When I was a boy, so long ago that you could play outside all day without adult supervision, there was an odd custom. At Clendenin Elementary School, we would hand out cards to everyone in the class. These cards were sometimes homemade, but most often purchased in boxes from Kroger’s.
There were Peanuts gang cards, but I preferred the more serious cards that had a lingering Victorian flavor. There was always one teacher card and that was easy to give away, but the rest of the choices were hard. (One year Mrs. Cobb’s card was unworthy of her . . . not nearly good enough. . . and that was difficult since my handwriting was done with my hand, but was nothing like writing.
I still feel shame. If you are out there Mrs. Cobb, I am sorry. I should have done better, but my card making skills were also bad.
Still, that was the easy call, the teacher card was what it was. The other cards were harder: What one for the best friend? What one for the kid you did not really like? How to decide?
Most difficult of all, was the card for the girl you liked, assuming you liked girls in third grade. I am not sure what it meant to like girls in third grade, but I did . . . one especially. Her name will remain my secret since I don’t want her grandchildren, if she has grandchildren, to piece this together and give her a hard time.
What follows was not at all her fault.
I finally settled on the perfect card: mostly blue, sparkles, with a cat. This was the perfect card. The sentiment was sentimental and I put my name (scrawl “John Mark”) on the back. The result was nothing. She did not respond at all when she opened it and put it in the mound of other cards.
Everyone gave everyone a card and she missed the awesome specialness of my card. To me it was shouting: “The best card is yours!” To her it was a card.
This story should end with my being crushed, but it does not. Somehow in third grade this was just what it was: disappointing, but there were cupcakes next. That was good.
At some point in my life, I realized that the problem was not the card (if only I picked the Peanuts set!) or the girl (Is love blind?), but the fact that no reasonable person could have decoded what I meant. My thoughts were in my head and my signals were very obscure. In this case, that was good.
Sadly, with those we love in later years, we behave in similar manners to young John Mark with his card. We labor to send an elaborate message to a friend, to a parent, to the beloved, but we work so hard on it that it becomes totally insider our head baseball. The only person that gets what we are saying is us and we already got it.
Here is a thought: flirting is fine, but communication is necessary. If you love her, tell her so. If you are angry, express it calmly the best you can. Nothing is worse than sending a signal of displeasure and having the beloved take it as a shout out. “You love this eggplant surprise? I will make it again.”
God so loved the world that He came Himself and told us directly He loved us all. Maybe I should do the same. And by the way: if you know a Mrs. Cobb in Clendenin, West Virginia, or you knew her, thank her for being a great teacher and giving me a love of theater. You are loved to this day . . . and I am sorry about the card.
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