Re-Cycling Valentines...

I've been unearthing crud. Interesting crud. Naturally. How could you possibly imagine it would be dull crud? I have a spare room full of memorabilia. Spent Sunday silently weeping over letters of condolence written to my mother when my father died in February 1982. Why do it to yourself? Should these letters be kept as part of a social history to hand down, when emails and the internet will render ephemeral family memories? Or should they be disposed of? Or should it be someone else's decision?
Came across a handwritten card from my father to my mother which he gave her presumably on their wedding day. It gave me joy.

                                             

I then came across a Valentine from my Dearest husband. No, not one he'd written recently. Oh, my lovelies, surely you didn't think that? One he'd written, or not, as was the case, back in the seventies.
No handwritten message, as obviously he believed a Valentine should be anonymous. But what a whopper! HYB it had on the outside. All these years later, I pondered. What could that stand for? "Hi, You're Beautiful"? Obviously.

I opened it up. "How's your bod?" it asked.  How's my bod? What the heck? I felt as bewildered as I must have done, forty years ago.
In the absence of any other acknowledgement of the day (cool with that, totally) I shall put it up in a prominent position for when he gets home. It might slow down the scoffing of the Ferraro Rocher mountain he intends scaling, once the grandchildren arrive.
Or maybe not.

Mine's a big one. So is the card.