Today is Valentines Day and it always brings back memories.

Growing up, I had two aunts, both “ladies” and both named Velma. They apparently didn’t think my mother was raising me right, since they were in my business, one way or another.

As the dreaded Feb. 14 neared, the “advice” increased.

“Don’t leave anyone out in your class. They will know and be hurt.” As far as I can recall, that aunt never deliberately hurt anyone.

I swore someone needed to be left out, but a list of classmates had been acquired and checked off as each declaration of sentiment was completed. Those lists were written in perfect Palmer Penmanship with pen and ink, adding to the agony.

Growing up in the late 40s and early 50s had its trials and tribulations, especially learning to write in cursive and “celebrating” classroom holidays.

One of my aunts was “crafty,” not in a sneaky way, but in an ability to create cool things from discarded items, as well as from inexpensive items bought at Hested’s.

The year she decided we would make the Valentines is most memorable. About two weeks before the all-inclusive “holiday,” she arrived with a bag filled to the brim with magazine pages and newspaper clippings, paper doilies, crepe paper, snippets of ribbon, construction paper and glue. Library paste to be exact.

Spreading it all out on the kitchen table, she put together a thing of beauty and turned to me.

“Now, you make one.”

I was too busy tasting the library paste and pulling crepe paper to make curved flower petals.

“You mustn’t make flowers, they will get mashed in the boxes.”

I pulled out a doily and laid it flat, then added an image of Porky Pig.

“Who will you give that to?” Emphasis on “that.”

“I dunno. I just think it’s cute.”

The crude “Valentine” went into the flaming maw of the kitchen range. “You must be nice and loving.”

My aunt took all unacceptable images from her stack of printed material and added them to the fire in the cookstove.

That year, I learned that flowers were good, only a few animals and select movie stars were acceptable and crepe paper “bleeds” when wet.

I also learned I could love my classmates for one day without meeting my mortal end and the boy who pulled my hair and licked stuff off his upper lip could, in fact, receive a card that didn’t declare love.

I know, I made one. It was on bright, red construction paper and included an image of a fish. “You’re caught,” it declared. My aunt had to lie down. I was in my teens before I learned older women would “faint” to escape the harsh reality of life.

My mother declared, “It could have said, ‘hooked.’”

That was back when penny Valentines were the easiest way to make the annual declaration and my aunt decided we wouldn’t make any more cards unless we used one of the books that could be bought downtown and included cut-outs and instructions.

Mucilage replaced library paste and cursive handwriting lost its glory.

Cool, but where are the memories?

One year my uncle and his best friend made “fudge” for the cute blonde girl down the block. She received a red, repurposed heart candy box filled with chocolate syrup, since the fudge didn’t set.

My aunt wasn’t around, but I can hear her say, “better give her a spoon.”

The other aunt would have suggested boiling it again. She would also have come up with a container of little silver candy “beads” to “at least make it pretty.”

Here we go again. At least make today “pretty.”