There probably have been several boxes of chocolates, once or twice a bouquet of red roses, and in recent years, a card and dinner out. But one Valentine’s Day gift I can remember most clearly was the time he forgot!

It was nearly 60 years ago, but it is still as vivid as a scene from a Hallmark movie. In 1964 my husband, Isby, and I were living in Lawrence, Kansas, while he attended graduate school on scholarship. I had a minimum wage job as a desk clerk at the University of Kansas Library to help with the budget. We considered ourselves fortunate to be able to live in the Married Students’ furnished apartments. Of course, we had had to bring a crib for our first-born, Beth, who was just six months old.

The sturdily built brick apartments stood atop a tall hill, near enough for my husband to walk to the Engineering Buildings, even in foot-deep snow. He was prepared with a heavy overcoat and snow boots as he braved the single-digit weather. He was single-minded in his pursuit of an advanced degree.

As the big event of winter was approaching in mid-February, there was a buzz among students and staff alike in the library. “He’d better bring me flowers!” a slightly older coworker declared. I knew our budget wouldn’t allow for something so extravagant: roses in the middle of Winter in Kansas! But I wished for a romantic card. I mean, we were still newlyweds!

Meanwhile, in the Engineering College across campus, Isby was totally engrossed in his books and lab experiments, and certainly wasn’t aware of a frivolous holiday approaching.

On a trip to the drugstore, I perused the pink and red aisle of Valentine cards and boxes of candy. I carefully selected one card of appropriate sentiment, one that fit our budget. I tucked it away in a drawer next to the letters from the family in Louisiana.

February 14, I was on edge the whole day, expecting some gesture or even a kiss from my husband. “What is he waiting for?” I wondered silently.

In the darkness of our bedroom, I listened to his breathing. “I can’t wait much longer,” I surmised, “or the card will be useless.” Finally, (and honestly with a slight edge to my words), I whispered, “Happy Valentine’s Day,” as I retrieved the all-important envelope from under my pillow.

“Thanks,” he whispered. In the dim light I could see a worried crease form on his brow.

We lay in the darkened room for what seemed like a long time, then he finally spoke. “I forgot something at my office. I’ll drive over and be back in a jiffy,” he said as he pulled on his clothes and heavy overcoat and gloves for protection against the near-zero temperatures.

After what seemed like a long time, he finally returned looking meek and humble and carrying a small grocery bag. As he sat on the side of the bed, he explained, “The drugstore was closed so I couldn’t get you a card or a box of candy, but I found an all-night supermarket downtown. Sorry it’s not gift wrapped…

“That’s all I could find,” he apologized as he gave me a sweet kiss on the lips. Opening the bag, I saw a shiny pie server. It was stainless steel with a perfectly shaped triangle on one end and a plain smooth handle on the other. Very mid-century modern.

There was no red ribbon, no fancy card, not a single rose in sight. I now realize those would have disappeared in the ensuing decades, but the silvery, stainless steel pie server he’d found in the utensil department of the grocery store is still in a drawer, next to a much fancier one that came in later years when things improved.

I’ll leave it to the reader to guess which one we used to serve cherry pie last Monday night.

JULAINE DEARE SCHEXNAYDER is retired after a varied career in teaching and public relations. Her email address is julaines14@gmail.com.