Tucked into the boxes of my childhood stuff I recently sorted through in Minnesota were a couple of big envelopes of Valentine’s Day cards from grade school, dozens of those little mass-produced cards with hokey sentiments.

“Won’t you ‘bee’ mine?” declared one with a big bumblebee on it.

Instead of throwing all those sappy cards in the trash, I began sifting through them, looking in particular for the one signed by the boy I had a major crush on from fifth grade through high school. I’ll call him John to protect his identity, since there are a few people in my hometown who apparently read my bi-weekly ramblings.

John, of course, had scrawled his name on the back of the card and nothing else, just like every other student had. I’m not sure if 46 years later I expected to find some long-forgotten terms of endearment from him.

Then I cut open an old diary from junior high days, since the key was long gone. I had confided quite a lot to myself about this boy. It was true love, I was quite sure. There was no one like him, he was special and smart and cute, oh, so cute. He wasn’t like the other boys, I noted. My heart ached for him.

John academically was a high achiever and a math whiz. I often called him for help with algebra and geometry. I probably could have figured out the problems myself, but playing the helpless girl when it came to math was the perfect ploy to talk to him on the phone.

We were good friends through high school, but that was it, much to my chagrin.

John and I both had lead roles in the junior class play. He played a mentally ill Vietnam War veteran; I played his mother. During one poignant scene I had to bend down and kiss him on the cheek. It was the most intimate thing I had done, my first kiss, so to speak. I remember my heart racing during that first rehearsal. His cheek was soft, his skin flawless. I was in heaven.

Even that close encounter didn’t change his platonic feelings for me, though. During our senior year he gave me a cat. It was a kitty their family couldn’t keep any more, and I’m sure I figured this was finally a sign of his affection for me. It wasn’t.

When he asked another girl to prom I should have put him out of my mind completely, but puppy love dies hard. This was a classic case of unrequited love.

I haven’t seen John since our 10-year class reunion in 1984. We had both married other people, obviously; I was pregnant with our oldest daughter. We chatted as old friends.

I heard through the years that he got divorced and was living a rather aimless life in Minneapolis. Last summer during an all-school reunion I ran into John’s sister, who told me he was still trying to figure out his life. He was a blackjack dealer on a nearby Indian reservation. She figured he has some kind of adult attention deficit disorder; it’s difficult for him to focus, so he’s mowed through all kinds of jobs. He was single, alone, no kids.

What a shame, I thought to myself. John had been so bright, so talented in high school. He and I were speakers at our graduation.

For some odd reason the old Garth Brooks song, “Unanswered Prayers,” came to mind as I thought about John’s life. The song is about a guy who with his wife runs into his old high school flame, and the refrain declares: “Some of God’s greatest gifts are unanswered prayers.”

That’s true in my case.

I’m sure I must have uttered numerous prayers asking God to make John notice me in a romantic way. And eventually my prayers for love were answered. My dear sweet, kind, funny, talented husband of 30 years is proof of that. He’s my true valentine, today and always.

Features editor Lynnette Hintze may be reached at 758-4421 or by email at [email protected].