Reports From The Nursery (Part Fifteen)

By Alexis, In Her Own Words

I may be almost two years old, but I wasn’t born yesterday. I notice things. And lemme tell you, Valentine’s Day is one of the most bizarre things I have ever witnessed in my entire existence (including all those eons Up There awaiting birth).

            As Alice said to the Mad Hatter, “I’ve seen some weird… uh, stuff”. As a species, I’m pretty sure people need serious therapy. “Crazy” doesn’t quite cover it.

            I mean, I’m still figuring out how socks work— and yet here I am, being bombarded by crimson hearts on glittery greeting cards, oversized heart-shaped boxes of various confections, and countless images of a flying chubby baby armed with a bow and arrow aiming at the hearts of soon-to-be lovers. If I were more literal-minded, I might assume the whole holiday was a celebration of Cardiac Surgery.

            But no: it is just marketing… and as the axiom says, if the heart wants what the heart wants, there’s going to be somebody to sell it to them. For a true craftsman of the marketing arts, everything is a marketing tool.

            I know, I’m too young to be so cynical. But look at what’s happened to the holiday’s namesake.

            Long before I was born, I had a little chat with Saint Valentine. A cool guy, kind of a rebel with a laid-back personality, with stubbly facial hair, kind of like James Dean. I certainly see why teenagers could relate to him or at least look up to him.

            But let me tell you, when Val found out how his name was being misappropriated— slapped onto glitter-covered greeting cards, cheaply made stuffed animals, and other random Valentine’s Day ticky-tack—

            —well, he’d freak out. Big time.

            I can’t blame the guy, I guess. When he was alive “down here”, the man was out secretly performing forbidden true-love marriages, defying Middle Age micro-managing emperors who viewed marriage as a political strategy, and generally preaching ecclesiastical enlightenment focused on personal freedoms. 

            Fast forward to the Modern Age— and now his legacy is touting overpriced prix fixe menus (“flute of faux Champagne at a substantial surcharge”) and promoting extremely uncomfortable sleeping attire.  

            I asked Val how he felt about all that. He sighed so hard, a bank of clouds shifted, and a cloudburst drenched the Gobi Desert.

            “Oh yeah,” he said, eyes closed and rubbing his temples. “This is exactly what I was hoping for when I got locked up in prison waiting for the headsman’s axe. Roses at a five hundred percent markup, cross-eyed teddy bears with cutesy heart logos, and a boatload of tacky Hallmark Channel movies— all in my honor, not. Who wouldn’t want to get martyred for that, right?”

            I asked him if there was anything about modern Valentine’s Day that he did actually like. The look he gave me was forsaken.

            “The chocolate is decent,” he admitted. “But so often, even that is a disappointment. The worst are those filled with Mystery Nougat. I didn’t die for no nougat, kid.”

            At this point, my old pal Whizzer—an actual, cherub who, let’s just say, has some unresolved issues of his own—showed up.

            Let me tell you, real cherubs are nothing like what you know as Cupid. Modern Cupid is a comforting fraud, a cloyingly sweet marketing tool.

            Real cherubs do not shoot love-arrows at random strangers. What they do shoot is a steely glare that can melt human flesh, if the need arises. They are no-nonsense creatures, and they definitely do not prance around in diapers committing random drive-by’s on hapless lovers.

            I have seen the Real Thing, and Whizzer is one of them. He’s rather short, but with a physique that looks like he could bench-press a ’56 Buick. He’s multi-winged, like a slightly terrifying dragonfly, and he’s got a personality as subtle as, let’s say, a sledgehammer. Picture Arnold Schwarzenegger, Danny Devito and Billy Bob Thornton all wrapped in one.

            Like all the angelic breed, his real name is impossible for non-angels to pronounce. Somewhere along the line, he picked up the nom de guerre of ‘Whizzer.’ For a few centuries, when he visited Earth on one or another Mission from God, he was puzzled at the snorts and chuckles he got from the people there.

            I asked him about his thoughts involving Valentine’s Day, and I swear, his celestial glow shone beet-red for an instant. “Yeah, where do I even start? They take love—the greatest, purest emotion in existence—and turn it into what? Overpriced flowers? Sad little teddy bears? Cards imprinted with sometimes trite, sometimes gawdy tripe?”

            He clutched his chest dramatically.

            “And don’t get me started on that monstrous entity they call ‘Cupid!’ A baby with a deadly weapon? What is that all about? Do you know what cherubs actually do? We guard things— sacred places, sacred people! We deliver divine messages! Some of us actually link arms to serve at the Throne of The Almighty! We do not prance around in diapers mindlessly playing matchmaker like some kind of TV gameshow host.”

            Saint Valentine, still rubbing his temples, groaned. “Honestly, Whizzer, I’d take your reputation over mine at this point. They have me shilling for florists and chocolate factories, for cryin’ out loud.”

            Whizzer flapped an extra pair of wings; I have no idea where he had been hiding them. “Oh, cue the sad violin music, Val! At least people don’t roll on the ground laughing when they say your name. Me, I’ve been reduced to a punchline about incontinence. I wish I did have a bow and arrow— a lot of arrows.”

            But believe it or not, my two years as a human have somewhat moderated my previous cynicism. Maybe I’ve been contaminated by the marketing—hey, some of those Hallmark Channel movies aren’t completely awful, right? — or maybe I’m just the beneficiary of real-life experience.

            You see, I still notice things. I notice, for instance, how Mom and Dad share glances and cuddles that could only be love (though it’s not impossible that flowers, cards or oversized boxes of Valentine chocolate are a contributing factor). I see Grandma and Grandpa, my uncle and aunt, and the friends and family I often encounter… and what I see is clearly far beyond the scope of any marketing yet developed on Earth.

            It can only be the real thing, unencumbered by any commercial artifice or mercantile motivation. It can only be love… because nothing else could feel so pure.

            Maybe I’ll drop a note off for Saint Valentine in tonight’s prayers. Maybe his legacy is far greater than he realizes. (But I’m going to hold off sending a message to Whizzer. At least until after Valentine’s Day.)

            Happy Valentine’s Day, everybody!  Arrows of love for all!

            (SPECIAL NOTE FROM ALEXIS: By happy coincidence, Val’s Day is also Grandpa’s birthday again this year. Not sure what number, he never talks about such things. It makes him a little grumpy. I’ll draw him a special note, he’ll like that. — though a box of chocolate would probably be welcome, too.)

— end —

(EDITOR’S NOTE: Alexis will return to these pages in future editions. She’s so looking forward to her next taste of chocolate; she’s probably dreaming of that delightful surprise right now.)