Considerable excitement always precedes Valentine’s Day in elementary school. Art projects during the leadup to the special day provide decorations on walls and windows of every room. Mother always took me to the dime store for a packet with enough cards to give one to each classmate along with a candied heart labeled be mine, love, or perhaps xoxox stamped on one side. Before a party at the end of the special day, students decorated a small, brown-paper bag with his or her name written on it, then taped it to one of the chalk trays in the room. As the party got underway, classmates delivered their signed Valentine cards with one candied heart (two for any ‘special someone’) to each bag.

Care was taken to be sure James Harrington’s candy heart didn’t say xoxox but Janet Cushing’s read be mine. And, although I hoped to discover something unique written on certain cards in my bag, none ever seemed all that special. When I was particularly smitten with a girl in the other fourth-grade classroom but didn’t want to be discovered delivering my card, I placed it on the floor just outside her classroom door with her name on it, hoping someone would find it and drop it into her bag. I was always shy around girls.

While in junior high, my third attempt to invite the same girl to the movies during a phone call resulted in hearing her ask her parent, “It’s him again. What do I tell him this time?” Confidence to ask someone out on a date didn’t return until I was in college.

As a teenager, I had responsibilities at Hinkle’s Department store in Wichita, Kansas. Besides furniture delivery, I marked merchandise prices in the back room and did whatever the manager dreamed up for me. Near closing one Valentine’s Day, I took the vacuum sweeper upstairs to Women’s Sportswear. The carpet needed attention.

“Hello,” I said to the sportswear manager. Liz Buzzi, the store-owner’s daughter, stood counting the day’s receipts. I found her quite attractive and hoped she might take a shining to me, despite our difference in age. Maybe Cupid would direct an arrow her way. Her preoccupation with counting the register’s contents, however, would temporarily curtail a Valentine chat. The vacuum was plugged in and the cleaning task began. I maneuvered around clothes racks and continued toward the dressing rooms before turning off the vacuum. I looked over a mountain of folded sweaters toward Liz and asked, “Is it all right to vacuum the dressing rooms?”

“Sure, go ahead,” Liz replied, glancing my direction. “They’re empty.” I returned a smile, anticipating opportunity would knock for chit-chat soon — once our work obligations were finished.

With vacuum humming once more, I headed toward the first dressing room door and opened it. A woman inside, clad only in underwear, let out a blood-curdling scream. I slammed the door closed, jerked the plug from the wall and wound the cord faster than any rodeo’s calf roper, then headed for the hills. Liz stood chuckling at me as I passed by. What seemed her prank, unfortunately, cost her. She’d just have to find a different Valentine.

Years later I ran into Liz and her date standing in line at the movie theater. She didn’t have much time for me then either. She was preoccupied once more… this time with some random guy — Charles Koch. I doubted he would ever amount to much. Still, hope of finding the right one who might take a shining to me persisted.

Don’t forget to pick up a card, flower or candy for your special someone this Valentine’s Day. We never know when Cupid’s arrows might fly. He may have missed Liz that 1967 day in Hinkle’s Department Store. But, improved aim certainly came to my rescue later. This random guy could never have been lucky enough to land someone like Rita without archery skills as superb as Cupid’s.