Joanne Sherman’s Shelter Island: Valentine’s Day fish tales

“Roses are red. Violets are blue. Every day is Valentine’s day, when I’m with you.”

We are casual about Hallmark’s special celebrations. We acknowledge notable occasions, but with little hype and even less folderol. For instance, on my love’s February birthday last week, I pulled out the same card I first gave him 17 years ago because I’m that cheap, and more importantly, the heart-felt sentiment has remained relevant — it says, and I quote: “Happy Birthday! You’re at the best age EVER! Not Dead!”

Since we’re often on the road for my March birthday, we low-key it. He’ll buy a grocery-store cake that we’ll eat at a truck stop and share with some random traveler. (Side note: During one parking-lot birthday party, I knocked on the door of the semi beside us and handed up a chocolate cake and a glass of milk. That trucker cried!)

Roses are red, violets are blue. Spending too much money shows how much I love you!

For Valentine’s day this year, I’ll probably get flowers, which is always nice. But there was a time when Valentine’s Day was a major big deal for us. And when I say “us”, I mean me. During those honeymoon years it was all candy-filled velvet, heart-shaped boxes, perfume and jewelry, dress-up dinner at a nice restaurant, the whole nine yards.

Our military family was stationed in Japan then and Valentine’s presents came from the most exotic places, depending on where my husband’s travels took him. Opals from Australia were the norm. Jade from Vietnam, Thai silk from Thailand. I never knew what was coming, but it would be luxurious or sparkly, and sometimes both.

That changed abruptly the fourth year of our marriage, and our return to the States. A cross-country trip took my valentine away the second week in February. He assured me that he hadn’t forgotten Valentine’s day and was returning with a special present — so special he couldn’t pack it in luggage. My sweetheart flew home with the precious cargo cradled on his lap. When I met him at the airport, he was carrying the package, gently, in both arms. “Wait until we get home to open it,” he said. “You’ll never guess what it is.”

He was right. I’ll jump to the chase here. My gift did sparkle. It also had a head, a tail and eyeballs. It was a fish. An enormous dead fish. I was stunned. Perhaps incredulous is a better word. “You flew cross-country with a fish on your lap,” I kept repeating. “A fish. For Valentine’s Day. A dead fish.”

I think he sensed my … lack of enthusiasm. “Not just any fish sweetie,” he explained. “It’s a Chinook salmon. It’s a delicacy.”

Roses are red, violets are blue. Fly home with a fish and I don’t wanna be you!

Let me pause to explain that I was raised near Cleveland, close to the shores of the Cuyahoga River and Lake Erie. During the 1950s, the oil-slicked river caught fire on a regular basis and Lake Erie was so thick with pollution, you could almost walk to Canada.

We Clevelanders didn’t turn to our bodies of water for substance. Oh, sure, we ate plenty of fish, as in fish sticks, frozen, out of a box. Like every other kid from Cleveland in that era, I believed all fish were square, breaded and swam in schools of eight.

That’s why I was so flabbergasted, finding myself eyeball to eyeball with a fully-finned gift — one I could neither wear or dab behind my ears. But then I thought, wait a minute, I bet this is a joke. The big kidder probably hid a string of pearls inside the Chinook! I pried open its stiff jaws and looked this gift fish in the mouth. Nope. Just teeth.

“Thank you! I love it!” I said, because that’s what I always say, and asked, “But what am I supposed to do with it?”

He said, “Whatever you want.” I stared at him long and hard, not saying what I was thinking, because it wasn’t very Valentine-y. He said he thought I could cut it up and freeze it. Yeah. That didn’t happen. I stashed the whole big thing in the back of the freezer, behind my boxes of Gorton’s square, breaded real fish.

Three years later, when we moved, I re-gifted the Chinook to one of the moving guys. He said, “Wow! My wife’s really gonna love this!” (Call me paranoid, but it did sound rehearsed.)

Much time has passed. Most likely this year I’ll get flowers, because that’s usually a safe bet. And I’ll say, “I love them!” because that’s still what I always say. But …

Roses are red and if I get one wish, I know enough now, to wish for a fish!