A Valentine for Mrs. Snapp

A Valentine for Mrs. Snapp Jane McClellan When Mrs. Snapp wore her red knitted dress with white heart-shaped buttons, we children knew that preparations would begin for Valentine's Day. Mrs. Snapp had knitted the dress herself , her theory being that a good handknit dress would last a lifetime. So its style was a simple "Valentine's Day" since that would last a lifetime too. Hemlines could run up and down like signal flags, sleeves could puff or hang in bat wings, but the style Mrs. Snapp designated "Valentine s Day" never changed. She began wearing the bright red dress at least a month ahead, for valentines 65 were serious business for Mrs. Snapp. Other holidays were in some ways blemished for her. Diabetes took the zest out of Thanksgiving, an absence of children somewhat deflated Christmas, and a religious abstinence made New Year's Eve a waste of good sleeping time. But Mrs. Snapp had caught a beau, as the expression went in her day, and she was ever grateful to whatever cupids smiled on her and Mr. Snapp. "To the world he's my husband," she would confide to her fifth-graders, "but to me he's still my beau. I was dutifully impressed, for Mr. Snapp had gray hair and so was about a hundred, I surmised. Mrs. Snapp's hair was as black as Rose Red's or Snow White's, and she would blush and glitter when one of our fathers called her a "spring chicken." How the Snapps had managed to be high school sweethearts was an age-mystery we fifth-graders, innocent to the wiles of hair dye, never fathomed. I suppose her being so in love with old Mr. Snapp made her want everyone to taste of love's delights. Anyway, she made sure that every child in the room got lots and lots of valentines. And every girl got at least one from a boy and vice versa. All the valentines had to be handmade except for the candy hearts that said "I luv u" and "UR 2 hot 4 me" that Mrs. Snapp gave us. Not even a store-bought envelope could intrude on the sanctity of our little workshop. For weeks in advance we labored over paste pots, construction paper, and crayons . From home we brought snippets of lace, sawdust corkscrews, leftovers of red oilcloth, pinked squares of material samples, stray buttons, red felt packing strips, and odd bits of yarn. Each child kept his supplies in a work sack with his name on it, and the sooner he finished his day's work, the more valentines he could make. Some were models of honest sentiment with lacy hearts and original verses: "Roses are red, violets are blue. If you don't love me, I won't love you." Others were crayoned with crude humor— faces with missing teeth and outrageous freckles, pig-like snouts and doggy profiles . "If I give you a dog," the card would insinuate, "you'll be a pair!" Under Mrs. Snapp's watchful eye, only fairly pretty girls with robust egos ever received the more insulting valentines. The worst were somehow lost even if the perpetrator had dropped them in the big valentine mailbox on Mrs. Snapp's desk. For on the festive day, all elementary children went to assembly and sang spirited songs—"When Irish Hearts Are Smiling* and "She'll Be Coming Around the Mountain"—led by the principal . Meantime, teachers set out the refreshments and prepared the party. The actual giving out of valentines was done by two "Sweetheart Mailmen," a boy and girl picked from the class. They were always children who didn't receive as many valentines as others did. By the time they distributed half the class's, they felt they had been blessed with untold numbers of valentines. Despite Mrs. Snapp's secretive rifling of the box, the most and the nicest valentines went to the prettiest girl in class, Priscilla. All the boys liked her. Oh, sure, they sent the rest of us valentines, but never as large or as red or as lacy. By the time we had gone through five grades together, we...