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The Granny Square Afghan

Anne Turner Taub

        The times in life when you can’t wait are the ones you always remember. And for Sallie Odell today was definitely one of those times. She and Bob had just married and moved into their big, old farmhouse in Milrose, Iowa. True, the Crofts were glad to get rid of it because it was the kind of place you never finish fixing up, but that was just what the young couple wanted—a place where Bob could tinker endlessly and teach Middle School, and where Sallie could raise as many chickens, vegetables, and children as the law would allow.
    It was one of those grim, rainy days that are good for the crops and nothing else, when the news came. Bob had been driving for supplies when a goat crossed the road in front of him, and he skidded into a stone wall. And ended not only his life but all of Sallie’s dreams.
    At first the grief was tolerable because the ladies nearby brought in gifts of food and sundries, but as time went by, the visits gradually tapered off, and as Sallie was forced to spend more time alone in the big house, her grief turned to bitterness and anger. How could Bob do this to her? Fortunately, the income from insurance was more than adequate to cover her living expenses, but how could he have left her alone in this big house, with a large mortgage, and no children to occupy her time? Heartbroken and depressed, she sought for ways to alleviate the loneliness.
    She went to the general store and when she needed to buy three items, she would buy one, coming back two more times for the others. Church every Sunday was another option, but while the ladies were very pleasant, introducing her to each other as Mrs. Odell, from the Croft farm (Sallie gritted her teeth; it wasn’t the Croft farm, it was the Odell farm), the ladies never went any farther than that, and never on to a first name basis.
    The one place she could go to repeatedly just to see and talk to other human beings was the library. Yet when she met one of the ladies, it was a polite greeting to Mrs. Odell of the Croft farm, and never anything more. Sallie knew they were trying to be polite and respect her privacy. I don’t want anyone respecting my privacy, Sallie thought, please intrude, trespass, borrow my last cup of sugar—just don’t leave me alone any more in that big house.
     At the library, she learned that there was to be an auction in the Spring to raise funds for the library. She had an idea. An afghan might be the one really good way to break the ice that surrounded the social world of Milrose. She was an accomplished knitter and she would make an afghan all right, but in no way would it be a granny square afghan—she knew in a small town like Milrose, there must be as many granny square afghans as there were barns, maybe more. Her afghan would consist of twenty l2-inch squares, each of a different pattern and of the most complicated designs she could create. Let’s see, she’d have to have one cable pattern—the Hourglass Cable with Bobbles, that would be nice—a King Charles Brocade, a Cloverleaf Eyelet, and of course, a Willow Bud Tree—the hardest design of all, but everyone loved it, so it was worth it. The afghan would bring in a lot of money for the library and tons of admiration and requests for advice from her fellow knitters. Surely, this would be a way to end her loneliness. If she were lucky, there might even be a knitting club in town somewhere.
    She began her knitting project as carefully and quickly as she could, but still there were times when she was so depressed, she couldn’t even knit. Especially difficult were the evenings when she and Bob used to sit over tea and discuss their plans for the future. It was during one of these dark, evening periods when she felt most hopeless that she received a phone call from Mrs. Martha Avery.
    “Hello, Mrs. Odell? I’m Martha Avery. I wonder if you would consider sitting with my daughter for a couple of hours every afternoon. I understand that you don’t have an immediate family around (don’t rub it in, sighed Sallie), so I thought you would sit with Melissa. She has multiple sclerosis, and can’t move from the waist down—and even though she is l8, I still don’t like to leave her alone.”
    Sallie was delighted to agree. Manna from Heaven. Mrs. Avery went on, “Of course, I’ll pay you, I am sure we can agree on an adequate amount.”
    “Oh no,” said Sallie, “I couldn’t take any money.”
    “Well, thank you, dear, but I would really rather have a business arrangement. I am President of the Ladies’ Club and I have so many errands to run, that I really want to be able to rely on your coming.”
    The afternoons with Melissa became the highlights of her days. Melissa, who had been shy and very quiet at first, became very animated. Sallie brought along her knitting and, as time went on, she and Melissa began exchanging confidences and feelings, and despite the difference in their ages—Sallie was almost thirty—they grew very close to each other.
    One afternoon Melissa looked at Sallie’s knitting and said wistfully, “I’d give anything to be able to do that.”
    “Well, it’s very easy. There are only two stitches—knit and purl. A moron could do it.” Melissa giggled, “Well, if a moron could do it, I guess I could give it a try.”
