Masculine colours

In the 1970s my sister-in-law taught me to do macramé. About the same time Mom and I started making a hooked rug. It was supposed to be a wall-hanging for my bedroom, but she probably supposed I would take a proprietary interest in it. I didn't. After her participation tapered off, the rug was never finished. Those were my only experiences with fibre or textile of any kind. For the next couple of decades I abhorred them. It was one of many postures I took to persuade people (including myself) I wasn't gay.

One might say I plunged in head first when I started to sew a watercolour quilt by hand six years ago. It still hangs on the living room wall, in process. Recently I have attempted some less ambitious experiments with textiles and fibre, notably the paper quilts I made for Danny, Marian and Brenna for Christmas. These were experimental, containing photographs and other mementos of the previous year and of my affection.

I've been eyeing Danny's industrious knitting hands ever since we started dating. Several weeks ago I asked him to show me how, so he taught me casting on and garter stitch with some white yarn from his Stash.

I intended for my first real project to be a scarf. I couldn't imagine myself wearing anything bright or colourful, considering my entire wardrobe consists of jeans, t-shirts and dark-coloured sweaters. Okay, there are a few vests at the back of the closet, slightly colourful, which I occasionally excavate for a poetry reading, wedding or other special occasion. But on the subway a couple weeks ago I saw a young man wearing a scarf with all kinds of colours in it. I began to entertain the appalling notion that I might knit something like that for myself. The thought wouldn't go away. Still far from comfortable with knitting, I rested comfortably in the knowledge that I wouldn't even be ready to begin my scarf for a long, long time.

So Saturday afternoon at St. Jacob's Market Brenna and I went into the yarn booth. Just browsing, I told the woman. Then she started raving about my hat, knitted by Danny. Her friend came along and the two of them had to fondle it, speculate how he had done it.

"This isn't an easy pattern!" they said.

They also admired the red scarf my mom had knitted for Brenna for Christmas.

We had almost escaped when I saw a long scarf, so cozy and fluffy I couldn't resist caressing it. The colours weren't quite right, but the woman pointed out the baskets where that brand was stored. I was drawn to the brown and blue variety, good and safe. She gave me instructions for knitting a scarf like the one on display, and picked a pair of eight-millimetre needles for me.

Resistance is futile.

When Sylvie and Sarah were here for dinner that evening, they studied with interest the first few rows I had already knitted. Sylvie doesn't knit, but she sews period garments as a hobby. Sarah herself recently took up knitting, a nice contrast to her apprenticeship in carpentry.

Now Sarah is what I call sweet butch. Short hair, jeans and t-shirt, warm, soft voice. When I first met her I was intimidated by her generosity with affection, but have become very comfortable with her.

Anyway, she held this scarf and ball of wool and looked at me sidelong, prudishly.

"These are very masculine colours, Van," she said.