"The Sweater"

Tragically, my Dad lost his parents to influenza just before his eighth birthday. Dad, his two sisters and his two brothers were immediately dispatched to their nearest living relative, a spinster aunt.

The children were transported from the rural community of Bashaw, Alberta to the relative metropolis of Edmonton, from the care of their parents to a woman they'd never met.

One of Dad's earliest memories involved the first time he met "Auntie", as the children came to address her. He recalled arriving in a very large automobile and being met by a diminutive yet imposing lady. She was dressed from head to toe in black, despite the oppressive summer heat.

The children were quickly introduced and the car left. They stood at the curb for a time, not sure what to do next, when the lady abruptly addressed her new charges. As Dad told me years later, she simply said, "Let's get on with it." The children meekly followed her into the house to begin their new lives.

Auntie had never married, worked in a bank and apart from teaching Sunday School, had little or no experience with children. Dad remembered her as kind, but efficient and a bit terse. Treating words like rare gems, she rarely spoke though when the occasion arose, the children most certainly listened.

As adults, Dad and his siblings seldom discussed their childhood but when they spoke of Auntie, they did so with reverence and admiration. They understood the sacrifices this virtual stranger made for them. Making the transition from a comfortable, insular existence to the totally alien world of child rearing was almost incomprehensible, even to the children. Yet somehow, not only did this tiny woman pull it off, she excelled at it.

Money was tight. Canada was in the throes of an economic depression and Dad marveled as Auntie somehow made things work every week. Her clerical salary was sparse. Though none of the children ever knew exactly how much money she had, Dad was aware they were barely scraping by. Still, thanks in small ways to the generosity of neighbors and the church, they rarely went without.

Anything other than food, shelter, clothing and minimal school expenses was considered superfluous and unnecessary. Birthdays and Christmas were barren affairs from a gift perspective but the occasions were avidly celebrated, with togetherness, food and fun as the primary components.

Once in high school, Dad found athletics to be a venue bereft of class distinction. On the gridiron, the ball diamond or the hockey rink you were judged on your performance, not your wardrobe. In his senior year Dad was awarded varsity letters for football, baseball and hockey. The custom was to purchase an official Strathcona High sweater on which to display your letters. Most of Dad's teammates purchased sweaters and wore them almost daily.

Dad couldn't afford a sweater. The few dollars he scraped together from odd jobs and delivering groceries went directly to Auntie and the household expenses. This was something Dad and his siblings did without forethought or compunction. It was simply required.

I recall Dad telling me about the day he graduated from high school. That morning he took extra time shining his shoes, making sure his tie was straight and adjusting his older brother's dress pants. They were a little big but with the belt cinched and the trouser legs turned under and ironed flat, Dad thought he looked pretty sharp. Standing quietly at the door was Auntie, her arms extended, a carton in her hands.

"Allan, this is for you," she said simply. With that, she was out the door and off to work.

Dad opened the carton and, to his utter amazement, discovered a magenta cardigan, complete with the gold wrist and neckband trim emblematic of Strathcona High. His precious letters were sewn firmly on the left breast.

Dad sensed this was no ordinary sweater. He found out later Auntie had asked a girlfriend from her bank to teach her how to knit, then she'd constructed this wondrous gift while avoiding detection from the entire family. Dad never did figure out where she found the time.

As he pulled the sweater over his head, Dad barely noticed that one arm was a tiny bit longer than the other, nor did he see the slightly crooked neck or the odd knots holding the garment together. Rather, he recognized the sweater for what it was; a tangible symbol of the effort, sacrifice and love this tiny woman so willingly provided.

He wore the sweater to his graduation and to every significant event for many years to come until it finally and literally fell to pieces. For him, there would never be a more appreciated gift.