When I was a little girl, I found love in a box all because of a class assignment. On a Friday night I made an announcement at the dinner table. The words bubbled out in a torrent of excitement I could no longer contain. “My teacher said we have to bring a box for our valentines on Monday. But it has to be a special box, all decorated.”
　　Mother said, “We’ll see,” and she continued eating.
　　I wilted faster than a flower with no water. What did “We’ll see” mean? I had to have that box or there would be no valentines for me. My second grade Valentine’s Day would be a disaster. Maybe they didn’t love me enough to help me with my project.
　　All day Saturday I waited, and I worried, but there was no mention of a valentine box. Sunday arrived, and my concern increased, but I knew an inquiry about the box might trigger anger and loud voices. I kept an anxious eye on both my parents all day. In 1947, in my house, children only asked once. More than that invited punitive measures.
　　Late Sunday afternoon, my father called me into our apartment’s tiny kitchen. The table was covered with an assortment of white crepe paper, red construction paper, and bits and pieces of lace and ribbon from my mother’s sewing basket. An empty shoebox rested on top of the paper. Relief flooded through me when Daddy said, “Let’s get started on your project.”
　　In the next hour my father transformed the empty shoebox into a valentine box I would never forget. Crepe paper covered the ugly cardboard. My father fashioned a wrinkled piece of the pliable paper and glued it around the middle. He cut a slot in the lid and covered it with more of the white paper. Next came red hearts attached in what I considered all the right places. He hummed a tune while he worked, and I kneeled on my chair witnessing the magical conversion of the shoebox and handing him the glue when he needed it. When he finished, my father’s eyes sparkled, and a smile stretched across his thin face. “What do you think of that?”
　　My answer was a hug and a “Thank you, Daddy.”
　　But inside, joy danced all the way to my heart. It was the first time that my father devoted so much time to me. His world consisted of working hard to support his family, adoring my mother, disciplining my brother and me, and listening to every sports event broadcast on the radio. Suddenly, a new door opened in my life. My father loved me.
　　Monday morning, my mother found a brown grocery sack to protect the beautiful box while I carried it to school. I barely felt the bitter cold of the February day as I held the precious treasure close to me. I would let no harm come to my beautiful valentine box.
　　My teacher cleared a space on a long, wide windowsill where the decorated boxes would stay until Valentine’s Day. I studied each one as it was placed on the sill, and none compared with mine. Every time I peeked at my valentine box, I felt my father’s love. My pride knew no bounds. There were moments when the box actually glowed in a spotlight all its own. No doubt I was the only one who witnessed that glow.
　　Every day some of my classmates brought valentine cards to school and slipped them into the slots of the special boxes. The holiday party arrived, and we brought our boxes to our desks to open the valentines. Frosted heart cookies, red punch, valentines and giggles filled our classroom. Chaos reigned until dismissal time arrived.
　　I carried my valentine box home proudly. It wasn’t hidden in a grocery sack but held out for the world to admire. I showed it to the policeman who guided us across a busy city street. He patted me on the head and exclaimed about it. I made sure everyone along the way took note of my valentine box. My father had made it for me, and the love that filled it meant more to me than all the valentines nestled inside.
　　From that time on I never doubted my father’s feelings for me. The valentine box became a symbol of his love that lasted through decades of other Valentine’s Days. He gave me other gifts through the years, but none ever compared with the tender love I felt within the confines of the old, empty shoebox.
 

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