By Rodger Morrow, Editor & Publisher, Beaver County Business
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Every February, just when the skies over Beaver County have settled into that agreeable shade of industrial pewter, we are instructed to feel romantic.
Not warm. Not optimistic. Romantic.
The snowbanks along Third Street in Beaver have turned the color of day-old cappuccino foam, the Ohio River looks like it’s considering early retirement, and yet the American people are expected to produce roses, chocolates, and meaningful eye contact on demand. This, we are told, is in honor of St. Valentine.
Which St. Valentine would that be?
As it turns out, no one is entirely sure. There were at least two—possibly three—Valentines running around the 3rd-century Roman Empire before they ran out of time altogether.
One was Valentine of Rome, a priest executed around A.D. 269 under Emperor Claudius II Gothicus. According to legend, Claudius decided that single men made better soldiers, which suggests he had never met a married one trying to avoid home repairs. Valentine defied the imperial edict and secretly married young couples. For this act of pastoral subversion, he was imprisoned and eventually beheaded on February 14.
While in jail, he allegedly befriended his jailer’s blind daughter, restored her sight, converted the family, and signed a farewell note “Your Valentine.” It’s a lovely story—part Hallmark, part martyrdom, part ophthalmology.
The other leading candidate is Valentine of Terni, a bishop martyred a few years later under Emperor Aurelian. He, too, performed healings and secret marriages. The details overlap so generously that historians suspect the two Valentines may have been conflated, like two local politicians sharing one biography.
There was even a third Valentine martyred in Africa, though history seems to have misplaced him somewhere between a footnote and a shrug.
In any case, these stories were polished and romanticized in medieval texts like the Martyrology of Bede and the Golden Legend. Contemporary records are scarce, having been inconveniently destroyed during earlier persecutions. This leaves us with a holiday built on fragments, faith, and a surprising number of decapitations.
But wait—it gets better.
When in Rome, Whip Lightly
Before St. Valentine entered the picture, mid-February in Rome was reserved for a festival called Lupercalia. If you think Valentine’s Day is awkward now, consider the original version.
Lupercalia, held February 13–15, involved priests known as Luperci sacrificing goats and dogs, cutting strips from the hides, and running through the city gently striking women and crops with them. This was believed to promote fertility and ensure easy childbirth. Ancient Rome, you will be shocked to learn, had a slightly different HR department.
Young men also drew women’s names by lottery for temporary pairings. In other words, Lupercalia was speed dating with livestock accessories.
The festival persisted for centuries, though even Roman intellectuals like Cicero eventually complained about its rowdiness. It was, one might say, the original downtown bar crawl.
In A.D. 496, Pope Gelasius I banned Lupercalia as “un-Christian” and is often credited with establishing February 14 as St. Valentine’s Day. Whether this was a deliberate rebranding exercise or simply a convenient calendar slot remains debated. But it marked the beginning of Christianity’s talent for baptizing inconvenient pagan customs and putting them in a more respectable outfit.
From Martyrdom to Moonlight
For centuries, February 14 was primarily about martyrdom, not moonlight. The romantic turn didn’t arrive until the Middle Ages, when Europeans developed the charming notion of courtly love.
Enter Geoffrey Chaucer, who in 1382 wrote The Parliament of Fowls, linking February 14 to birds choosing their mates. Nothing says enduring romance like migratory instincts.
By the 15th century, people were exchanging poems and drawing names for “valentines.” Charles, Duke of Orléans, wrote love verses to his wife from the Tower of London.
Imprisonment, apparently, is good for prose.
By the 18th century, English society had embraced handwritten notes, flowers, and sweets. By the 19th century, Esther A. Howland was mass-producing ornate valentines in America, earning herself the title “Mother of the Valentine.” Cupid showed up. Hearts proliferated. Commerce straightened its tie and stepped forward.
And here we are.
Beaver County, Meet Rome
In Beaver County, Valentine’s Day has evolved into a kind of civic stress test.
Try getting a table at a decent restaurant in Beaver, Sewickley, or along Brodhead Road on February 14 without making a reservation sometime around Labor Day. You will discover that love may be eternal, but seating is not.
Restaurant owners, of course, adore the holiday. It’s one of those rare evenings when every table turns twice, the wine list gets a workout, and no one complains about dessert prices. If St. Valentine truly is the patron saint of lovers, he might also consider taking on a side gig as patron saint of prix fixe menus.
Florists do brisk business. Chocolatiers glow faintly. Jewelers adopt expressions of hopeful benevolence. Meanwhile, husbands across Beaver County wander Rite Aid at 9:12 p.m., scanning the remains of the greeting card aisle like archaeologists at a dig site.
All of this in honor of a man—or possibly two men—who died under Roman persecution and probably never imagined heart-shaped boxes of truffles.
A Holiday in February
What fascinates me is the timing. February in Western Pennsylvania is not a month that whispers sweet nothings. It mutters about potholes.
And yet perhaps that’s the point. In the bleak midwinter of Beaver County—when even the Canada geese look reconsiderative—we declare that love persists. We schedule dinner. We put on real shoes. We light candles against the gray.
There’s something admirable about that.
Beneath the commercialization, beneath the goat-skin thongs of ancient Rome and the poetic birds of Chaucer, Valentine’s Day endures because human beings have always needed an excuse to say, “You matter.”
Even in February. Especially in February.
So yes, St. Valentine’s may now be a holiday only a restaurant owner could love. But it’s also a reminder that history is messy, legends are layered, and romance—like economic development—often requires a little faith, a little planning, and occasionally a reservation.
Just don’t wait until the 14th to make it.