    Sallie realized that this was the first time she had ever heard Melissa laugh. Sallie gave Melissa two needles and some yarn, but Melissa held the needles upright like two pitchforks and couldn’t seem to work them. Melissa became discouraged. Sallie had an idea. “Here, why don’t you try crocheting? You only need one needle, and guess what?”
    “What?” Apathetic, Melissa had sunk back into her sickness-induced passivity.
    “You could make a granny square afghan. They are really very easy, and if you finish in time you could put it in the library auction.”
    It worked. Melissa took to crocheting as if she had waited all her life for this. They spent the next few months busily knitting, crocheting and chatting about the auction.
    Spring came, and it was the day of the auction. Although Sallie loved Melissa, she looked forward to this opportunity to become part of a social life with women of her own age. Her afghan was finished and was beautiful, and was bound to become someone’s heirloom. She knew it would bring in a lot of money.
    Melissa, too, had finished her afghan. Sallie said, “Aren’t you excited about exhibiting it?” Melissa said, “I don’t think I will. When they see yours, nobody will want mine.”
    Sallie looked at Melissa and something clicked inside her heart. “Oh, I’m not going to exhibit mine. It’s just too beautiful. I want to keep it home to admire it and tell myself what a good knitter I am.” She turned away so Melissa couldn’t see her expression. She knew she was condemning herself to more months of loneliness.
    “Oh, then I will put it in the auction. But anonymously. I don’t want anyone buying it because they feel sorry for me.”
    That afternoon, when Melissa’s afghan was put up, Ms. Eberle, the early grades teacher, bid for it. “Sometimes,” she told the group,”the children get ill or tired, and I think this would be perfect—warm but lightweight. I’ll bid $l5.00” Nobody bid against her. After all, it was for their own children. Melissa looked at Sallie and grinned from ear to ear. To Sallie, that smile was worth more than all the afghans in the world.
    The day after the auction, Melissa suddenly had a heart attack and died. Sallie went into a deep depression that lasted for many weeks. She never left the house except when food-shopping became an absolute necessity.
    Finally, she realized she had to get to the library. She had been getting overdue notices for weeks and the fines were becoming enormous. When she got there, Mrs. Avery spotted her and came over. “Mrs. Odell, I want to thank you for all your kindness to Melissa. I know crocheting that afghan gave her a great deal of pleasure.”
    Sallie burst into tears. “I miss her so terribly. She was my dearest friend.”
    Mrs. Avery paused and thought a bit. “I had no idea you two were so close. That’s right, you’re alone up there at the Croft farm.”
    Here it comes, thought Sallie. She’s starting to pity me. ‘You poor thing, all alone in that big place.’ I can’t take that right now.
    Mrs. Avery eyes narrowed. Like most country people, she had a subtle, innate kind of courtesy, a sense of the nuances of feeling in the behavior of others that was often lacking in the daily, hit-and-run relationships of city people.
    She looked at her watch. “Mrs. Odell, next Sunday we are having a fundraiser for the Fire Department. They’re all volunteers, you know, and the ladies are being asked to bring potluck dishes. Do you think you would want to help us out?”
    Sallie dried her eyes. “Yes, certainly.”
    “Good, oh there’s Janie Farmer, she’ll fill you in on the details.” She called over to Janie who came up to them, a round lady whose smiling face was all eyeglasses and teeth. “Janie, dear, you know Sallie Odell, don’t you, the Odell farm over by Christian Corners? Well, Sallie has been kind enough to offer to bring a potluck dish to the fundraiser. So why don’t you discuss categories with her—you know, entree, salad, dessert, whatever. And Sallie, if you would make enough for l0—no, make it l2 persons—people always eat at these things like they haven’t seen food for years. I have to run, hon, thanks a lot.” And she was off.
    Sallie told Janie she would like to make a salad, “I have a wonderful recipe for vidalia onion dressing.”
    “That sounds wonderful,” said Janie, “do you think I could have the recipe?”
    At that moment a tall, thin woman in a white fisherman’s sweater and plaid slacks came over, “Did I hear someone say recipe?”
    “Oh, Marge,” said Janie, “this is Sallie Odell, you know the Odell farm over by Christian Corners? She’s making a salad for the fundraiser.”
    “You know, Sallie,” said Marge, “we could sure use another member for the Ladies’ Club. We meet once a month at each other’s houses, and the dues are $30 a year. Interested?”
    Janie said, “Ignore her, Sallie, she’s always proselytizing. although we would love to have you, if you would care to join.”
    Sallie drove home, her mind full of what she would put in the salad. Arugula and radicchio, of course. And many brightly-colored raw veggies. And, just to gussie it up, some hearts of palm.
    As she opened her door, her eyes went up to the sky. “Thank you Melissa, wherever you are.” She realized that this was the first time she was able to think of Melissa without crying. And for the first time in months, she smiled. “I don’t know where you are, Melissa, but wherever it is, I know you’re still crocheting afghans,” and with that, her mind went back to the vidalia onion dressing.

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