BY BONNIE LEE STRUNK

Special to The Press

Lately whenever I would go into a store, I would see red: red heart-shaped boxes of candy, red strawberries dipped in chocolate, red greeting cards, red balloons, red roses, red plush animals.

With Valentine’s Day just past, I felt a bit sad seeing all these material proclamations of undying love. My sweetheart died two years ago.

Although some folks consider the day silly, I am an unabashed romantic and have long enjoyed giving and receiving tokens of affection on Valentine’s Day - actually on any day.

I believe expressions of love cannot be confined to one day a year.

Every day is Valentine’s Day when we are with our special lover. Or at least that’s the way I think it should be.

During the early days of the COVID-19 pandemic, when we were confined to our homes, I took a sentimental journey to my attic and entertained myself poring over the contents of several large boxes containing most of the cards, love letters, poems and other mementos I have accumulated from an astonishing number of boyfriends over the decades.

Apparently, I have the ability to turn any guy into a romantic poet, at least for as long as he imagines he is in love with me!

Some of the letters dated back to my early teens and made me laugh out loud. Some were so heartfelt, they brought tears to my eyes.

Some were short notes or poems, while others were 12 pages long.

I’m glad I saved them. Such memories are priceless.

Despite the sadness, I know I have been richly blessed, and I am thankful daily for the depth of love I have been fortunate to experience with both my late husbands.

To paraphrase country music star Gabby Barrett’s hit song, I married two of the good ones - rock solid, genuinely decent and caring men. They indeed were good ones. They were keepers.

When I start to feel sorry for myself because of my losses, I have only to trek upstairs to the attic and randomly reach into one of the memory boxes to put a smile on my face.

Some of my romantic experiences are the stuff of Hallmark movies.

One of my early sweethearts, an accountant who held out hope for us even when I was engaged to someone else, refrained from seriously dating anyone until he was sure I was happily and successfully married.

Eventually he, too, married, and then died young.

Some of the memories seem more like crazy movie scripts than real life.

A Whitehall boyfriend who desperately wanted to see me but did not have an available car rode his horse to my house in Fogelsville! Now that’s determination.

Another boyfriend, a resident of South Whitehall Township, trudged to that same Fogelsville house during a raging snow storm. And then he had to walk back home.

My parents would not allow him to stay overnight.

I truly am surprised those two young men lived to see another day.

Both my late husbands were full of romantic gestures ... everything from creating paintings and poetry to buying me flowers weekly for decades. My girlfriends were envious.

Of course, in the attic each husband has more than one box of love letters, humorous cards, drawings, and even cassette tapes with silly skits and messages of love.

In addition, my home is a tribute to both men.

The first was a master at construction projects, designing and building everything from crown moldings and chair rails to closets and bookcases.

The second was an artist and poet, and his framed paintings adorn several walls in my house.

I admit it is fun and flattering to go through boxes and read the passionate love messages of infatuated youth.

But how much more enjoyable it is to linger over the mementos of committed love, the comfortable, secure relationships that define a good marriage filled with caring and attention and a focus on each other.

Although for some of us the national holiday devoted to romance was spent without our dear valentines, the bonds of our hearts endure, even after death.