I come from a family where dad thought he was doing mum a favour by buying her the latest vacuum cleaner that technology had to offer.
On Valentine’s Day.
Dad was old-fashioned, even for his time, and he did try to explain to me at one point the reasoning behind his madness.
These days, of course, such a gift would lead to the annulment of many marriages.
“Son,” he said with a deep gruff voice that I’m sure he faked for these types of discussion, the ones in which he felt he required the upper hand of authority.
“Your mother works hard to make this house a home. And it’s my duty as the man who supports this family to ensure she has everything possible to make her job easier.”
That, in his eyes, was love.
It was a pragmatic view that meant as our household’s bread-winner, he’d dig deep into his pockets to not only make mum’s life easier, but to ensure our family was keeping well and truly up with the Joneses.
In fact, as I sit back and picture the things we had in our household as a child, I see a toaster which I believe was a birthday gift, an iron with the capacity to blow steam for Christmas, and would you believe a black and white television which sat at the end of my parents’ bed.
That was for both of them, so it must have been an anniversary gift.
Dad was as stubborn as a mule.
We, his children then at an age we could think for ourselves, told him he should take mum out for dinner.
“And who do you think is then going to make you dinner?” he said.
It took guts to explain anything to my father, but I recall one of my cousins who spent a lot of time with us – and a few years my senior – telling him that Valentine’s Day had religious beginnings.
Dad, a god-fearing man when it suited him, actually started to listen.
She explained that it was a feast rolled out by the Catholics to honour Saint Valentine, and it would therefore be most un-Christian for him to ignore the tradition.
He leaped off his chair like he’d had a premonition.
He pointed to the toaster, grabbed a loaf of bread from the shelf, and said toasties were the February 14 item of choice on the menu that night. For us, not him.
My cousin, far more confident than I’d have been in her cunning ploy, had already bought a bunch of flowers which she presented to my father.
He gave mum about an hour to get ready, put on his suit, and I believe they found a table at one of the nicer places in town.
Remarkably, the old man punched above his weight that night, avoiding a counter meal at the pub, probably opting for somewhere with a prawn cocktail and a nice piece of crumbed fish.
The point is, he listened. And he tried.
Wanda and I don’t worry too much about Valentine’s Day, but I can assure you she won’t be getting a washing machine.
We’ll exchange cards, and possibly a kiss. And we’ll share the same love for each other that we do every day.
I’ll buy her a gift, maybe some jewellery or a teddy bear or some flowers, and we’ll probably find somewhere nice to have dinner, gaze into each other’s eyes like teenagers, and then we’ll carry on.
Not only was my father stubborn. He was a bonehead.
But he loved my mother so much that he was willing to embrace change.
And you know, every occasion after that Valentine’s Day, he never invested in a household appliance again.
Instead, my mother had new clothes, jewellery that my father could afford, and we often saw flowers on the dining room table around the time of her birthday.
Hey Wanda, I’ve booked for 7pm. And if the food’s bad, I still love you.
