By Scott Vaughan
By Scott Vaughan
There was a girl in my fourth grade class who I thought was beautiful. In fact, as Valentine’s Day approached that year, I planned to purchase a small, red, heart-shaped box of candy from the Rexall Drug Store and give it to her. Romance has always been my love language, though my Vicki now says
my love language can often be torment for her.
I worked Saturdays on my grandfather’s farm and had saved a few dollars for the box
of candy. I had every intention of taking my money to school one day, catching the bus to
my mom’s workplace, crossing a downtown street to the Rexall, and purchasing the candy.
But, easier said than done. I spent my money on baseball cards and comic books. I was at my mom’s workplace for several days, but I had forgotten my money on those days. One afternoon I remembered my money, but the Rexall closed for a funeral. I could never get all the pieces in the box to buy this candy. I was so blinded by the task that I wasn’t paying attention to the calendar.
Then came February 13th—the day before Valentine’s Day. When our teacher reminded us of the cupcake party to come the next afternoon, I sat at my wooden desk and panicked. I didn’t have my money, and my dad was getting me from school. I could not take the bus to town.
On days when my dad picked me up from school, it was so late in the afternoon that I was in the school library completing my homework. He worked in residential heating and air, and was extremely tired at the end of his day. He picked me up that afternoon and we rode quietly home, 10 miles on two lane roads. He didn’t even turn on the radio. I still remember riding by the Rexall and staring pitifully at it from the truck window.
When we pulled into our driveway, I couldn’t take it any longer. Between deep breaths and near hysteria, I purged myself of all my frustration over money, timing, Valentine’s candy, the Rexall, and the little girl who was the object of my affections. My poor daddy looked at me like I was having a nervous breakdown.
“Wait right here,” is all he said. He went into the house and came back a few minutes later. He cranked the truck and we started back up the road for a 30-minute round trip to the Rexall. My dad had gone into the house to call the Rexall Drug Store and ensure Dr. Marcinko would wait for us. My mother had given him my money as he came back to the truck.
My dad, who is now in heaven, was never one to say “it’s too much trouble” or “I don’t have time for you.” Regardless of how he felt, he made time for his family.
When we returned home for the second time, my dad turned off the truck and said, “There’s nothing I won’t do for you—nothing I won’t do to help you.” Then, as an afterthought, he said, “Please don’t forget that candy in the morning.”
In his simple sacrifice that day, my dad told me how much he loved me and gave me a true Valentine’s lesson.
