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Once upon a time ten years ago, I was a graduate student at the University of Maine (the U of ME, as I like to call it). I was also a teaching assistant, so I received some of my mail in my English department mailbox.
That Valentine's Day in 1992, I was told that a large package had arrived in the office for me, and the return address was Mom's in South Dakota. By this time my friends had learned that Mom's packages usually contained something tasty and that I could usually be persuaded to share, so they urged me to collect the package at once. Several of them just happened to be standing nearby when I claimed the box.
Sure enough, when I removed the brown paper wrapping, I found a large, heart-shaped Russel Stover box inside. My fellow grad students gathered closer as I whisked away the pink cellophane and popped open the lid. Half a dozen hands reached eagerly for the treats. And half a dozen hands snapped back as if burned.
My dear, dear mother had carefully replaced every single chocolate with a cube of Spam.
This, to me, stands as one of the greatest practical jokes of all time. Mom didn't just get me, she got the whole crew. She knew impoverished grad students would flock to a candy box, and she knew we'd rip it open too quickly to notice the discreet slit in the cellophane. She knew people would grab for the candies before taking a good look at what was really nestled in the crinkly brown paper cups. She played us perfectly.
The Spammy Valentine was the gift that kept on giving. Staff members who hadn't witnessed the unveiling were encouraged to visit my office for a treat, and everyone who succumbed recruited more victims to follow. The whole English department had been had by the end of the day. For two weeks, that box sat on the corner of my desk. As students came to confer with the five teaching assistants who shared the office, their eyes snagged on the alluring red heart. A favored few were cautioned against digging in, but the majority were told to help themselves, and it was funny every time.
After a while, my officemates began to worry that even Spam couldn't sit at room temperature for weeks without getting a little funky, so the box was given a ceremonial disposal in the neighboring engineering building. We didn't throw it in a trash can, just sort of set it near one. I don't know how the engineering students handled it, but I hope they had as much fun as we did. No other Valentine has ever compared to this one.
So here's to you, Mother Media, Queen of Hearts. Happy Valentine's Day!
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