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.