Finding warmth in hand-knits - Anne Boulton

I am a lover of hand-knits. Sweaters, toques, leg-warmers, mittens — if it’s handmade, I pretty much become enamoured with it. But I don’t knit.

Oh, sure, I’ve started one project — a scarf — but that’s been sitting in a basket beside the couch for more than a year now. I like to look at it and think, “this wool represents warmth and hope, finished or not.” And this is enough for me to get by.

The act of knitting is one I have admired for a few decades now. My grandma Thomson was herself a mighty wielder of the needles. She made us mittens every year. Weren’t we lucky!

Of course, having an endless supply of mitts made us take them and her hard work for granted. It’s only once the mittens stopped coming, when she turned her attention to the needy mitten tree at her church, that we started to feel the lack.

My mom taught me how to knit when my son was set to go in for some dental surgery. We had to wait a good deal of time for the procedure and his recovery, and so we sat in the hospital waiting room with a piece of string and two needles and knit and undid until I figured out the whole tension thing.

And it was easy, overall, but the dedication to one project was enough to teach me a lesson in commitment.

And then there’s the guilt of being a non-knitter. I mean, it’s a real pity to never receive the gift of a handmade wool hat.

What kind of mother would I be, not providing hand knits for my son? Imagine not knowing the itch of real wool against dry winter skin? Imagine, never sucking snow through a wet wool mitt for a quick drink after a day of intense outdoor play?

So, whenever I visit a thrift store, my eyes scan the racks for a hand-knit jacket. You know the type — zippered front, pattern of a flying goose or perhaps a grazing moose. I eye the bins for mittens, toques and striped socks. It’s amazing what gets donated. I think of all of the hours that go into one mitt, let alone a pair, and it astonishes me and I grow humble.

On one of our regular visits to Toronto, we stopped at a great Queen East thrift store, Public Butter. A vintage wool toque easily cost $20 to $40. And those great grazing moose jackets? Close to a hundred.

It’s like they got it, that hand knits are a treasure and should be respected, not only for their craftsmanship, but for the commitment of time involved.

And so my son has been bequeathed, this winter alone, with enough woolens to last him the season and beyond. When I hear him utter “not another cardigan,” then I know my job as a mother is done.

Anne Boulton is an avid gardener who lives in Sudbury. Contact her at [email protected] or visit her blog at boultonanne.typepad.com/greenboots. 

Posted by Vivian Scinto