Before Esther Howland, simple folks celebrated Valentine’s Day in simple ways. A humble man gave the lovely woman he had grown sweet on an uncomplicated gift; a hair ribbon, a bird carved from a piece of pinewood, a tin cup he had fashioned with his own hands. Yes, these gifts were unsophisticated, down-to-earth, and straightforward; to our modern eyes the quaint expressions of a country clodhopper.
Attached to such humble and straightforward gifts would often be a handwritten note. This note would match the unpretentiousness of the gift with a simple “To: My beloved; From: me”, scrawled in dull pencil on a wrinkled scrap of paper.
Then the situation became a bit prickly. Some unknown person found that using the quill of a porcupine and a small well of ink, one could write fluidly. This fluidity was, of course, due to the ink. Now people started composing poems and fluidly writing them down with the help of porcupine quills and ink. To make things more outrageous, some nutty nincompoop decided to attach a poem to the hand-carved bluebird he gave his sweetheart for Valentine’s Day. This proved to be the undoing of many a man, as women all over now expected poetry with their hair ribbons and homemade tin cups. Unfortunately, not all of the male gender were poetic enough to write poetry, and not all were rash enough to try to pluck quills from porcupines.
Then, in 1847, Esther Howland received an English valentine. She was so captivated by the card she decided to make her own for the American market. She ordered lace, flowers, and paper, to make her own cards. Now the poor simple men could give their valentines a card, covered in lace and pressed flowers, with lovely verses that were sure to melt any ladies heart - such as the following:
I was going to give you a pint of pure nard,
Instead, I found this lace-covered card.
It is simple to understand why a tin cup or a hair ribbon could not compete with such engaging poetry.
Ms. Howland did well in her card sale business, grossing over $100,000 a year. Much of that money came from poor pitiable non-poetic men. Men who could whittle an adorable bluebird, or robin, or whippoorwill; men who could form a piece of tin into a delightful cup, but who could not pluck their own porcupines, or compose their own poems, or could not cut all those tiny holes in a piece of paper to make lace. Strong proud men purchased these cards to give to their valentines. What of Ms. Howland and her English valentine? I confess I only know she never married.
Now men all over do exactly what I do every Valentine’s Day. I set my jaw, put on my game face, looking as fierce as possible, and set out for the card store. Steely-eyed, I saunter towards the aisle festooned with pink and hearts. Standing there, looking at the plethora of cards, I start to lose my resolve. My palms start to sweat; I can hear the pounding of my heart. Never have I faced such a formidable foe. With shaking hands, I reach for first one card, then another. My head starts to spin as I read the eloquent verses printed in each lace covered card. I wish silently to myself for the days of yore, when a simple tin cup would suffice for my beloved. Then I come back to my senses; who am I kidding! I could not make a tin cup if I tried!
I finally find a card with a sentimental verse and an appropriate amount of lace. Grabbing it I head out of the ring, I mean aisle. I see another man standing there at the edge of the aisle, psyching himself up for the battle. I slap his bottom to tag him as if this were some WWF wrestling bout. I hear him snort as he heads down the aisle, ready to do battle with lacey pink cards.
As I pay for my conquest, I hear a man coming into the store muttering under his breath, “Curse you Esther Howland, curse you.”
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