These valentines would be easy to overlook.
They are not rare masterpieces of paper engineering, nor do they dazzle with silk fringe or elaborate pop-up construction. They are, in fact, quite ordinary—softly printed, prettily colored, meant to be sent, received, and perhaps tucked away.
And yet.
What stopped me was not the cards alone, but the envelopes.
Both valentines were mailed in February of 1900, addressed to the same person, their journey recorded in ink and postmark. One envelope appears heavier, possibly folded and glued by hand. Whether homemade or simply an economical style of the time, it speaks to an era shaped by thrift and care—want not, have not, make do.
At the turn of the century, paper was not disposable in the way we understand it today. Envelopes were reused, fashioned from what was on hand, and saved if there was any reason at all to keep them. A valentine, even a modest one, was reason enough.
Perhaps these were sent by two different people.
Perhaps by the same hand, days apart.
Perhaps they were cherished just long enough to be tucked away and forgotten—until now.
To some, these might be “common” valentines.
To me, they are complete stories.
They remind us that history is not only held in grand gestures and rare objects, but in the smallest survivals—the envelopes kept, the paper folded carefully, the name written once more with intention.
And sometimes, that is more than enough.