I have decided that the person who set the date for Valentine’s Day in the middle of February might have been a Californian. Sure as hell wasn’t anybody from Maine.

I decided this while I was lying on the couch by the front window of the house I’m living in in Berkeley, cursing rogue pieces of selfish DNA (aka viruses, aka the third miserable cold I’ve had since I’ve been here, dammit) and squabbling with the geriatric cats for the available spots of sun. I’m looking out the window at the sweet gum trees, trying to work out how many more months it will be before these suckers finally stop dropping their leaves and I can put the rake away at least momentarily, and I notice that the trees are full of birds. Screaming, caroling, warbling, chasing, strutting, and generally creating one hallelujah chorus of a ruckus. Geez, thought I, these birds are acting like they think it’s spring, or something. I mean, this is February. Haven’t they ever heard of Punxsutawney Phil?

Then I looked again. The daffodils were up. Not to mention the daylilies, dandelions, and daisies. The cherry trees were blooming. The damned sweet gum trees had new leaves and burrs. Including the trees that hadn’t shed the old ones yet. I remembered walking across campus the day before this current cold knocked me down. Seemed like there was hardly an hourglass figure on the courtyard that didn’t have a hand in someone else’s or up … no, let’s not go there. Spring. Real romance. On February 14th. Armageddon is upon us.

Now at this point Master Drill Sergeant Scientist chimes in. “The days are growing longer, the difference is noticeable by February. Hormone levels increase in many common animals and birds in response to increasing day length and total light. It’s their Enzyte. If your gonads were as bonus as they are in those birds right now, you’d be creating one hallelujah chorus of a ruckus yourself. So what’s your problem, O Kale Stew?"

Only this: doesn’t matter how much light you’ve got in a deep freeze. Not a lot of romance can respond to the lengthening of days if the participants haven’t come out of hibernation yet. Closest thing you get to cooing and carrying on in Maine in February is the desperate gaiety of the pink banners at Hannaford’s and Rite Aid. And maybe co-ed ice hockey.

In Maine, February 14th is just too damned early for Valentine’s Day. April 14th might be closer. When the snowbanks left by the winter’s plowing are down to ten feet tall, and crocuses stagger forth, and you have maybe a week to be outdoors between the time the mud dries up enough so you can go out without getting yourself thoroughly slimed and the time the blackflies and mosquitoes emerge in force enough to drive you back inside lest they overwhelm you and suck you dry.

So, to whoever it was that said “Valentine’s Day is February 14th", greetings. At last I think I understand you and your choice. May you have a happy, wherever you are.

Me? Move over, cat. (sniff, blow) You too, cat. Meow yourself.

  - O Ceallaigh

Copyright © 2006 Felloffatruck Publications. All wrongs deplored.

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