Today’s weather is the same as yesterday’s and the day before that and on and on. It is in the low 30’s. We have sun, but its light is muted by a sky full of clouds. Only the dead leaves hanging off the ends of the oak branches are moving.

When I was a kid, Valentine’s Day was special. It needed lots of planning. First was a trip to Woolworth’s to buy my valentines. Back then they came several in a package. On the fronts were red cheeked often roly poly boys and girls or cute animals all hoping for a valentine to say yes. The requests were often puns related to the pictures. The backs were where I wrote my name. Each valentine had its own envelope where I’d write my classmates’ names. I used to make my valentine box, usually a shoe box. My mother would gather decorations. I’d cover the whole box with red construction paper on which I’d drawn hearts with crayons or colored pencils. Sometimes I’d add lace. I tried to be artistic. On the top, I’d make a slit so my classmates could put in their valentines to me. We’d go row by row up and down the aisles to give out our valentines. I remember sitting and holding my breath hoping I’d get valentines. Some classmates would just pass me by. It always hurt a little.

On the night before Valentine’s Day, I’d address my valentines. My name, Kathleen, is long so it barely fit on the backs of the valentines. I’d use pencil and write my name from top to bottom, usually slanted because I wasn’t all that great at straight. I’d put them in the box to carry them to school. I’d also bring cookies or brownies or cupcakes for the party after lunch. We all brought something.

We set up for the party. The goodies were on my teacher’s desk. All our books were put away to make room for our boxes. First we’d each pass out our valentines. They’d sit unopened in our boxes until all of them had been passed out. We’d then go for the goodies. While we were eating, we’d open the envelopes. We’d show each other the funniest ones. None were romantic. We were too young.

When the party was done, we’d clean up. Not long after, the dismissal bell would ring. I’d carry my box all the way home making sure not to crush it. At home, I’d go through my valentines again. I’d show my mother my favorites then I’d put the box away for safe keeping. I’d look through it every now and then. I even kept a few for the longest time.

Today is lovely if you’re looking out the window. Everything is beautiful, the deep blue sky and the bright sun highlighting the trees in the backyard. The problem is the temperature, only 30°. The high will be 32°. Where did I put that sunscreen?

I didn’t go to kindergarten. Neither did my classmates. There were no kindergartens back then. My mother did attempt to put me in the nursery school offered by the project where we lived. That was when we lived in South Boston. The nursery school was across the street. I remember it was a brick building just like the one where we lived. I also remember I hated it. The first day my mother brought me I left and went home. The same thing happened the second day and the third. I never went back. The first grade was where I started. The school was about three or four blocks away. It was across the street from the convent and beside the rectory. My classroom was up the stairs on the first floor. I remember the room was filled with desks and nearly fifty of us. We had to turn sideways to go up and down the aisles. Sister Redempta was my teacher. She looked old to me. I had an aunt who was a nun so I wasn’t scared of Sister Redempta in her habit. I remember learning to write. First we learned block letters, upper and lower case, then we moved on to cursive, also upper case and lower case. Over the blackboard and around the room were posters of the cursive alphabet. We had a class called penmanship every day.

My favorite subject, because it entailed nothing and because I didn’t know I was being judged was silent reading. The grades in first grade were either S for satisfactory, U for unsatisfactory or I for needs improvement. I always got an S for silent reading. I never knew why. I wondered if it was because my lips and head didn’t move when I read.

I have my eighth grade class picture or rather a copy of it. The original had remained rolled and stored away for so many years it cracked in a few places when I opened it. I decided it was worth keeping so I took it to a camera shop. They reproduced the original without the cracks though you can faintly see them on the copy. It was expensive. It is hung in the bathroom. That sounds strange I’m sure, but my bathroom has all sorts of school memorabilia and some Ding Dong School souvenirs. When I wash my hands or brush my teeth, I look at that picture. I still remember names.