The Rural Voice, 2004-12, Page 40A‘4;4) IN PRAISE OF OLDER SWEATERS
A familg heirloom sweater brings warmth
in more wags than one
By Sheila Mowbray
There's a nip in the air today. 1t is
time to retrieve my 50 -year-old
sweater from the hanger in the
back closet. It's a beauty. Bright cherry
with six red buttons down the front and a
collar you can turn up to keep the wind
from whooshing round your neck. And
there are pockets — deep pockets, good
for storing chestnuts or warming hands
when fingers get numb.
"Old Red" was hand knit by my
grandmother around 1955 from a Mary
Maxim pattern. I believe it was one of
the first knitting kits produced by the
Mary Maxim woolen mill in Paris,
Ontario.
They were advertised as rugged,
outdoor sweaters. Some had horses or
dogs on the back, but mine is a simple
cable -stitched pattern. The kit itself
would have been quite a purchase for my
grandmother, a practical Scot who was
used to "making do" with leftover bits of
yarn. However, it was a November
birthday present for my father, her only
son, home safely from overseas and now
raising a family of his own.
The pattern was innovative for the
time, an easy -to -follow graph, much like
the paint -by -number kits also popular in
that era. My granny, an accomplished
knitter, would have whizzed through it
during those long evenings before
television. She fashioned an identical
sweater for my younger brother, and
father and son looked quite dashing as
they climbed into our old Plymouth to go
to Hamilton Tiger Cat football games.
Long sweaters were just right for Sunday
afternoons sitting on hard, wooden
bleachers.
36 THE RURAL VOICE
� yr
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When my dad retired and moved to
the Madawaska Valley. the sweater was
really put to the test. He always wore it
outdoors in the fall, raking leaves,
cleaning up the garden or chopping
wood. I can picture him now. his blue
eyes stinging with the cold. his favourite
sweater trimmed with bits of leaves or
dirt. The pockets invariably contained a
few mints he could savour on his
morning walk with the dogs. More than
once, the sweater's bright colour shielded
him from some "dang fool hunter" who
was about to mistake him for a deer.
Dad passed away in early December
1997. On one of those grief -filled days
right after his death. I noticed his red
sweater hanging on its customary hook
by the door. The dog jumped and nipped
at the cuffs, no doubt waiting for their
master to return and head out for a walk.
Before I went back to the city, I gathered
the sweater up like a favourite blanket
and piled it on top of garden tools and
treasured books. Somehow, it was
important to keep it.
In spite of almost half a century of
hard wear, Old Red is still intact. There is
not a hole, nor a loose button to mar its
beauty. The thick wool clings to me
perfectly, as though it had been made for
my middle-aged body. When I fold my
arms into the cable -stitched sleeves and
stroll out to the garden, or sit by the lake
remembering days passed, I'm warmed
by the strong fibres that bind us from
generation to generation. I can't help but
search the pockets for peppermints.0
— Sheila Mowbray is a published
freelance writer living on a fruit farm
near Beamsville.