My wife’s anguish was evident when she noticed the scarves she had painstakingly knitted for our son on a scarecrow in his yard. I came up with a plan that would make this difficult occasion meaningful for all of us since I knew I couldn’t just let it go.
The day was sunny and tranquil in the neighborhood. I was walking with my wife, Lauren, as normal, holding hands and not really chatting about anything. The air smelled like freshly cut grass, and the sun felt good on our backs. We were pleased and joyful. However, that was before we passed our son’s residence.
She halted so abruptly I almost lost my balance. As I followed her eyes, I noticed something oddly standing in their yard: a scarecrow. She didn’t stop because of the scarecrow per se. The scarves wrapped around its arms and neck were what did it.
My heart fell. The scarves she had knitted for hours, each stitch brimming with love, now hung on that unsightly object and placed outdoors as if they were insignificant.
I mutely said, “Those are the scarves you made,” since I had no idea what else to say.
She nodded, tears starting to fill up in her eyes. “I guess they didn’t need them.”
Her tone was low, as if she were trying to persuade herself that it didn’t really matter. However, I was aware that it did. I could vividly picture the innumerable nights Mom had devoted to making those scarves.
“I want to get them just right,” she would add, her forehead creased with focus. For Johnny, blue and gray are his favorite colors. And for Emma, a delicate pink. She frequently expressed her need to own something pink.”
When she had given them the scarves for Christmas, she had been ecstatic. She went so far as to wrap them in nice paper and tie small ribbons over them. I recall her expression when they opened them. She was waiting for their response, her eyes brightening.
“Thank you, Mom,” Johnny had hugged her briefly. “They’re nice.”
Emma merely gave me a nice smile and said, “Thanks.” They appeared preoccupied, barely seeing the presents. My wife didn’t appear to notice, though. All she wanted was for them to say thank you.
It was obvious to me now, standing in front of that scarecrow, that her heart was shattering anew. “It’s alright, they probably didn’t like them in the first place,” she said, fighting back tears. An intense wave of rage welled up inside of me. How on earth could they be so careless? They simply threw the scarves away like trash, even though she put so much love and care into them.
“Do you want to say something?” Knowing she would never agree, I asked.
She gave a headshake. “No, not at all. It’s alright. Just let’s head home.”
Silently, we strolled back, the air suddenly heavy and the sunlight suddenly feeling too strong. I wanted to fix this, I wanted to do anything, anything. However, what action might I take? She wouldn’t want me to make a big deal, I understood that. Even when someone injured her, she was always the one to extend forgiveness and attempt to find the positive side of them.
I kept thinking about the expression on her face that evening. It bit at me even though I tried to let it go. At last, I made the decision to give our daughter-in-law a call. With a trembling palm from wrath and fury, I dialed the number.
She said, “Hi, Mr. Jones,” with a smile on her face, totally oblivious to the storm building inside my chest.
“Hello, Emma. All I wanted to do was ask you a question. Why are those scarves Lauren made on the scarecrow? I heard the edge in my voice even though I was trying to keep it steady.
A pause occurred. She then gave a small laugh. “Oh, those ancient objects? Although they’re a little out of style right now, the scarecrow can still use them.”
My blood began to boil. “Good enough for a scarecrow?” I spoke softly again, laced with disbelief.
“They’re just scarves,” she remarked, her tone softening to annoyance. “What’s the big deal?”
I inhaled deeply, my heart pounding for my wife. I wanted to yell at her to show her how important those scarves were. However, I was aware that nothing would change. She was never going to understand it.
“Never mind,” I eventually replied while trying not to lose my cool. “I just… never mind.”
I replayed the phone call in my thoughts nonstop for the following few days. A part of me desired to approach our son and explain to him how upsetting their actions had been. At the following family dinner, I saw myself bursting into their house and hurling my rage at them like a stone. However, I knew my wife would feel embarrassed.
It dawned on me one evening while I was watching her in her chair, knitting a new project. Her expression was composed, intent, even joyful. She cherished making items for her loved ones. Even if I might not be able to alter our children’s feelings, I could still make her feel valued.
