The lovely vase of flowers sits on my dining room table, reminding me that someone thought about what might contribute to my happiness. Miranda, Miranda, you are a supreme Brat! But oh, Miranda and Jenna: The Empress was both surprised and delighted.
Before I could quite recover from the silly smile which the delivery evoked, a silver Ford Focus pulled into my driveway. Out bounded a yellow lab and a rock-star lady, and the next phase of the Valentine’s Day to Remember launched. A few hours later, with crystal-clear skin, pink-gelled nails, and an even broader smile, I slipped into a chair at The Cigar Box. The table filled and the merriment increased.
I make no bones about it: Being serenaded by a Lounge singer had never seemed like something to which I aspired. But astonishingly, the experience proved very satisfying. Sitting at the bar, watching the young folk drink and cavort, I might have felt out of place. Instead, I felt at home.
By the time we got to the Levee, the lines of age and generation had become irrelevant. With the commencement of the Stolen Winnebago’s astounding performances of songs spanning fifty years, that irrelevance cemented itself into the night. I forgot that I had last seen one of my companions when he was sixteen and my grad-student son was three months old. I actually enjoyed myself, even when One Who May Not Be Named dumped an entire glass of ice water on me.
Jenny Rosen orchestrated my Valentine’s Day with a deftness that left me dizzy. I happily repaid her kindness by being the designated driver, and the night ended as the day had begun: With a silly smile on my face, as I climbed the stairs to my cabin room, and quiet settled over the Holmes house.
My Valentine’s Day 2015 might not have been a lot of people’s cup of tea. But I’m not complaining.