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My mother has finally finished the sweater she spent months knitting – in fact, it had taken so long I was afraid it wouldn't be ready in time. Not that there was exactly a deadline, no event she's planning to wear it to or anything like that. But she's 95, so what I mean is, I was worried that, after all that work, would she have chance to wear it? I have to admit I was also thinking: How much use will she get out if it? Why bother?
But, to her, that's entirely beside the point. Just like the sweater, working stitch by stitch, she has learned to take each day as it comes. She knows her capabilities and her limitations and bravely takes on new projects with a stubborn refusal to give up, even though, logically, she recognizes that her time is limited. "I haven't fallen off the perch yet!" she has been known to say. So she continues to push herself every day, finding pleasure in little accomplishments, filling in the hours to keep from getting bored, knitting, enjoying her growing family via e-mail and Facebook and dispensing matriarchal wisdom where she thinks it's needed.
I've heard that knitting is an increasingly popular hobby, perhaps even trendy, but my mother grew up in England during the Depression and the Second World War, when making your own clothes was a necessity, not a craft. Everyone was in the same boat: You had to manage with the limited resources you had and if you wanted a new piece of clothing, you bought the fabric and sewed it, or the wool and knit it. Sometimes that even meant pulling out an old sweater and knitting a new one with the same wool. "Store bought" wasn't an option. "Make do with what you have" was the order of the day.
I took Mom to Walmart to choose the yarn, watched her toddle down the crafts aisle, pushing her walker ahead of her, looking for the best value and colours she liked. Some of the options I pulled from the shelf for her scrutiny received an, "Oh, no, that's too expensive. I just need a few big balls." Of course, she can afford to buy whatever she wants – even a factory-made, store-bought sweater. But "squeezing a dollar until it squeaks" is ingrained in her psyche and there is no way, even now, that she is going to waste money. Does Mom give me $50 to buy something nice for myself? She does it all the time. Overpay for yarn? Never! We were only able to leave the store when she was happily clutching a bag containing three large balls in the right combination of colours. She had enough to complete an entire sweater for $10, significantly less than it would have cost to purchase one.
When I look around the retirement home where my mom now lives, I see residents who seem to spend most of their time watching TV or napping, and Mom does a fair amount of that as well. But, luckily, she is still in reasonably good health and has retained her legendary energy and positive attitude. Many of my childhood memories are anchored around watching her freeze beans she grew in the garden from seed, pack the car for our annual two-week camping trips, sew our clothes and paint and wallpaper each room in the house from top to bottom, then start all over again when she had finished. And did I mention that all this was accomplished while raising four kids? There was little that she didn't tackle and couldn't accomplish.
During their hard-scrabble childhood, my mom fended for herself and her younger brother; she didn't have much choice, as their parents both worked and they were left alone much of the time. When she went to school, there was no homework; you just didn't leave the classroom until all your work was completed – and perfect. If it wasn't perfect, you kept working on it until the teacher was satisfied and let you go.
Through the complicated web of stitches, rows and stripes, I watched Mom's sweater grow. But sometimes, mysteriously, it actually shrank, or entire pieces disappeared altogether, as she ripped out row after row, grappling with the pattern she was making up as she went along. "Oh, I had to undo the sleeve, the shape wasn't right." Or, "I decided to put in buttons, so I reknit the front. I still might take it out. I'm not happy with the neckline." And, finally, "It took forever to get the stripes to line up." Each setback and triumph was etched on her wrinkled face as she doggedly achieved the end product she was looking for. The sweater wasn't finished until she could declare it perfect.
Hers was the generation that produced baby boomers; while our parents found prosperity in the postwar era, we benefited from more education, opportunity and wealth than they ever could have imagined in their childhoods. And while we blithely accepted these advantages as our birthright, taking them in stride without so much as a backward glance of gratitude, our parents have continued to rely on the values that served them well.
As I watched her fuss over every stitch, I couldn't help admitting that I don't always have the patience to calmly accept things for what they are. I wouldn't be bothered to do such detailed work, to search for value, to summon the energy and keep working at something until it was perfect, like my mom. But maybe, by the time I'm 95, I will have learned.
Debra Scoffield lives in Toronto.
First Person digital short: Visit tgam.ca/firstperson to see a video adaptation of the essay How I became the fool on the hill.