Stuck in November

The cedar chest? It takes something obvious, like firstsnow, for me to remember why the chest sits in the corner of the room. And then after remembering why it’s there, an avalanche of ‘shoulda dones’ is triggered: storm windows on, firewood in, shovels out, lawn mower in, snow tires on, ice-melt out, tulip bulbs in— forget that last part, the white stuff’s already here. But I’m hoping it’s gonna melt. Get over it. Six months before that’ll happen. Make hot chocolate or go back to bed. It’s here.

And this is where resilient me steps in. I pry the chest open. The ghosts of winters past take over where the ‘shoulda dones’ left off. I reach for my favourite mitts for comfort. My first coffee of the day, and I’m wearing mitts, with the furnace on. There’s a hint of desperation to this, I’m thinking. But I carry on, sorting through my stash of winter body armour. And, for me, that means wool, then more wool.

Wool is both modern and ancient. I mean, if astronauts in spacecraft and also mountaineers and polar scientists and sailors and oilers wear wool, then I’m in there. A scribe wintering on the banks of Slab Creek is ,without doubt, playing on a matching field. Only one thing I can’t understand—why no one has capitalized on the market for long johns in wool? The down-filled ones are just not practical when it comes to walking, bending or cording firewood, which has been an excuse that has carried me in the past. Cotton or silk are the choices, and both are produced in the land of the south, remember?

I mean, folks back in 10,000 BC did the homework, right? They figured that if wool was good for both heat and cold, for wind and rain— taking in moisture while not feeling wet —and, while they had a taste for sheep’s milk, on top of enjoying the meat, and while the skin-hides made fashionable apparel, why not go for the whole shebang? We’ll tend sheep with the help of our new friend, the domesticated dog; we’ll be shepherds and cultivate lamb’s wool, which we can then sell to our neighbours while still filling our milk pitchers and cook pots; yes, we’ll have it all. Like many streams of domestic evolution, wool has a story. Spun or woven, woollens or worsteds, wool is key in the heritage of the British Isles. Fine as a spider’s web, is how the Roman Emperors saw British woollens when they invaded the island in 55 BC.

Gradually, refining the process in carding mills allowed for not just the raw wool to be exported, but eventually the cloth, wool-felt being the earliest version. King Edward III encouraged Flemish textile masters to settle in Britain. By the 17th century, when Huguenot refugees from France also landed in Britain and ramped up the output, wool cloth stood for two-thirds of the grand tally on the export ledger sheets. Today, thirty million sheep are shepherded in the British Isles.

Sheep are one source for wool. Depending on other fibre sources, such as muskox or llama, wools can be blended with cashmere, mohair, merino, qiviut, angora, vicuna or camelhair. I know a knitter on the east coast, Sue, who spins a blend of sheep’s wool and dog hair. Yep, dog hair. Apparently dog hair fibre is one of few kinds with a hollow tube up the middle, which adds to its insulating qualities. Sue spins and dyes the wool then makes the darndest, warmest mitts around. She and her husband, Pat, live in rural New Brunswick. Pat has a milk route; many of his customers have dogs. He picks up little and not so little bags of dog hair donations from his customers while dropping milk off to them. Customers see a new pair of Sue’s mitts every season, which then encourages them to spend more time outside with Rover, especially in the frigid months, so that his or her coat will grow thicker and faster. Talk about local economy: Could be the newest trend in the green-age thing: to have your dog’s coat of hair rated for its R-factor.

And so the cedar chest: the inside wood will need a light sanding and a coat of cedar oil next spring. And the mothballs and the lavender sprigs seemed to have held off the clothes moth and carpet beetle larvae from making war on the woollens.

But really? Sitting here, mitts on, ready for a second cup of coffee I’m thinkin’ about how I love the feel of handmade woollen socks and scarves and all. But the white stuff is landing in the tulip bed and I figure I’d do well to muster the enthusiasm to get out there. Maybe it’s not too late to plant bulbs after all. Oh, and by the way, I just bought a shepherd’s crook at Picton Farm Supply. I hung it outside by the door, and the neighbours are nervous. It’s hard being stuck in November.