By Dotti Moyer I realize my vignettes are erratic, but as you know, writers are not the most conforming individuals. Some would say that I have, in particular, attention-deficient syndrome. That is the new way of labeling all of us. I am grateful for not being obsessive/compulsive. As you may note it is 2 AM. I couldn't sleep, and now I am just writing until I settle down. I heard a discussion today of the commercialization of Valentine's Day. The complaint was that cards cost between $7-10.00. And cut flowers doubled in price for Valentine's Day. I do agree and have always preferred gold or precious stones. Of course, I jest. George and I were a typical Broomfield family. We were blessed with three sons, who, at the time, were working their way through the Broomfield school system. George was a school principal, developing new buildings and programs to mainstream the developmentally disabled into a normal school day. I was selling real estate in Broomfield and had long days, and we all seemed to be passing each other in the night. No time to set aside for what they call now 'date night.' As I look back our family was in the building period. Boys up at 5 am to go to swimming and diving team practice. After-school dental appointments and two houses to maintain, one in Broomfield and one at Keystone, and the ups and downs of families selling their home or buying a home in the real estate business. My office was located on the northeast side of 120th and Sheridan. George's school was off of Lowell Blvd. To celebrate our undying love on this particular Valentine's Day, we were having dinner at Bernetti's Italian Restaurant, where the Chinese restaurant is now. We were pushed for time, having paperwork to do after dinner, but wanted to check off all the boxes. Says the 'I love you's', buy an impressed card at the Hallmark store, no cheapy on these occasions, indulge in a glass of wine and dinner. Always running late, I left, picking up the card about 5 minutes before I was to meet George for dinner. There were many anxious people, besides me at the Hallmark store, reaching over my head to find the perfect car; some they would reject and some at last, settling on the sentiment to reflect their feelings. I, too, was in this dilemma. Do I go for the funny card, the mushy one, or a simple spiritual one? As I began pawing over the remaining cards, I looked over. There was George doing the same thing. We laughed, and then I suggested he find a card that expressed his sentiment, and I would do the same. We would then exchange them to read and promptly return them to the shelf without purchasing them. In subsequent years, George would write poems for me, and I would cook his favorite meal. No indulgence of commercialism. To all my Rotary friends, may this year be blessed with love and kindness. |
