Shortly before Valentine's Day in the third grade, Mrs. Miller handed out a mimeographed roster of the class. We were ordered to bring a valentine to every single person on the list.

Already hanging on the fronts of our desks were large decorated envelopes to receive these valentines. Mrs. Miller didn't want anyone crying because he or she fared poorly in some popularity contest.

Mrs. Miller's order meant that I would have to give a signed expression of fondness -- a lie, really -- to classmates I detested, including:

» Nancy, who weighed 200 pounds, had the supra-orbital brow of a mountain gorilla and had previously detached both my retinas over a poem I made up about her underpants.

» Marty, whose hygiene and appearance were such that 10 years later he came immediately to mind when I encountered Gollum in Lord of the Rings.

» Ramona, recess diva, teacher's pet, hall monitor, professional tattle-tale, and she whose guts I hated worse than broccoli casserole.

Mrs. Miller was no one to cross. The night before Valentine's Day, I prepared the obligatory tokens for the entire class. The standard grade school valentine was a small card featuring a garish picture and a pathetic play on words.

Examples included a rooster on a fence crowing, "I Cock-a-Doodle-Do want you to be my Valentine!" or a smiling railroad engine puffing, "I Choo-Choose You, Valentine."

Laboring long into the evening, I addressed and signed cards to Christy A., Ralph G., Sandra D., Jean L., Gwen O., Mary V., Duncan G., Leon K., "new kid," Beverly M., Mike G., Mike P. and the two Mike J.'s.

I managed to get through the entire list, including Nancy and Marty. Giving Nancy a valentine made a certain amount of sense. I was perfectly willing to court the affection of a brute if it got her to stop punching me.

Marty wasn't a bad kid, just a smelly one. If you could stand that part of him, he was even a potent recess ally. For a nickel, he'd blow his nose on anyone who bothered you.

Then there was Ramona. For an hour, I couldn't bring myself to put pen to card. Then I realized that Mrs. Miller hadn't specified about the nature of the valentine.

I dug around in the leftovers and found one of a rabbit. I drew some fangs on him, added the word "Don't" to the front of "Be My Valentine," and Scotch-taped some hamster droppings to it. I signed the card "The Wolfman."

The following morning, we delivered our valentines. The class milled around dropping cards into the mail pouches on the fronts of desks. I got a huge one from a shy girl named Pamela, the first person other than my mother to say "I love you" to me.

After I visited Ramona's desk, I lurked nearby. "This one has candy in it," I heard her say, followed a moment later by a scream.

It took Mrs. Miller half a second to figure out who "The Wolfman" was. She snatched me up and lectured the entire class about how I had ruined Valentine's Day for poor Ramona.

I don't know. Judging from the look on her face, watching me get dragged off to the principal's office by a leg was probably the best valentine Ramona could have hoped for.

Robert Kirby can be reached at rkirby@sltrib.com.