personal essay: david charette
Be Mine Judy Valentine
Cracking robin’s egg blue walls. The waxy smell of crayons. Peeling green vinyl tile floors. Outside, the harsh bitter cold, separated from us by only a single pane of annealed glass. This was my third-grade classroom with the wonderful Mrs. Durham. The eleven-foot-high white ceiling, dusty and cobwebbed and punctuated with blinking fluorescent light tubes, soared above my desk which was located dead center and at the back of her classroom near the coveted reading nook—a chipped clawfoot bathtub filled with dirty pillows that fell uncomfortably short of the rim.
Everything was a buzz of activity, for today was Valentine’s Day! A day that split open a ray of warm light into the heart of a cold February in the sunless and seemingly endless winter of northern Michigan. But today was also special because pizza was being served for lunch: economical, rectangular, micro-perforated sheets of crust with tomato sauce sparingly sprayed atop and dusted with a thinly shaved coating of Jimmy Carter government cheese. I absolutely loved it! Not content with my own spartan portion, I would roam the gym-cafeteria with its mobile melamine-topped fold-up tables, begging for any uneaten nibbles—much to the chagrin of my younger sister, Amy.
After lunch, Mrs. Schmidt, my speech therapist presented me with my favorite candy as a reward for mastering the pronunciation of my r’s: a stretchable multicolored candy necklace, both fashionable and edible. Could this day get any better?
With the last two hours of school dedicated to the Valentine’s Day party, I sat expectantly at my desk. We had been tasked the week before with creating our individual valentine’s bins. We converted empty tissue cartons and old Tupperware containers into things of beauty. I had cut out my favorite Sunday morning cartoons then applied a combination of glue and gold glitter to cover the text. Next, I added an abundance of tiny rose tissue paper flowers by using a pencil top, a light twist, and Elmer’s glue—"just a little dab will do ya”. All of these elements were welded into place on Dad’s old yellow Partagas cigar box and lacquered to perfection with Mom’s Aqua Net hair spray.
Mrs. Durham, all smiles and generosity, began the festivities by distributing the first valentine and a morsel of candy to each student. Then it was our turn. Each of us had purchased small, delicate, inexpensive, and identical paper valentines at the local pharmacy. We busily swarmed about the room, placing our Valentine’s Day cards in each other’s decorated bins. Even the principal, Mr. Case, stopped by our room and handed out heart-shaped sugar cookies with red sugar glazing that we ate with gusto, strewing our desktops and the floor with powdery crumbs.
The day over, we began to put on our many layers of winter clothes, when my best friend and closest confidant, Judy Clement, let out a screech! A true howl of despair…All eyes turned to Judy who was standing by the door pointing down to the Steelcase-gray, patinated metal trash can. “Someone has thrown away their Valentine’s Day cards!” she declared. With anguish, she looked about the room. Who would do such a horrible thing? Leaning down, she picked out one red and pink heart-shaped card and slowly turned it over. With a grief-stricken face, Judy first paused, then looked up and, pointing the Valentine at me, yelled: “DAVID CHARETTE!”
All eyes swirled from Judy to me. Audible gasps and whispers could be heard. It was true, I had thrown away all of my cards! Mrs. Durham darted towards the back of the classroom, stopping in front of me. She slapped her hand on my desk, her wedding ring making a startling ping on the taupe Formica. “WHY, DAVID?” she yelled.
With no remorse and the slightest of delays, I looked first at Judy then around the room at my peers and finally up at Mrs. Durham. I puffed out my little belly and, using my most formal diction, as practiced with Mrs. Schmidt, said in my falsetto voice, “It was much more efficient throwing away the cards now, because neither I, nor anyone else, has any intention of keeping them. It seems the most logical thing to do, no?”
The class and Mrs. Durham, bewildered by my lack of attachment to the valentines, shook their heads. I watched as they carefully closed their valentine boxes and filed out the door one by one to board their buses. Judy, still angry, moved away from me as I tried catching up to her in the hallway. “But Judy, when we bring cupcakes in on our birthday, we don’t just look at them, we eat them.” Judy spun around on her Moon-booted feet. “Valentines aren’t for eating, David.
I trailed after her, calling her name. “Judy? Judy caboody? Judy moody? Judy foody? Judy tooty? JUUUUUDEEEEE! I’m sorry I threw away your valentine!” She stopped and waited for me to catch up. I grabbed her mittened hand and she smiled. “I hate it when you call me Judy tooty.” I nodded, “I know. That’s why I do it.”
“I’ll forgive you, David, if I can have a kiss.”
“A kiss?!?”
“Yes…A kiss!” She waited, her eyes closed and her soft face turned toward me. I thought it over. It seemed equitable to me.
“Deal!” I pursed my lips and pressed them to Judy’s cold cheek, leaving a soft pink heart that was quickly consumed by a blush. Together, we walked toward the bus, smiling, with our hands clasped tight.
On February 14th, I sometimes think about that day and want my good friend Judy to know I truly appreciate and love her. And I also want her to know that she taught me a valuable lesson: that any type of card can be thrown away, but only in the privacy of your own home. Judy, will you still be my Valentine?
about the writer: david charette
in addition to his international architecture and design career, Dave is an artist and writer.
You can learn more about his work here.
