A Sweater Named Rita

Heating with a wood stove has many advantages.  One of these advantages is that the  house becomes a home with rooms of varying temperatures. This works out well for guests with strong temperature preferences or individuals of a certain age, whose thermostats are decidedly erratic.

As winter sets in, the conditions change. The floors, the walls , the furniture claim the cold. There is no longer of a range of temperatures. Extremes reign- the relentless heat of the livingroom and the frigid zones of the bedrooms, despite the constant whirr of ceiling fans, the closed and blanketed doors and the sure and steady heat from the stove.

It is time to call Rita to the rescue. Rita is a family treasure.

In times long ago, my former mother in law knit the sweater coat, we call Rita. She knit and knit and knit and knit. I think she thought she could knit everything together again. That wasn't to be. Rita could hold all of us, but she couldn't hold us all together.

Rita is a sweater of weight, a sweater of size. To be honest I think Rita is continuing to grow; big, bold, beautiful Rita.

So much knitting went into Rita. The wool is thick. The pattern is a diamond quilt pattern in off white, red and tan. In time I think Rita will reach to the floor, as I shrink and she grows. I received her in the eighties, when something of cowboy fashion was sweeping North America. Even I had cowboy boots. I'll inevitably have to search some out if the stretch/shrink trend continues

Rita is the namesake of a well respected Maritime songstress, Rita MacNeil. She is a woman whose voice is familiar from one side of the country to the other. She is a woman, who has known hard times, yet lives with twinkling eyes. Rita is definitely a woman of size. Thus the name Rita.

Rita's presence at gatherings is always welcome. She was a source of merriment in sad times. How many people could fit into Rita ? The answer is many. The pictures of this merriment are gone. The memories remain.

In the winter when the north winds blow, Rita becomes a blanket offering warmth to those who dare to watch t.v., in a room where the rattling of the windows almost drowns out the sound. Rita becomes an outdoor dressing gown, when I struggle down the driveway to take the garbage to the road on frigid early Monday mornings. It is Rita I grab and toss on, before I dash up the hill to my friends house for a warm cup of tea.

In spring, summer and fall, Rita is always at ready. She is no uni-seasonal garment. She hangs contentedly on a brass hook in the front hall, easily accessible for action on cool, foggy days or as the sun sets or the wind blows, cooling down the temperature on the front or side porch. This is one perfect sweater for a grandma to wear, sitting in a wicker chair with a pajamaed grand child watching out for falling stars.

The reality is that Rita is a family member as no other sweater will ever be.

No one is Cool in Canada's Cold

No one is cool in Canada’s cold. When tears almost turn to ice, glazing the eyes, a real winter’s day is the great fashion equalizer. From top to toe, warmest is best. Layers are not a statement, but a necessity for survival.

Who cares if a little alligator waddles across a chest or a horse gallops? As long as soft cotton, lamb’s wool or silk, rests next to skin, Old Man Winter knows the first layer of armor is on. The soft woolen Stanfield’s, I inherited from my mother, are almost worth their weight in gold, and if I were to get lost in a great freezing, more than gold.

Those plastic bottles, I lug off to their recycling future, can be spun into fabrics of wonder. However, Mother Nature knows best. They have their place, but not next to the skin.

In the ethically murky world of animal exploitation, some turn from fur, wildfowl’s feathers, and Bambi’s mother’s smoked skin.

Others don’t. I just can’t go there, but try to remember to give thanks.

We are a nation built on the backs of beaver pelts.  Beaver pelts

destined for the great top hats for the great heads of  Europe.

Next come a layer and another layer after that, maybe more.  The necessity is that they are psychologically and physically warming. Love always remains a part of hand knitted wear.

The outer layer is a topic of many hot discussions.  Windproof, waterproof, often coming with numbers and symbols of freezing thermometers, both centigrade and Fahrenheit, as well as breathability seem are key issues.

Warm and dry remain key words.

I pick from a long rack of used clothing store finds. Somehow there is an intuitive sense of what the day requires. Perhaps dressing for the Canadian Great Outdoors in Winter, has attached subtly to the DNA, I received from my forbearers.

Then the fun begins; hats, mittens, scarves and my personal favourite socks are dug out of the old wicker basket, often in an explosion of colours. Sometimes the mitten on the left hand comes from a different era than the one on the right.

Headgear is a matter of choice as long a toque is shoved in a pocket or backpack. This is a requirement of true patriot love.

I have waited somewhat impatiently, all summer to return to my precious collection of friends of winter, heavy, many times mended, knit socks.  I have been waiting for Winter.

The day dictates the footwear.

Whether I am getting ready to leave the house to take grandchildren to The Santa Claus Parade, to once again attempt snowshoeing back in the woods, brave the winds along the Fundy Shore, hurtle myself one last time down the tobogganing hill or walk to a friend’s for a cup of tea, I am ready.

Damn fashion. I am ready. Bring on Winter.

Magic Pockets

When I arrived, in the city where my daughter lives, school was not yet out for the holidays. My eldest grandchild who recently turned six was off to school.

One morning, my daughter, my younger grand daughter, who is not yet in regular school, and I were off to get groceries with a bundle buggy. I have been told I am "shopping impaired", so I have great sympathy for everyone, especially small children who do not consider shopping a positive event.

As any faraway grandma would do, I tried to make the outing as happy as I could. Yes, we went to McDonalds. Yes, we bought a Happy Meal. Yes, the Happy Meal had a hula hoop swirling Hello Kitty inside.  On discovering this, yes I bought a Happy Meal for myself so both girls would have such an amazing treasure.

Later that afternoon mother and daughter got ready to pick up the young scholar. Little sister begged to take her sister her Hello Kitty. In downtown Toronto, most outside playing takes place after school is let out. The children race about the yard and scramble over the playground equipment, as parents and caregivers stand by and watch. A community of people from all corners of the world begins to build. I thought this was no place for the distraction of Hello Kitty. I said no.

When they arrived at the school, the little one rushed to her sister and presented her with a Hello Kitty still in its plastic wrap. The three year old looked at her mother earnestly and said she just put her hand in her pocket and it was there by magic.

.... to be continued