There was a Valentine's Day, about nine years ago, when all the souls in my house -- from my childcare helper to my part-time college-age assistant -- had just suffered a gruesome breakup with the people we all were sure were the loves of our lives.

For Sean, it was a girl named Rudy. She was a cute little vixen; but she would kiss and cuddle him and then give him the old "just pals" routine. He was leaving her so many notes and bouquets, he was like the stalking florist.

For me, it was the man with whom I'd fallen in love at first sight -- twice -- twenty years apart in time. At first we were sure. Then, we were madly sure, talking about mingling gene pools. Then, a few things happened (or didn't; and you can find out more about that by coming to my reading tomorrow night at Borders Bookstore on University Avenue in Madison, Wisconsin) and the taste of honey turned to Tabasco in our mouths. We couldn't say a nice thing to each other, until we finally said goodbye.

For Lilia, a Russian immigrant, a green-card marriage was only a cover for her requited (but several thousand mile distant) passion for a man who was both younger AND married.

"Is hopeless," she would say, as she tried to figure out how to pay her telephone bills.

All the while, the handsome guy in the photo (not the one with the monkey) was making glazed ornamental tiles for my house. He listened as Sean defamed the holiday, calling our combined household population The Ship of Fools.

That was February; Chris and I were married in May. The little guy with the monkey wouldn't make the scene for five years after that.

I still think that Valentines Day is just an excuse to sell jewelry, underwear and eat chocolate without fear, that it's sweeter for those between the ages of eight and eighteen, and over eighty, than for anyone else. When I see those commercials -- urging lovers to buy their Valentines everything from diamonds to a Lexus -- I wonder, who are these people?

I think, are there so many independently wealthy or fiercely successful people living quiet lives in my neighborhood that they can throw down five large for a necklace and not think about it?

When I am in Las Vegas, I have the same feeling. We're not hurting -- actually, in September, when we have three kids in college, we'll know what pain really is -- but the people walking through the Bellagio lobby have blue Tiffany bags the size of my microwave. What from Tiffany's could come in that big a bag? Or how many? And who's paying for it? Is this an expression of passion or simply someone strutting?

I don't know if I'll ever know what love really is; but I know it's not about Valentines Day, anymore than St. Patrick's Day is the measure of being Irish.

In my old neighborhood, local churches celebrated the Feast of St. Joseph -- often on the Friday after St. Patricks Day -- with what was called St. Joseph's Table. They filled their auditoriums with table after table of meatballs and spaghetti and sausage and pasta of all kinds, with cannolis and tutus and flaky pastries.

Any anyone could come to eat. It didn't matter if the person was a member of the parish, or even a Catholic. Everyone.

And I don't know what this has to do with the beginning of this rumination; but that did say something about being Italian. But it said more about being human.

yours,
Jackie M.