That’s when it dawned on me to involve the grandchildren. I would ensure that the meaning of those scarves was restored.
I made sure we got to Friday night dinner early. “I’ll ensure the kids stay out of your hair while you cook,” I said to Emma as soon as we entered. She shrugged despite appearing quite astonished. “Thanks, Mr. Jones.”
The youngsters were playing in the living room when I arrived. I called out to them, “Hey, guys,” clapping my hands to draw their attention. “How about we spend a little time outside? I need your assistance with a specific project that I have.”
Their eyes gleamed. Little Annie leaped up and inquired, “What is it, Grandpa?” her pigtails bouncing.
“Well,” I uttered in a low, secretive voice, “we’re going to build a whole family of scarecrows.” One for every one of us. How does that sound?”
They let out excited squeals. We searched the house for anything useful, including old clothes and hats. I told them about their grandmother and how she had made the scarves while we put the scarecrows together. I held out a scarf and remarked, “These aren’t just any scarves.” “Grandma put a lot of love into making them. Every single one is unique.”
The children gave me a wide-eyed gaze. Timmy inquired, his little hands fumbling with a button on one of the shirts, “Why did she make them, Grandpa?”
I uttered the words, “She made them because she loves all of us very much,” in a passionate voice. “When someone makes you something with their own hands, it’s like they’re giving you a piece of their heart.”
With a sad nod, I had a small glimmer of optimism. Well, they might not have understood completely, but at least they were paying attention.
Together, we filled shabby garments with straw and supported each scarecrow with a strong pole. Grandpa, Grandma, Mom, Dad, and all the grandchildren each had one. I saw to it that each one had a scarf tied around it. As we finished the last scarecrow, the kids were giggling and their faces were covered with dirt and full of pride.
I remarked, “There,” taking a step back to appreciate our labor. “A family of scarecrows, just like us.”
The children smiled at me, and I had a flood of mixed emotions of satisfaction. I hoped our son and daughter-in-law might feel the love those scarves conveyed, and see the happiness in their kids’ eyes.
My wife showed up a little while later with a freshly cooked pie. “What’s going on here?” she inquired, observing all of us congregated in the courtyard.
While she surveyed the situation, I held my breath. Each member of the scarecrow family was wearing a knit scarf as they proudly stood in a line.
Her eyes grew wide, then softened with understanding. Setting down the pie, she moved over and caressed the scarves, her fingers shaking. Shouting, “Oh my,” she examined each scarecrow one by one. “You made these?”
“With a little assistance from our grandchildren,” I grinned.
She blinked back tears and sent out a tremulous laugh. “How adorable this is. I considered… I assumed you had disposed of my scarves. Is it really true? Foolish me, sobbing uncontrollably over such a foolish miscommunication.”
From the corner of my eye, I observed Emma. Her fists were clasped tightly around the dish towel she was clutching, and she had turned pale. She murmured, “It’s really cute,” “The kids must’ve had fun.”
That evening’s dinner was not like the others. lighter. Not only did my wife’s smile not go away, but I watched her relax for the first time in days.
Emma drew my wife aside as we were leaving. She said, “I didn’t realize how much they meant to you.” Though it wasn’t much, it was a beginning. My spouse merely nodded and lightly patted her arm. “It’s okay,” she murmured quietly. “Just… remember next time, okay?”
Emma nodded, and I noticed a tentative little smile cross her face. Perhaps today had taught her anything. Perhaps we had all.
We strolled passed their house on our regular route one week later. With their scarves softly blowing in the wind, the scarecrow family remained in place.
My wife paused once again this time, but her demeanor was different. Her eyes wrinkled at the corners as she grinned. “You know, they kind of look nice there,” she added, holding my hand tightly.
I nodded, at ease with myself. “They do,” I concurred. “They were meant to be there, after all.”
For a little period, the two of us stood together and observed the scarves swaying in the breeze. The scarecrow family, a symbol of love, forgiveness, and the strength of family, was left behind as we strolled on hand in hand.
