at my mangled hearts. I fought the urge to burst out crying because I didn’t want to call attention to my mess.

I looked at Patrick and gassy girl and they were cutting out beautiful heart shapes. Seeing my dilemma and that I hadn’t followed Mrs. Melby’s instructions, Patrick gave me a withering look as he completed cutting his second construction paper into another perfect heart. The remnants of his masterpiece fluttered to the table and landed to the right of his about-to-be-adorned shoe box. I looked to my right at gassy girl and she too was completing the artistic task with no mis-cuts.

The room seemed to spin, my cheeks felt hot and welling salty tears made my eyes sting. To get control of myself, I stared out the window and into the blue sky, saying a little prayer, asking God, the universe, or Mom and Dad for a way out of the catastrophe. With that, I inhaled and brought my focus down to the table before me. There before me sat my plain white, undecorated box. The kids around me continued to decorate their boxes; most of them were now pasting their hearts to their boxes. Once again, I felt my panic growing.

I swiveled my head swiftly to look at both Patrick and gassy girl. They had finished their boxes and pushed their excess construction paper into my work area to better show off their completed projects. Downtrodden, I looked at their wastepaper now in my workspace. I saw tossed out squares with perfect heart-shaped openings from which my paper cardiovascular geniuses had lifted their perfect hearts. Gee whiz, why couldn't mine look that good?

Suddenly I thought, "Hey, wait a minute. Mine could! Mine could look exactly as good as theirs!"

I gathered up Patrick and gassy girl’s debris and feverishly rubbed paste on their rubbish. Then I pressed the squares neatly across the front of my shoebox.

Looking in awe at what I had just created in a storm of paste, I became centered and sensed a larger being in my presence.

“Well, will you look at this,” Mrs. Melby said from behind me as she leaned over my shoulder.

The room grew quiet. The mothers and kids gathered around me. Patrick looked pissed. Gassy girl smiled.

“Well someone in our classroom has just made something wonderfully creative,” Mrs. Melby said. “Look at Judi's Valentine's Day box. She took the cast offs from some of you and made something beautiful from your leftovers.”

Oh boy. I was the center of positive attention. It felt good and embarrassing at the same time.

From that moment 55 years ago I learned two lifelong lessons that you may be interested in for your own good life:

1. Believing is seeing. You receive help from the universe or higher power if you ask and are open to receiving it.

2. Finding the positive in a negative space. In times of seemingly insurmountable problems, you can generate a creative, beautiful solution from debris.

Is there a third lesson? No, I don’t think so. Well, unless it comes down to the choice between being perfect and judgmental or gassy and pleasant. Then I'd say choose gassy and pleasant. For example, my lessons aren’t perfect, but I'm pleased to pass them along to you.

Judi Stoa's Donchyaknow Life Lessons to see and bring out the best in yourself and others

Website: Judi Stoa Books

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