The doorbell rang those February 14 mornings at about 7:15.
No one was waiting when one of my sisters or brother unlatched the front door at that shadowy hour. But there, on the cold hexagonal ceramic tiles in the front vestibule, were presents, chocolate hearts, cards and all sorts of treats.
St. Valentine had made his mysterious secret visit to 2829 Guilford Ave.
My mother, of course, had slipped out and rung the bell. She might have had an ally in Aunt Cora, who played the game well, too. They certainly had us fooled.
In that big old household, the 14th of February was one of the most memorable of holidays, a day of true love, of remembering people and telling them they were special. It all may sound shamefully corny, but there was nothing quite like it.
It's safe to say that St. Valentine's Day was my mother's preferred holiday. She loved combing the stalls of the Belair Market for candy confections and the downtown stores for post-post-post Christmas sales and final clearances.
I don't know who dreamed up the early morning doorbell ring and the drop of all those presents. It had the effect of surprise, drama and joy. It was a day when you had to go to school or work, but it was nevertheless a day of red sunshine.
Money or extravagance was not part of the equation. Mom routinely shopped the bargain racks of Shocket's or John's for packages of penny-a-piece Valentine cards. The envelopes were such thin paper I often wondered if the Post Office would accept them as first class mail. That never bothered Mom.
When we were quite small she oversaw the production of homemade cards and drawings personalized for friends and neighbors. It took me a long time to realize my mother's February 14th philosophy.
This was a day for remembering, above all, people who might not be remembered with a red heart full of love.
Who were the most important people on her Valentine list? Of course her own family. That was almost taken for granted. But widows and widowers, spinsters and bachelors, priests and nuns all got cards. If an old lady lived with a cat, the cat got a card, too.
Some years, Mom got bogged down and didn't send Christmas cards. This practice was never allowed to happen on the red heart day.
The results were dazzling. Widows who felt unloved and unrecognized bloomed with the boost they received in the mails. Someone had remembered them.
In the old days, we always hand-delivered the Valentines to the people who lived in the neighborhood.
No matter how cold it was on the evening of Feb. 13th (my father's birthday and a family party night) we fanned out over the streets to designated houses, scurried across porches and deposited cards in mail slots. Once the envelope was inside the door, we pushed the door bell that emitted a good sharp peal and slipped off into the winter night.
It was a nocturnal ritual that we preferred to anything on Halloween. My mother considered trick-or-treating to be a common custom that smacked of begging.
Often the cards we delivered were pretty homespun affairs. Hallmark would not have approved of these little missives often held together with a lot of feeling and a little LePaige's mucilage glue.
In later years, as the restaurateurs, motels and florists began to -- promote and profit from the holiday, Mom lectured us that this wasn't the spirit of the day. Lacy lingerie and $150 meals were not what it was all about. Nor was too much fooling around with Dan Cupid.
This was the day to bring a smile to the neighborhood soda fountain clerk and the childless lady over on Calvert Street.
The first year I left the house for college, my mailbox was full of Mom's February 14th wishes.
So were quite a few of the other guys in the dorm.
All except for a freshman named Joe who came from New Jersey.
He didn't get any cards and tried to commit suicide that night.
It was a dramatic way to get attention and it put him in the spotlight of all the emergency vehicles that showed up.
My mother's advice when she heard about this story? "Always send Valentines, especially to the people you don't even like."