A Saint to Love
A strange holiday that starts with a priest and ends in cavities.
Dear St. Valentine:
Well, I notice we're coming up on your day again. I realize this because my local pharmacy is now chockablock with boxes of candy the size and weight of an ATV just a few shelves over from the toothpaste and mouthwash. The product placement has rendered your celebration, shall we say, dentally ironic. I'm fairly sure that's not what you had in mind. Of course, there always was some confusion regarding your legacy. In the first place, according to some chronicles, there seem to have been three of you; most scholars have fastened on a certain Roman priest who came to a bad end under the emperor Claudius II as the genuine article. This fellow was nearly off the hook when he tried to convert the emperor, who thanked him by having him beaten, stoned, and beheaded. Against all odds, you did not later become the patron saint of the redundant. Instead, you have come to be known as the protector of engaged couples, married couples, and people who faint, who are not always the same people, but often can be. You are also now known as the patron saint of greeting-card manufacturers, which I suspect came rather later to your portfolio. Almost annually, there is a great deal of huffing about how the "true meaning of Christmas" has been lost amid the commercial noise. Where's that argument when it comes to your feast? You died a horrible death, and for what? Canoodling puppies on a card? Chocolate-covered cherries? Every year, we honor your memory by feeding ourselves so much sugary junk that some of us wind up fainting from the shock of it. It's a good thing that you're still on the job there.
Charles P. Pierce
Cpierce@globe.com
