Reminiscing A Valentine Story

It has been four years since Central Texas experienced its coldest and iciest Valentine’s Day. As February approaches, Texans brace for freezing temperatures, hoping moisture doesn’t join the annual dance of ice and destruction. I still wonder about the significance of Valentine’s Day, my jaded perspective shaped by its commercialized nature in the United States. But rather than dwell on that, I choose to reminisce about my childhood Día de San Valentín, revisiting a memory that shaped my view of love, family, and the simple joys of life.

Growing up on the border, with Mamá working tirelessly as a single parent to provide my sisters and me a better future, Valentine’s Day held no history in our home. It seemed frivolous, a luxury we could not afford. Exchanging store-bought cards and candy with 30+ classmates felt insincere and forced. Love wasn’t found in pre-packaged sweets or folded notes—it was in the everyday sacrifices, the warmth of shared meals, and the hands that worked so we could dream.

Curious about the origins of Valentine’s Day, I dove into the ever-enticing Google rabbit hole. As a Catholic, I wondered—who was San Valentín? Was he a patron saint? What did he protect? His history, it turned out, was nebulous and mystifying. There were multiple martyrs named Valentine, two of whom shared 14th February as their date of death. One was beheaded for officiating marriages in secret. Another, associated with healing blindness, had relics scattered across Europe. Even a female saint, Santa Valentina, existed. Pope Gelasius I once admitted that San Valentín was a saint “cuyos nombres son venerados por los hombres, pero cuyos actos solo Dios conoce”—whose name was venerated by men, but whose deeds only God knew.

Despite its obscure origins, Valentine’s Day never meant much to me in the U.S. But in Mexico, I have the fondest memories of a Valentín—my uncle, Tío Tin, from Hidalgo de Parral, Chihuahua. Each summer, Mamá sent my older sister and me to Mexico, our version of sleepaway camp. My sister stayed in the city with family, but I craved adventure and joined Tío Tin on his dairy ranch in Villa Matamoros, 22 kilometers south. With its single dirt road, the village was a world apart from what I knew. Transportation consisted of horses, mule carriages, and the occasional pickup truck.

Tío Tin owned an old piece of land rumored to have once belonged to a Spanish church. The only thing left was its skeletal stone structure, abandoned and weathered. It stood beside an arroyo seco, a dry creek bed with a chilling legend. Local lore spoke of a stormy night, a community vigil, a flash flood, and the tragic loss of lives. Campesinos had sought shelter within those walls, praying for safety, only for the arroyo to claim them. They said if you stayed past dark, you could hear their spirits praying in the wind. My young mind immediately thought of La Llorona, a story I had often heard but never tied to a place. I never dared stay past lunchtime.

When Tío Tin worked late, I had two choices: borrow a horse and ride back home or attempt to catch la mula—the town’s mule-drawn taxi. The latter was an art form. To board, one had to sprint, catch up, jump, twist mid-air, and land on the carriage bed. I, lacking athleticism, often failed miserably. Frequently, I missed, landed flat on my stomach, or tripped on the dirt road. Eventually, I stuck to riding horseback home, relishing the quiet rhythm of hooves on earth.

The ranch was where I learned resilience. I helped milk cows by hand, assisted in calving, and even witnessed the castration of bull calves. I felt entirely in my element—feet planted firmly in the dirt, hands warmed by the energy of animals. The work was hard, but it felt real, meaningful.

Back at home, Tía Vicki ruled the kitchen. She was my first milk delivery customer, though I quickly opted out from the remaining delivery route, preferring to stay behind and cook with her. She taught me to start a wood fire, the only heat source for the outdoor water heater and the stove. Many weekdays, I went without a shower—my young self, weighing the misery of braving the cold to start a fire versus freezing under an icy water shower. Often, I chose neither.

She taught me to butcher chickens, prepare café de olla, and appreciate the richness of fresh milk. Breakfast was the best—coffee with thick cream and buttered toast made from la nata, the milk we had pasteurized that morning. My favorite treat was a trip to the corner bodega, where Tía Vicki always gave me a few extra pesos for salchicha con queso asadero—Mexican salami and cheese. Even now, my mouth waters at the memory.

Those summers with Tío Tin y Tía Vicki were my real Día de San Valentín. Love wasn’t in candy hearts or store-bought cards. It was in the way Tío Tin taught me to ride, in the quiet strength of the land, in the way Tía Vicki’s hands worked magic over a wood fire. It was in the warmth of a breakfast made with care, and the laughter shared over a failed attempt to catch la mula.

Valentine’s Day still doesn’t mean much to me in how it’s celebrated in the U.S. But every February, when the cold creeps in, I remember those summers. I remember the scent of fresh coffee, the rhythm of a horse’s gait, and the stories whispered by the wind through the skeletal walls of an old, forgotten church. That, to me, is love.