From the Crow’s Nest
by CLINT YOUNTS

Fellas, I thought I should warn ya’ll, if you don’t know already, that Valentine’s Day is fast approaching. I think it’s the 14th, but I can’t keep track of all these holidays. Easter changes every year; I think it has something to do with phases of the moon or if that groundhog saw its shadow. Back when my kids were kids, I had to start hiding Easter eggs on March 1 so they could go on an egg hunt whenever Easter actually arrived. My girls weren’t big fans of Easter egg hunts after spending countless Easter Sundays with food poisoning. I didn’t know boiled eggs would go bad after sitting under a broken lawnmower for three weeks.

Now Valentine’s Day is coming up, and lots of womenfolk expect something nice and sweet from their hardworking, stressed-out fellas like you and me. Heck, we don’t have time for this nonsense of taking out a loan and buying a mess of roses or petunias. Some guys buy their sweeties a box of chocolates. Have you ever given five pounds of chocolate to a gal who’s been struggling with her diet since New Year’s Day? I’ll tell ya, getting smacked with a frozen box of chocolate-covered cherries (I bought and froze them in January so I wouldn’t forget a gift once Valentine’s Day suddenly appeared) is like getting hit with a two-by-four swung by an angry Swede. Isn’t that right, Tiger?

Back when I was a young romantic, just a year or two past our wonderful wedding where my new father-in-law handed me his loaded shotgun as a wedding present, I thought I’d buy my sweetheart some lacy articles of underneath attire (can I say “underwear” in a newspaper?). So I went to the feed store to see what they had. You’d think a store that sold mud boots and insulated coveralls would have some stuff for the ladies, but nooo. I had to drive across town to the K-Mart to get a pair of French drawers and they weren’t cheap. And apparently they weren’t comfortable either, because I never did see Maw wear ‘em.

So this year, instead of risking another concussion or having to ask a clerk at Tractor Supply if they stock negligees, I decided to write my sweetheart some poetry. I hear the ladies really love that crap, and it won’t cost me a cent. So, with a little help from Elizabeth Barrett Browning, here’s my rendition of “How Do I Love Thee.” And, fellas, if you want to cut this poem out and give it to your sweetie, you go right ahead. I’m glad I could help.

How do I love thee, let me count the ways.

I love thee so I wrote you this rhyme.
I love your voice when you holler “It’s dinnertime.”

Your smile makes my heart start swellin’
Like my gut after the enchilada plate at Helen’s.

Mostly nice and sweet, lest I track in mud,
Even then you don’t yell like you should.

I love thee purely, as I love an ice-cold brew
I love thee with a passion, like a plate of barbecue.

In my old days, as in my youth,
I love thee and that’s the truth.

No need to worry about me texting some floozy;
My true love still makes me woozy,

Like a fresh batch of ‘shine from a Tennessee still.
I love thee, Maw. Always have, always will.