Valentine’s Day is upon us, that annual holiday wherein we are required by law to express our undying love and devotion to our Significant Others. Failure to comply with this law is punishable by a lengthy banishment to the doghouse.

I once pointed out to my wife that this rule is unevenly enforced, that males tend to be found in violation a lot more often than females. Much to my delight and surprise, I found a box of chocolates on my desk the next Valentine’s Day. My delight was dimmed somewhat when I opened it and discovered that all of the pecan clusters – my wife’s favorite chocolate-based substance — were gone.

Oh, well. Some chocolate truffles are better than none at all.

My wife and I were on a grocery hunting expedition at our local supermarket the other day when we stumbled across a Valentine’s Day exhibit at the end of an aisle. There were numerous heart-shaped boxes of chocolates on display, a timely reminder for men such as me who can recite from memory the batting averages of our favorite baseball players yet cannot recall when Valentine’s Day occurs.

I managed to absorb the fact that Valentine’s Day falls on Feb. 14 this year. I was astounded to learn that it falls on that day every year. This is unlike the World Series, which used to be held in October but has been gradually creeping toward February. Given enough time, the World Series might someday be held at the same time as the opening games of the spring training season.

Another of the supermarket’s displays at the end of an aisle featured a prodigious selection of Valentine’s Day greeting cards. I can imagine what a totally honest husband might say to his wife as he heads out the door:

“Hey, I’m going to run to the store really quick and pick up a gallon of milk, a dozen eggs, a loaf of bread, and a folded piece of cardstock that contains words which were written by a complete stranger that describes the deep feelings I have for you. Can you think of anything else that we need?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you could find me a husband who isn’t quite so totally honest?”

My wife and I have been married for quite a while and are as comfortable with each other as an old pair of shoes. We stopped at the supermarket’s Valentine’s Day card display and browsed its offerings. I found a card that I liked and handed it to her.

She read it and said, “That’s very nice, thank you. And here’s one for you.”

I perused the syrupy words in the card and said, “Aww, that’s just lovely. Thank you.”

We then put the cards back into the display rack and resumed our grocery hunting. Talk about a cheap date!

One of the more modern Valentine’s Day gifts is a toy stuffed baby bear that’s clutching a Valentine-type red heart in its front paws. I have a problem with that. Baby bears inevitably grow up to be adult bears. Adult bears will eat almost anything, are hairy, smelly, have nauseatingly bad breath and appalling personal hygiene habits.

Wait a minute. That’s pretty much how my wife describes me. I guess I’m OK with toy stuffed baby bears after all.

My wife and I have been married so long that it’s hard to surprise her anymore. But once every couple of decades or so I manage to amaze.

For instance, when our two sons were in grade school, we took my wife out to a nice restaurant for a Valentine’s Day meal. At a prearranged secret signal, the boys began to plead, “Dad, can we have a quarter for the gumball machine? Please?”

The restaurant’s lobby had a gumball machine that, for a quarter, would burp out a plastic sphere that contained a toy which was worth perhaps a penny. The boys soon returned and, with knowing smirks, put a plastic sphere on the table and proclaimed, “Here you go, Mom! Happy Valentine’s Day!”

“Gee, thanks,” she deadpanned and resumed eating.

“Open it!” the boys insisted, perhaps a bit too eagerly.

She did as requested and a delicate Black Hills gold necklace spilled out onto the table. My wife likes all types of gold, but the Black Hills kind is her favorite.

“Wow, Mom!” exclaimed the boys, still playing their parts. “You really got lucky!”

My wife was stunned. She quickly divined the truth, that it had all been part of a grand conspiracy.

“Happy Valentine’s Day!” she replied as she gave kisses to us all.

It certainly was.

— Jerry’s book, “Dear County Agent Guy” can be found at www.workman.com and in bookstores nationwide.