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A few days before Valentine’s Day, Aaron realizes he still hasn’t found a gift for his wife. Not for lack of effort—he’s been looking. But what she wants is oddly specific: a concrete lawn goose. What follows is a story about love, small towns, gift anxiety, and what it means to really try—even if you’re probably going to fail.
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*The team who've made 7 Minute Stories a top storytelling podcast:
Story created & performed by: Aaron Calafato
Senior Audio Engineer: Ken Wendt
Additional vocals: Cori Calafato
Art: Pete Whitehead
Original Theme Music: thomas j. duke
Additional Soundscape Design: Isaac Gehring
TRANSCRIPT
Aaron Calafato:
The clock was ticking. It was just a few days before Valentine’s Day 2024, and I still hadn’t gotten a gift for my wife. Not because I forgot. I’d been thinking about it, looking for something. But nothing felt right. Or maybe—I was just frozen. Because when you really care about someone, gift-giving isn’t just gift-giving. It becomes a test. And lately, I’ve been failing it.
I think I’ve become a bad gift giver. Not just with Cori, my wife, but with friends, family—everyone. And I don’t think it’s because I don’t care. It’s actually the opposite. The more I care, the more anxious I get. What if the gift doesn’t land? What if they smile politely but secretly hate it? That fear has made me overly cautious. So I’ve defaulted to practical gifts—cash, gift cards, gas cards. Safe choices. Things that are useful. Things I like to receive.
But a few weeks ago, I was talking to Cori about this. I told her I felt like I was losing my touch. She listened, nodded, and then said something that stuck with me. She said, “It’s not just the thought that counts. It’s the kind of thought. It’s the fact that someone put effort into the gift, effort that shows they see you.” And that hit me. Because as much as I thought I was being thoughtful, I wasn’t really putting the time in. I wasn’t showing that I understood what mattered to the people I loved.
So I made a decision. Valentine’s Day 2024 would be my redemption arc. I would try. Really try. And thankfully, Cori had been dropping hints. For months, she’d been talking about wanting a concrete goose. You know, one of those porch lawn ornaments you see in the Midwest. People dress them up in little hats or coats depending on the season. And Cori? She wanted one—bad. She wanted to give it outfits. It was her thing. So I thought, perfect. I’ve got three weeks to track this thing down. I can do this.
I start online. Amazon. Etsy. Nothing that fits. The sizes are off, the designs are wrong, or they’re way too expensive. So I turn to local garden centers. We’ve got a handful in our county. Over the next couple of weeks, I visit all of them. Sometimes in the middle of the workday, I sneak away and drive to a store. And what do I find? Everything. Deer. Roosters. Squirrels. There was even a statue of a pig on top of a frog on top of a muskrat. But no goose. Not one.
At one shop, I finally just ask the woman working there: “Is there any way to get a concrete goose?” She says, “They’re seasonal. We order them in bulk. Sometimes the manufacturer doesn’t even run the mold. Best I can do is put your name on a list. If we get enough interest, we’ll order a few—but even then, it’ll take months.” Months? Valentine’s Day was less than a week away. I’m deflated.
Then, just as I’m about to give up, she says, “There might be one other place. A county over. They specialize in garden statues.” She gives me the number. I call. No answer. No voicemail. I call again the next day. Still nothing. I try calling at different times—morning, afternoon, evening. Nothing. This goes on for days. I’m starting to feel like I’m on some bizarre pilgrimage. Just me and this dream of a goose that may not exist.
Then, out of nowhere, on Monday, February 12th, I get a text from an unfamiliar number. It says, “I heard you were looking for statues…” It turns out, the owner of the specialty statue shop is in Germany, visiting family. But she heard through the grapevine—or maybe through her staff—that someone was looking for a goose. Me. She gives me the number of a guy named Anthony who helps run the place.
So I text Anthony. He responds. He tells me he only checks the shop once a day. But he starts sending me pictures—goose after goose. We’re going back and forth like it’s a dating app for lawn ornaments. Finally, he finds one. The one. It’s perfect. I tell him I can only pick it up on Valentine’s Day. He says, “Come on up. I got your goose.”
So that morning, Valentine’s Day, Cori and I drive to the next county. She has no idea where we’re going. We pull into the shop, and there it is—her goose. It’s exactly what she wanted. We load it into the car. On the way back, we grab lunch together. She’s beaming. Already planning the first outfit for it.
And as we’re driving home, I realize something. The gift wasn’t the goose. It was the effort. The trying. The driving around. The pleading. The texts with Anthony. The fact that I didn’t give up. That I wanted to show her I care. And maybe… that’s what gift-giving is supposed to be.
Sometimes you don’t have to get it perfect. You just have to show up and try.
Because that smile on her face? That made everything worth it.
